Rebirth

for a substitute for her real father who’d left them to seek his fortunes as a guitarist in a band up and down the California coast. She’d gone looking hungrily. She’d worked her way through all the boys and then moved on to men-five years, ten years, twenty years older than her, in so many bars and parking lots and cheap apartments as she taught herself a few more tricks for forgetting.

Dor didn’t know that. Even Smoke didn’t know all of it, though she’d told him plenty-another mistake, another thing she’d given away. No more giving away. Anger colored Cass’s thoughts, clouding her remorse, giving her a strained and bitter kind of strength. She forced herself to relax her grip, to stop hurting herself; she slowly sat up, breathing deep and ragged breaths.

Okay. All right. She had lost control last night, but at least she hadn’t given anything away. She hadn’t given any more pieces of herself away. She had been the strong one. She’d made Dor do what she wanted him to do, and so she’d won. She had to win, every time, because now it was just her and Ruthie again. Smoke was gone, and that was that, and it was up to her to make sure no one took anything from them. She would be smart, and she would be careful. And as long as she stayed strong, it would be all right. This world demanded strength.

By the time Cass went outside with Ruthie in her arms, Dor had built a fire in the back patio barbecue pit. There was split wood stacked against the shed in the backyard, and he’d laid it out neatly, a tidy flame flickering from an economical arrangement of tinder and wood. A kitchen pot simmered on top of the grate. He didn’t hear her coming, and for a moment she and Ruthie watched him warm his hands high above the orange flames, turning them one way and then the other. He was wearing a shirt she didn’t recognize-a plaid overshirt lined with fleece, black and gray with bits of blue-and she wondered if he’d found it in the house somewhere. If so, it had come from the blocked-off room, the room of unknown horrors that he had taken pains to shield her from.

Cass thought about that, watching Dor. He was turned away from her, his gaze fixed at some distant point down valley-the direction of the Rebuilder headquarters, maybe. He had shaved; the rough shadow of a beard that had abraded her skin last night was gone. His hair was damp, the ends curving against his collar. His expression was hard to read, but he wasn’t happy.

Cass kicked a stone, and as it skittered across the brick patio and disappeared into a flower bed choked with dead kaysev, Dor turned toward her. She saw him take in her own shirt-something she’d found in the closet of the room where she and Ruthie slept, an older woman’s shirt, cotton broadcloth in begonia pink with embroidery on the yoke-and knew that he too was remembering the night before, the ripping of her buttons.

And everything else. Everything.

She shifted Ruthie in her arms and stared at the ground. Kaysev had rooted in the cracks between the brick pavers. Even a month ago the plant would have been lush and green. Cass had the stray thought that now, while it was dormant, would be the time to weed it from between the pavers so that the roots wouldn’t work their way underneath and unseat them. It had been a nice patio, with outdoor furniture still covered in plastic except for a couple chairs whose covers had blown off in some storm. It could be a nice space again, especially in the spring when the kaysev came back, and the fields would be a deep emerald-green as far as the eye could see.

When the kaysev leaves had started to brown a few weeks ago, when they withered and shrank at the ends of the stems, when the stalks themselves turned brown and woody, some people panicked. They thought it had died. Some thought it an act of God, or a second apocalypse caused by some unknowable malevolent force. Cass reassured anyone who would listen that the plant was merely dormant. She snapped off roots to show that beneath their tough brown exterior they were still creamy yellow, dense with retained moisture, even fatter than usual. She explained that they could take ninety percent of the root for food and still leave a viable plant. But it was only after she put a dormant plant into her makeshift greenhouse, a small tent Smoke rigged from scrap canvas and plastic and poles for that purpose, and tricked it into rebirth that people believed her.

They believed. But then quickly they all wanted to know exactly when the plants would spring back to life, something Cass couldn’t tell them. She was keeping a detailed, daily diary of the plants’ habits, and a year from now she would be able to tell them all sorts of things. Assuming she was still alive then. Assuming anyone was around to listen.

“There’s water,” Dor muttered, interrupting her thoughts. “Enough to wash. And I made coffee and oatmeal.” He pointed to the picnic table where a flowered mug was covered with a saucer, and a bowl was steaming in the cold air. Next to it was a smaller, second bowl and a plastic tumbler.

“I found some Crystal Light inside. Think she’ll drink it? I mean, if you don’t mind her having it.”

“That’s fine.”

“Then…I’ll be inside. When you’re ready.”

He walked back into the house without looking at her. Cass set Ruthie down gently in front of the oatmeal and tested it with the knuckle of her little finger. “Wait a minute. It’s still too hot.”

Ruthie picked up her teaspoon and stirred the oatmeal. Cass had traded for oatmeal for Ruthie a few times before as a treat, the individual-serving kind that was flavored with apples or cinnamon. This was the real stuff, the slow-cooked steel-cut kind, and Cass’s stomach growled in anticipation. “I wish we had some sugar.”

Ruthie put her finger to her own puckered mouth, touching her lips as though hushing herself. Then she scrambled down from the table and ran for the house. Cass started to go after her but Dor was standing at the sliding glass doors. He opened them for Ruthie and she slipped inside and he crouched down next to her, as she pointed and gestured. If Cass went now it would look as though she didn’t trust him. Not that she did. But…not that she didn’t.

Dor had been gentle with Ruthie, but he was such a tall man, several inches over six feet, and strong and solid-Cass worried he would frighten Ruthie. There were the tattoos, the earrings, the fact that he never smiled-all of that. But Ruthie followed him into the house, out of view, never looking back-and Cass sat down on the bench and tried not to look concerned. She stirred her oatmeal. She took a sip of coffee. It was instant, not very good, but not terrible.

After a while the door opened again and Ruthie came back, holding a china bowl with both hands, taking tiny steps, concentrating on not spilling. She held it up to show Cass and she saw that it was a sugar bowl, a plump white china one with a bee painted on the side and nearly full of sugar.

“Ruthie! How did you-” Cass took the bowl from her daughter and was rewarded with a smile. And not just her usual tentative, uncertain smile but something closer to a grin, her loose front tooth giving her a rakish look. “Did you see the sugar bowl inside before?”

Ruthie nodded and pulled herself back up onto the bench. Cass hadn’t noticed the bowl. She hadn’t thought that Ruthie had noticed much of anything; she’d been so sleepy. And she was surprised her daughter would even know what such a bowl was-except, of course-this bowl was similar to Mim’s, and Ruthie had been with Mim and Byrn during those terrible months when Cass was struggling her way back to sobriety. Long enough for her to see Mim put sugar in her coffee dozens of times, two carefully measured spoonfuls stirred precisely three clockwise turns. It was a habit Cass had once loved to watch when she herself was a little girl.

“Well…aren’t you clever,” Cass said. She spooned sugar into each of their bowls, swirling it in and testing the temperature of the back of the spoon before handing it back to Ruthie. “Mmm, that looks so good. Aren’t we lucky today?”

Ruthie took a bite and smiled. “Mmm.”

Cass froze. It wasn’t a word-not really. Just a sound. Ruthie hadn’t even opened her mouth to make it. But it was a sound nevertheless. Progress. Change. She wanted to throw her arms around Ruthie, pick her up and swing her in a circle. She wanted to celebrate, to kiss her and tickle her and make her laugh. But that was too much.

She had to let Ruthie come back at her own pace, and not make her self-conscious. Self-consciousness-that thing that kills the real self. At first she had clung tightly to Cass whenever she was awake, but gradually she’d become bolder. In recent weeks she’d been happy to stay with Coral Anne and occasionally played with Feo when the older boy was willing to entertain her for a few hours. Cass’s instinct was to let it lie. But as Ruthie ate her oatmeal, Cass’s spirits lifted.

When she gathered the dishes and they headed back inside, there, watching them through the kitchen window, was Dor.

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