“Right you are.” Carter donned his hat. “We best get to work on them leaves.”
* * *
8
“Michael!”
His sister took her last two steps at a jog and wrapped him in a hug that made his ribs crunch.
“Whoa. I’m glad to see you, too.”
The nurse at the desk was staring at them, but Sara couldn’t be contained. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “What are you doing here?” She stepped back and looked him over with a motherly eye. One part of him felt embarrassed; another part would have been disappointed if she hadn’t. “God, you’re thin. When did you get here? Kate will be thrilled.” She glanced at the nurse, an older woman in a boiled smock. “Wendy, this is my brother, Michael.”
“The one with the sailboat?”
He laughed. “That’s me.”
“Please tell me you’re staying,” Sara said.
“Just a couple of days.”
She shook her head and sighed. “I guess I’ll have to take what I can get.” She was clutching his upper arm as if he might float away. “I’m off in an hour. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I know you, Michael. I mean it.”
—
He waited for her, and together they walked to the apartment. How odd it was to be back on dry land, with its disconcerting stillness underfoot. After three years mostly alone, the hum of so much packed humanity felt like something scraping his skin. He did his best to conceal his agitation, believing it would pass, though he also wondered if his time at sea had wrought a fundamental change in his temperament that would bar him from ever living among people again.
With a stab of guilt, he noted how much Kate had changed. The baby in her was gone; even her curls had straightened. The two of them played go-to with Hollis while Sara made supper; when dinner was over, Michael got into bed with her to tell her a story. Not a story from a book: Kate demanded something from real life, a tale of his adventures at sea.
He chose the story of the whale. This was something that had happened about six months before, far out in the Gulf. It was late at night, the water calm and gleaming beneath a full moon, when his boat began to lift, as if the sea were rising. A dark bulge emerged off his port side. At first he didn’t know what it was. He had read about whales but never seen one, and his sense of such a creature’s dimensions was vague, even disbelieving. How could something so big be alive? As the whale slowly breached the surface, a spout of water shot from its head; the creature rolled lazily onto its side, one massive flipper lifting clear. Its flanks, shiny and black, were encrusted with barnacles. Michael was too amazed to be afraid; only later did it occur to him that with one slap of its tail, the whale could have shattered his boat to pieces.
Kate was staring at him, wide-eyed. “What happened?”
Well, Michael went on, that was the funny thing. He had expected the whale to move on, but it didn’t. For nearly an hour it ran alongside the Nautilus. Occasionally it would duck its enormous head beneath the surface, only to reappear a few moments later with a spout from its blowhole, like a big wet sneeze. Then, as the moon was setting, the creature descended and did not reappear. Michael waited. Was it finally gone? Several minutes passed; he began to relax. Then, with an explosion of seawater, it reared upward off his starboard bow, hurling its massive body high into the air. It was, Michael said, like watching a city lift into the sky. See what I can do? Don’t mess with me, brother. It crashed back down with a second detonation that blasted him broadside and left him drenched. He never saw it again.
Kate was smiling. “I get it. He was playing a joke on you.”
Michael laughed. “I guess maybe he was.”
He kissed her good night and returned to the main room, where Hollis and Sara were putting up the last of the dishes. The power had been cut for the night; a pair of candles flickered on the table, exuding greasy trails of smoke.
“She’s quite a kid.”
“Hollis gets the credit,” Sara said. “I’m so busy at the hospital I sometimes feel like I barely see her.”
Hollis grinned. “It’s true.”
“I hope a mat on the floor is all right,” Sara said. “If I’d known you were coming, I could have gotten a proper cot from the hospital.”
“Are you kidding? I usually sleep sitting up. I’m not even sure I actually sleep anymore.”
Sara was wiping down the stove with a cloth. A little too aggressively—Michael could sense her frustration. It was an old conversation.
“Look,” Michael said, “you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”
Sara exhaled sharply. “Hollis, talk to him. I know I won’t get anywhere.”
The man shrugged helplessly. “What do you want me to say?”
“How about ‘People love you, stop trying to get yourself killed.’ ”
“It’s not like that,” Michael said.
“What Sara is trying to say,” Hollis interjected, “is we all hope you’re being careful.”
“No, that’s not at all what I’m saying.” She looked at Michael. “Is it Lore? Is that the reason?”
“Lore has nothing to do with it.”
“Then tell me, because I’d really like to understand this, Michael.”
How should he explain himself? His reasons were so tangled together that they weren’t anything he could assemble into an argument. “It just feels right. That’s all I can say.”
She resumed her overzealous scrubbing. “So you feel like you should be scaring the hell out of me.”
Michael reached for her, but she shook him away. “Sara—”
“Don’t.” She refused to look at him. “Don’t tell me this is okay. Don’t tell me any of this is okay. Goddamnit, I told myself I wouldn’t do this. I have to get up early.”
Hollis moved in behind her. He placed one hand on her shoulder, the other on the rag, bringing it to a halt and gently taking it from her hand. “We’ve talked about this. You’ve got to let him be.”
“Oh, listen to you. You probably think it’s just great.”
Sara had begun to cry. Hollis turned her around and drew her into him. He looked past her shoulder at Michael, who was standing awkwardly by the table. “She’s just worn out is all. Maybe you could give us a minute?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Thank you, Michael. The key’s right by the door.”
Michael let himself out of the apartment and exited the complex. With nowhere to go, he took a seat on the ground near the entrance where nobody would bother him. He hadn’t felt this bad in a long time. Sara had always been a worrier, but he didn’t like upsetting her; it was one of the reasons he came to the city so rarely. He would have liked to make her happy—find someone to marry, settle down with a job just like everybody else, have kids. His sister deserved some peace of mind after all she’d done, stepping in to look after him when their parents had died, though she’d just been a kid herself. Everything they did and said to each other contained this unspoken fact. If things had happened differently, they might have been just like any other brother and sister, their importance to one another fading over time as new connections took precedence. But not the two of them. New people would take the stage, but there would always be a room in their hearts in which only the two of them resided.
When he felt like he’d waited a suitable time, he returned to the apartment. The candles were doused; Sara had left a mat and pillow for him. He undressed in the dark and lay down. Only then did he notice the note that Sara had propped on his pack. He lit a candle and read.
I’m sorry. I love you. All eyes.—S
Just three sentences, but they were all he needed. They were the same three sentences that the two of them had been saying to each other every day of their lives.
—
He awoke to see Kate’s face just inches from his own.
“Uncle Michael, wake…up.”
He drew himself up on his elbows. Hollis was standing by the door. “Sorry. I told her to leave yo
u alone.”
It took Michael a moment to gather himself. He wasn’t used to sleeping so late. He wasn’t used to sleeping at all. “Is Sara here?”
“Gone for hours.” He beckoned to his daughter. “Let’s go—we’re going to be late.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Daddy’s scared of the sisters.”
“Your daddy’s a smart man. Those ladies make my insides twist.”
“Michael,” said Hollis, “you’re not helping.”
“Right.” He looked at the girl. “Do as your daddy says, sweetheart.”
Kate surprised him with a sudden, forceful hug. “Will you be here when I get back?”
“Sure I will.”
He listened to their footsteps descending the stairs. You had to hand it to the kid. Pure emotional blackmail, but what could he do? He dressed and washed up at the sink. Sara had left rolls for breakfast, but he wasn’t really hungry. He could find something later if he needed to, assuming he actually felt like eating.
He grabbed his pack and headed out.
—
Sara was finishing her morning rounds when one of the nurses fetched her. She made her way to the reception area to find Sister Peg standing at the desk.
“Sister, hello.”
Sister Peg was one of those people who changed any room she entered, tightening every screw. Her age was anybody’s guess—at least sixty, though it was said that she’d looked exactly the same for twenty years. A figure of legendary cantankerousness, though Sara knew better; beneath the stern exterior was a woman devoted completely to the children in her care.
“Might I have a word with you, Sara?”
Moments later, they were headed to the orphanage. As they drew near, Sara could hear the whoops and cries of children; morning recess was in full swing. They entered through the garden gate.
“Dr. Sara, Dr. Sara!”
Sara didn’t make it five steps onto the playground before the children descended. They knew her well, but part of their excitement, she understood, was the presence of any visitor. She extricated herself with promises to stay longer next time and followed Sister Peg into the building.
The girl was sitting on the table in the little room Sara used for exams. Her eyes flicked up as Sara entered. She could have been twelve or thirteen; it was difficult to tell through the layers of filth. She was wearing a grimy burlap frock, knotted over one shoulder; her feet, blackened with dirt and covered with scabs, were bare.
“Domestic Security brought her in late last night,” Sister Peg said. “She hasn’t spoken a word.”
The girl had been caught trying to break into an ag storehouse. Sara could see why: she looked half-starved.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Sara. Can you tell me your name?”
The girl, peering intently at Sara from under the hood of her matted hair, gave no reply. Her eyes—the only part of her body that had moved since Sara entered the room—darted to Sister Peg, then back at Sara.
“We tried to find out who her parents are,” Sister Peg said, “but there’s no record of anybody looking for her.”
Sara guessed there wouldn’t be. She removed her stethoscope from her bag and showed the girl. “I’m going to listen to your heart—would that be okay?”
No words, yet the girl’s eyes said she could. Sara slid the knotted side of the frock from her shoulder. She was thin as a reed, but her breasts had just begun to show. At the feel of the cold disk on her skin, the girl flinched slightly, but that was all.
“Sara, you should look at this.”
Sister Peg was staring at the girl’s back. It was covered with burns and lash marks. Some were old, others still weeping. Sara had seen it before, but never like this.
She looked at the girl. “Honey, can you tell me who did this to you?”
“I don’t think she can talk,” Sister Peg said.
Sara had begun to grasp the situation. The girl allowed Sara to hold her chin. Sara moved her other hand beside the girl’s right ear. She snapped her fingers three times; the girl did not react. She swapped hands to test the other ear. Nothing. Looking into the girl’s eyes, Sara then pointed to her own ear and slowly shook her head, meaning no. The girl nodded.
“That’s because she’s deaf.”
Then a surprising thing happened. The girl reached for Sara’s hand. With her index finger, she began to draw a series of lines in Sara’s upturned palm. Not lines, Sara realized. Letters. P. I. M.
“Pim,” Sara said. She glanced at Sister Peg, then looked back at the girl. “Pim—is that your name?”
She nodded. Sara took the girl’s palm. SARA, she wrote, and pointed at herself. “Sara.” She looked up. “Sister, can you get me something to write with?”
Sister Peg departed the room, returning moments later with one of the handheld chalkboards the children used for their lessons.
WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS? Sara wrote.
Pim took the board. She erased Sara’s words with her palm, then gripped the chalk awkwardly in her fist.
—DED
—WHEN?
—MOM THEN DAD LONG TIM
—WHO HURT YOU?
—MAN
—WHAT MAN?
—DONT KNW GOT AWAY
The next question pained her, but it had to be asked.
—DID HE HURT YOU ANYWHERE ELSE?
The girl hesitated, then nodded. Sara’s heart sank.
—WHERE?
Pim took the board.
—GIRLPLACE
Without taking her eyes off the girl, Sara said, “Sister, can you give us a minute?”
When Sister Peg was gone, Sara wrote, MORE THAN ONCE?
The girl nodded.
—NEED TO LOOK. WILL BE CAREFUL.
Pim’s whole body clenched. She shook her head vigorously back and forth.
—PLEASE, wrote Sara. HAVE TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE OK.
Pim took the chalkboard and quickly scribbled, MY FALT PROMISST NOT TO TELL
—NO. NOT YOUR FAULT.
—PIM BAD
Sara didn’t know if she wanted to cry or be sick. She’d seen some things in her life—terrible things—and not just at the Homeland. You couldn’t walk the hospital halls without encountering the worst of human nature. A woman with a broken wrist and an excuse about falling down a flight of stairs, reciting how it had happened while her husband looked on, coaching her with his eyes. An old man with advanced malnutrition dumped at the door by relatives. One of Dunk’s whores, her body ravaged with disease and misuse, clutching a fistful of Austins to rid herself of the baby she was carrying so she could get back on the stool. You hardened your heart because there was no other way to get through the day, but the children were the worst. The children you couldn’t look away from. In Pim’s case, it wasn’t hard to reconstruct the story. Her parents dead, somebody had offered to take the girl in, a family member or neighbor, everyone thinking how kind and generous that person was, to assume responsibility for this poor orphan who couldn’t hear or talk, and after that nobody had bothered to check.
“No, honey, no.” Sara took Pim’s hands and looked into her eyes. There was a soul in there, tiny, terrified, discarded by the world. There wasn’t anybody more alone on the face of the earth, and Sara understood what was being asked of her, just for being human.
Not even Hollis knew the story. It wasn’t that Sara was afraid to tell him; she knew the kind of man he was. But silence was a decision she’d made long ago. At the Homeland, it was said, everybody had taken their turn, and Sara’s had come in due course. She had endured it as best she knew how, and when it was over, she imagined a box, made of steel with a strong lock. Then she took the memory and put it in the box.
She took the board and wrote:
—SOMEBODY HURT ME THERE ONCE TOO.
The girl studied the board with the same guarded expression. Perhaps ten seconds passed. She took up the chalk again.
—SECRET?
—YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON I EVER TOLD.
The g
irl’s face was changing. Something was letting go.
Sara wrote: WE ARE THE SAME. SARA IS GOOD. PIM IS GOOD. NOT OUR FAULT.
A film of tears appeared in the surface of the girl’s eyes. A single drop edged over the barrier and spilled down her cheek, cutting a river in the dirt. Her lips were closed; the muscles of her neck and jaw grew taut, then began to quiver. A strange new sound entered the room. It was a kind of growl, like an animal’s. It felt like something fighting to get out.
And then it did. The girl opened her mouth and released a howl that seemed to shatter the very idea of human language, distilling it to a single sustained vowel of pain. Sara wrapped her in a tight embrace. Pim was wailing, shaking, fighting to break free, but Sara wouldn’t let her. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go.” And she held her that way until the girl was quiet again, and for a long time after.
* * *
9
The capitol building, housed in what had once been Texas First Trust Bank—the name was still engraved in the building’s limestone fascia—was just a short walk from the school. A directory in the lobby listed the various departments: Housing Authority, Public Health, Agriculture and Commerce, Printing and Engraving. Sanchez’s office was located on the second floor. Peter ascended the stairs, which opened onto a second open area with a desk, behind which sat a Domestic Security officer in an unnaturally clean uniform. Peter felt suddenly embarrassed to be dressed in his ratty work clothes, carrying a bag full of rattling tools and nails.
“Help you?”
“I’m here to see President Sanchez. I have an appointment.”
“Name?” His eyes had returned to his desk; he was filling out some kind of form.
“Peter Jaxon.”
It was like a light going on in the man’s face. “You’re Jaxon?”
Peter dipped his head.
“Holy smokes.” The man just sat there, awkwardly staring. It had been some time since Peter had gotten this kind of reaction. On the other hand, he rarely met anybody new these days. Never, in fact.
“Maybe you could let somebody know?” Peter said finally.
The City of Mirrors: A Novel (Book Three of The Passage Trilogy) Page 8