We set her up in the basement with the couch as her bed. I let her wear my clothes at first, but I eventually allow her to raid my mother’s closet. Amber is beside herself. My mom had good taste and bought expensive things, but I’d always thought of it as “middle-aged fashion.” Amber loves it all, especially the Dolce & Gabbana skirts and the DKNY jeans. That is another thing that shows we would not have been friends Before. I would not have been caught dead wearing designer anything. My dad always assumed it was because I shared his eco-sensibilities, that I would rather spend the money to plant a tree or save a whale. Truthfully not all my friends were as wealthy as we were and I didn’t want them to know how much money we had. I didn’t want them to think I was a snob, especially Sabrina.
It’s weird to see Amber wear my mother’s shirts or scarves, but I find it strangely comforting too. I’ve avoided going through my parents’ closet for years; mostly I stay away from their room altogether. It’s all too painful, but giving Amber free range of my mother’s things breaks that spell.
After Amber picks out her new wardrobe, I show her the rooftop garden and she gets to work at once, which I am grateful for. The garden is a chore I never enjoyed, even though I recognize the need for fresh vegetables. Amber seems to know what she is doing and I leave her to it. She likes to be up on the roof, especially during the day. She comes downstairs, sunburned and glowing. Three years without any sunlight is a long time.
At first, I am afraid to leave her alone with Baby. I imagine every horrible thing that can happen. Amber accidentally letting Them inside. Amber convincing Baby to eat some questionable canned food. Amber letting it all get to her and going crazy, maybe trying to end her own life and not caring who she hurts in the process.
All these thoughts rumble around in my head while I watch Amber playing with Baby, eating our food, doing her chores. I pay close attention to how she interacts with Baby and even check on her when she’s sleeping. She curls on the basement couch, mouth open, breathing loudly. I’m glad we set her up downstairs because if she were in one of the upstairs bedrooms, her snores would bring Them.
After about a week, I start to relax. Amber doesn’t seem like she is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, in fact she is making an incredible effort, especially with Baby. Sometimes she looks out the window, staring at nothing. She was abandoned by her brother. I’d be a little depressed too.
I don’t know when it is exactly that I start to like Amber, but one day, I just do. It’s nice to have someone around who is about my age. She takes such pleasure in our life, in our home. She sits and watches the dishwasher run. She helps Baby make a pillow fort. She plucks a pigeon without complaint. I am especially glad that she gets the hint after that first night and stops talking. Well, mostly stops talking. We speak to her in a broken language: Amber sleep now, or Amber go up, eat now.
She understands more each day. Baby and I sign in front of her, trying to let her see as much as she can so she can learn to communicate with us. I show her which appliances are “safe” and which can only be used if all the doors and windows are shut, to lessen the noise. She falls in love with the shower and I have to limit her to only ten minutes a day, unless it is raining. Otherwise our water supply will run out and we’ll have to trek to the lake for drinking water.
It doesn’t take very long for Amber’s presence to feel normal. Baby loves her at once. She wants to be near Amber all the time. I am a little jealous at first, but I get over it. Baby is Amber’s shadow and signs to her constantly; explaining this or that, or sometimes just telling her stories she’s made up. Amber likes to watch Baby sign, though sometimes I notice she zones out. Baby doesn’t seem to mind, though, and continues signing, glancing at me every once in a while with a smile.
What this? she asks one day of the mark on Baby’s neck. Amber enjoys brushing out Baby’s hair, styling it into different looks. She studies the strange, barely perceivable diamond, traces it with her finger.
I shrug. Baby, show her your scar.
Baby grins and hikes up her skirt to show Amber the scar on the fleshy part of her thigh. Amber lifts up her face and shows us a fine white scar under her chin.
Was fallen . . . She struggles and goes to grab a pen and paper. Amber often writes me notes when she doesn’t have the vocabulary to sign what she wants to say, or when Baby’s hands are going a mile a minute and Amber is lost.
Cheerleading, she scrawls. I was dropped and needed five stitches, she adds proudly.
I try to explain to Baby, but give up when I realize I’d have to describe sports and crowds and girls in short skirts screaming at the top of their lungs to lead other people in screaming at the top of their lungs too. She wouldn’t understand . . . to be honest, I never really understood. I turn to walk away, but Amber stops me.
What’s that thing she just called me? Amber writes, showing me the motion.
I take the pen and paper from her and write what Baby has said. Amber glances at the paper and starts to cry.
Baby has called her sister.
I’m in my room reading when Baby appears at the door. I just heard the trap snap, Baby informs me happily.
I smile. Squirrel or pigeon?
She cocks her head to the side, hearing what is beyond my ability to sense. Can’t tell, but I hope it’s not a squirrel. So do I. Squirrels are a lot of work for very little meat.
Where’s Amber? I ask.
Baby listens intently. In the basement. I can hear her moving around.
I head downstairs and find Amber dancing around with her headphones on. I roll my eyes. When she turns to me, she yelps with a start.
She puts her hand to her chest. Amy scared Amber.
Sorry, I sign. Come.
She follows me upstairs and out into the yard. I show her the no-kill rattrap. Just another thing she has to learn.
Dinner, I tell her.
She scrunches up her nose. I show her how to open the trap, pleased that it caught a rabbit this time. They sometimes burrow under the fence without getting shocked. I reach in quickly and pull it out by its neck, while it squirms. I put one hand on its head and twist as Amber watches, horrified, and I remember the first time I had to kill an animal. I placed the trap, baited it with peanut butter, and waited. It was a pigeon that time. My hands shook when I tried to kill it; I nearly gave up. I almost let it go. I cried afterward and didn’t set another trap for a week. All I could think about was bird-watching with my father and his constant concern with preserving nature and the environment. Now all I am concerned with is self-preservation.
Amber looks like she is about to be sick. It has to be done, I tell her. The little meat we get, no matter how scarce, is welcome. I show her how to skin and clean the rabbit, but I let her go after that. She is a bit pale and looks like she can use the break. I salt the rabbit and place it in the oven to cook.
When I go to the basement, I find Amber and Baby deep in conversation, as deep as two people who don’t understand each other very well can be.