“Whoa, whoa,” Duncan says, turning to me, while Lulabelle gently washes the baby with a sponge. “The boy doesn’t even have a name yet.”
“You’ve got to name him, child,” Lulabelle says.
“Duncan Jackson Dubois,” I say. “Little Duncan.”
Duncan pauses, scratching at his beard and his head like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. “I’m grateful. I certainly don’t deserve it after what I’ve done.”
“Well, Lulabelle didn’t seem like quite the right fit,” I say, and we all laugh as Duncan fiddles with the iron.
“Duncan, is everything okay?” I say, but he doesn’t respond, and when I hear a sound like meat frying in a pan followed by a loud, sharp cry from the baby, I try to sit up again, groaning at the pain in my belly and between my legs.
“Duncan, Lulabelle, what’s wrong with him?”
Lulabelle scoops the baby up, bouncing him up and down until he calms, and when I reach my arms out to hold him, Duncan moves toward me with something in his hand.
“Just be still, Elimina,” he says, and before I can say anything, he grabs my wrist and I feel it—a searing pain as a hot piece of metal burns an X onto my left hand.
The Gutter
30
ON THE ROAD INTO CAPEDOWN, THE SIGN THAT stretched over the highway read, “The Most Beautiful Town on the Coast.” But from the peak of Dead Man’s Bridge, all I can see is “GUTTER” painted in white across a gate that’s red like blood. I feel the weight of my child, and the pain of his birth, and the feeling of every one of my possessions piled on the bend of my back as I cross over the river in darkness.
I stop on the bridge, facing the wall that runs around the Gutter, filled with overwhelming doubt. Maybe Miss Charlotte was right. Maybe I don’t know how to be a good mother. Maybe I shouldn’t go any farther. Maybe I should go back. But when I place my hand on DJ’s body, hidden under a long black cloak, and when I feel his tiny bones and the slow rise and fall of his chest, I know that I have to keep going.
“Move fast. And when you get to the top of the bridge, move slow,” Duncan said. “Pretend like your body is broken, like no employer on the Mainland would want you.”
But I don’t have to pretend. My body is split open, bleeding and burning from the fresh push of a child who was marked and scarred the moment he came into the world.
A sharp pain rushes through, and I place both hands on the railing of the bridge, listening to the rush of Freedom River, the sound of the cool water below. I hold my breath and wait for the pain to leave just as a Mainland Guard van heads toward me, covering me in white light.
Are they coming for us?
The van passes, and I let out a deep, shaky breath.
Move.
I watch the red taillights as the van stops in front of the gate. The driver climbs down and opens the back doors, letting four Gutter men and one Gutter woman pour out, rubbing their backs and their necks.
A tall guard with a sharp nose moves toward them, counting the passengers and waving up at the wall. “Five coming through,” he yells.
“Five coming through,” someone shouts back as the red gates swing open like a hungry mouth.
“Let’s go. Keep it moving, Gutters. Straight through,” he says, and when he sees me hobbling toward them, he groans and shakes his head. “Six coming through. I repeat, six coming through.”
WE WATCH THE gate close from the other side of the wall while I look around for signs of someone from the Network and the building that could be the Reporting Office. But all I see are Mainland Guards walking around a large area enclosed by a tall metal fence with barbed wire curling across the top.
“Alright, we’re going to head to that brick building up ahead. Slow, so we don’t lose anyone,” the guard says, and I know that he’s talking about me. “Stay on the main path and under the lights. If you move to the left or the right, I’ll be right here to make you sorry for it.”
We pass armored tanks and emergency vehicles parked along the wide oval road that loops around a large grassy field with a brightly lit General Covey statue in the middle.
Before I left Riverside, I asked Duncan every question I could imagine about the Reporting Office and what might happen when I get there. “What if they don’t believe me? What if they just want DJ? What if they want to send us both back to Miss Charlotte’s?”
“Just give them the letter,” Duncan said, handing me two envelopes, which I slid into each of my pockets.
The first letter looks just like the one that came from Violet’s debt manager. Only this one says that Lima Jenkins Sinclair is medically unfit for the Mainland, with the forged signature of Dr. Thomas D. Luca. There’s a second letter for DJ, but the goal is to get into the Gutter without anyone knowing he’s here.
I walk gingerly as the burn between my legs grows stronger, and when we reach the brick building, the guard stands in the doorway, holding it open. He instructs the rest of the group to sit while I climb the stairs slowly, sweaty and drained from all of the walking, my bandaged hand sore and pulsing.
“Don’t touch anything. Just sit and don’t move until I tell you,” he says when I’m finally inside.
“Is this the Reporting Office?” I whisper.
But the guard doesn’t answer. He just points at the chairs.
I use the long counter at the front of the room for support, hobbling to the end of the waiting area so I’m as far away from the guard as possible, standing next to the woman from the van.
“Sit,” the guard says.
“I . . . I can’t,” I say, because even though I want to sit and rest my legs, I worry that too much moving and bending will wake DJ.
“What do you mean you can’t sit?” the guard says while the five passengers from the van watch me.
“I just can’t,” I say, closing my eyes and leaning against the wall, shifting side to side to manage the discomfort and to keep DJ quiet.
“You want to stand, then stand. Just stand,” the guard says, raising his hands in the air before stepping outside for a smoke.
I take two long, deep breaths, and when the door shuts completely with the six of us inside, the four men from the van lean their heads back and close their eyes as the guard watches us from outside.
“Name’s Molly,” the woman whispers, standing up and stretching her arms, twisting side to side.
“Lima,” I say, remembering to use the same name that’s on the letter, the one Rosalind wanted me to have. “Do you know what we’re doing here? Or how long this will take? Do you know if this is the Reporting Office?”
Now that we’ve stopped moving and we’re in a quiet room, I can hear DJ’s every grimace and see every movement, and I wonder how long it will be before someone else notices.
“I’m not too sure,” Molly says. “Shouldn’t be long.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Processing. Get our docs all up-to-date for return. That’s my guess.”
“Docs?”
“Documents, honey,” she says, waving her letter, and I nod, reaching down in my right pocket.
But what if this doesn’t work? What if the Network doesn’t come?
“How old?” Molly whispers.
“Me?” I say, and she shakes her head, pointing at my cloak and leaning close.
“I’m gonna guess by the way you’re walking and the way you’re holding your chest that there’s a baby in there that’s fresh.”
I look at her wide-eyed, my eyes spinning around the room until I’m certain no one else has heard or noticed. “He’s very new. Very fresh.”
“They’re precious then,” Molly whispers, letting a little smile come to her mouth, as the guard comes back in.
“Don’t you worry,” she whispers. “If that baby stays good and quiet like it’s doing right now, these men won’t notice. And if the baby grunts, I’ll just blame it on gas.”
I laugh into my hand as a tall guard with a thin mustache and a crooked mouth
enters. He steps behind the counter and pulls out some paper, a pen and a pad of ink from a drawer.
“How many we got?” he says to the guard at the door.
“Six. But only five listed. The one at the end’s a medical,” he says, handing him a clipboard and nodding in my direction.
The new guard looks over the list, studying each name. “Alright, who’s first? Which one of you is Gerard Smith?”
A man in grease-stained overalls looks up, peering down the row of chairs at the rest of the passengers from the van.
“Come on, Gutter. Let’s go. I got other things I’d rather be doing this early in the morning. Don’t slow me down.”
The man moves toward the counter and slides the guard his letter. “Um, sir. It’s Gerald, not Gerard. Sir.”
“Gerald Carter Smith? Is that right, then?” the guard says, and when the man nods, he continues. “Fine. Great. Sign right here.”
When the rest of his information is confirmed—his school, his employer and the reason for his release—the guard presses Gerald’s fingers into the ink, then onto a paper, before calling the next person on the list. “Martin Lewis.”
A young man in a crumpled brown suit moves to the counter, and when I pull out the collar of my cloak and peek down, I find DJ smacking his mouth.
“Where you headed, Lima? Where you from?” Molly whispers.
“I . . . um . . . I don’t really know,” I say.
“What do you mean you don’t know? You don’t remember where your family is at? I mean, shoot, it can’t be that long since you been here. You got to remember who your people are.”
But when I look at her with teary eyes, she looks almost as worried as I am, and I wonder if I’ve made a horrible mistake coming here like this, alone.
“You live in one of the blocks, honey? Or in the Upper End?” she says, looking back at the guards with concern that only adds to my nerves.
I shut my eyes, breathing in and out like I might faint if I don’t get fresh air.
“Breathe, honey. Breathe,” Molly says, rubbing my back, while I lean into the wall.
“Alright, ladies,” the guard says when all of the men have been processed. “Which one of you is Molly Highwater?”
Molly raises her hand and moves toward the guard slowly, looking back at me, like she wants to make sure I’m okay.
“Academy?” the guard says.
“Kingston House.”
“Job?”
“Well, I been working as a maid since graduation.”
“And what brings you back?”
She tells the guard that her boss gambled away his money and had to cut some expenses, and I wonder if she’s making the story longer to give me more time to get ready.
“Couldn’t afford me. But if you’re looking for someone to take care of your bunk or clean up around here, I’m very affordable,” she says, but he just points down at the ink, waiting as she rolls and presses each finger on the paper.
When Molly is done, the guard looks at his list, carefully counting each name before motioning for me to come.
“Alright, your turn,” the guard says, tapping the counter with his pen. “Name?”
I move slowly toward the counter. “Lima,” I say, as the door to the Reporting Office swings open.
Everyone turns and looks at an older Gutter woman standing in the doorway wearing a white apron with a red X on the chest. She has a badge around her neck, a mask over her face and rubber gloves that reach to her elbows.
“I’m looking for Lima Jenkins Sinclair,” she says, studying Molly before moving toward me, like she knows I’m the person she’s looking for. “Are you Lima?”
“Yes,” I say softly, because something about the way she looks at me makes me afraid.
DJ shifts and grunts, and when I rest my hand against him, I see how the sternness in her eyes softens, how she notices what none of the men seem to see.
“Come with me,” she says.
“Now, wait just a minute,” the guard at the counter shouts out. “She needs to be processed.”
“What she needs is to go straight to Medical,” the woman says.
“You got docs to say so?” the guard says, and I nod as he holds his hand out toward me.
“We were told to expect a Medical Alert Case this morning, but I didn’t receive a call. Did any of you call?” the woman says as I place the letter in his outstreached hand.
The guard at the door shrugs and the guard at the counter lowers his head to read the letter while the woman urges me to move toward her with a quick wave.
“I’ll process her at the Medical Center, and I’ll bring her docs back as soon as they’re ready,” she says when I get to the door. “You’re supposed to call Medical from the gate so we can test them at the Center, so they don’t go contaminating everyone if they’ve got something serious. This is exactly how that virus spread the last time when half of your guards went down. You-all brought folks in here instead of sending them to us because you didn’t want to wait, and look what happened. A good handful are in that graveyard on the other side of the Base.”
The men from the van wiggle in their seats, and both of the guards stand taller. But Molly pounds her chest and coughs like whatever I might have has gone inside her. I bite my lip to hold back a smile as I follow the woman in the white apron out of the Reporting Office.
THE GUTTER MEDICAL CENTER is a pale-green building just beyond the Base. When we pass through the front doors and into the lobby, I shake my bag off and unbutton the cloak, letting the cool air touch my skin as DJ’s eyes flutter at the light.
The woman in the white apron removes her mask and her gloves, tossing them in a bin, and when I ask her if she’s with the Network or if she knows where I’m supposed to go next, she just looks at DJ and shakes her head.
“My name is Geneva Jackson. I’m not with the Network, Lima. I’m Rowan’s mother,” she says. “And you’re coming with me.”
I can tell by the cold tone in her voice and her stony expression that even though she came to get us, she’s not happy we’re here, and when I look down at DJ, I don’t know whether to feel relieved or worried.
31
THE STREETS BACK IN CAPEDOWN CURVED IN NEAT PATTERNS and rows with names like Mary and George. But in the Upper End, the houses are different sizes and colors, twisted along straight roads with signs that only use numbers. Everywhere we turn, people with faces just like mine smile and say hello, and I realize that even though I may not be welcome at Geneva’s, I finally look like I belong.
Geneva doesn’t say a word during the walk from the Medical Center, and despite the food and supplies that boosted my strength there, all I can think about is lying down in an actual bed for the first time since yesterday.
When Geneva turns up the front steps of a small yellow house, two girls in pink pajamas come out to greet us, their hair braided in neat sections with pink plastic bows on the ends.
“Nana G!” the girls shout, wrapping their arms around Geneva.
“Good morning, girls,” she says as she kisses the tops of their heads.
“Daddy’s here and so’s Mommy,” the smaller girl says, and I close my eyes, tired at the thought of meeting more strangers today.
“Of course Mommy’s here,” the older girl says. “How would we get here if she wasn’t, dummy?”
“Beula, don’t call your sister names,” Geneva says, and the older girl scowls at her sister.
“Is that a real baby?” the smaller girl says, and when I nod, her eyes grow wide as she looks at her sister.
“How old?” Beula says.
“About half a day,” I say.
The two girls look at each other with big toothy grins, and I think about how lovely it must be to have a sister, how nice it would be to grow up with someone just like you.
“Can I hold it?” the smaller girl says.
“It’s not an it, Reina. It’s a . . . Is it a boy or a girl?” Beula says.
“His na
me is DJ.”
“It’s a boy,” Beula says to Reina, and when I remove him from the wrap, the two girls move even closer.
Geneva shoos the girls away and scoops DJ up out of my arms. “Everyone . . . this is DJ,” she says as she carries him into the house, cradled against her chest.
“I want to see the baby! I want to see him, Nana G!” Reina shouts, and I stand on the porch with sweat leaking through my clothes, unsure whether I should follow them inside.
“Well, come on now, Lima. Don’t just stand there. Everyone’s waiting,” Geneva says.
I turn to enter the house, pulling gently at my shirt and flapping it in the air in the hopes that it’ll dry.
Geneva’s front door opens into a small living room with a green couch and a large window that faces the backyard. The house smells of bacon and fresh bread, and when I step into the room, the soft carpet squishes under my tired feet.
A young woman with copper hair is sitting on the couch next to a man with a little girl snuggling on his lap.
“I can’t believe Ma is doing this, Roger,” the woman says, shaking her head.
But Roger doesn’t respond. He just leans in and speaks softly to the child. “Haddy, say hello to Auntie.”
The little girl pulls her thumb out of her mouth with a small pop. “Hi, Auntie,” she says, and I smile at this small bit of kindness.
“Shirley, take Lima down to Rowan’s room, please,” Geneva says. “See that she gets some fresh clothes.”
“Ma,” she says, trying to protest, but when Geneva raises a finger and points down the hall, Shirley reluctantly obeys.
“Should I . . . take DJ with me?” I say, stepping toward Geneva, who immediately waves me away.
“You just fed him at the Medical Center. He should be fine for a little while. Get yourself tidied up,” Geneva says, like I’m being dismissed from a job.
I follow Shirley down a narrow hallway, and I study the pictures on the wall. I lean toward a picture of young Rowan wearing a pair of oversized boxing gloves and a tall girl squeezing his shoulders while Shirley waits, tapping her foot and crossing her arms. “So, you’re Rowan’s sister?”
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