I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to find Baby glowering at me, angry. She is so damned quiet. I didn’t hear her come down the stairs.
What are you doing? Her little fingers move furiously. Sometimes I forget how young she is.
I’m just trying to clean up, I explain.
Baby grabs the bag of drawings and cutouts. Amber and I made these. She crumples them against her chest.
I know. I thought it would be better . . . I stop signing. I’ve never seen Baby so mad. Once again I’ve made the wrong choice. I should have left Amber’s room the way it was, for Baby to sort out when she was ready.
I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I’m not perfect. I don’t have all the answers. I’m just trying to keep us safe. I start to cry softly. Please. I hold out my hand. Please don’t hate me.
Baby’s face softens. She places the bag of papers on the floor and sits next to me on the couch. I hug her close.
I don’t hate you, she tells me. I just feel . . . She searches for the right word. I feel empty.
I rest my head on top of hers. I am so sorry.
Baby nods and scoots onto the floor. She opens the bag of papers and begins to sort them into piles. Can I put these in my room? she signs, without looking up. For when Amber comes back.
I place my hand on her shoulder. Yes. I don’t tell her that Amber is almost certainly dead.
Baby no longer sleeps in my room. She is more withdrawn. She likes to sit alone and look at her picture books. She isn’t even very excited when I bring her new, better-fitting clothes. She glances at me, shrugs, and puts them in her closet.
Don’t you want to try them on? I ask.
Maybe later.
I go to my room to read. Baby doesn’t want me around and I don’t want to force her. I wonder if my parents felt the same way; I never wanted to hang out with them either. Not once I turned ten and decided they were lame. I wish I’d done more things with them, not given them such a hard time. I try not to think about it too often because it’s too much. How was I supposed to know I’d never see them again?
I start to read my American History book from sophomore year. I always liked history; it was like ancient gossip. I sometimes go back over old homework, try to remember what I was learning. Everything except math, that is. I could never get the hang of precalculus. The only good thing about the After is that I never have to worry about math homework.
I doze off. I dream I’m at the zoo with my parents. I’m about Baby’s age, six or seven, except I’m not myself. I am Baby. I have a balloon and a little plastic cup with a lion on it. I love the zoo.
Suddenly my parents are gone. Everyone is gone. I run around looking for people, but I can’t find anyone. I begin to cry.
“Be quiet,” someone tells me, but I can’t see them so I keep on sobbing. “Shut the hell up!” comes the same voice, except this time I recognize it. It is my voice. I haven’t heard it in a very long time.
I see why I’m supposed to be quiet. The lion is no longer on my little plastic cup. It is standing in front of me. It roars, showing off its sharp teeth. I am frozen with fear. Suddenly the ground begins to shake. I try to regain my footing, but I fall to my hands and knees. The quake continues. The earth splits apart. I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out.
I open my eyes. I’m in my bed and I’m me again. Only the vibration continues.
I turn over. Baby is shaking me. I push her hands away, but then I see the look on her face. Her eyes are wide, her jaw clenched. Something has frightened her and it takes a lot to scare Baby.
I sit up. What is it? What’s happened?
I hear someone at the gate. Baby jumps on me. Maybe it’s Amber.
I push her to the side, onto the bed.
I go down the stairs and peek out the window. There is a man in army fatigues studying the gate. He picks up a stick and throws it at the fence. It sparks where it hits and then falls to the ground. He looks at the window and I duck down, hoping he hasn’t seen me. When I look again, he is gone. I have an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I run back up to my room. It’s not Amber; it’s a man, I tell her. I need you to get a bag together. You’ll need some food, a change of clothes, and your pocketknife. I know she will listen to me. Even if she’s been surly lately, she knows that this is serious.
Baby nods, still frightened. Can I bring my books? She already understands that we might have to go.
No, I tell her. She looks at the floor, frowning, but doesn’t bother to beg. The sight is enough to make me feel guilty. One book, I relent. She needs to have something familiar.
Where are we going? Are we leaving now?
No. I just want us to be ready. Just in case. I try to smile reassuringly, but Baby isn’t buying it. Go, now. Put your bag by the back door when you’re done. Baby runs off to her room.
I start to pack my backpack. Some clothes, a water bottle. I take a can opener from the kitchen too. I grab the gun and holster from my nightstand and put it on. We have to be prepared for every possibility.
We keep the bags ready, but after four days the man doesn’t return. Baby talks about it constantly and I’ve run out of ways to distract her.
Is he going to hurt us? she asks, signing one-handedly. In her other hand she clutches a fork. She’s eating peaches from a can. The juice dribbles down her chin and stains her shirt.
I won’t let that happen. I hand her a napkin. Stop making a mess. “You don’t have a maid,” is what my mom always used to tell me, even though we did have a housekeeper. When I pointed out the obvious to her, she would say, “Do you pay her wages?”
Amy, if that man comes back, are you going to hurt him? Baby asks, eyeing the gun that I have not taken off since we spotted the outsider, except to shower.
If I have to, I tell her. She stops eating, her fork paused midway between the can and her mouth. I don’t want to frighten her, but she needs to understand that we could be in danger. All of Them are monsters, but not all monsters are Them.
Maybe he was just lost, she ventures.
Maybe.
Maybe he’s nice.
I frown at her. I doubt it.
Amber was nice.
Eat your peaches. You have to get going soon.
Baby shovels the rest of the fruit in her mouth, chewing carefully. I told her that tonight she can go scavenging on her own. We need food again and one of us has to stay home, in case our visitor comes back. I debated leaving Baby with the gun, but I don’t think she can shoot someone if push comes to shove. I’m not all that confident that I can either, but I’m willing to try.