In the After

I focus on Baby and sign, What about you? Are you happy?

She looks at me. Things are fan. I go to school and Rice comes to visit me all the time. We talk about you.

Rice? I suddenly get a flash of a boy’s face—cute, blue eyes, shaggy hair, glasses. He’d made me a promise to help me. You talk about me? About helping me? I sign, puzzled.

Baby shakes her head, then looks to Dr. Reynolds. “But he said he would help me,” I say, confused.

“Who said they would help you?” Dr. Reynolds asks sharply.

“I . . .” I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t even know if my memories are real. If only I weren’t so dull. I do know that Dr. Reynolds scares me. Real or imagined, I know I can’t tell him what Rice said. I look at him and mumble, “I think it’s my father. He sometimes talks to me in my dreams.”

“Your father is dead,” Dr. Reynolds tells me matter-of-factly. His tone cuts through me and I begin to cry again.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” I sob.

Dr. Reynolds looks at me with disdain as he turns to Baby.

“Perhaps we should leave Amy to recuperate.” He stands and approaches us.

“No!” I shout, taking rough hold of her arm. Dr. Reynolds glowers at me. “Can she just stay a little longer?” I beg.

“I think it’s best that we leave now,” Dr. Reynolds tells me calmly. “Let go of her.”

I look at Baby. She is frightened and I regret grabbing her like that. Reluctantly I release her arm.

Sorry, Baby. I love you. I start to sob again and can barely see her through my tears. Before she leaves, I swear I hear a child’s voice this time saying, “I love you too.” But I know it’s just my imagination.

* * *

In that first week we were in New Hope, I barely left the apartment. I’d put off going to school for as long as I could but my mother decided we had to start. I thought we would have longer to adjust. I didn’t know if Baby was ready.

“All children in Class Two through Five attend school. It’s important that you follow procedure,” my mother told me. There was no arguing.

After she left for work, I stood in front of the mirror, noticing again how unflattering my jumpsuit was. I touched my hair, fiddling with the short Mohawk for a few minutes before giving up. Resigned, I made sure Baby was dressed and combed her hair. I made her put her shoes on, even though she’d rather just lug them around all day.

Rice had let himself in and was sitting patiently on the couch, waiting for us to emerge so he could walk us to school. “We’re ready,” I proclaimed, stepping into the room.

I must have looked uneasy because Rice walked over to me and gave me a half hug. “You’ll do fine.”

I took a deep breath and nodded as we headed out the door and down the stairs. I was still worried, but I appreciated his effort to comfort us. Soon we were outside the school building.

Rice smiled reassuringly. “Go find an adult; they’ll know where you both should be. I’ll meet you right back here after school at four. Your mother wanted you both to go to the normal orientation that most post-aps attend. . . . She thought it would help you get a handle on New Hope and she wants to see what you think about the material.”

I beamed. My mother valued my opinion. It gave me the boost of confidence I needed. “Okay. See you later, Rice.” I grabbed Baby’s hand and led her through the door.

There weren’t other children in the hall and I hoped we weren’t late. I found a yellow door and knocked. A woman greeted us, smiling brightly.

“Hi. I’m Amy Harris and this is Baby.”

“Yes, we’re expecting her.” She opened the door wide. I gave Baby a gentle push into the classroom.

There was no artwork on the walls, no toys on the floor. It seemed more like an office than a classroom. Students were reading quietly. A few looked up at our arrival, but most continued to concentrate on their books.

“Baby can’t read,” I told the woman. “And she doesn’t talk. But she’s a quick learner. If you take the time to explain something, she’ll get it. She’s already starting to understand spoken words. She knows my name and her name and as of this morning she knows the word breakfast.” I was rambling, desperate for her to understand Baby was special, even if she didn’t speak.

“We have plenty of children who come to us unable to read and with limited vocal skills,” the teacher assured me. She was older, her white hair cut in a bob. “We have tests to measure a child’s potential, nonverbal tests.” She held out her hand to Baby, who looked at me for reassurance.

I didn’t want to let Baby go, but I knew I had to. This nice lady is going to take you now. I’ll be right upstairs if you need me.

What if she mouth talks and I don’t understand? What if I have to go to the bathroom but they don’t let me?

I turned to the woman. “Baby is concerned that you won’t understand what she’s saying.”

“The director asked us to prepare for her,” she told me, making the sign for Baby, followed by the “okay” sign. “I know she uses a modified version, but I think we can make do.”

“That’s . . . wonderful.” I felt a warm wave of reassurance.

Baby, this lady knows how to sign. Not like us, but you should be able to understand her.

Is it safe?

Yes, but you have to do as you’re told. I knelt down next to her. Will you be okay?

Baby put on a brave face, determined. Yes.

“And Amy, you’re supposed to wait upstairs.” The woman told me. “First door next to the stairs, on the left side. Someone will be with you shortly.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I hugged Baby before heading upstairs. The red doors were more intimidating than the yellow and orange ones on the first floor.

I walked to the nearest red door and pushed it. It opened into a small room with a couple of metal desks and a wooden table. I sat at a desk and waited, eyeing a bookshelf filled with classic literature. Eventually an older man entered carrying a stack of papers.

“Hello, Amy. I’m Dr. Samuels.” He placed the papers before me, adjusting his bowtie and eyeing me. “Ever take the SATs?” he asked, all business.

“I took an SAT pretest.”

“Excellent.” He sat across from me. “This is the same idea. We’ll just test your basic abilities. Verbal, written, math and science, and potentiality.”

“Potentiality?” I asked.

“We used to call it an IQ test. This version is tailored to our current environment. First up is the written portion,” Dr. Samuels informed me. He punched a button on a stopwatch. “You may begin.”

It was oddly comforting, taking a test. For a moment I felt like I was back Before, sitting in class with Sabrina and Tim.

When I finished all my tests, Dr. Samuels collected my papers. “I’ll just grade these and then we’ll place you.”

“What happens if a post-ap can’t read?” I asked, curious. “What if they can’t complete the tests?”

Dr. Samuels considered for a second. “It really hasn’t come up yet. . . . This is a Class Five test. . . . I guess in the future . . . maybe in five or ten years it will be a problem.”