In the After

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I broke the news to Baby as soon as she woke up, after I checked to make sure the gate was locked and Amber hadn’t taken anything important. Baby is crushed. We don’t say it, but we both think Amber is dead. She couldn’t make it a block on her own, much less live out in the city with no comfy, secure house. With no one to feed her and take care of her, she would be alien lunch in no time.

You’re glad she’s gone, Baby accuses, her face dark with anger.

I shake my head. I’m sorry I yelled at Amber, but she put us in danger. I needed her to understand. I try to put my hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away, her arms crossed. She’s never been difficult like this before and I’m worried.

Baby’s lip quivers. She turns away, not wanting me to see her cry. I reach out to hug her, but change my mind. Maybe she just needs some time alone. She doesn’t remember ever losing anyone.

I go downstairs to the basement. Amber taped up a bunch of Baby’s drawings and pictures cut out from old magazines. I start to take these down, grimacing at long-dead models and TV heartthrobs.

I fold up the blankets and place them to the side. The papers I gather and put in a plastic bag. I’ll throw them away on our next outing. Baby doesn’t need to be reminded of Amber every time she comes downstairs.

I sit on the couch and put my head in my hands. I’m not that horrible. It was all just a coincidence. I should have exercised more caution, but I can’t blame myself, even if Baby resents me. Whether or not I meant for all this to happen, I still have to make it up to Baby somehow. There are other survivors. I can watch a few, see who is trustworthy. I can invite people to live here. We don’t have to be alone.

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.