“You would like my brother,” Amber whispers. “He’s real good with little kids.” She signs what words she knows, which are only real, good, and like.
Baby thinks she is talking about her and grins. I really like you too, Amber.
I wonder how often Amber whispers to Baby. If she keeps it up, Baby will begin to understand English. I wonder if she’ll start to talk then, or if the silence has become a part of her.
I step to back away, but Baby hears me and looks up. She narrows her eyes at me, and I’m shocked to realize that she’s unhappy that I’m there. She wants to be alone with Amber. I feel as if I’ve been spying.
It was a rabbit, I sign.
I know, Amber told me. Her guarded look fades, but I’m still left with an uneasy feeling.
No whispering, I sign to them both. Baby nods quickly, ashamed, while Amber just shrugs.
Not bad now. She means there is no harm in whispering in the basement.
Whispering is always bad. Always bad. I repeat it so she gets the picture. I go upstairs and sit at the kitchen table. For the first time ever with Baby, I am the outsider.
It is a couple of weeks after Amber’s arrival before we need more supplies; I’ve put it off for as long as I can. I wanted Amber to settle in before we left her alone, but we need more food. Amber has used most of the shampoo and soap, and Baby is starting to complain that her clothes don’t fit. She grew like crazy as soon as the weather warmed up, getting taller and thinner. Also, we have to start collecting and hoarding supplies for the winter, although it is months away. Once it snows, it’s impossible to walk outside without making noise.
I write Amber a note, explaining that Baby and I need to get supplies. I watch her read it, her smile disappearing as her face changes from excited to disappointed.
You leave Amber? she asks unhappily.
Yes, we have to. We need food. I point back at the note. I’ve explained it all.
Amber come. She starts to walk toward the door where Baby stands, ready to go.
I put my hand on Amber’s shoulder. No.
Why?
I look at her. She’s learned a lot about how we live day to day, but she is still clueless about the world outside our house. Our home is paradise compared to the real After. Amber is like a child, and even Baby has better survival skills.
It’s dangerous. Dangerous is a word she knows. I’ve used it often.
Please, she signs. “I can’t stay here alone,” she whispers desperately. Her forehead wrinkles with concern, and her eyes are already welling up.
My jaw tightens. This behavior just proves that she isn’t ready to face the outside again.
Amber’s nose scrunches and her lip trembles. I look away from her, ashamed of myself. It’s not fair to leave her on her own when she is just getting used to being part of our family.
Okay, fine, I sign and she immediately brightens. I take the note from her and find a pen. But you have to watch us and do exactly as I tell you, I scrawl across the back.
Yes, she quickly agrees, relieved.
I hand her a backpack and give her some socks. She walks around the house barefoot, but she isn’t used to walking on pavement scattered with twigs and stones that could damage her feet. The socks will offer a little cushion without added noise.
Is it safe? Baby asks as we open the door and head toward the gate.
We’ll take a short trip, something easy for Amber.
We only go a block. There is a big house on the corner that I’ve avoided exploring, since I knew the people who lived there. They had children, a little boy and a girl about Baby’s age. I hope their daughter’s clothes will fit Baby, otherwise we’ll have to take a much longer walk to the stores downtown. We have to plan ahead for that one, and Amber definitely can’t come. She isn’t ready for a silent, eight-mile hike.
The door to the house is locked, so we walk around to the side yard. Their back door, sliding glass, is smashed to pieces. A shredded blue curtain moves with the breeze. I turn to Amber and Baby and point out the glass shards. Baby follows with Amber close behind.
The living room smells of mildew. The open doorway has allowed the rain to damage the walls and floor, leaving black mold on the carpet that has crept halfway up the nearest wall. The paint has peeled in long strips. Even so, you can still tell that the former occupants were well-off. The living room is furnished nicely, intricate wood chairs and a plush cream couch, now on its side and spotted with dirt.
Baby, you check the kitchen, I tell her. I’ll take Amber with me to look upstairs.
Baby nods once, all business. I smile sadly. At that age I complained about cleaning my room and thought my parents were mean when they made me clear the table after dinner. I sometimes wonder what kind of child Baby would be if none of this had happened. Would she be that weird kid in the corner of the playground who never spoke to anyone, or would she be the daredevil on the jungle gym?
Where Amber go? Amber asks. She is looking around uncertainly. Her eyes rest on a dark spot on the carpet. Even though the blotch is several years old, there is no mistaking the black-red stain. Someone has died there. Amber stares at the unpleasant splotch, her forehead wrinkled. I realize I should have warned her about what to expect.
I wave my hand to get Amber’s attention. Her gaze lingers on the spot of blood for another moment, then she focuses on me, eyes glassy.
It’s okay, I tell her. I grab her hand and lead her across the living room. We need to find the daughter’s room and grab some clothes for Baby while she searches for canned food. I don’t want to take longer than necessary.
We find the staircase past the dining room. I test the stairs first, making sure the water damage doesn’t extend to the wood. I don’t want to fall through and hurt myself since there isn’t anything I can do if I break a bone.
The stairs are solid, though a couple sag. Two squeak loudly. I make a mental note of which ones, so I can avoid them on the way back down. I motion for Amber to follow. Her face is pale, her lips pressed firmly together. She’s still shaken from the gore on the carpet and imagining what took place there.
I take her hand again and lead her slowly up the staircase. The wall is lined with family photos. One is pushed sideways, a picture of the little girl taken at the lake. She wears a bright pink bathing suit, grins at the camera. I had a blue-and-white-striped suit when I was her age. “Cheese-it,” my dad used to tell me before he snapped a photo.
I reach out to straighten the picture but suddenly change my mind. At the corner of the glass is a smudged red fingerprint. After being attacked downstairs, someone tried to escape up here, to hide. I try not to think about it. I’ve had to survive my own horrors; I don’t need to live the terrors of others. I squeeze Amber’s hand. There will be more bloodstains upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, I scan the hall for signs of what happened there, but there is no broken furniture, no gory scene. I know better than to feel relieved. The hallway is full of doors, any of which could lead to the room in which They caught their prey.
The door closest to the stairs is the only one open. The wood is littered with deep scratches and the door handle is missing. I glance through the doorway but can’t make out anything in the dark.