Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  I flip numbly through more pages, past my favorite sections, the ones about books and movies and music—all once so common and limitless that people needed to be guided and instructed on what to select. What happened to it all: the stuff that people made, the information that people had? Is it up in the museum next to those paintings that Dekker found?

  I turn another page, and my hand freezes.

  Stuck between pages seventy-one and seventy-two, there’s a leaf. It’s about three inches long and an inch wide, and it’s deep green. What’s it doing here?

  I take it from inside the crease and rub it between my fingers. I sniff it.

  It’s fresh.

  Did Nana put it here? No one else knows about the Primer, so she must have, but how did she get it? She has a few herb plants in her kitchen, but I’m certain this leaf didn’t come from any of those.

  “She fell down the stairs.” That’s what Mother said the day Nana had her accident. Nana was going out, even though she wasn’t supposed to leave her apartment. I stroke the leaf against my face. Where were you going, Nana? What was so important that you would climb down fourteen flights with your bad knee? Why didn’t you ask me to do it for you?

  “Mina, the Ashers have sent an invitation!”

  I look up to see Mother opening the door. I quickly shove the Primer under the blanket.

  With a big, satisfied grin on her face, Mother looks a lot like Auntie Sersa discussing one of her sons. “They want you to join them for dinner tonight!”

  She can’t be serious. “What about Nana?”

  The grin remains, but her eyes go blank.

  “What about the funeral, the arrangements?” I say. “I want to help—”

  “Yes, well, we’re waiting on the paperwork from the government. It could be weeks before we can bury her.”

  Weeks?

  “The island is small. You can’t just go burying everyone willy-nilly, wherever you like.” She claps her hands. “You need to take a cold shower—hot will be bad for your back—and wash your hair. We need plenty of time for it to dry properly. We’ll have your father take you over in a car. You can’t arrive all sweaty.” She looks at my face, which I hope conveys my total contempt for her plan. “Come on! Out of bed!” And, before I realize what’s happening, she leans over, grabs my blanket, and whips it in the air.

  “No—!” I cry, but it’s too late. The Primer flies off the bed, fluttering down to the ground like a wounded pigeon.

  Mother’s expression changes from happiness to confusion.

  “What is . . . ?” She bends over and picks it up, and for a moment she looks like a small child trying to put a name to an object for the first time.

  Then, when she realizes what she’s holding, her eyes narrow, her head snaps back, and her entire body contorts with rage. “SHE PROMISED ME! THAT LYING SAITCH PROMISED ME!”

  I sink into the corner of my bed. I’ve never heard her speak this way.

  “My HOME! Apostate FILTH! IN MY HOME!” She starts to tear the pages out of the Primer.

  “No!” I say, reaching for it.

  “Don’t you DARE!” she spits at me, as she continues to destroy the magazine, shredding the pages as quickly as she can. Tiny pieces of paper float down around her legs like confetti.

  My father, who’s just arrived home, comes running into the room. “What’s happening? Is everyone all right?” He looks like he expected to see one of us on the floor.

  “LOOK, Zai!” Mother holds up the remaining pages. “LOOK WHAT MY MOTHER DID! After everything that happened . . . she corrupted our daughter!”

  “Keep your voice down, Marga. I could hear you from the hall!”

  Mother surges toward me, and I cover my face for protection. “How long was she teaching you?” I don’t say a word. “HOW LONG?”

  “Six months,” I lie.

  “Who else knows?” she asks.

  “No one,” I say.

  “Marga, stop this!” Father says, his voice pleading.

  Pointing at me, she shouts at Father. “No wonder she’s so DIFFICULT, so outspoken!” Then she points at him. “This is YOUR fault! I told you Mother was dangerous, but you wouldn’t listen!”

  Her eyes are crazed, like she’s no longer in the room with Father and me. It’s a look I’ve seen before, and, with horror, I realize that it’s the same expression Delia Solomon’s husband had before he demanded that a mob stone his wife to death.

  “Our daughter is going to HELL!” Mother says, her finger still wagging in his face.

  Father steps forward and grabs Mother’s arms, pulling them down by her sides. His voice gets louder. “ENOUGH, Marga. Enough. The neighbors can hear you.”

  The mention of neighbors finally breaks through, and she stops speaking. Her breathing is shallow and fast, and I wonder if she’s having some sort of attack.

  Father continues, “Ura made a promise to us, and she broke her promise. Now she has to answer to God. That’s it. It’s over.”

  Mother’s breathing slows down as Father pats her hand. He says, “Now go get something to clean up this mess.”

  Mother glances at the pile of torn paper, clucking her tongue, as if someone else were responsible for it, and then she walks out of the room.

  Father looks at me and asks, “Are you all right?”

  Still cowering in the corner, I don’t say anything.

  We stare at each other as I wait for him to explain what just happened, all the things my mother said. But he only says, “I’m sorry about your nana.” And then he leaves.

  I look down to see that my hands are balled into fists, my nails cutting into the flesh of my palms. I release the fists and see that, in my right hand, I’m still holding the leaf. I’ve crushed it, but it’s still whole. I shove it under my pillow just as Mother returns with a broom and dustpan.

  She begins to sweep up the shredded paper, a fake little smile on her face. I pull my knees into my chest, afraid she’ll decide to punish me further. But she just keeps sweeping, and the odd smile doesn’t change.

  “Mina, darling, you aren’t going to say anything about this to anyone, are you?” Her voice seems to have gone up an octave.

  I’m confused. Does she mean about the Primer? Of course I won’t say anything. “No.”

  She pushes the scraps into the dustpan. “That’s a good girl. Never speak of this again.”

  She picks up the dustpan and dumps the contents into my wastebasket, throwing away the remnants of the Primer as if it were fluff she had found under my bed.

  At least Nana didn’t have to see this.

  She comes over to the bed, sitting down beside me. She touches my hair, but instead of yanking it, she strokes it.

  “Your bride price was very good, but remember what your father said about his boss? If Mr. Asher feels that he’s been swindled, he may decide that he doesn’t want to employ your father anymore, and then where will our family be? We’ll have to move to the East Side, with the Convenes, and beg for food on the streets.”

  As she pets me, I want nothing more than to slide out from her grasp, but I feel completely frozen, as if she’s paralyzed me with her venom.

  She continues, talking in her new, singsong voice, “The last thing we need now is for the Ashers to discover that Nana was educating you. So you’ll go to their house and be a nice, simple girl. You’ll talk about the weather, the food, and all the babies you want to have. And nothing more. Understand?”

  I nod, detecting a desperation in her voice that I’ve never heard before.

  “We’re going to be just fine.” She nods her head over and over and then walks out of the room, forgetting the broom and dustpan.

  I SPEND THE REST OF THE DAY GETTING READY. Numbly, I go through the motions of washing my hair and putting on a dress, but I can’t imagine that life is really going to continue, that anyone expects me to walk outside this apartment and speak to people in a normal manner.

  First Nana. And now the Primer. Generations of
women in my family have hidden and saved the Primer for almost a hundred years, and my mother destroyed it in a matter of seconds. Everything that meant anything to me has been taken away.

  My mother disappeared into her room and left me to get ready on my own, but just as Father and I are about to walk out the door, she emerges. She can’t help herself. She has to inspect me before I present myself to the Ashers. She nods at my dress—long and gray, with a high neckline. Not that I plan on taking off my cloak tonight, but, after my Offering, I don’t want to take any chances.

  After looking me over from top to bottom, Mother holds me by the shoulders and says, “Listen to your new mother-in-law. Obey her in everything. Do not express an opinion. Do not ask questions. Be docile and pretty and pious. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  She shakes me a little and adds, “I never want to hear about Nana again. You’re not allowed to mention her in this house. Do you understand?”

  I nod again, but it’s hard to bite my tongue. Does she think she can just erase Nana, that if we don’t talk about her I’ll stop thinking about her?

  Mother says, “You can still be a good girl, God willing.”

  “God willing,” Father echoes.

  They wait for me to say it, too, but I stay silent.

  Father says it’s time for us to go, but I think of something I want.

  Pretending to need the bathroom, I race up to my room and thrust my hand under my pillow, grabbing the crumpled leaf and shoving it into the pocket of my dress.

  Downstairs, Father hails a cab. I’ve never been in one. Women aren’t allowed to ride in them alone, and Father has never deemed it necessary to use one before. The cab that stops for us is rusty and dented; if it were a can of baked beans, I would throw it away. But Father gestures for me to get inside. A sticker is plastered to the window: DON’T WASTE WATER. DON’T WASTE FOOD. GOD IS WATCHING.

  Dekker would know what kind of car it is, but I have no idea. Dekker is fascinated by cars. For over a hundred years, everyone had one, and the fuel that ran them caused all sorts of wars, and I think they also have something to do with why we can’t eat fish. Either way, their allure escapes me.

  The cab driver, an Asian man who doesn’t look at either of us, reaches for his radio as we slide into the backseat. I hear the name Jordan Loudz just as the station is switched over, so the driver must have been listening to illegal Convene radio. The regulation Teacher broadcast now drones through the speakers: Women are our greatest assets. They are the vessels of the future. Protect your women.

  Father tells the driver an address, and when the man hits the accelerator, my body is pressed against the seat. I flinch as my tender back hits the leather. We’re soon flying across Central Park South.

  Knowing my time alone with Father is limited, I turn and ask him the question that’s been tormenting me. “Why was Mother calling Nana her mother?”

  My father doesn’t answer. He stares out the window. Perhaps he’s just going to ignore me, but I press on. “Grandma and Grandpa Silna—those are Mother’s parents.”

  He turns and looks at me and, in the voice he uses when explaining very simple scientific facts, says, “Nana was Grandpa Silna’s first wife. She is Marga’s mother.”

  I blink several times, trying to understand. “Then why would you say she was your mother?”

  He sighs. “Because my parents are dead, and I thought this was best.”

  Everything I know is backward. Next he’s going to tell me that this cab swims underwater.

  “Your mother would prefer people thought her mother was Grandma Silna,” he continues, “and I respect that, but the Prophet said we should look after our families. So I claimed Ura—your nana—as my kin, and we continued to look after her.”

  “Did Mother and Nana have a fight?”

  Father plays with his goatee, and it’s a habit I know well. He’s unsure of how much he wants to say. He needs more prompting if I’m going to get the full story. “I’m about to be married, Father. Soon I’ll be giving you grandchildren. What should I tell them? That my mother shunned her own mother and that she lied about it my entire life?”

  “No!” he says, and then, looking at the driver, lowers his voice. “After today, you shouldn’t talk about it ever again.”

  “I won’t. If you tell me why Mother is ashamed of Nana.”

  He picks a piece of lint off his pants and rubs it between his fingers. He then says, in a voice so low I can barely hear it, “Because Nana was in the Tunnel.”

  “That’s not true!” I say, not bothering to whisper, since what he said is so absurd.

  “Ura went to prison,” he says, looking me in the eyes, “because, when your mother was little, Ura tried to teach her to read.”

  The cab jerks to a stop at a light, throwing me forward. I fling out my hands to keep from smashing my head on the seat in front of me. Seconds later, we’re speeding forward again and I’m hurled backward.

  I want to throw up. Why would Nana have kept all this from me? I thought we told each other everything. What could be more important than my knowing that she once taught my own mother to read, just like she was teaching me? And that she went to the Tunnel for it?

  Father continues to speak. “Your grandfather remarried while Ura was in jail. He wanted help raising your mother.”

  “Auntie Sersa, Purga, Kilya . . . ?”

  “Your mother’s stepsisters.”

  Mother has always seemed to be outside the aunties’ tight little circle, but I just assumed it was because she couldn’t stand Auntie Sersa. In reality, though, they had different mothers. Is that why Sersa is so competitive?

  My stomach continues to churn as the cab hurtles up Madison Avenue. “Can Mother still read now?” I’m amazed to think she might experience the city the way I do, secretly reading signs that are meant only for men.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “She was quite young when it happened. She barely remembers it.”

  I’m disappointed. As much as I know that Mother disapproves of reading, at least we would finally have had something in common.

  We come to a screeching stop somewhere on the Upper East Side. “How did Nana get caught?” I ask, but Father is busy paying the cab driver. They haggle for a while, and then Father hands him a bag of batteries.

  Standing on the sidewalk, I ask again, “Who turned Nana in? A neighbor?”

  He stares at me, eyebrows knitted together, his expression telling me he doesn’t want to answer.

  “Was it Grandpa Silna?” I say, shocked by the idea. I’ve never been close to my grandfather, but I’ve never thought of him as a heartless man.

  “That’s enough, Mina.”

  “But you just said the Prophet told us to look after family. How could someone turn in his own wife?”

  “Sometimes things . . . just happen,” he says, hesitant in a way that’s unusual for him, a man of science. “Now we must close the subject. Not one more word. Your mother will be very upset with me for sharing as much as I have.”

  I touch his hand. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  He smiles briefly, turning his face away to check the address. Ushering me past two apartment complexes, he stops at a beautiful building with a revolving door and a spotless sidewalk. Stranger than the clean entrance is the complete lack of people. There aren’t any guards by the doors.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask.

  “Welcome to the Upper East Side,” Father says, “where the people are wealthy enough to afford security cameras.” He points up at a camera placed discreetly on a street lamp.

  The striking building and its clean, spookily quiet surroundings have finally reminded me of what’s waiting for me tonight: Damon Asher, his parents, and probably Juda.

  Father puts an arm around me. “This is an important evening. Forget about Nana. Forget about your mother. Look at me.” I stare up at him. “You need to think about the future tonight and be on your best behavior. I know you’re up
set with your mother, so if you can’t do it for her, do it for me. I still have important things to do for our city—more water filtration that could save thousands of lives—but only if Uncle Ruho lets me. And he may not let me if I anger his chief energy engineer.”

  Father cannot say “chief energy engineer” without sarcasm. He is substantially more qualified than Mr. Asher, and no one knows why Uncle Ruho chose Mr. Asher to be in charge, but Father would never dare ask. As long as he can create fresh water for people, Father will suffer whatever slights come his way.

  “Mr. Asher must be satisfied with his son’s new fiancée,” he says. “Understand?”

  I nod. Father rarely asks me for anything.

  So much has happened. Only yesterday, I got to talk to Juda, and in those brief minutes my happiness felt indestructible, as solid and impenetrable as the Wall surrounding the city. Now, life couldn’t be worse. I have to go into this building and pretend to be happy about marrying a boy I can’t stand. And Juda will probably be there, watching me fake it. And, through all of it, I can’t even say that my heart is shattered because Nana is gone. And no one in my family cares but me.

  Everyone has their own idea of who I should be with the Ashers. My father has asked me to be on my best behavior. My mother has begged me to discuss babies and the weather. And Nana, wherever she is, would want me to be bold and difficult. I have no idea what I want yet. I just know that it’s going to be a very long night.

  TEN

  THE ASHERS LIVE IN THE PENTHOUSE apartment, which is particularly extravagant when you consider that no one lives on the thirty-three floors beneath them. I suppose the long elevator ride is their way of flaunting the amount of electricity they can afford. The elevator has gold striped wallpaper, a gold ceiling, and a cream carpet.

  Don’t rich people get dirt on their shoes?

  The doors open with a ping, and Father leads me down a private hallway with more cream carpeting. The high ceiling glimmers with gilt-framed mirrors. The muffled noise of our feet breaks a cold silence, and I feel like I’m in a place of worship. We reach a towering ebony door with a gold knocker. Father knocks twice, making a dull thunk-thunk sound.