Contaminated

by Em Garner

  I do have enough gumption in me to pull away when he tries to kiss me again, though.

  “I want to be your boyfriend,” Tony repeats.

  “No way. Wow.” I shake my head. “Unbelievable. You won’t help me out when I need you. I really need you to do this—”

  “I can’t drive that far and get back. My mom will find out!”

  My shoulders slump. “Tony, just go. We’re not getting back together. You’re not my boyfriend.”

  “I love you!” He whispers this fiercely and looks over at his shoulder toward my mom, who’s still staring at the blank TV.

  “No, you don’t. If you did,” I tell him, “you’d already be driving me where I need to go. Don’t you get it, Tony? This isn’t a game or something. I’ve been kicked out of here. I have to find a place for us to live. I have to take care of my mom and my sister and me. I just… I have this life, Tony, that you can’t even begin to understand. You have no clue, okay? So if you’re not going to help me, then you need to leave so I can figure out what’s going on.”

  Once, before the world spun out of control and we all spun with it, Tony and I had gone to a homecoming dance. He’d worn a suit and tie. I had a new dress and shoes to match. My mom had let me wear some of her perfume. I’d pinned a carnation on his collar and he’d given me a wrist corsage. The DJ had played a lot of popular slow songs and we’d danced together, one after the other. At the end of the night, he’d asked if I wanted to be his girlfriend, and I’d said yes.

  That was the first time he kissed me, and I would always remember it.

  Too bad I want to forget the last time he kissed me.

  “Velvet…”

  I ignore him. I pick up the phone, already dialing. I hear the door open and shut behind him, but I’m already on the phone with Ms. Campbell.

  She isn’t happy to hear that I need another day off. “Velvet, this is really inconvenient. I wish you’d given me more notice. Are you sick?”

  I think about lying, but don’t. “No. I’m sorry. It’s my mom. I need another day home with her.”

  I’m not going to tell her I’ve been kicked out. I’ll have to tell someone there eventually, to get my address changed, but not right now. She sighs. I hear the shuffle of papers.

  “We’re seriously understaffed today, Velvet. I really don’t think I can give you the day off when you already had yesterday off. If you’d asked for both days off, I might’ve been able to swing it.”

  “I didn’t know yesterday!” I hear myself sounding too desperate and force myself to calm down. Ms. Campbell has a low tolerance for whiners. I’ve always tried to make sure she never regretted hiring me, even though I’m young. “I’m sorry. I mean, I didn’t realize. And something’s come up, I can’t just…”

  “You can’t leave her alone? There are problems?” Like everyone else, her interest seems to perk up at the thought that everything they say on the news is true. “What’s going on? I thought you said she was taken care of that way.”

  Ms. Campbell ought to know better than anyone else I’ve dealt with about what it must be like. Connies have been compared to patients with Alzheimer’s disease, and not everyone with that diagnosis acts the same. There are all sorts of levels of ability. She was the one who gave me the lecture about never assuming anything about anyone based on what a doctor had written on their charts.

  “She is. She’s fine. I just can’t leave her here. I… um… well, we’ve decided, that is, my sister and I want to take her back home. I think it will be better for her to be in a familiar place.”

  “You can just do that?”

  “Yes.” I say this out loud to make it true. “But we live pretty far out of town, and it will take some time to get her there, get set up, stuff like that.”

  “Velvet, are you sure that’s what you want to do? Move out of town? You live in assisted housing right now. You know you’ll lose that income if you move.”

  I might do my best to make sure Ms. Campbell doesn’t think I’m too young for the job, but she apparently never forgets my age. “I know. But we won’t lose our food assistance. That will be okay.”

  I hope. I’m not actually sure about all the rules. They changed a bunch of times, and though they send a pamphlet with every check detailing what exactly has changed, I haven’t read the last ten or so.

  Ms. Campbell sighs, long and hard. “Is this going to affect your work here?”

  “No!”

  “Because you know I took a real chance in taking you on full-time, and that was just last week, Velvet. It’s not that I don’t think you’re doing a good job. Our patients really enjoy you, and overall I don’t have any complaints with you in a part-time capacity. But with this move and the additional responsibilities with your mother, I’m not sure full-time is going to work out for you.”

  “I’ll make it work, Ms. Campbell.” I have to. We’ll need the money. We need the benefits. Opal qualifies for the new youth health programs, but again, now that I’m an adult, I don’t. Neither does my mom. If we get sick, we’re in trouble.

  “You’re not doing a very fine job of it so far,” she says.

  This is so mean, I bite my lip. I want to say something sharp, but I bite extra hard so I don’t. “I’m sorry.”

  She sighs again, louder this time. “I expect you back at work tomorrow, no excuses. Do you understand? You’re still in the probationary period.”

  “I understand. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I hang up before she can say anything else or change her mind. Before I can get myself into trouble.

  I look at my mom, sitting so quietly. There’s still the problem of getting us where we need to go. I sink into the chair and put my face in my hands. Not crying. Not even really thinking. Just trying to cope.

  I startle at the soft touch of her hands on my hair, and I look up to see my mom standing over me. She’s not smiling, but her eyes don’t look quite as blank as they have in the past. This seems a little easier, all of a sudden.

  My mom always believed in me, always told me I could do whatever I set my mind to. It’s time I start believing her.

  FOURTEEN

  FIRST, I SHOVE EVERYTHING I CAN POSSIBLY fit into two big backpacks I found stuffed way back in the closet and never thought I’d use again. I pull out all Opal’s stuff, lay it on the bed. I know she won’t be happy that I’m leaving some of it behind but I hope, with fingers crossed and toes, too, that her old things will still be at home.

  Of course, they probably won’t fit her anymore. They might be ruined. Everything might be. It’s a chance we’ll take.

  I cram clothes and books and things into each backpack and lift one. It’s heavy, but not too bad. I have muscles built up from lifting heavy laundry baskets and also shifting patients around, though we’re never supposed to do that by ourselves. Now I can put one of these packs on my back and not stagger beneath its weight, and still lift the other. I heft it, testing how long I’ll be able to carry them, because I’ll have to do it myself. It’s my mom I’m worried about. She’s not strong.

  “Mom, can you carry this?”

  She looks at me blankly. I had the bright idea of layering us both with as many layers as possible. Triple socks, shirts, sweatpants over a pair of jeans. I have to open all the windows in here to keep from passing out from being overheated, but Mom’s barely breaking a sweat.

  I take out some things from one of the packs and stuff it into the other. I turn her, slip the emptier pack onto her shoulders. She staggers a little bit, but doesn’t drop it or fall over. I grab the heavier one. I expect to wilt under the weight, but I just shift it until it’s more manageable instead.

  “Okay. Hold out your arms.” She does, but it’s not until I’m securing the wrist restraints that I realize I was expecting her to respond, and she did. I look at her. I’ve pulled the turtleneck up over her collar and the hood over her hair. I yank down the sleeves of her coat, which isn’t warm enough for this cold, over her wrists. “Listen, Mom. If we�
��re careful, nobody will know. Okay? We can catch the bus just outside here. It will only take us as far as the Foodland parking lot, but that’s better than having to walk the whole way. Okay? Can you… hear me? Can you understand me?”

  She doesn’t nod, she doesn’t shake her head. She doesn’t even blink. I guess she can hear me, though, because she doesn’t protest anything. Then again, maybe whatever’s cycling around in her head just shut off for now. I have no way of knowing.

  I can’t take her hand because of the restraints, so I hook an arm through hers and lead her out the door. I don’t bother locking it. I don’t care if anyone gets in and steals anything, or wrecks it. There’s nothing left here that I consider mine.

  Mrs. Wentling opens the door as we leave. “You! What are you doing?”

  I don’t answer her. It’s none of her business, and a lot of this is her fault. Instead, I lead my mom carefully to the stairs. She’s still unsteady and the weight of her backpack is probably unbalancing her. She can’t really grip the handrail easily, either.

  “Forget about this,” I mutter, and yank on the restraints to slip them off.

  “You! Hey! You can’t do that! I know the law!”

  I whirl to face her. “So call the cops, then! What are they going to do? Just make me put them back on. But what will they do when I tell them about the drugs Jerry’s been pushing? Or the fact he and his friends have been buying booze for minors? That’s illegal.”

  Mrs. Wentling’s face goes bright pink. “You won’t do anything like that!”

  “Not if you shut up,” I say.

  Oh, it feels so good to be so rude. It feels strong and powerful and mighty. I like watching her mouth open and close like a fish. Beside me, my mom makes a small noise, but she’s not looking at Mrs. Wentling. She’s concentrating on not falling down the stairs.

  “I’m glad you’re out of here,” Mrs. Wentling says.

  I don’t pay her any more attention. The fact is, even though I’m nervous about what we’ll find when we get back to our old house, I’m glad to be out of here, too. This place was never home.

  At the parking lot, I take my mom’s hand. “Just stay with me, and keep quiet, okay?”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, but I think she knows. She doesn’t walk fast, and I try to be patient, not pulling her. I don’t want to miss the bus. It runs only once every forty-five minutes, and we’re already cutting the time close to me being able to get Mom home and secure, then get to Opal’s school, which luckily for me is halfway between our neighborhood and here, so the trip won’t be as long.

  At the bus stop, an older woman I don’t recognize is waiting. She takes up most of the bench. I want to ask her to move over so we can at least put down our bags, but I don’t want to draw attention to us.

  She sees us, though. “Here, I’ll scootch over.”

  “It’s okay.…”

  She’s already moving. She pats the bench. My mom moves, tries to sit, but has forgotten she’s wearing the huge backpack. It hits the back of the bench before her butt hits the seat, and she starts to fall forward.

  “Whoops!” the lady cries, grabbing at my mom. She’s laughing. “Watch yourself!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I say this over and over as we both struggle to get my mom upright.

  We do, as the bus turns down the street, heading our way. The lady gets up, her purse slung over her shoulder. She looks at my mom.

  She knows, I think. She’s going to say something. Her eyes fix on the lump at my mom’s throat, the bulge under the turtleneck. Her gaze lifts to mine.

  “She’s a little wobbly, ain’t she? She’ll get better in time.” Her smile is kind.

  A breath of relief whooshes out of me, but I’m not sure what to say. Besides, the bus has come to a stop with a squealing, hissing grunt, the sound like the exhale of a dragon. The doors open. It’s not Deke, this isn’t his route. I tense, anyway, when I push my mom to board before me, but the driver says nothing, just watches as I swipe my card twice.

  We find empty seats at the back of the bus. My mom’s more careful this time when she sits. We perch on the edge of our seats with the backpacks taking up a lot of the room. People don’t even really give us a second glance.

  The ride to Foodland’s only about five minutes, but it would’ve taken much longer than that to walk. We get off and watch the bus drive away. The temperature’s colder out here on the edge of town, I guess because the wind can whip through across the empty fields that once grew corn and now harbor monuments to corpses. I shiver, glad for the layers.

  “C’mon. Let’s start walking.”

  Mom follows me easily enough. We climb the grassy hill where there used to be houses but now is empty land, and pass a half-finished bank that’s been under construction for the past couple of years. I don’t think they’re ever going to finish it. Down the other side of the hill, we hit the parking lot of a Sheetz gas station, and a warm waft of coffee-and-egg-sandwich-scented air reminds me I didn’t eat much today. Also that soon it will be lunchtime, and though that would be more than enough time if we were driving, we’re walking and the clock’s ticking. We cross the parking lot, through the gas pumps. Only one set is working anymore, but I guess it doesn’t matter because there are so many fewer drivers these days. We get to the edge of the highway, where there’s no sidewalk.

  There’s still traffic, even though most people who used to commute regularly to work have either moved closer to their jobs to use public transportation or aren’t around to work anymore. Most of it’s trucks, construction vehicles, cleanup crews. Still a lot of military. Our world’s been put back on its feet, but like my mom, it’s still a little too unsteady to walk on its own.

  There is a good chance, though, that we can hitch a ride. People aren’t as afraid of hitchhikers now, since sometimes it’s the only way to get anywhere. You wouldn’t think that’s the case, that people would be afraid of picking up Connies… except I guess that Connies don’t stand on the side of the road with their thumbs out—they just rush at the cars and run them off the road.

  I’m not even hitching, but only a few cars pass us before one pulls over. The driver rolls down the passenger-side window. “You need a ride?”

  He looks okay, but while I might’ve taken him up on it if I were alone, I have to think about my mom. I shake my head.

  “No, we’re good.”

  He frowns. “You sure? You look like you could use a lift. Those bags look heavy.”

  When I hitch rides, I always try to get them with moms in minivans and baby seats in the back. This guy looks like someone’s grandpa. Nice face, but… still.

  “No, really, we don’t have far to go.”

  He shrugs. “Okay, you sure?”

  Through all this, my mom’s standing quiet and still. The wind’s blowing up, making me shiver. I can feel heat drifting out to us from his open window. I calculate the odds that this guy, out of everyone else passing, is a serial killer, and decide to take the chance.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I open the back door and help my mom slide in, then put my bag back there and get in the passenger seat. I want my hands free, just in case.

  “Where’re you ladies headed?” He glances in the rearview mirror, but if my mom’s silence is strange, he doesn’t act like it.

  “Spring Lake Commons.” I hold my hands out to the heat blowing from the vents.

  He gives me a curious glance. “What’s out that way?”

  “I… we live there.” I turn to give my mom a look, but she’s staring out the window.

  “All the way out there? I didn’t think anyone lived out there anymore. Wasn’t it closed off?”

  I look out the window, too. We’re passing by a nice neighborhood with big houses set very close together. “Yes. But not anymore.”

  I don’t really know if that’s true or not.

  “Huh.” He drives in silence for a minute or so, then looks into the rearview again. “You okay back ther
e? Not too hot? Too cold?”

  “She’s… shy,” I blurt.

  The driver gives me another of those curious glances but nods. The drive is so much faster than walking would be, I’m counting my blessings. We pass the last of the houses, and the road moves along through one of the fields.

  The memorials aren’t big and grand, the way they made the ones for other places. Supposedly those are coming, big marble walls engraved with the names of the fallen, like for the Vietnam War. Or maybe just a stone obelisk like the Washington Monument. But for now all that’s there are low metal fences. They’re curving and long, surrounding the entire ditch where they’d buried the Connies and covered them with concrete. They planted flowers there but nothing’s growing on top of the ditches now, and the rest of the fields have gone to weeds.

  My mom makes a long, low noise that sounds like a plea. She has both hands pressed to the glass. Her face, too. Her breath fogs it.

  “Mom…” I want to hush her, but how without making it too obvious?

  She slaps the window with the flats of both hands. The driver jumps. He doesn’t just look in the mirror this time, he twists to stare behind him.

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “I don’t know. Mom, please!”

  He’s going to know. She’s not restrained. He’s going to throw us out, worse than that, call the cops. Worse than that, wreck the car and kill us all because now she’s really freaking out, making that low, harsh noise and rapping on the glass, and what will happen to Opal then, if I die? Who will pick her up from school?

  “Does she need to stop?” He’s already pulling over to the side of the road.

  My mom opens the car door, I don’t know how, before he’s even stopped. She falls out, rolls, her backpack snagging on one arm and then falling off. She’s on her feet faster than I’ve ever seen her since before she got sick. She takes off running across the field. Her feet tangle in some grass. She goes down.

  “Oh, no, oh, no…” I barely realize I’m saying this over and over as I struggle with my seat belt.