In the After

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.

“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