On the Edge of Gone

by Corinne Duyvis

  The captain says something else. I shake my head, try to recall the words, but I can’t. “I—I’m sorry, what?”

  “Yes, she did,” Sanne cuts in before Captain Van Zand can repeat himself. “She could’ve gone straight to the ship, but she came back for us. She was the one who saw the escape shuttle and remembered it was exempt from the lockdown. Denise saved all of us, and—”

  Her jaw clangs shut.

  Not all of us.

  “I mean,” she adds. “Sir.”

  Captain Van Zand just nods. His cheeks seem to sag. “What happened to her?”

  For a stupid moment, I think he’s talking about me. Then I realize: “Mirjam?” I hesitate. “I don’t know. We were trying to find a way inside . . .”

  “I was teaching a group of students about the ship. Mirjam was the first to sign up.” Captain Van Zand looks at me flatly. Red creeps in at the edges of his eyes. I let my gaze sink to the floor. “I guess you want to stay,” he says. “All right.”

  My heart shudders in my chest for a double beat. “You’re making an exception?”

  “Yes. For you. But your mother goes back out when the water recedes.”

  I look from the captain to Mom, then back. Last night, I proposed this exact thing: kick Mom off the ship, but let me stay. Now that it’s happening, I don’t know if I should be happy or guilty or terrified. I make a sound like a hum or a moan, a buzz in my throat.

  “Please.” Mom’s eyes widen. “My daughter—”

  “Your daughter saved lives.” Captain Van Zand’s voice chokes. He continues, back to calm immediately. “She’s sixteen. She deserves a chance. But I’ve heard people talk about you. You’ve proved you can’t be trusted.”

  “I’ll die out there.”

  “We’ll help you to the nearest dry area or shelter. I wish you all the luck in the world. But I’m trying to get hundreds of people into the air. I’m trying to save generations that aren’t even born yet. I can’t be responsible for every single person who crosses my path.”

  “After what just happened—”

  “What just happened is that the wave spent almost twenty kilometers gathering debris. Something heavy hit one of our storage compartments. The wall broke open. Two dozen barrels of essential supplies were swept away or damaged.”

  Mom opens her mouth to say something else.

  Captain Van Zand doesn’t let her. “The door to the storage compartment wasn’t properly closed. An entire hallway flooded. We lost eight people, including a friend of mine. Two others were outside the ship and are unaccounted for. Mirjam makes three.” His nostrils flare. His cheeks tremble from anger or held-in tears or something else. “That’s eleven potential dead. That means eleven potential spots on the ship—ten, given that I just offered your daughter one—just opened up. That news will spread fast. Those bodies are still floating in a hallway. Before we can even get them out—before we can even begin to treat the injured—I’ll have a hundred people clamoring to track down their families and bring them on board.”

  “My daughter needs me,” Mom insists. “I’m so sorry about the people you lost, but please understand! This is a new environment for Denise. She’s stressed—she’s autistic. She needs me.”

  “Is that true?” He eyes me.

  Yes, I want to tell him, and No, and Which part are you talking about, exactly? I can’t answer this. You can’t ask me to answer this.

  I press my lips together. I’m still shifting from toes to heels, faster now. “It’s not about . . . whether I need her. Just don’t—don’t kick out my mother?” I try to meet the captain’s eyes but can’t.

  “As far as I can tell, Denise might be better off with us.”

  Mom gasps. “You don’t even know—you can’t take her word for it!”

  “It’s the only word worth taking.” Captain Van Zand stands brusquely. His chair rolls back. “I have a crew to manage, a ship to repair, dead bodies to retrieve, and I have to tell several families the worst thing I’ve ever had to tell anyone. Denise can stay with us or with you, whatever she chooses. You? You leave.”

  I wish I could say I spent the next hours finding ways to keep Mom on board, or telling her I’m sorry, or doing the heroic thing and giving up my spot so we can stay together.

  I don’t do any of that.

  I hunt down the cabin we had before and wrap my case around the pillow, and then I curl up and cry and sleep for three hours straight.

  Mom tells me something before she leaves:

  “That shower I took last night. I wasn’t thinking about how it wasn’t allowed.”

  I eye her from across the room, where she sits at the edge of her bed like a dejected child with her hands by her sides. That’s obvious, I’d like to say. You never think. I rock back and forth. My bed squeaks from the movement. For a moment, that bugs me more than anything else: my bed at home never squeaks.

  I don’t know what my bed at home looks like now. I don’t know what home looks like now.

  “I wanted to come down,” Mom whispers. “I thought . . . if I showered, I’d be clearer, and you’d trust me to drive and we could find Iris.”

  I don’t know what she expects me to say. “OK.”

  “I’m glad you can stay.”

  “The ship will take longer to repair now. We won’t leave right away. I’ll come visit you. We’ll talk about finding Iris.” I eye the floor. It takes a long time before I can say my next words: “I’m sorry.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she’s gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SANNE AND FATIMA COME BY AFTER I’VE showered and conditioned my hair. I mostly nod and stare at the empty shelves in the closet, and occasionally remember to smile. I don’t always talk well when I’m tired.

  Afterward, I wander the ship. Teary-faced people huddle together in the park. I overhear talk of diving into the water and closing the breach from outside. Others fret about how much extra time it’ll take the ship to launch.

  The second time I see Sanne—this time with Max instead of Fatima—it’s easier to talk. That shower and the chance to salvage my hair helped; so did the brief nap I took.

  “We’re getting a late lunch,” Max says. “Or early dinner. Want to come?” He’d been pale before, with that red-blond hair of his, but now that the blotchiness is gone, he’s paler than ever. Freckles stretch across his face and exposed arms. He’s wearing a T-shirt for the first time, answering that question I had when we met. It’s not muscle filling out Max’s clothes; he’s just chubby. It looks good on him either way. The thought feels bizarrely out of place after everything that happened today.

  I’ve rehearsed what to tell him. Last year, a friend of my aunt’s died, and Iris and Dad coached me on what to say. I copy it almost word for word. “Max, I didn’t know your sister well. But she was nice to me. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I hold his gaze for a second.

  “Yeah.” He frowns. His next words come slowly, like he’s still figuring out where each word should go, and any mistake will mean he’ll have to start over: “Listen, Denise, it hasn’t really . . . sunk in yet . . . and I think that’s best for now, all right? Let’s just . . . not. If you want to offer condolences, find my parents. Starting tomorrow morning, they’ll be in our cabin whenever they’re not working. You can pay a shiva call, if you want.”

  “Shiva?” I should know that word.

  “They’re Jewish,” Sanne says.

  Max runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing almost upright. “Food?” He says it brightly, like it hadn’t occurred to him before but he loves the idea.

  As he says it, I realize I haven’t eaten since that morning’s spice bread. My stomach spikes with hunger. “Yes,” I say. I’m hesitant about my next words, but Max seems serious about not talking about his sister. “Huh. I can do that now.”

  “Don’t expect too much.” Max grins. Still pale. That’s the only thing that’s different now.

  Sanne jabs him in the side. “It’s food,”
she tells me, “and it’s fine.”

  I follow them through the halls, and after a minute, I work up the courage to ask what’s been nagging at me: “Do you know how the shelters will be affected?”

  “Affected how?” Max asks.

  “A lot of temporary shelters are underground. Ours was.” Is, I think. The shelter is still there. It had better be: it’s the only hope I have of seeing Iris again. If she’s not in Gorinchem, she’ll either have been outside when the comet and waves hit, which means she’s dead, or she’ll have taken shelter in Belgium instead. While that’s the only alternative that leaves her alive, it’s not a good one. Neither of us could possibly cross hundreds of kilometers with the world outside being what it is. For waves like this to hit us, the dunes must be practically swept away, countless dikes smashed through. That means half the country is underwater.

  I’ve seen the maps all my life at school: This is the Netherlands. Everything west of this line through the middle . . . all that land is below sea level.

  My classmates would joke about how screwed we were, and we’d go on with our lives.

  “What if the entrances or exits are underwater?” I ask. “Or their air supply?”

  I don’t want to think about Iris trapped underground with three hundred others, waiting as the water drips in and rises, but the image haunts me.

  “Don’t you read your tab?” Sanne says.

  I hesitate. Am I missing something? “The Internet is down.”

  “I meant the local network.”

  “I’m not linked up yet.”

  “So you didn’t hear the new launch date?” Max says. “They think late next week. And Norway? Did you hear about that? It’s people’s best bet for what caused the waves. A chunk of Norway falling into the sea. They put out an announcement explaining it.”

  “And there was an announcement about the shelters, too?” I press as we descend a set of stairs.

  Max nods. “The shelter engineers knew the ejecta, quakes, and air blast would create debris. To prevent entrances getting blocked, they built in these domes or pyramid towers with emergency exits. At least two meters high. Built so they’re hard to knock down and shaped so most debris will slide off.”

  Two meters is enough to reach above sea level for most places, and they must’ve built even taller domes in lower-lying areas.

  That means Iris is . . . I still don’t know. Maybe fine, maybe not. She’d be trapped, but alive. There’s a chance. My next steps come a little lighter.

  It leaves the question of reaching her. I never figured out how to cross seventy kilometers on cracked roads, and a layer of seawater covering the country won’t help.

  I’m still pondering as we arrive at the dining room. Max makes a fake-elegant motion. “Ladies first.”

  I suck my cheeks in but don’t know whether rejecting or acknowledging the gesture is more awkward, so I just go. It’s the room with the long table I found Mom at the other night. I almost screech to a halt at the sight, but push onward, driven by the growl in my stomach and the smell of fresh bread.

  In front of the buffet, I inhale the smells. I’ve always liked buffets. They let me choose exactly what I want and how much. I do everything slowly, precisely, as if going one step at a time will help me maintain this level of tentative calm: I take a plate, slide on several slices of toasted bread and soy meat substitutes. The soup smells good—like chicken almost—but I don’t recognize what’s in it. I linger, more uncertain with every second I stay at the pot.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar head of white hair. Els stands in the doorway and brightens when she sees me.

  “I was looking for you!” She crosses the distance between us and seems to go for a hug, but catches herself in time. “I heard what happened. I’m so glad you’re alive. I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “Me, too.” Then I remember Mirjam, who’s not alive, and Mom, who’s not here, and guilt drags its nails across my back.

  Els walks by my side as I go down the line. “No soup?”

  “I don’t know what’s in there.” I probably wouldn’t like it even if I did know. The only soup I like is Dad’s, and he made it special for me. I still feel wrong walking past the pot now that I’m actually allowed to eat the ship’s food. I shouldn’t pass on food while Mom is stuck nibbling crackers in a drowned airport, and Iris is God-knows-where, eating—or not eating—God-knows-what. And Dad? I wonder. What’s he eating in his shelter?

  The last time Els and I spoke, she’d reprimanded me over shouting at Michelle. Now she’s all kindness. What changed her mind? My being autistic, or my almost dying?

  Either way, maybe she can help. “People keep mentioning the waiting list,” I say. “Can anybody add to it? Can I add my mother and sister?”

  “You found your sister?”

  I shake my head. “But for when I do.”

  “You can add them, but they’d be at the bottom.”

  “How would I move them higher?” I put my plate down to pour a glass of water. Given Captain Van Zand’s distrust of Mom, it might be fruitless to try to get her on board, but I have to try. Was that whole conversation—the waves themselves—only this morning? It’s odd how a few hours of sleep can make an event feel so dreamlike.

  “It helps if they have particular skills, or if you’re essential on board. And people who donate necessary supplies get in, guaranteed.”

  “I have two cans of mushroom ragout in my backpack.”

  “That won’t be enough, I’m afraid.”

  I glance at Els sideways. “I was joking.”

  “Oh, right. I thought . . .”

  “Autistic people are literal. I know.” I swallow my annoyance. Els would’ve found out eventually, but I still wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

  “Anyway, I was looking for you,” she tells me again.

  I take my plate in one hand, water in the other, but don’t approach the table where Max and Sanne are settling in. Els might follow me. “Yes. You said. Why?”

  “I was thinking you could help me out with work. I’m taking over some of Michelle’s tasks.”

  “Why?” I repeat. When Els doesn’t respond, I fill in the blanks. “Oh. She’s dead.”

  Els cringes.

  “Sorry. But she is?”

  “Yes. She was in that hallway when . . . Yes.”

  I shift my weight from foot to foot. “OK.” I think, fleetingly, that I should feel bad: I talked to Michelle only yesterday. It’s frightening to think she’s floating somewhere in a flooded hallway only a few levels below us, but it’s only frightening now that I actively pause to imagine it. Michelle isn’t the wave’s only victim. If half the country is truly underwater—how many were outside when the wave hit?

  I can’t wrap my head around it.

  Els’s voice snaps me back. “Given the extra workload, I need an assistant. I think you’d be a good fit.”

  “But my grades were terrible.”

  “Let’s give it a try.” She smiles. “You’ve seen where my workspace is. Walk in tomorrow morning, any time you like.”

  Els heads out before I can ask more. Still blinking, I turn for the table Sanne and Max chose. Apparently, Fatima was already waiting for us. Sanne sits by her side, with Max across from them. It’s a small table. Only one seat left.

  In school, I’d never dare sit down with a group I’d known for less than a day. Here, they look up expectantly, like there’s not even a question.

  I let a smile dart across my face and sit down in the empty chair.

  “Check out who gets to eat lunch,” Max says.

  “So glad you’re on board for real,” Fatima says, stirring her soup.

  “Me too. I thought it’d be more complicated.”

  “More complicated than saving lives?”

  I place the soy meat on my toast, making sure every corner is covered. “How could I get the captain to make another exception, do you know?”

  “For your mother? Get her to save l
ives?” Sanne suggests, smirking.

  Fatima spoons up a fake meatball, but lets it drop back into her soup without taking a bite. “How is she holding up?”

  “I haven’t visited yet. I’m not sure how to now.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what it must be like for your mother to be kicked off.”

  “She wasn’t technically kicked off,” I correct. “Just . . . not let on.”

  “Right. The captain said she couldn’t be trusted,” Sanne says. “Because of a dumbass shower?”

  “It sucks, but trust is necessary for a ship like this,” Max says. “I don’t mean that your mother . . . just, people could die if . . .”

  At the word die, everyone falls quiet.

  Max stares at his plate. Sanne leans forward and slurps her soup, which suddenly has her full attention. Fatima is still stirring her own soup, which I think she’s been doing for two minutes straight by now.

  I should ask how they are. If I can rattle off rehearsed condolences, I should be able to offer support, right? I should. Yet, my tongue is as empty as when I faced a red-eyed Mirjam in the bathroom or an Iris stressed out from her festivals. Sometimes I wanted to ask if I could hug her, the same way Iris always did with me—“Can I?”—but self-consciousness would stop me at the last second.

  It’s just not my role. I’d be playing normal like a child playing dress-up. I’m the one who gets upset and needs help. I’m the younger sister, the difficult child.

  None of these people know that about me, but somehow, I still can’t open my mouth and say two simple words: You OK? Gaat het?

  I eat my lunch.

  After a minute, Fatima stands. “I’m not hungry. I’ll see you later.”

  Automatically, I start. “See you la—”

  “You know Mirjam wasn’t your fault, right?” Sanne says.

  Fatima looks away. Long, sleek hair falls like a sheet in front of her face.

  Oh. Oh. Guilt. Is that what this is about?