“I’m so sorry.”
She hands me a warm cup. “Thanks, hon.”
Breathing in the long-lost scent, I’m once again reminded of my parents. Henry didn’t drink coffee often, but when I was a blooming teen, before I’d discovered uppers, I’d wanted to start drinking it to combat my lack of sleep. So, for a few months he’d buy it just for me, and he’d wake up and make me a pot before he went to work. He wanted it to be ready for me when I woke up. He wanted to do whatever he could to make impossible Grace happy.
Fighting my own sorrow, I pick through the packets of artificial sweeteners until I find two lone, yellow pouches of the real thing. McDonald’s. Of course.
“What about you?” Sheryl-Dean asks me. “What did you do before?”
I face her, but stare into my cup. “I wasted every breath.”
“Mm.” She drops her gaze as she sips her black coffee, then gives a nod of acknowledgement. “Yeah. I s’pose we all did that to some degree. Took things and people for granted.” She shakes her head slowly. “You never know how big someone is in your life . . . until you measure the space of their absence.”
“That’s true.” I sip my coffee, watching the ripples from my tears mix with the swirls of cream. “That’s very true.”
Seven
“Cleanliness is godliness around here,” Sheryl-Dean says, rubbing hand sanitizer into her hands. “One cough, usually, and they’re gone. Just can’t risk it.”
As we head to dorm A, she goes into more detail about the volunteering. I’m to clean up spills and keep the areas clean, patch boo-boos, help the little ones dress, distribute hand sanitizer before and after every meal and using the restroom. Dorm assignments alternate every two or three days, etcetera, etcetera.
“Ya git all that?” she asks with a chuckle. And at my blank stare, she gives me a swift pat on my sore shoulder, and I grit my teeth against the pain.
“Uh . . .” I take a couple gulps of my coffee. “Kind of?”
“Well, don’t you worry. You’ll have it all down in no time a’tall.”
When we get to the dorm, the lights are on, and the girls are awake. Missy hugs her knees on her mat before a wall plastered with scribbled coloring pages that weren’t noticed last night in the dark. Her wet face lights up, and she hops from her mat to meet me halfway, gripping my middle as though I’d left her for days.
“This is Sheryl-Dean,” I tell her. “She’s one of the nice ladies who cares for the children here. Since I’ll be helping to do that soon, she was going over some things with me. Oh—and she got me some coffee. Want some?” I offer her the glass, a third left of lukewarm liquid, where all the sugar hides.
Curious, she peeks inside of the cup. She takes a careful taste, then snatches the glass from me and gulps the rest in two seconds. This girl has no idea what “ration” means. Bet she’ll learn soon, though. She stares into the bottom of the cup and frowns, then looks around me, as if some magical coffee fairy was waiting to refill at her whim.
“I’m sorry, there’s no more.” I take the cup from her, then clasp her hand in mine. “But if you’re a big girl while I’m learning my volunteer stuff, and when I’m helping out in other rooms, I promise to bring you some when I can. And other treats I might find. How does that sound?”
She nods, though her hesitance is apparent.
“It’ll be fine,” I assure her, burying my own doubt. I don’t have a choice.
“You’ll get to go to the playroom for a couple hours soon,” Sheryl-Dean grins, and her smile is huge, another past-life relic that doesn’t belong here. Missy’s is the same, though, so maybe I’m wrong. If this little girl is happy, then that’s reason enough.
“See?” I give her a nudge. “You’ll love it here. This is a million times better than where you’ve been for the past few months, don’t you think?”
She considers it for a moment before giving a slow nod.
“Okay, then. Give it a chance. I mean, look at all the little girls your age you have to play with now. How awesome is that?”
She sinks her chin into her chest, telling me she’s too shy—not to mention, quiet—to play with the other girls.
“She doesn’t talk,” I explain to Sheryl-Dean, but I leave it at that because I’m tired of the explanation.
“Ah, I see. Well, no big deal, we’ve got a lot of quiet ones. And we have crayons and a few coloring books. You wanna color?”
Missy chews a nail and looks to me for permission.
“Yes, she’d love to color,” I answer for her, remembering the Easter egg she decorated for me to match her fingernails when we were at CVS. Her tiny nails now reveal dots of polish in the middle of each, where a piece of the past hangs on, afraid to let go.
“Well, good.” Sheryl-Dean waves to a group of girls huddled in a corner, lying on their bellies, chattering as they color. “Sara, Cholita, could you two come here for a sec?”
Two of the group—a blonde and a Hispanic girl—hop up from the mess of crayons and books and hurry over to us. “Yes, Miss Sheryl?” says the blonde who I’m assuming is Sara.
“Could you two take Missy over to color with you? She doesn’t talk, so you’ll have to communicate with her in other ways.”
“How do we do that, Miss Sheryl?” asks the other girl.
“Well . . . draw pictures? You’ll figure it out. It’s like she speaks another language, Cholita. You know how that is, dontcha?”
“Si,” she answers with a giggle.
“Fantastic. So, you two can stay with her, help her out a bit until she gets comfortable, okay?”
“Okay,” they agree.
“Come on!” Sara takes Missy’s hand and whisks her away, but Missy doesn’t take her sights off me until she’s seated with crayons, books, and other little girls to distract her. Even then, she looks over her shoulder at me three times, as though I’d vanish the second she turned away. I guess it’s understandable, considering it has happened on more than one occasion.
“Relax.” Sheryl-Dean gives me a pat on the back, which I’m sure was meant to be comforting, but instead was like she’s dislodging something from my windpipe. Sheryl-Dean might be the least nurturing-type person I’ve ever met in my life—how’d she end up here? Not to mention, she’s been at this for forty-eight hours, which is some serious dedication.
I exhale and try my best to relax—to forget ninety-nine percent of my past and present circumstances, and dance in the one percent sliver of optimistic delusion. You could call me a realist now that I’ve seen both sides of things. I once was a pessimist, then there was light . . . and now, I hover somewhere questionable between the two. The word “relax” is still foreign, though.
“Hey,” Sheryl-Dean nudges me with an elbow. “You got twenty-four hours until your first shift starts. Why don’t you go to the cafeteria and get ya some breakfast? They’ve got an allowance for new ones who haven’t earned any ration points yet. First two meals are free. Then you can check out the rest of the Cross and come hang with us for a while? Or whatever you wanna do.”
I consider it for a second, and my stomach and curiosity win me over. “Yeah, okay, breakfast and exploring sounds good. Do I need an escort or anything?”
“Nope, I’ll get you all scanned here before you go. There’s a terminal at the front desk. You’ll be able to open all areas at your clearance level; just gotta bend over and look into the eye scanners. Doors’ll open right up for ya.”
“Fancy. Wow—I’ll be able to open doors with my eyes . . .” I chuckle at the ridiculousness.
“Yes ma’am. So come on, let’s get you all set up.”
We pass Joy carrying a tray of baby food jars on the way out. A wafting of bananas and citrus accompanies her grin. “Soon as I help Marguerite feed the babies in A, I’ll be by to help get B through D to breakfast,” she says to Sheryl-Dean.
“You’re a doll, Joy!” Sheryl-Dean calls behind her as we take a left at the next hallway. Ahead of us, the desk where I first met Peggy last night is empty, while in the distance, an announcement plays over a loudspeaker.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s the bi-weekly announcements—our news channel, of sorts.”
I crane my neck and focus, making out definite words in English, then they’re repeated in Spanish—like the transmission Logan intercepted when we were on our way here.
“Alrighty, then.” Sheryl-Dean lifts the top of the desk to reveal a screen on the underside. She bends forward until her face is at the center, and the pink light scans her, then the screen blinks on. She pulls a keyboard out from the desk and types in a password, then she’s redirected to a screen that says: Enter New Volunteer
“What’s your full name, hon?” Sheryl-Dean asks me.
“Grace—”
But I stop, because giving these people my last name might not be the best idea.
“Davisson,” I decide on. Evie’s last name. And when Sheryl-Dean types Grace Davisson into the computer, something blossoms, then decays inside of me. It may have been my name one day if things had only been different. But at least I’m closer to her now, in the sadness of the what-ifs.
After a slew of other questions—birthdate, place of birth, last living relative, allergies, etcetera—she asks me to place my face in the center of the screen. “Open wide, dear.”
When I do as she says, the beam of pink light becomes two blue circles zooming in on my pupils. It’s not blinding, but something about it seems intrusive. As if they could map my soul and hijack it. The device beeps. Volunteer assigned and documented, the screen reads in green letters, with a tiny zero at the bottom right.
“All set.” Sheryl-Dean types one last code into the keyboard and the screen goes dark, then she returns the keyboard and closes up the desk. “If it doesn’t open, chances are, it’s off limits for your clearance level.”
“What is my ‘clearance level’?”
“Blue.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It means nothing to me, too, darlin’. I just do what I’m told and I don’t ask questions. You’ll find things go a lot smoother around here if ya follow those same rules.”
“Yeah . . . okay,” I say, though I have every intention of obliterating both of those things, once I figure out my angle.
I consider going out to the Cross as-is, but my breath is nasty and I need to brush my teeth and change clothes. Also, I’m nervous about leaving Missy, especially without saying goodbye, so getting a visual on her before heading out to the unknown will make me feel better.
I part ways with Sheryl-Dean at dorm B, as she heads to C and D to wake up the rest of the girls. Missy’s still coloring, but her relief is apparent when she swipes her head my way at the sound of the door whooshing open. I make my way to her and the rest of the girls, some of whom have foregone the colors for making braided paper bracelets, one of which Missy sports on her left wrist.
“Pretty bracelet,” I say, and she grins.
“I made it for her,” Sara says, sitting taller.
“That was sweet of you.” I crouch to get a better look at the picture Missy’s coloring, though the teddy bear wearing a fancy hat isn’t what she’s working on. In the bottom corner of the paper in a blank spot, there’s a misshapen red heart, and inside, a name.
“Amanda,” I read. “Is that your name, honey?”
She shakes her head, then hugs her knees, cheeks clenched for the onset of a downpour.
“Is it . . . your momma’s name?”
She hesitates for a moment before giving a slow nod with quivering lower lip.
“Aww . . . come here.” I gather her into my arms. “I lost my momma, too,” I whisper, and the other girls look on, our pain and loss resonating with them, no doubt.
“My momma died, too,” Sara says, echoed by Cholita and a few others murmuring the words, and it’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. But something inside me tugs in this moment of sorrow, telling me to be strong for them, to offer light and hope, though I, myself, have very little. I give it a shot, anyway.
“But, hey—we’ve got each other now,” I tell them all. “And we’ll get through it together, okay? Group hug.” I spread out my arms to allow space for more little bodies, expecting a hesitation. But there’s a rush instead, of tears and relief. They’ve been needing this. So have I, and I can’t help my own flow of emotion, with the most love I’ve ever received at one time in my entire life. The ones on the outside of the group touch their fingers to my skin and hair, and though I know it isn’t enough—it never will be—it’s all I’ve got. Something fortifies in me, and there’s a silent resolve to be as strong as I can for them. For Missy. For me.
When they disperse again, there isn’t a dry eye in the room, and I fumble for words of light to leave them in a good place. But perhaps silence is best, honoring the families we’ve lost to the dying world. Or maybe, I just can’t think of anything to say that will take their pain away.
Some of them start coloring again while a few of them retreat to their cots to cry. It’s too much, too sad, and I see now, what Peggy meant, why the others left. Sad doesn’t even begin to cover it. Devastating to the core is a little closer to reality, and I get the urge to flee from it. But I won’t. If it takes everything I have inside of me, I won’t leave them like the rest. I have a feeling it will take just that.
I give Missy a poke to the belly, and she peers up at me. “Can you write your name for me?”
She considers it for a moment before giving another slow head shake.
“Is it . . . Is it because you like ‘Missy’?”
She nods, then lays her head on my chest, breathing out her pain. She wants to start over, be someone else—not that girl who went through all the pain. That, I can relate to.
“I understand,” I tell her. “And guess what?”
She peers up at me.
“I love the name Missy. It’s as beautiful as you are.”
She squeezes me tighter, and we’re suspended in a silent moment of peaceful acceptance, that this is the way things are now. We’ve left behind one sad life and traded it for another, a path we pray leads to happiness one day. I give it another moment to simmer before heading into choppier waters.
“Hey . . . remember what I said last night about going to check out the place?”
With a sad gaze up at me, she nods.
“I don’t want to leave you, either, but I need to. Promise I’ll check in with you a little later, okay?”
With hesitation, she gives into another nod. I kiss her cheek, release my grip on her, and pry her arms from my waist. She sinks back to her coloring page, tracing the outline of her mother’s heart.
Somehow, this little girl has taught me so much in such a short time, and though it sears a painful scar that will never heal, I feel her outline the edges of my heart, too.
Eight
After brushing my teeth and putting on clean, black leggings and a black baby-tee, I wave goodbye to Missy and head to the scanner. I’m about to press my face against the contour when the door slides open to Sheryl-Dean and Joy.
“Hey there,” Sheryl-Dean says. “You off to explore now?”
“Yeah. I’ll be back soon, though.”
“Okay, hon. See ya soon.”
“I think it’s potato and spam mash day!” Joy calls after me. “My favorite!”
“Sounds delicious—thanks!”
Alone now, I tremble with dis-ease, scoping the walls for the stenciled black lettering Sheryl-Dean told me to watch for at each intersection. Being a landmark person, and with identical gray corridors, the tiny painted letters that read S1, with arrows leading me the right way, are a godsend. It’s strange, being left alone to wan
der this place, and with a “clearance level,” at that. But I’m not entirely alone. Those black bubble cameras are everywhere—two in each hallway, at least. Maybe that’s the real source of my dread. Everywhere I go, I’m being watched, and I’m not sure if I can trust these people yet.
My tension releases some when I end up at the silver doors that lead out into the main part of the Cross. I press my face against the contoured scanner on the wall, and the pink light scans me before the doors click open. A little after seven a.m. now, the place isn’t as crowded as it was last night, but there are plenty of folks milling around. Half of them appear as though they haven’t slept in days, though, and I wonder if the underground living and twelve-hour work days might not take a toll on a person after a while.
Taped to the closed doors of the cinema is a hand-painted sign on cardboard that reads: Open noon - 2 am. The library’s open, though, so I head inside, greeting the woman sitting at the counter reading a comic book, though she hardly gives me a second thought. I make my way through the rows and stacks of books, which appear to be in no order at all, breathing in the smell of old paper and dust.
I leave the library and head toward the cafeteria, summoned by the scent of something extraordinary. I almost pass up the gift shop, en route to the makings of the aroma, but curiosity veers me right inside of the open doorway instead. A different set of smells in here reminds me of Eve; some sort of incense—dragon’s breath, perhaps—with wispy trails of smoke rising from the mouth of a small dragon incense holder.
An elderly man with flyaway white hair tinkers with a mess of wires in the corner, wrapping electrical tape around one of them, which belongs to an antique-style hanging lamp with an orange glass shade outlined in red. He plugs it in, and it lights up, followed by his face doing the same.
“Hey there!” he says when he sees me. “Have a look around. Most things are marked, but if you have a question about anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Tunnels and Planes: An Urban Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (The Night Blind Saga Book 3) Page 4