He cleared his throat.
“I feel isolated up here,” he said. “Alone.” The truth felt nice to say, but he worried that Ainsley would shred his honesty and leave him wanting. His mind wandered to Anna. God, he missed Anna. How had they started? It was so long ago. He was a senior, and she was a sophomore. She sent him a semi-flirtatious text message and he showed it to his friends. They mocked her lack of subtlety, but the conversation shifted: should he ask her out? He did. Winter Formal first. A barrage of photos, doting parents, group dinner, a sweaty and boiling ballroom, rigid formal pictures—his hand placed on her waist by the overweight portrait studio photographer, who winked at him as Anna adjusted her corsage.
There was no courting Anna, no masterful feats of dating acumen. They just clicked. She was simple and didn’t require him to put on a song and dance for her. They were content with ordering pizza and watching movies, sitting in silence. He loved her. And he missed her. No matter how much Lucy hated Anna and mocked him for dating her, Anna was always there for him. She just wanted to be loved. So, he loved her.
Even entertaining Ainsley’s crush seemed like a monumental betrayal to his girlfriend, not even three-weeks dead.
He pushed aside Darla’s innuendo. This girl was not for him—even if she might be the only girl his age left in existence. He pined for Anna; wished it was Anna’s hands helping him, Anna gently wiping away the blood on his stumpy wound, inspecting his surgery scars with tenderness and not disgust.
Ainsley sighed. “Everyone’s alone no matter where they go,” she replied. “Even in a big house full of people.”
“Comedian and philosopher now,” Ethan answered with bite. He didn’t need another Darla who seemed to physically balk at validating his worries and insecurities. It became even more evident that he was a stranger in his own house. Ainsley finished her routine with detached steadiness. He watched her; she never responded to his comeback—didn’t flinch, didn’t narrow her eyes, or crack a smile.
It was like he didn’t exist.
She wasn’t pretty, Ethan thought. Her nose was too big, her hair too frizzy. She was too thin and angular. And her perpetual frown made her seem older than her twenty years.
“Pain level?” she asked.
“Just go away,” Ethan whispered. He regretted it the moment he said it and he wished to take it back, but it was liberating too. He closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest and breathed in and out at steady intervals. “Please,” he added to soften the blow.
“Whatever you want, boss,” Ainsley answered in a calm voice. She finished her inspection though and noted his vitals on the notebook paper chart doctor Krause had created. She shook out his pills and placed them on his bed stand, within reach, and then turned her back and walked out without another word. Ethan caught a glimpse of Ainsley as she turned the knob in her hand before shutting the door. Her eyes were dark and empty, bottomless, unreadable.
He trembled and tucked his blanket up under his armpits and stared at the ceiling.
Darla didn’t knock. She opened Ethan’s door and walked right up to Ethan’s bedside. Since that morning, she had changed into her trademark black leggings and her white tank-top; she stood with her feet apart and her arms crossed, her gun back in its holster, visible and gleaming. The outfit indicated that she was heading out to hunt—even without a population to trade with, Darla took long trips exploring the area. She said she was out looking for others, survivors, but the effort was futile.
“Heading out?” Ethan asked.
Like thunder, Teddy’s footsteps raced down the hallway and came to a stop outside the door. Then Ethan saw the child peek around the door, his eyes wide, full of mischievous curiosity.
“Mo-om,” the child said, drawing his mother’s name into two syllables. “Hey, Uncle Ethan. Do you have more of the alien toys?” Teddy trotted into the room and over to Ethan’s bed.
“Hey buddy. I do. You like playing with them?” Ethan rolled his head to look at the child—his eagerness palpable.
“Joey plays Star Wars with me. We have sword fights, like this.” Teddy brandished an imaginary sword and swung it around his head, emitting the familiar drone of kids playing with light sabers filled the room. Ethan felt a rush of nostalgia; he looked away.
Dropping to her knees beside Teddy, Darla brushed a wisp of sandy-colored hair away from the boy’s face. She kissed him on his forehead and pulled him in for a hug. “Teddy, Mommy is going to talk to Ethan now. Like we talked about, okay? I’ll be right down. Then we’ll go to the park.”
“You’re packing heat to go to the park?” Ethan mumbled down to them. Darla shot him a look.
“It’s not unwise to be careful,” she said through clenched teeth. Then looking back to Teddy, she physically turned him toward the door and gave him a tender pat on his bottom, sending him scampering away—buzzing and humming his sword noises as he went.
“Park outings, huh? I thought you were scouring the area for life and supplies.”
“Jesus, Ethan. I’m a mom. Teddy’s everything to me and I’m not going to let him hide away in the dark, afraid, all the time. So, I’m going to the damn park. Sorry that you don’t approve,” Darla stood and crossed her arms.
“He’ll never get a real childhood,” Ethan said in a half-whisper. “He’ll never get to watch a movie in the theater or have friends.”
“It’s a little early to predict what will and won’t happen in my child’s life.”
“What kind of life is this?”
Darla sighed. “You do the best you can with what you have. Always. That’s what I’m doing.”
“We have basics. I don’t know about you, but I have more fear than security.”
“Please—” Darla brushed an arm in front of her in anger.
“It’s not fair to raise a kid in this world. I just feel sorry for him, that’s all. I’m entitled to that opinion.”
“Okay,” Darla said, raising her voice. “You’re done. I’m done.”
Ethan didn’t answer. He rolled his eyes and shook his head into the pillow; he felt the lecture brewing before Darla even opened her mouth. He wished he could silence her before she started, but she was determined.
“You don’t understand—” Ethan started: An attempt to stave off the barrage of misunderstanding. Darla silenced him with a glare.
“I came up here originally because Ainsley is crying downstairs. Telling her mom she can’t do the nursing stuff anymore. She asked if we could all take turns checking up on you.”
“She should work on her bedside manner,” Ethan replied.
“You’re an ass.”
“A few weeks together and you’re the expert on me?”
Darla took three giant steps forward and landed herself face to face with Ethan. “I get it. We all get it. And we’re over it. All of us.”
“I see,” Ethan nodded. He clenched is jaw. “Yesterday it was us against the world and today it’s we are all over this.”
Darla didn’t respond. She stared at him, her eyebrows raised. Ethan turned away from her.
“Whose side are you on?” Ethan continued. He struggled to sit, and propped himself up on his elbows, his arms weak and wobbly. His body begged to sink back to the bed; his heart pumped in his ears.
“Is that ever a valid question?” Darla answered. “Does it make you feel better if I sit here and blubber? That’s not me. I don’t cater to you. I don’t work like that.”
“What do you want from me?” he asked after a moment. “I’m a stranger here. Trapped, confined to my room…while everyone else makes the decisions.”
“Make a decision then,” Darla interrupted.
“I want to be moved downstairs.”
“Fine. We’ll put you back in the den. Make another decision.”
Ethan hesitated. “I want to choose my meals. And when I take my meds. And—”
“Don’t you see?” Darla interrupted again. “Can
’t you see it?” She shook her head and scrunched up her eyes, and then she swallowed and took in a shaky breath. “This is all for you. For you. Dammit, I’m on your side, Ethan. But how can I keep defending you to everyone else when you just want us to wallow with you? You’re mad because someone brought you a meal that you didn’t get to pick? What are you? Five years-old?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m still sick. This,” he pointed to his hidden stump, “can’t be undone. It won’t heal.”
“Stop. Just, stop. We know. We don’t need to be reminded every ten minutes,” Darla yelled. Her voice carried and Ethan knew, based on his time in this house, that anyone could hear. How often had he sat in his own dining room and eavesdropped on the rising voices of his parents? He felt a hotness flush into his cheeks—awareness covered him like a shroud.
“Was Ainsley really crying?” Ethan asked after a moment.
Darla nodded.
“She doesn’t say a word to me,” he mumbled, grasping. “I tried to engage. Tried to talk,”
Darla blew air through her nose and rubbed her left eye with her hand. “They’re good people, Ethan. I told you before. Good people, who were given one chance to survive…and that chance involved saving you.”
“They didn’t have to take the vials.”
“Then you’re dead. And they’re dead. And Teddy and I are alone with Joey and Spencer? No thanks. That sounds like the world’s worst sit-com.” Darla tried to crack a smile, but Ethan remained stone faced. “I’m begging you to find something good here and even if you can’t…don’t take it out on the people who are caring for you. Okay? Is that too much to ask?”
That assessment of his behavior didn’t sit well with him. “You just think I’m a whiner?” he asked and Darla shrugged a reply.
“Yeah, I guess,” she answered eventually. “You’re also a survivor. So, start acting like one.” Then she turned and walked to the door. “I’m going to go to the park with Teddy. When I get back, we’ll get everyone to help move you downstairs. Then you can pick an MRE for lunch. We were unaware those things were important to you. So, it’s a plan?”
Ethan nodded. Discouraged, he was still willing to concede. How often would Darla need to save his life before he could show her gratitude? He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Then he sniffed. “I don’t know how to be,” he finally said.
“Don’t you think we get that?” Darla answered in a soft voice.
“I miss my family,” he said.
“Me too.”
Ethan slumped back down to the bed. “What if they never come for me? What if Lucy didn’t make it? What if they think I’m dead? What if they’re dead? What if this is it?”
“Sometimes in life we suffer great pain alone. And sometimes we suffer great pain collectively. You, Ethan King, are not alone. What makes you think your worry and pain is bigger than anyone else’s? Because it’s yours? I’m older than you, wiser perhaps. Take it from me, kid, there’s no one in this house who isn’t suffering a great deal. All of our wounds are unimaginable. So, when I tell you to shut up, I don’t mean to tell you stop hurting. I’m just saying, shut up. We see your lost leg, your worry about your family, and we raise you a dead wife, lost mothers and fathers, friends, and for Doctor Krause and Ainsley? A husband, father, and three brothers. And it doesn’t stop…then you go outward…it’s endless. The loss. It’s endless.”
Her speech was silenced by Teddy’s eager calls downstairs. She looked out into the hallway, her hand on the doorknob.
“I get it,” Ethan answered.
“I know you do, Ethan,” Darla said and she wiped her eyes. “I know you do.” Then she shut the door behind her and Ethan listened as she walked purposefully down the stairs. He stared at his textured ceiling and tried to find images in the splotches and splatters. Then he closed his eyes and sent out a prayer: Let my sister get to Nebraska. Let my family be safe. And have them come for me. It has to better there. It has to be better than here. Just get me away from this place. Get me out of Portland.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The female nurse swooped into the room, unhooked Lucy from her monitors, unshackled her ankles, and handed her back her laundered and dried clothes. Lucy stared at the bundle of fabric; she brought them up to her nose and inhaled deeply. Unlike her mother’s powerfully perfumed laundry detergent, her clothes just smelled clean—void of the body odor, dirt, dust, and any other stench acquired on her four-state trek.
Her grungy white underwear sat on top. And it wasn’t until that moment she realized that someone must have pried them off of her while she was unconscious. Nurse or doctor, it didn’t matter, she felt such shame that her cheeks turned hot.
“Go ahead and get dressed, sweetie,” the woman said and nodded toward the clothes. Then she spun on her orthopedic shoes and left Lucy alone.
In the privacy of the room, Lucy slipped out of her gown and let it fall to the floor. Then she hurried into her underwear, her bra, still warm from a dryer—a luxury Lucy hadn’t realized how much she missed—and then her pants, shirt, and her sweater. Completely dressed, she sat back on the bed, and waited. Her feet dangled off the edge of the bed and she held her hands in a ball on her lap.
There was a knock, then the door slid open, and the nurse reentered.
“Your parents are here,” she said and then stepped out of the way to let Maxine King’s imposing self through the door first. Her dark brown bob was combed into place; she wore an unfamiliar teal shirt, dotted with sequins along the collar, and black pants. Lucy drank in everything about her mother; her eyes, her arms, dotted with patches of chicken-skin that Lucy used to pray she’d never inherit; the freckles on her nose, and small the mole on her neck. She began to cry.
“Lucy! My Lucy! Lucy!” Mama Maxine shrieked. Tears streamed down her face as she flung herself toward her daughter, scooping her up into a crushing embrace, her nose inhaling Lucy’s hair, now dry and frizzy. “I can’t even believe…I can’t…I’m so…you’re here! You’re finally here.”
The nurse exited quietly.
“It’s not the Seychelles,” Lucy said, her chin trembling. “Oh Mama, Mama.” Lucy reciprocated the hug and refused to let go, clasping her hands together behind her mother’s back and nestling her head into her mother’s chest, the sequins pressing into her forehead. “What happened? How did all this happen? What is this place?” she asked, not moving an inch.
“Shhhh, shhhh,” Maxine whispered. She kissed the top of Lucy’s head and rubbed her hand along her back. “Sweet Lucy Larkspur…it feels like years. I can’t even tell you…I don’t know where to begin. You’ve missed so much. And—”
Lucy pulled back and wiped her eyes. “There’s a boy…”
“Grant. We’ve been told about him, yes.”
“He’s my friend, mom. He’s in trouble.”
A look of worry flitted across Maxine’s features, but Lucy couldn’t tell if it was concern for Grant, for Lucy, or for something bigger. Maxine looked like she wanted to speak, but instead she glanced back to the door, where a shadow lurked in the doorway. Her mother’s non-reply was glaring. When had her mother ever paused for injustice? When had she stayed silent when a child or friend needed her help? Lucy felt panicky.
Something had shifted.
She opened her mouth to protest the lack of outcry, but when she started to speak, no words formed on her tongue.
The shadow moved and crossed to their duo; a big hand came out and tousled Lucy’s tangled mane.
“Hey beautiful girl,” Scott King said to his oldest daughter. He choked back his emotion and reached in around his wife to join the hug. He wore a white lab coat; and underneath, a suit and tie. His salt and pepper goatee was trimmed, the cleft in his chin visible underneath the shadow of whiskers; and as he leaned in for an embrace, the hair scratched Lucy’s face and she bristled under the touch. She looked up and locked eyes with her father—his brown eyes were soft, kind
, and hurt. For the first time, Lucy realized how young her father was; even his crows-feet and the web of wrinkles across his forehead seemed out of place. He wasn’t this all-knowing beacon—he was just a man.
“Dad,” Lucy said and her voiced cracked. She looked everywhere but his eyes. Without answers, her dad felt like a stranger.
“You’ve had an adventure,” her dad said like a statement. As if he had any idea of the real adventure. “But I knew you’d find the clues—”
“Ethan?” Maxine interrupted. “I’m sorry. But we have to know…where is Ethan?”
The question caught Lucy off-guard. She buried her head again into her mother and scrunched up her face, her eyes closed tight, blocking out the light, and the sight of her parents. “He didn’t come.” She stopped and realized that didn’t was not the same as couldn’t.
Her response was followed by silence.
And her silence seemed to freeze them; at first Maxine brought her hand up over her mouth, then she took a deep breath, brought her hand down purposefully and steeled herself for the news. Her mother’s voice whispered in her ear. “It’s okay, Lucy. It’s okay. I just need to know. A mother needs to know. Why? Why didn’t he come?”
A lie formed first. She wished to tell him that he was fine, but staying put—that venturing without him was an act of bravery instead of necessity. When Lucy looked at her parent’s faces, full of concern, fear, and expectancy, Lucy knew that the truth would hurt more. The lie may make her look brave, but the truth would cut them deeper. And as happy as she was to see them, hug them, take in their smell again; she realized she was angry—hovering right there beneath the excitement and the relief, was pain.
The System (Virulent Book 2) Page 11