Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  “Quit looking at me like I’m one of your dolls that’s lost its stuffing,” she says in a prickly voice that tells me she’s not going to listen to any of my concerns. How is she able to read my thoughts so easily? “I can bathe just fine on my own, but I wanted some time with you alone. So just help me freshen up—we’ll do my hands and feet.”

  Nana doesn’t seem to mind the cold water. While I bathe her, she asks questions, one after another, so I tell her everything: about the Twitcher who stole her opal ring; my Offering party and the candle; my engagement to Damon; Mr. and Mrs. Asher; the night Damon came into my bedroom; and how Juda saved me. I tell her about the Primer last—how I hurried to retrieve it, but that Mother destroyed it.

  I’m ashamed to tell her the last part—that after all the years she kept the Primer safe, I’m responsible for its ruin. But she just smiles with satisfaction. “It served its purpose perfectly. It got you here, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Every time I left the house, I put the leaf on page seventy-one, knowing that if anything ever happened to me, you would come and find Ayan.”

  “Why couldn’t you just tell me about this place?” I say, thinking how close I came to missing her clue.

  She leans forward. “Once, when you were seven years old, you visited me and I said, ‘There’s a shoebox in my bedroom with a mouse in it. His name is Goliath. But, whatever you do, don’t open the box, because he’ll escape and run through the wall to the apartment next door and get eaten by the neighbor’s cat.’ And how long did it take you to open that box?”

  I shrug.

  “You didn’t even last a day,” she says, leaning back. “You were determined to get a look at Goliath, even though I told you it would cost him his life!”

  I feel bad, even though I don’t remember the mouse.

  “Children can’t be told about a special place until it’s time to go to the special place. It would have been too dangerous for Ayan and the others to have you poking around outside for hours at a time.”

  “Well, you should’ve told me about Mother,” I say. “You lied to me!”

  “Mina, you’re scrubbing too hard!” she says.

  I look down and see that I’m rubbing the same spot on her arm over and over. The skin is glowing red. I stop immediately and switch to her feet, slipping off her socks and washing her ankles. It occurs to me that she and Mother have similar feet, even though Nana’s are larger. And they have the same nose. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed before.

  “I made a promise to your mother a long time ago that I wouldn’t tell you about the past,” Nana says, “hers or mine. It was the only way she’d agree to let me see you. And seeing you was the crucial thing.”

  “But you could’ve told me,” I say, “as soon as I was old enough. I wouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Oh, Chickpea. I’m sure you would have tried not to, just like you tried not to open Goliath’s box. But think about how you felt when you found out. Didn’t things seem different?”

  I remember the day Mother tore up the Primer, when Father explained that he wasn’t related to Nana. I’d been so confused, and I felt so betrayed by everyone.

  “You would have gone home and tried to act as if everything was normal, but you would have been furious, which is only fair, and as soon as your mother sensed your anger, she would have figured the whole thing out and banned you from seeing me. I couldn’t risk it.” She stops me from washing her legs and puts her finger on my cheek. “You’re too important to me.”

  I pull away, grabbing the soap to lather up the sponge.

  I didn’t actually meet Nana until I was six. The first time I met her, I was terrified. My father took me to her apartment and dropped me off without much of an explanation. Nana told me that she was my grandmother, but she wasn’t like Grandma Silna, who smiled all the time and had nothing to say but, “Aren’t you a pretty little thing!”

  Nana wore men’s clothing, and she walked with a limp and used a cane. When she spoke to me, she didn’t use the voice that people normally use when they speak to young girls, the one that’s so sweet flies should stick to it. She spoke to me as if I were another adult. We spent that first day discussing our hatred of housework and our love of bananas (I had only ever had one, but she had gotten an entire bunch as a wedding gift), and by the time Father returned to pick me up, I wanted to stay with Nana forever. She became the person I told all my secrets to, and I thought that I had become the same for her.

  “Couldn’t you at least have told me about prison?” I say, becoming huffy.

  “It’s not something I particularly enjoy talking about,” she says, in a tone that’s sharper than I’m used to hearing from her. “And I expect a more respectful manner, Mina.”

  My head jerks up. “And I expected honesty.”

  She doesn’t reproach me for talking back. Instead, she sighs as if she’s anticipated this conversation for a long time. “I hated it when my parents didn’t tell me things,” she says.

  I stop scrubbing her feet. “I guess I just don’t know why you bothered.”

  “With what, Chickpea?”

  The use of my nickname is supposed to be soothing, I know, but I don’t want to be comforted right now. “With any of it. If I was just going to be married off to some horrible man, why did it matter if I could read? Or if I was strong? Or knew anything about Time Zero? I would’ve been happier if you’d left me ignorant! Then I wouldn’t have wanted anything from my life.”

  “But look what you did! You stood up for yourself. You got away from a vicious boy who didn’t deserve you, who didn’t even deserve to speak your name!”

  “And now I’m on the run, wanted by the police! And Father’s going to lose his job! Is that what you wanted?”

  The light disappears from her eyes, leaving her looking more tired than ever. “No. That’s not what I wanted. Give me your hand.” Reluctantly, I put down the sponge and give her my right hand. “I always knew the day of your Offering would come, and when it did, I planned . . . I’m so sorry, Chickpea. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen this way.”

  I still feel anger, but it’s at Mother, and Damon, and the Ashers, and the whole world that’s making us hide underground in this cold room. I’m not angry at Nana. How can I be mad at her for falling down the stairs?

  I lay my head on her lap. “I didn’t mean it. I’m glad you taught me how to read.”

  “I know.”

  “And you didn’t want me engaged to Damon.”

  “No.”

  “And it’s all okay, really, because if I hadn’t needed to get the Primer, I never would’ve met Juda.”

  Nana is quiet. I look up.

  “You need to be very careful there, Mina.”

  “I am—”

  “The boy has helped you, and he seems important right now, but I promise you, he’s not. You have to be selfish and think only about what’s good for you.”

  Why would she say that when she doesn’t even know him, hasn’t even had a conversation with him? My head spins with the dozen different ways I want to defend him, but before I can fully form a thought, I blurt out, “That’s not fair!”

  “I don’t care about fair. I care about keeping you safe.”

  “I am safe with him.” After everything I told Nana about what he’s done for me, I expected her to be praising him, not dismissing him. “He’s smart and strong and kind and—”

  “So are most husbands. Before you marry them.”

  I have no response.

  “Relationships are hard work. You get frustrated with one another. You get sick of each other’s company. And it’s hard to see the other person’s point of view. It takes a lot of time and effort to listen and get to know someone else. So if one person has the power to shut down the conversation and say, ‘You must do as I say, because I have the authority,’ he’ll do so eventually—inevitably. It’s too exhausting and hard for him to do otherwise.”

&nbs
p; I stare at the black-and-white floor, now spattered with water. Grabbing a mop I see leaning against the wall, I start to sop up the tiny puddles. When Juda and I had our fight and I wanted to leave the bunker, he ordered me to stay. Later, he claimed he’d done it because he was scared of my leaving, but at the time he didn’t seem to have the patience to listen to what I had to say. He made the choice that took less energy.

  “Are you telling me that men behave the way they do because they’re lazy?”

  She lets out a laugh that is sad and world-weary. “It’s very hard to get anyone, man or woman, to make a choice that’s going to involve more work than they’re used to. And sometimes it’s about fear. If the woman is not forced by law or a threat of violence to stay with her husband, then she must stay because she loves him. Then he must be love-worthy. And what’s scarier to a man of violence or cruelty than needing to earn someone’s love? He can’t even love himself.”

  I wring out the mop in an empty bucket under a sink. Neither of us speaks. What if Damon actually had to earn a girl’s love and not rely on a wedding contract? He’s about as charming as a roach. And he survives in the same way, crawling out at night to take whatever he wants, resistant to any outside force. “I know the kind of man you mean,” I say. “I think Juda is different.”

  “I once thought a man I loved was different.” She rolls down her pant legs. “It was the greatest mistake of my life.”

  I assume she means her ex-husband, Grandpa Silna. He turned her in for teaching my mother how to read.

  Before I can ask her about him, the door swings open and Rayna’s blue head appears. “Time for dinner.”

  “Thank you,” Nana replies. “We’re almost ready.”

  I put her socks back on her feet and roll down her shirtsleeves. Rayna crosses the room, lifting her once again.

  Frustrated that our conversation had to stop when it did, I tell Nana, “I have more questions.”

  She says, as if she didn’t hear, “You’re in for a real treat. Gray is a wonderful cook.”

  I have no choice but to follow the two of them out the door.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  BACK IN THE MAIN ROOM, THE WOMEN SIT IN small circles, chatting and laughing. Smiling, Ayan motions for me to sit, too. I plop myself into a mound of pillows, trying to lean against them so that I look as graceful as she does. Within seconds, though, my neck and back are aching, so I sit up and cross my legs in front of me.

  A smell hits my nostrils. I feel my eyes grow huge. Chicken.

  Several new women appear, carrying enormous trays of food. So many women seem to be living here—I wonder if there’s anyone left to cook dinner in the city tonight.

  Someone lays a plastic tarp in the middle of our circle, and the dishes are placed on top. There’s fresh, hot bread, beans, roasted eggplant, sautéed spinach, and a thick orange soup. There’s a whole roasted chicken (probably the one from Rayna’s bag). I see a butter dish, salt and pepper shakers, and bowls of sugar and cinnamon—items my mother only serves on holidays. I think I must be drooling.

  I expect a prayer, but no, everyone just dives in. As soon as I taste one bite, it’s hard not to knock the other women out of the way. I realize I’m starving. I devour a chicken leg, and when I’m finished, I lick the bone over and over.

  I look up to find that everyone is watching me. I’m sure I turn a deep crimson. Was I eating like a pig? “I’m sorry. I guess I’m pretty hungry.”

  Ayan says, “We’re privileged to nourish you. And we don’t put value on being ladylike here.”

  As if to prove the point, Rayna lets out an enormous belch. The entire room bursts out laughing.

  I laugh, too, and then ask, “Where did all this food come from?” as I shove more of the warm bread into my mouth.

  “When you help the women of this city, they make sure you have everything you need,” Ayan says. “This is a grand feast, Gray. Your cooking talent knows no bounds.”

  Gray, a tough-looking woman who’s missing a few teeth, beams.

  “How do you help women?” I ask, and then add, looking at Nana, “I mean, besides taking them out of bad hospitals.”

  Ayan puts down the chicken leg in her hand. “The Laurel Society exists to help women in any way we can. We give shelter to those who are fleeing cruelty or violence, and we help single mothers struggling to survive.”

  I think of Juda’s mother. Did she ever receive help from the Laurel Society? And have all the women around me escaped from miserable households?

  “But why don’t you get caught?” I say. “Don’t your husbands come looking for you?”

  I look around the circle, and fear flickers in some of the faces. A thin woman with hollow cheeks and ears that poke out from her head like two slices of apple says, “We don’t ever leave.”

  Ayan meets my look of surprise with a motherly smile. “We regulate the comings and goings very closely. We have a few Twitcher uniforms, and we use them wisely. If women were walking in and out of the building all day, we would’ve been discovered years ago.”

  Many of the women start to nod.

  If I didn’t feel claustrophobic before, I do now.

  I sop up my remaining soup with bread.

  “Take it easy, Chickpea. You’re eating as if you’ll never see food again.” I look over at Nana. I want to be able to abandon the crumbs on my plate. But after the hours that the Ashers made me go without food and the day in the bunker with a jar of squirrel, I intend to finish everything within sight. If nothing else, I’ve learned that life is unpredictable, and I have no idea where I may end up tomorrow.

  When I finally abandon my plate and sit back, my stomach is bloated and I’m afraid that I might actually be sick. Mostly, though, I feel exhausted.

  “I think it’s time that Mina learns your history, Ayan,” Nana says. The women around me settle into their cushions as if they’ve been waiting for this moment. Ayan waves her hand, and two women start to clear the dirty plates. She licks her fingers clean, making tiny slurping noises. Even this uncivilized gesture seems refined when she does it.

  When she starts to speak, she addresses the whole room, not just me, causing all the other women to gather close to listen. “The symbol of the laurel leaf goes back thousands of years. It begins with the tale of Daphne and Apollo, a story created by the Greeks, and then retold by the Romans, and then interpreted by artists for centuries.”

  I smile, but I feel stupid, as if I’m already supposed to know what she’s talking about.

  “Daphne was a beautiful young maiden walking in the forest, and Apollo, the god of sun and light, saw her and fell madly in lust. He tried to force himself on her, so she ran away through the forest. But she was a girl and he was a god, and he quickly caught up to her, so she cried out to her father, the river god, for help. But did she ask him to strike down Apollo?”

  The other women shake their heads and answer together, “No, she did not.”

  “No. She did not,” Ayan repeats. “Did she ask him to quell the lust in Apollo’s heart?”

  Again they all shake their heads and say, “No, she did not.”

  “No. She did not,” Ayan says. “Did she ask him to root Apollo’s feet to the ground so that he would no longer be able to give chase?”

  “No, she did not,” the women say, more loudly this time.

  “No. She did not.” Ayan looks directly at me now. “Instead, she cried out to her father, ‘Change and destroy this body which has given too much delight!’ and her father heard her and answered her prayer. In that instant, he changed her into a laurel tree. No more voice, no more body to provoke sin, no more woman. And when Apollo saw that his love had been transformed, he plucked some leaves from a branch and made the laurel his symbol from that day forward.”

  “Bastard,” Rayna says, a grumble just loud enough for us all to hear.

  I sense a new alertness, a quickening rhythm in everyone’s breathing. The energy in the room crackles with excitement and a mounting
fury.

  Ayan continues, her eyes on fire, as if she herself has been sprinting through a forest. “We use the symbol of the laurel leaf in order to reclaim it for Daphne. It was never Apollo’s to have. A woman shouldn’t be punished for the sins of man, for the lusts of man! If a man cannot control himself, it is his sin, his duty to answer to God, not ours!”

  All the women nod, some murmuring assent.

  Ayan is really worked up now. She’s speaking more with her hands, causing her bracelets to clack against each other. “Wearing a robe and veil is no different from asking God to turn us into trees. The veil is a prison made of cloth that we have accepted as the will of God, and no one can break us out of these prisons but ourselves!”

  The women nod; someone claps.

  “Being silent, uneducated, nonworking members of society is the same as being dead stumps in the forest!”

  The women clap and yell, “Death to Apollo!” and, “Long live the laurel leaf!”

  “Do you understand, Mina?” Ayan says.

  The women stare at me, but I’m tongue-tied. “I . . . think . . . that the story of Daphne is very . . . It’s wrong that she ended up as a tree.” I look at Nana, hoping this is good enough.

  Nana smiles but seems a little disappointed, while Ayan whispers, “Yes . . . yes.”

  Gray has started beating on a drum, so the chant picks up rhythm and volume. “Long live the laurel leaf” is whispered over and over, until it no longer sounds like words. Soon a middle-aged woman, with a wrinkled neck and braided hair, gets up and starts twirling. Everyone claps and urges her on. Her green skirt spins so that I can see her thick white legs underneath. She swings her hips back and forth and then closes her eyes and begins to undulate. I’ve never seen dancing like this. Her movement seems like something only a husband should see. She sways over to Ayan, leans in, and shakes her breasts. I’m shocked, but then everyone starts laughing.

  The dancing woman then continues around the circle and grabs a tall, spindly girl with bushy brown hair and oversize glasses. Despite her height, the girl doesn’t appear to be much older than I am, and once she begins dancing, an enormous smile lights up her face. She isn’t lustful like the first woman. She’s more like a puppy releasing pent-up energy after being inside all day. She holds both her arms straight out to the side, spinning. Once she starts, she looks like she’ll never stop.