“Are you happy here, Vanessa?”
“Yes,” says Vanessa, although she’s not sure. Nobody has ever asked her that before.
Mrs. Adam hugs her. “Thank you, Vanessa. You’ve eased my mind. Clyde keeps saying it’s just society, how people react. And I know, I know women want sons, who wouldn’t? Some have only sons. I don’t know what those fathers do. I’m sure I’ll find out eventually. And being young is never pleasant. I think there’s a better childhood here than back—than out there. Loving parents. A strong community. But it’s good to hear. It’s very good to hear.” She pulls back and stares raptly into Vanessa’s face, her eyes almost manic in their intensity.
Vanessa is beginning to think that Mrs. Adam is a little bit crazy. But she hugs her back anyway. “I’m sorry,” she says into Mrs. Adam’s lank, mouse-colored hair, even though she’s not exactly sure what she’s sorry for.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Caitlin
At night, Caitlin has trouble finding a comfortable place to rest. The summer bruises are fading but still sore, and the autumn bruises—finger-sized, handprints, straight-out blows—are blossoming like rotten ivy across her body. She knows Father doesn’t really beat her, he’s just getting rid of all the tension that built up over the summer, but she wishes he’d let her sleep more. Mother gives him a double serving of pungent mash-wine every night at dinner, and Caitlin knows she’s trying to make him slumber through the night. A small part of her glows at this exhibition of love.
She’s dozing off after an exhausting evening when she hears tapping on her window. Jerking awake, Caitlin thinks for a moment that it’s spring, almost summer, and Rosie is tossing pebbles at her window. She blinks, and it’s autumn again and she has no clue why anyone outside would want her, but the thought of Father waking fills her with panic. Rushing to the window, Caitlin opens it quietly. There’s Rosie, perched on her roof.
Caitlin scoots down toward her across the dry, flaking shingle. “Rosie. What is it?”
“We’re all supposed to meet at the church.”
Caitlin stares at her, trying to decide if she’s dreaming. She looks upward to a clear, cold sky striped with alabaster stars.
“Well?” says Rosie. “Do you want to go together?”
“Why would we go to the church?” asks Caitlin carefully, as if Rosie is raving.
Rosie shrugs. “Linda told me about it. Janey wants us all there at midnight.”
“Who’s us?”
“The girls. The older ones, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Do I look like Mary? I don’t know why Janey does what she does.”
“Well, I don’t have a clock in my room. The only one is downstairs.”
Rosie rolls her eyes. “Go watch it, then. I’ll watch mine too. I’ll wait for you a little before midnight.”
“Do you know what time it is now?”
“About eleven.”
“Okay,” says Caitlin slowly. “Are you playing a trick on me?”
Rosie’s face darkens. “That would be a stupid trick!” Caitlin can’t tell if Rosie is offended at being accused of lying or of playing an inferior prank.
“Well, I’ll try to get downstairs. If Mother or Father wakes up, I won’t be able to go.”
“I was scared your father was in there with you. He’s so scary. Lots of girls won’t be able to go. Make sure he doesn’t come to your room and find you missing.”
“How do I do that?” Caitlin asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t know everything. Why don’t you just sit there and count out fifty minutes by seconds.”
And so Caitlin goes back into her bedroom, kneels on her scratchy bed, and does just that. She counts too fast; when she creeps downstairs to look at the clock, it’s only eleven thirty-five. She sits, nervously staring at the clock, watching the hand slowly creep toward midnight, worried that Father forgot to wind it and she’ll miss the whole thing. Eventually she can’t take it anymore, and she rushes outside. Rosie is waiting in the cold, shifting her weight from foot to foot on the frosty ground. It’s a full moon, and Caitlin can see the outline of Rosie’s thin body through her illuminated nightgown.
“You’re late,” says Rosie. “We have to hurry.” She reaches out and grabs Caitlin’s hand. Surprised and pleased by the strong hand gripping hers, Caitlin starts running with Rosie beside her. Their panting breath fogs, and Caitlin giggles at how cold her feet are on the stiff mud and wet, shining grass. Rosie remembered shoes, but they’re too big, and she keeps losing one and then rushing back to claim it.
They hear other footsteps and slow down to see three girls jogging toward them.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Natalie Saul hisses. “I heard Janey wants us in the church.”
“I don’t know,” says Rosie, and Caitlin shrugs in agreement.
“This is all a trick,” says Linda Gideon as they hurry along together. “There’s going to be a bunch of boys there, and they’re going to laugh at us.”
“I don’t think so,” says Alma Joseph. “Janey would find out and beat them up.”
When they arrive at the church, there’s a small group of girls gathered around the entrance who hail the newcomers with relief, hoping vainly for further intelligence.
“I’m not going into that dark church,” says Letty firmly.
“Me either,” says Rosie. “Something might be in there.”
“What if there’s something waiting to eat us?” pipes up Joanne Balthazar, who’s only five. Her sister brought her along.
“We’re not going into the dark,” says Rosie decisively. “We can wait here for a while and then leave if nothing happens.”
“My toes feel like they’re going to fall off,” says Violet Balthazar.
“We can throw them down the stairs for the monster,” giggles Letty, and the rest of the group laughs nervously.
“Look,” says Ophelia Adam, pointing, but they all see it at the same time. There’s a faint tawny glow coming from inside the church, illuminating the windows and seeping out through the door.
“There’s somebody in there,” says Linda.
“Or something,” replies Natalie. The glow grows brighter. There are more girls gathered around the doorway now.
“Someone’s lighting candles,” says Nina Joseph. “I can see them through that window.”
Rosie pokes Caitlin in the side. “You go first.” Caitlin shakes her head rapidly, backing up a little in case Rosie decides to push her down the stairs.
“I’ll go,” says Vanessa Adam, looking annoyed. Playing with the end of her braid, she peers into the doorway and then takes a few hesitant steps down. “It’s all right. It’s Mary and Janey,” she calls back. “Nina’s right. They’re lighting candles.”
Confident that Janey and Mary wouldn’t be lighting candles if they were fighting a monster, the girls tumble down the steps and into the church. Empty and shadowed, it looks cavernous compared to its familiar state, replete with worshippers and dim daylight. The orange glow of the candles lends light to the room, if not warmth. Mary is sitting calmly next to the altar, her shimmering dark hair loose around her shoulders. At her feet is Janey, looking impatient and twisting her fingers together.
“What is it?” cries Gina Abraham excitedly. “What are we doing?”
“I wanted to talk about…important things,” Janey says. “Forbidden things. I didn’t know how else to get us together without some adult looking on.”
The girls glance around at one another as the silence lengthens and they wait for her to say more. Then Mary says, “Go on, get behind the altar.”
Janey rolls her eyes. “I’m not Pastor Saul,” she says.
“What?” calls a girl from the back, and then more softly, “What did she say?”
“See,” says Mary. “We’ll hear you better if you’re higher up.”
“But it’s stupid,” says Janey.
“If you have something to say,” says Vanessa, “and you w
ant us all to hear it…”
Janey unfolds her spindly body and walks up to the altar, almost as tall as the pastor but slender as a blade of grass. When she speaks from behind the podium, her faint voice is suddenly strong and echoing. With a start, Caitlin wonders if Pastor Saul’s sermons are really deep and thundering, his voice driven by otherworldly power, or if it’s simply a result of the way the church is structured. Janey coughs. “I…thank you for coming here. I just wanted to—I was talking with someone before she died. And she was talking about leaving the island. Maybe going to the wastelands, but I thought, maybe there’s another island. Another island to go to.”
A voice whispers, “What does she mean?”
“What I mean is what if we’re not the only one? If you can go on an island and avoid the scourge, surely others did too.”
Caitlin thinks of another island, perhaps with a similar church, perhaps with a red-haired girl admonishing the others at midnight.
“I mean, the world is big, right?” Janey asks. Caitlin sees Vanessa, who knows all about the world, nodding.
“Mr. Abraham showed us on a map,” says Letty. “He said the island wasn’t on it, but told us where we were.”
“And for all we know, there’s more world, not even on that map.”
There’s silence as everyone ponders this uncharted world. The littlest girls, already bored, have started a game to see who can jump the farthest. Cheers and whoops carry from one corner of the room, providing a jarring score to Janey’s words.
“But Pastor Saul says that everyone else got stuck in the war,” pipes up Wendy Balthazar.
“Well, what if he doesn’t know everything about the entire world?” snaps Janey. “He’s a pastor, not an ancestor. Or God.”
Wendy shakes her head at her sister to indicate her disapproval of Janey’s comment.
“Why would we be the only ones to escape the war?” Janey continues. “What’s so special about us?”
“The ancestors,” Nina says. “They had foresight.”
“Well, maybe other people’s ancestors had foresight.”
There’s a collective gasp, and then a mutter. The ancestors aren’t just ancestors, they’re the ancestors, chosen by God to start a new society. Janey slams her fist into the altar so hard that Caitlin wonders if she’s dented it. “Are you seriously saying it couldn’t ever happen anywhere else?” she asks. “That it’s impossible anyone else might have survived?”
“She’s right,” says Vanessa. The others quiet and turn to her. “There must be pockets of people somewhere, on islands, in valleys…places where the scourge didn’t reach, or didn’t reach as badly. I mean, we can’t be sure, but it wouldn’t make sense for us to be the only ones.” Caitlin isn’t sure what a valley is, but she trusts Vanessa.
“It doesn’t have to make sense,” says Paula Abraham nastily. “It’s the ancestors. And God.”
“Other islands,” continues Vanessa as if Paula hadn’t spoken, “and they might be completely different.”
“What do you mean?” asks Fiona. “Different how?”
“However you like,” says Vanessa thoughtfully. “It depends on where they are. Different plants and animals and weather. Hotter, colder. Different trees, or no trees.”
“What do they carve out of, then?” demands Paula.
“I don’t know, I don’t live there,” Vanessa replies, and everyone laughs.
“What if on that island, it never gets warm enough for a summer?” asks Letty, and someone else says, “What if there aren’t any dogs or cats?”
“What if women wear pants and men wear dresses?” says Fiona, and everyone laughs louder.
“What if nobody ever gets married, or knows who their father is?” says Millie Abraham.
“What if there aren’t any men at all?” says Wendy.
“Then there’d be no babies,” answers another voice.
“What if,” says Lana Aaron, who is only six but more alert than her shrieking, tumbling counterparts, “what if the children are head of the family, and the parents have to do what they say?”
“What if they’re all defectives, and they all live in one big defective family?”
“This isn’t time for storytelling,” insists Janey, although the ideas keep whizzing through the air, each girl eager to add her own. “This is a time to ask serious questions.” Her voice becomes louder. “If there are other islands, where things are done differently, can we go there? Or can we change things here?”
There is a blank silence. “Change what?” ventures Nina.
“Change anything. Not just dogs and dresses. Change things that matter.”
Another silence, and then a few girls turn to mutter to one another. “Like what?” asks Nina again.
Janey sighs. “If you could change anything about the island, what would it be?”
There’s a pause. “More cookies,” someone whispers, and a trail of giggles blows through the group like wind on grass.
“Think about it,” says Janey, slamming her hand into the altar again. “What if we didn’t have to get married? What if we didn’t have to obey our fathers?” A spark in her eyes. “What if we could make it like summer all the time? Wouldn’t you like that?”
The silence this time is full of doubt.
“But,” says Fiona, “what about the ancestors?”
“What about them?” demands Janey.
“Well,” says Fiona, as if explaining something to a very small child, “we live this way because the ancestors tell us to. So we don’t fall to the darkness below.”
“But then,” says Vanessa, over another girl who is trying to speak, “what’s the use of thinking about it? What if we didn’t have to obey our fathers? That would be nice, but the truth is that we have fathers and they make us obey them—with their fists if they need to.” Caitlin can feel everyone’s eyes on her and wishes she would shrink into the ground.
“It would be nice to have summer all the time,” continues Vanessa, “but we don’t. We never will—the frost comes at the end of summer, and we have to go home. Otherwise we’d freeze or starve. They’re going to make us get married whether we like it or not. We’re small and they can force us to do anything they want.” Her voice is grating and bitter. “And our mothers would help them. And when we are mothers, we’ll feel the same way, no matter how much we think we won’t. You want us to lead some kind of revolution?”
The girls look at one another helplessly, unsure what the word means. Even Janey looks puzzled.
“We have no weapons, nothing. We’re like a herd of goats plotting to overthrow the humans that keep them. It’s laughable. What’s the point of thinking about it differently?” Vanessa’s teeth are bared. Caitlin feels the room deflating, shrinking back.
“Because,” says Janey, “they can’t stop us from thinking. They can force us to do anything they want, but they can’t stop us from thinking. And maybe if we think, we’ll think up a way to…” She pauses, sighing. “Amanda is dead. You know that. But she was seeking a different way. A way to leave to another place. Amanda—” She stops herself, actually biting her lip to stem the flow of words. She glances at Mary, who shakes her head almost imperceptibly.
She stares around the room. “Think about it. Think if it was different.”
There’s a snort from a corner of the group, and someone whispers, “What if on the other island, it’s your summer of fruition all the time?” There are giggles and groans of disgust.
“What if all there is to eat is spinach?”
“What if the freaks in the wastelands invade and kill everyone?”
“What if all there is to eat is cake?”
The chorus of what-ifs continues, and Janey looks tired. “This isn’t the point,” she says, but the idea has run away from her, galloping around the room like a playful dog. She looks sad, and frustrated, but also unsurprised. Caitlin wants to go comfort Janey, tell her she understands, but she isn’t sure she does understand. Inching closer—i
nvisible as ever—she hears Janey murmur to Mary, “They’re too young. The adults keep them too young. Or too stupid.”
Mary puts an arm around Janey and says, “They’re how the adults made them. You told me that.”
Caitlin wants so badly to be different, someone not young or stupid, so she might grasp the significance of what Janey is saying. But Vanessa made more sense. What difference would it make, if there were other islands? They can’t get there. They can’t talk to the other islanders to get ideas. The other islanders aren’t going to come beat the adults until they agree to whatever Janey wants.
Janey walks over to Vanessa, looking intent. Everyone falls silent, and so Janey’s whispered words are clear, echoing off the walls. “You have your books, and your cleverness, and your wanderer father,” Janey says softly. A muscle near Vanessa’s ear twitches, but she doesn’t say anything. “You need to remember,” Janey continues, “that one day soon, unless something changes, something big, you’re going to bleed, and marry, and raise two children, and die, just like everybody else. Nothing will be any different.”
“You think I don’t know that?” hisses Vanessa in a sharp fury. “And what about you? You’re a freak, an overgrown freak, and you think that will save you. Well, I’ve seen you with no clothes on—you’re getting close and soon you’re going to bleed like the rest of us.”
They stare at each other, anger flaring in Janey’s ice-gray eyes and mirrored in Vanessa’s rich hazel ones. Suddenly Janey slumps. “Then we’re both doomed, aren’t we?” she says with a crooked smile, looking like she’s going to cry.
Janey moves away, and Vanessa puts her head in her hands. Walking over to Mary, Janey whispers something to her, and they leave up the long staircase. The girls fall back to talking, telling the story of the other island, where people live in snow houses or grass houses, and they eat spinach always or never, and they have cats as pets or cats have people as pets. Faces are filled with mirth, alarm, confusion. Nobody leaves until the sky starts blushing with dawn, and then Caitlin feels dizzy as she hurries back home.
Gather the Daughters Page 15