Last Girls

by Demetra Brodsky

  Sometimes I listen to what she’s saying and think she can’t possibly be our mother. She doesn’t have a creative bone in her body. All she thinks and obsesses about is this place. Her utopia.

  But when she takes a seat at our big oak farm table and pats the bench beside her, I sit. Letting her press the kitchen towel on my arm for a few minutes before peeling it back for a less bloody look. The cut is three inches long and a half inch wide, revealing the scarlet tissue beneath my skin. Mother pinches the wound shut to gauge the gap. Then she takes my free hand and puts it over the kitchen towel so she can fill the hypodermic needle with lidocaine. I know from experience the lidocaine injections will hurt more than the actual sutures.

  “Come over here, girls,” Mother orders. My sisters approach the table with rapt curiosity. The same way they’d observe the butchering of a chicken. “What kind of stitches do you think would work to lessen the chance of a scar?”

  It’s a trick question. I know the answer, but let my sisters answer.

  Mother removes the towel and injects the first dose of lidocaine. I probably only need six total, one for every inch, three on each side. I squeeze my eyes shut with each sting, fighting the urge to curse and pull my arm away.

  “Simple uninterrupted,” Blue says. “Maybe a mattress stitch in the middle where it’s deepest.”

  Birdie nods. “Continuous would work, too.”

  “Yes, but it’s not the stitch that matters when it comes to scarring. It’s how tight you pull the sutures that puts the skin at risk of puckering,” Blue reasons. “Same with needlepoint and fabric.”

  “Correct,” Mother says. “Bring me a mug of that hot water and the chlorhexidine solution I left on the counter so we can put that knowledge into practice.”

  By the time they have everything ready, the lidocaine is working. My chest relaxes where I was holding the muscles of my upper body tight. I end up with more stitches than I wanted, because of the combination of techniques, but I don’t feel anything more than a tugging sensation. And thanks to Blue, the stitches look nice and even.

  “Can I do one?” Birdie asks.

  “She needs two more.”

  Mother and Birdie look at me, waiting for me to give my okay. I nod, but not without comment. “Don’t pull.”

  “I won’t.”

  Birdie slips on a pair of latex gloves and takes the needle holder and forceps from Mother, finishing the last two stitches with her tongue poking through the right side of her mouth. Her stitches are neat and even, matching the ones Mother put in place.

  “See. Perfect,” Birdie says. Ever the one to pay herself a compliment.

  * * *

  I’m choking down the last bland bite of my watery Chili Mac meal, without the egg I wanted on top, when Mother announces she’s going to The Burrow to bring Dieter the eggs he needs. Needs is a curious way to say that, almost subservient. I don’t like it.

  “Why doesn’t Magda bring Dieter her eggs?” Birdie gripes. She tosses the empty trilaminate pouch from her MRE in the trash.

  “She may have. He needs several dozen. I should be home in an hour or two. Don’t stay up too late.”

  It will be a miracle if I can stay up to meet Ansel, never mind too late. I watch Mother collect the eggs and a few test tubes from different medications she’s been formulating. She checks her face and hair in the round mirror next to the door before walking out. If she isn’t interested, and nothing is going on, why would she check her reflection?

  The second she’s out the door, Birdie says, “Several dozen eggs? What are they making over there, quiches?”

  “Who knows.”

  “I’m making popcorn,” Blue says, pulling out a mason jar full of dark blue seeds and shaking it like a maraca.

  “If you’re making it, Blue, I’m eating it.”

  “Same.” Birdie takes a repurposed glass milk jug full of juice from the fridge and drinks straight from the bottle.

  “Mother will kill you if she sees you doing that.”

  “Mother isn’t here, my dear eldest one.” She takes another swig before passing it to me.

  She’s right, I’m thirsty, and for now the juice is still cold. We’re on our own for a least an hour or two. Consequences be damned.

  Blue climbs a step stool and pulls down our hand-cranked, aluminum popper. “Go sit down. I can do this.”

  The ibuprofen and lidocaine have taken my pain down several notches. Enough for me to feel the pull of exhaustion. I need coffee. Preferably from an IV drip, but I’ll make do with what we have. “Blue will you take out one of those instant coffee packets for me?”

  “Are you sure? You’ll be up all night.”

  “I’m sure. I still have some homework to finish.” And a few hours to kill before I leave to meet Ansel in the woods.

  “Not me,” Birdie says. “But I’m so here for this popcorn session. It will be like old-timey TV. Radio hour interview or whatever. Starting with Honey.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. We saw you with that boy from school in the woods.”

  The popcorn seeds sounds like rapid-fire ammunition as Blue pours them into the aluminum popper. I can’t tell if this is an attack, yet.

  “We walked away to give you some space.” Birdie adds another log to the wood-burning stove and takes a seat on our worn, beige couch, folding her legs to the side as she pulls a crocheted afghan across her lap. “In retrospect, we probably should have interrupted, since our absence gave Annalise an open to ambush you. But that was Rémy Lamar, wasn’t it? Soccer team? The one who was trying to take our picture outside the school? His scrawny friend with the big ears is always smiling at me in the hallways like he’s amused, even when I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Yes, all the boys love Birdie. You two better make some room for me on the couch when I’m done,” Blue says, placing the popper on the wood-burning stove.

  “I know the friend you mean. His name is Brian Sharazi. I see him staring at you in the cafeteria sometimes. But yes, that was Rémy Lamar. He’s in my chemistry and art classes.” I sit beside Birdie and pull half the afghan over my legs. “He told me Mr. Whitlock gave him a map to the abandoned treehouse so Rémy could take pictures of it for a photo competition or something. I was trying to get him out of the woods.”

  “Not right away,” Blue chimes in over the kernels popping like the balloons at school. “You like him.”

  “No, I don’t. He’s in some of my classes. We talk sometimes. It’s not my fault he was out there taking photos.”

  “Maybe it is, though,” Birdie says. “Not your fault exactly, but why would Mr. Whitlock send Rémy Lamar to the treehouse near our property? What if Whitlock sent him to scope out our property so they can come for our supplies when the shit hits the fan? Lines will blur. You know it, and I know it.”

  “Rémy Lamar is not going to come for our supplies, but I wondered about Whitlock, too.”

  “The truth will catch up to all of us.”

  That statement is in alignment with Blue’s extreme weirdness, but I don’t doubt it’s true. Lines have already blurred.

  Blue dumps the fresh popcorn in a huge bowl and hands it to Birdie before going back to the kitchen for something. She returns with a mug of weak but much appreciated coffee, sweetened with sugar and goat’s milk to the color of caramel, a confection I would kill someone for right now. I read the lapis-blue words embroidered on the front of Blue’s black T-shirt right above her heart. All Of This Is Temporary.

  Truer words have never been stitched.

  “I like your shirt, Blue.” I grin at her, and she squeezes her way between us, being extra careful not to bump my arm.

  “I stitched it last night while Birdie was crying over Daniel Dobbs.”

  “You’d cry, too.”

  “He’ll be back in a few days. He’s a pro at this stuff,” I say. “It’s … temporary.”

  “Yeah,” Birdie says, then, “yeah,” again. A tentative word st
eeped in so much uncertainly she had to say it twice.

  I know why. It’s the word Mother uses whenever we move someplace new. Don’t settle in too much. This job, house, town might be temporary. She didn’t say that when we came to The Nest, and so far it doesn’t seem like we’ll be leaving any time soon.

  SNAFU

  SITUATION NORMAL ALL FUCKED UP

  THE MYSTERIOUS, ABANDONED treehouse sits at the farthest edge of the compound property on The Nest side. A fixer-upper that members of the coalition have restored little by little over time, long before we ever got here. Its existence is an unspoken thing. The adults don’t know about it. We don’t think. But the rest of us know it’s there if we need a place to go that’s even more understated than our houses or barns. What anyone uses it for is their prerogative, but it’s first come, first serve. I think most people use it to drink or make out. That’s my guess based on the bottle caps and, well, let’s just say we’ve seen the occasional condom wrapper. I suspect some people use the trailer-style homes on Overcast Road for the same purpose.

  Blue and Birdie don’t know I’m on my way to meet Ansel, but I taped a note written in cipher to the window in case one of them wakes up.

  Went to get Birdie’s bag. Be back soon.

  It takes roughly thirty minutes to get there in the dark, and I’m two-thirds of the way. ETA: late. I was hesitant to leave before Mother got home. Fearful of being caught either halfway down the trellis or jogging across the property to get to the trees. But time was running out. I promised Ansel I’d be there at midnight and it’s 12:07 now.

  The moon is full, high above the trees, softly illuminating the muted blue-green forest. I’m dressed the same way I scolded Rémy for earlier, all dark colors. Purposely, though, to blend into the darkness and avoid being seen. Only I’m wearing a headlamp, which I use to search the perimeter for glowing eyes. Predatory animals live in these woods. Mountain lions and black bears—oh my—but attacks are rare and usually springtime seasonal. Regardless, I packed my EDC as it should be, plus the addition of a russet potato, a small jar of dried arnica flowers, and a personal screech alarm because the night is full of potential pitfalls. Like the tree root I just came close to tripping over.

  The air around me smells dank and earthy and peppered with the occasional hoot of an owl. I read a book of African myths once that said if you hear an owl hoot at night it means someone is going to die. Let’s hope it’s not me. I touch the rough, crackled bark of trees as I pass by, thinking about Rémy’s reference to the color of my eyes. Two seconds later, a pine cone clonks me on the head. I pick it up and tuck it inside my pocket to remind myself that Mother Nature tried to knock some sense into me. My sisters saw me with Rémy, but what did they see? Just a girl talking to a boy in the woods. Birdie likes to think she knows everything about having a boyfriend because she was the first. That’s the problem with having siblings that are only a year apart.

  A branch snaps in the dead of night and I freeze, reining in my wandering thoughts to focus on the present.

  “Ansel?”

  No answer.

  I keep walking, looking and listening more closely. I’m almost there. Maybe the crack was him climbing up the ladder, a rung come loose. I weave through the last dozen pine trees and see the beam from Ansel’s flashlight waving across the forest floor, searching for my arrival.

  I slink around four more ancient trunks and look up. Ansel is standing on the small deck, leaning on the one-by-four safety railing, twenty feet in the air.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “I thought you might be when I saw my dad leaving with your mother. I was worried they were going to your place.”

  “They didn’t. I don’t think.”

  I spot Ansel’s mountain bike before I climb the ladder rungs nailed to the tree’s trunk. Smart thinking for getting here faster. Dirt bikes or ATVs would have been quicker but much louder. We’re trying to avoid detection. Ansel extends a hand to me. I have to stretch my left hand awkwardly across my body to take it because my right deltoid is injured. Thanks to you-know-who.

  “I thought you might get stuck bugging out and not make it.”

  “We built a shelter and I told them I’d be right back. They didn’t question me.”

  Right. Because even if Ansel is on the verge of a demotion like Annalise said, he’s still Dieter’s son. There’s been a general understanding that if anything were to happen to Dieter when the SHTF, Ansel would take his place as The Burrow’s leader.

  He hoists me into the one-room treehouse. One wall has a retrofitted circular window that makes the treehouse look like a birdhouse, which my sisters love. Over the years, random cushions and nonperishable food have been added and left behind. Tonight, someone left a quarter bottle of whiskey. I wouldn’t mind taking a shot before I ask Ansel the heavy question weighing on me. The one based on his behavior around mother during his supply pickups.

  “Do you think it’s true about my mother and Dieter … are they?”

  “That’s what people are saying.” He runs a hand through the front of his hair and pats the top twice.

  “Mother says it’s a lie.”

  “Then maybe it’s a lie. I’m starting to learn other people’s love lives aren’t my business.” He shrugs and steps away in a long stretching motion to grab Birdie’s EDC. “Your sister’s bag,” he says. “As promised.”

  “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

  He tugs his earlobe and his mouth twitches uncomfortably. “Not exactly.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Ansel. You have no idea how much trouble we’d get in if we didn’t get our phone back.”

  “It’s not that,” he says. “I couldn’t keep her bag at The Burrow, anyway. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of going through it for anything that might get us in trouble.”

  “Like flash-bang grenades. Why was Birdie even with you guys? I tried to stop you in the air shaft. I swear you looked right at me. You were holding bolt cutters. What were you guys getting for Dieter anyway?”

  Ansel pulls his chin back. “I don’t know why Birdie was with Daniel. She shouldn’t have been. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember seeing you. Everything happened way too fast. Just do me a favor and don’t tell me anything else about where you were or what you saw. The less I know about your involvement the better.”

  “I have no involvement other than following protocol. But Birdie is claiming she doesn’t remember everything, so if this was some secret squirrel operation for your father nobody can tell me about, just say that.”

  “We were there to get sodium,” he says quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Our normal distributor got busted, and we knew the school had a bunch locked up in the chem labs. That’s why I needed bolt cutters. It was supposed to be easy. Create a distraction that forces everyone outside, get what we need, get out. But when Annalise saw your sister there, whether Birdie was officially invited or not, she egged her into throwing the first flash-bang grenade before we were ready, and everything went sideways from there.”

  “You thought stealing from the school would be easy? During the day? I may not have been invited either, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that might cause a SNAFU.”

  “Okay. You run the next civilian interaction training mission.”

  “Sorry. I was too busy keeping Birdie from doing anything stupid that day. But with Situation Normal All Fucked Up, why didn’t you just tell your father Annalise was the one that went off command and save Daniel from being sent out solo? He wouldn’t send her out alone, would he?”

  “The way she’s been acting lately, he might. The truth is if we blamed Annalise, we would have had to say Birdie was there, too.”

  Ansel touches the skin beneath his black eye like he’s wiping away a loose eyelash. It’s a reflex, but it speaks volumes.

  “So you and Daniel lied to keep Birdie out of it.”

  He nods once with a slight tip of his head. “That’s the deal I made with Ann
alise.”

  “Thank you. I know your sister can be abrasive. I just didn’t know she could be so vindictive until I had my own run-in with her today.”

  “Listen, Annalise isn’t happy about a lot of stuff, and she’s looking for weak links. She’s on a mission to convince our father to let her join The Burrow. Insisting on her rights for equality, saying she doesn’t see a reason to stay in The Nest. She took charge of the mission without his consent. And when it failed, she acted like she came in at the last minute to fix everything. She’s trying to prove I don’t have the stomach for leadership.”

  “Because you’d be a different kind of leader or because he made our mother leader of The Nest?”

  “Both.”

  “You guys are twins. Technically she wouldn’t actually be taking any rights away from you as the oldest. I’m not saying what she did is right, but the whole women over here, men over there setup does set everyone in The Nest back decades.”

  Ansel sighs. “That’s not the intention. And it’s not that simple. You know separation is for safety. If we lose The Burrow, we still have The Nest and vice versa.”

  “Fine. That doesn’t matter right now. I’m just glad to have Birdie’s EDC back. I brought you something, too.”

  I take off my EDC, kneel down to unzip it, and hand him the potato.

  “A raw potato. Gee, thanks. Is this some prepper equivalent of making a guy cookies? ‘Please accept this raw food item I grew as my thanks, but you still have to cook it yourself.’” He grins and, just like with Birdie, I realize I haven’t seen it in days. Maybe weeks. “I guess I could wire it up and turn it into a battery.”

  “It’s for your eye. Raw slices will help with the bruising. And so will this.” I hand him the small mason jar full of arnica flowers. “Steep two teaspoons of dried flowers in one cup of hot water for ten minutes and let it cool. Wet a clean cloth with the solution and apply it to the area around your eye as many times a day as you can. It works best if you do it right away, but it will still help.”