by Katie French
Thinking of drifting reminds me of Clay. Thinking of Clay makes my hands crawl toward the steering wheel. Auntie will kill me if I don’t at least pretend to rest.
I stare out past this grove of trees to the highway. The sand-encrusted slab of blacktop looks like every other road I’ve been on, but this spread of tar and rock is different. Ethan and Clay are out there somewhere, and this is the only road that can take us to them. Since we busted out of Merrick Bullets and Ammo, we’ve spent fourteen hours white knuckling it toward Kirtland Air Force Base. Auntie can’t see well and Doc never learned to drive, so that left me at the wheel, driving like my life depended on it. Like Clay and Ethan’s lives depended on it.
Around hour eight, Auntie began to fuss. Said I was too tired. An hour or so later, Doc started fussing, too. I put them off for three more hours ‘til I dozed off and nearly flipped the Jeep. To my credit, I managed to dodge the grove of trees and only scraped paint off the doors. Sleep was ordered and keys taken, so here I sit on my ass with no sleep on the horizon and my loved ones in jeopardy.
But where is Doc now? I scan the nearby clump of trees, but no luck. A flutter of fear picks up in my chest. He insisted on coming when he heard Auntie and I were headed out to Kirtland. I guess, with Nada gone, he couldn’t stay at the compound. The other benders begged him not to go. They needed a leader, but I could see it in his eyes—nothing could keep him rooted in the place where Nada died.
Nada. Her death flashes before me, and I wince. Oh, Nada. The image of her throat cut open… No. I can’t go back there.
I spot a lean shadow near a distant grove of trees. Doc. Deciding sleep is futile, I ease myself out of the Jeep, careful not to wake Auntie, and walk through the shimmering shade.
Maybe he’s learning to let go of Nada. Perhaps he’ll know how to help me.
Doc stands under the tallest tree, his back against the rough trunk, his head tucked down to his chest. The clothes from the compound—jeans, a white T-shirt with “Wisconsin” printed in black font, and heavy, worn, steel-toed boots—are still clean. Won’t take long to rough them up.
“You should be resting,” he says without even turning.
I walk up until I’m level with him. He turns a blotchy, tear-soaked face from me. “You don’t gotta hide,” I say, kicking at a stone. “I did my fair share of crying before we left.”
He swallows hard. “Your aunt asleep?”
I nod, leaning back against a tree trunk close to his. “Snoring like a mule with a head cold.”
He snorts. “I thought Dareen was bad. Your aunt could wake people in China. If there are still people in China.” He quiets, and I can watch him fold into himself.
“It’s not too late to go back.” I wipe sweat that’s gathered on my forehead. “We’re only a day’s drive from the compound.” What I don’t say is that I can’t afford to lose a day in my search. If he decides to go back, I’ll go forward on foot.
Doc sighs and slides down to sit at the base of the tree. I sit beside him. The ground is hot, but not unbearable.
“I don’t wanna go back,” Doc says morosely, picking up a rock and skittering it across the ground. “Just feel bad for leaving them like that.” The pain makes him look younger, with his sandy-brown hair hanging over his eyes, his pink lips pouting. He’s beautiful. It’s hard to see him in such pain.
“You think they’ll be okay?” I ask.
Doc sniffs, dropping his head. “Honestly? I don’t know. Dareen’s an honest person. A good leader. And Hanson—the one that kinda took over when the fighting started…” He looks at me to see if I understand, and I nod. “He really knows how to rally them when everything’s mass chaos.”
“What about the wounded benders?”
Doc shrugs, his shirt making a scratching sound against the tree bark. “The two remaining midwives are capable. They can take care of them.”
I glance back at the Jeep and my sleeping aunt. Until about twenty-four hours ago, she was one of Merek’s midwives, too. “I sure hope so,” I say.
His green eyes flash with anger. “You think I like that I left those people without a doctor?”
I lean away from him. “I didn’t say that. You’re the one who—”
“You think it was easy for me to leave?” His delicate features have hardened into sharp lines. He stands, kicking up a puff of dust. “I just couldn’t stay there. Not after Nada.” Tears pool in his eyes. He turns away from me. “I’ll probably never see her grave again.”
I push off the ground, not sure what to do. Finally, I put my hand on his back as it shakes with silent sobs. “My mama is buried in some…mall parking lot,” I begin, my voice a whisper. “I couldn’t tell you where to find it if you gave me all the maps in New Mexico.”
That old urge bubbles up. The urge to dig a hole and cover myself with dirt. To let it fill my ears, my mouth. Since Nada died, I can’t feel much of anything and I’m afraid if I do, I’ll find a shovel and start digging. I stuff the feeling down into my boots and straighten my shoulders. Steady on, I tell myself. For Clay and Ethan.
“We gotta focus on the living,” I say, clearing my throat. “We gotta keep going.”
Doc sniffs and turns back to me. “You really love Clay, don’t you?”
I try not to see the want in Doc’s face. The memory of his kiss, the desire that flowed from him as his lips groped for my own, looms large between us. He’s beautiful and hurting and so much of me wants to help him heal. But I can’t. Not in the way he wants me to.
I lift my eyes up to the arching branches of the mesquite tree and watch the leaves tremble. “I do love Clay, yes.”
“And you think your brother is with him?”
“Yes.” Dear God, he has to be. They’re both alive, or… There is no or.
“Then we should get some rest.” He nods toward the Jeep. “We’ll be at Kirtland’s gates at nightfall.”
Tension tightens my stomach. We’ve got guns and all the ammo we could shake a stick at, but no idea what we’ll find at Kirtland. Merek told us the base had been under attack by the Free Colonies. Who knows what condition the place is in? Who knows who controls it? And the thought of seeing Nessa Vandewater…that snake of a woman. She’ll try to kill Ethan or me if it means keeping Clay to herself.
“Yeah, we should rest.” I nod toward the Jeep. “You go on. I have to use the little girl’s room.”
One corner of his mouth lifts at my joke. “Need someone to stand watch?”
I shake my head. “I can handle taking a tinkle by myself.”
He nods, smiling again. It’s a good sign that he can turn the tears off. He isn’t broken inside. Not like me.
I turn and slip through the branches, keeping to the shade as much as possible. Little scraggly plants grab at my ankles, and insects and lizards dart away like bullets. When I finally find a grove of brush that’s thick enough to hide me from the road, I hunker down and try to go. Here, the sun presses a white-hot finger on my head. Above, a bird caws loudly. And a droning sound picks up. At first, I think it’s an insect, but it grows.
What’s coming? A swarm? No. It’s too deep and rumbling. I stand and tug at my pants.
A car is headed our way.
I lurch forward, but my foot tangles. I fall. The ground comes up hard, smashing my elbow and jarring my spine. While I lie on the ground, hurting, I listen for the squeal of brakes and the crunch of tires. If they move on, they haven’t spotted the Jeep. If they stop, we’re up shit creek, as Auntie would say.
As the sound of an engine grows louder, I press my hands into the dirt and push up. A sharp jab stabs my hand. “What the hell?”
Backing away from me, barbed tail extended and pinchers raised, a brown scorpion stands ready for another attack.
I shriek and fall back. Then I scramble even farther into the brush, the sharp twigs digging at my skin.
I tell myself to breathe. My heart’s racing. There’s a puncture wound on the fleshy part of my palm, red and swollen
. As the shock wears off, heat and pain begin to spread. Goddamn it. I turn and look toward the Jeep. Auntie. She’ll know what to do.
But before I can take two steps, the pain doubles. A shooting ache radiates up my arm, building, building, each new wave of pain multiplying until the pain is a monster, eating me from the inside out. I try to breathe, but my breaths come in ragged pants like an injured dog’s. I stare at my arm, the source of this jagged lightning that’s gouging out my brain. Am I dying?
My eyes lift to the Jeep. It’s only a few paces, but it looks like miles. I stumble forward. A wave of nausea rolls me to the ground. The throb, throb, throb of pain blots out everything.
I force my eyes open. I roll onto my belly, my arm blaring. Then I push to my knees and finally stagger to my feet. As I cradle my arm and run, all I can think about is dying in the desert before I see Clay or Ethan.
No, goddamn it. No! I stumble forward.
When Doc sees me, he reaches out. “What happened?”
“Scorpion.” I slump against the Jeep as my vision fades in and out. Passing out will be a mercy, but not yet. “Wake…Auntie.”
“Scorpion?” he repeats, his eyes going wide. “Oh my God, Riley. Let me see.”
I forgot he’s a doctor. Reluctantly, I hold out my arm, but I want Auntie. The pain is a clamp on my brain, and each moment that passes draws me closer to blackness. I grit my teeth as Doc pulls my hand toward him.
“What did it look like?” he asks.
“What?” I’m soaked with sweat. I slump against the Jeep.
“What did the scorpion look like?”
“Brown,” I murmur. My fingers tingle. With my good hand, I wipe sweat off my brow. “Is it…serious?”
The worry in Doc’s face answers my question. “Do you think it was a bark scorpion?”
“How…should I know?” I let my head fall back against the Jeep. More bile churns up my throat. “I’m gonna throw up.”
Doc’s eyes lift from my hand to my face. “Lie on your side,” he says, helping me. “I’m going to wake your aunt.”
“She’s already awake,” Auntie says, shuffling toward us. “What’s all this now?”
“Riley got stung by a scorpion,” Doc says.
I close my eyes, not wanting to see the red, angry skin of my hand. The throb, throb, throb of the pain gathers my focus. “Am I gonna die?” I ask.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Auntie says, her voice floating somewhere near my head. “But lie down already, will ya?”
I writhe on the backseat of the Jeep, twitching with pain. It’s like one million fire ants marching up my veins and shooting down every one of my nerve endings. I sweat and moan, roll and toss. Soon I’ll ask someone to kill me.
“Auntie!”
Her head appears around the passenger side headrest. “What, precious?”
My eyes focus on her eye patch and the web of scars around it. “I need something.”
Her hand reaches out and brushes sweat-drenched hair off my face. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know,” I almost scream. “Something. Medicine.”
Auntie nods, licking a dry tongue over her lips. “We gave you everything we had.”
I moan. Rolling back and forth on the Jeep seat, I keep my arm lifeless on my stomach. I bite my lip and arch my back. Nothing, nothing makes the pain stop. “How long?” I murmur through cracked lips.
Auntie sighs and strokes my cheek. “Too long,” she says sadly. “To you, it’ll probably feel like an eternity.”
“Oh God,” I moan.
Doc’s face appears at the Jeep window. He looks down at me, his expression twisted with sympathy, and then he looks at my aunt. “I could drive into town. Try to barter for morphine. Something.”
“Morphine costs more than your leg,” she says, nodding at him. “And you’re a bender. No one will trade with you.”
Doc grits his teeth and growls. “I feel so helpless.”
Auntie waves a dismissive hand. “How do you think she feels?”
Doc goes quiet. For a while, they say nothing. This makes the pain seem bigger. I was able to push some of it to the back while they were talking. Now there’s nothing but the throb. “Tell me something,” I say through gritted teeth. “Tell me something to take my mind off.”
Doc’s face tightens. “Tell you what?”
But Auntie nods, her arthritic fingers brushing through my hair rhythmically. “A story. A story is good medicine. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”
“A story?” Doc scoffs. “She needs drugs.”
Auntie’s face has grown thoughtful, like she’s rummaging in old drawers for the tale that will draw me out of my pain. I watch her wrinkled face as the throb, throb, throb pulses down my arm.
“Did I ever tell you about your mama and Arn? About how they met?”
I try to think past the pain. “Bits and pieces.”
“That’s a good one, even if the ending is sad. But to start, I’ll have to go a ways back. Back to the Breeders. Back to when I was Nanny Bell.”
“Yes,” I say, desperate now. “Tell me.”
A low hum starts in her throat as she strokes my hair in time. “This story is true in parts, but memory grows slippery with age. And age I got in spades, puddin’. I’ll tell it, though, the best I can. For Janine. For you, baby.”
Chapter 2
Janine - Seventeen Years Earlier
The stirrups beneath my heels are cold. I focus on the metal and not on the man’s hand moving beneath my gown. All part of the process, the nannies would say. The doctors don’t like touching you there, but it’s a necessity. Grin and bear it.
There’s pressure and a pinch in my privates, but I don’t gasp. I bite my lip and clench the rough white paper at my sides.
The cold, metal device slides out, and I breathe deep. It means he’s done. It’s over. Until next month.
“I just don’t know, Jan,” Dr. Houghtson says. It’s his worried voice. I’ve heard it a lot lately. It sends my bare skin into gooseflesh.
“What is it?” I say, pushing up on my elbows to peer over the tent my knees make of my examination gown. “Did you…see something?”
He shakes his head. Not answering me, he walks over to the small industrial sink in the corner of the exam room and begins scrubbing his hands. The unanswered question hangs like a storm cloud between us.
He doesn’t tell me I can take my heels out of the stirrups. Doesn’t pat my shoulder and tell me the exam is over. Instead, I lie there, my exposed lower half on display like an exhibit. I squirm on the exam table, something that would make the nannies frown. The doctors want well-behaved girls. Don’t ask too many questions. Don’t do anything until you are told. They know what to do. But the nervous sweat that began as I walked to this appointment keeps building. It slides between my breasts, darkening the pink exam gown to a deep maroon at the center of my chest. The breast exam—I had one last month—is even more awkward because I’m so close to his face, I can see the hairs twitch inside his nose as he palms the soft tissue on my chest.
The rush of water at the sink continues. Dr. Houghtson scrubs and scrubs. He always washes his hands like this after he touches me. I wonder if he’s so tidy with all his patients or just me. If I’m the dirty one.
I swallow hard and look at the poster on the wall across from me. “See something? Say something,” it says in bold letters. A girl with a knowing look stares at me from the poster. Below it, in font too small for me to read, the commandment continues. I don’t need to read it to know what it says. “Rat on your fellow hall mates and earn rewards.” Well, it’s nobler sounding than that, but that’s the underlying message. Spy on each other. Keep each other in line.
It’s another way they control us. Nanny Bell told me.
The water shuts off and Dr. Houghtson turns around, wiping his hands on a towel. My heart pounds again. Is the exam not over? He’s still frowning and staring off into space. Finally, he remembers me.
I lower my legs and sit up on the exam table. Rivers of sweat run down my chest, pits, and back. Hopefully, there’ll be hot water for a shower when I get back.
“Can I get dressed?” my voice peeps out. Maybe my submissiveness will shake him out of his daze. Maybe he’ll tell me what’s wrong with me.
Dr. Houghtson looks up at my face and then away, like whatever he has to tell me is too painful. I form sign language letters with my fingers into my lap. Help me, I sign. Over and over. My fingers tremble on the E, but thankfully, Dr. Houghtson doesn’t notice what I’m doing. He’s too busy staring out the tiny window with a blank look on his face. I keep signing into my lap. H-E-L—
“I believe you have endometriosis,” Dr. Houghtson blurts.
I blink at him. “What?”
He drops his eyes to the cracked stool seat in the center of the room. The yellow foam stuffing is beginning to peek out of the red leather cover.
“It means the tissue that’s supposed to stay on the inside of your uterus may be growing outside your uterus.” When he sees the confusion on my face, he tries again. “It means you probably can’t get pregnant.”
His words feel like a nail through my heart. The sharp, piercing pain slices through my breastbone and into the soft matter. My hands slap over my chest as I gasp.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. His dark brown eyes are soft, and he opens and closes his thin lips several times before speaking. I stare like an idiot, waiting. Maybe he didn’t mean what he said.
“There still might be a chance.” His hand strokes my shoulder and onto my back like a nanny might do to soothe a fussy babe. All my shocked brain can think is, I hope he doesn’t feel the sweat puddles there.