A woman steps through the door. She is tall with long, brown hair, and I instantly picture her with bright purple flowers in her hair. The kind you wear in Hawaii when you are on your honeymoon. I lower the gun and freeze.
Then, for the first time in three years, I find my real voice.
“Mom?”
PART TWO
NEW HOPE
FOUR MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Are you feeling better?” A woman’s voice wakes me and I sit upright in bed. She is standing by the door, a meal tray in hand. I don’t recognize her, but she looks commanding, her gray-blond hair tied back into a tight bun.
“Who are you?” I ask groggily. “What day is it?”
“I’m Dr. Thorpe. Do you know where you are, Amy?” She sets the food down, retrieving a small paper cup from the tray.
“I’m . . . I’m in the Ward, aren’t I?” I ask tentatively, my brain in a fog.
“Yes, very good. You were brought here after your breakdown. Do you remember?”
I shake my head no. I know who I am. I can recall blurred faces, me being taken from someone. Who are they all? While I struggle to think, Dr. Thorpe hands me the cup, which contains three pills. “What are these?” I ask.
“They’ll help you.” She takes a larger plastic cup from the tray, walks to the sink, and fills it with water. She sits next to me on the bed and offers me the cup of water. I hesitate, then take it.
“I’m not sure I should take anything without talking to my mother first,” I tell her, uncertain.
“Your mother is well aware of your course of treatment.”
“Where is she? When can I see her?” I ask, unsettled. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
“I will have to consult with Dr. Reynolds.” She sounds kind, but something in her voice just isn’t right.
“Is he the one who prescribed me these?” I shake the cup of pills. She nods, smiling reassuringly. “What are they?” I ask again, confusion clouding my head.
“Medication to help you get better.”
Get better? What exactly is wrong with me? “And if I refuse?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s not an option, Amy. I’d prefer you take the pills now. Otherwise I’ll have to call an orderly in here. I know you don’t want that.” The doctor’s kind manner has turned cool.
I hold the cup to my mouth and shake the pills in, trying to conceal them under my tongue as I swallow all the water. I give the empty cup back to the doctor, but she just walks to the sink and refills it.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” she asks, handing the cup back to me. I frown, considering an alternative. There is none. Eventually I give in and swallow the pills. After the doctor checks my mouth to be certain I’m not hiding them, she brings me the tray of food.
“Now, you must eat all of this,” she tells me firmly. “And if you refuse, you’ll be force-fed, and I know you don’t want that either.” She gives me a pointed look before she leaves, the door clicking shut loudly behind her.
I pause for a moment, looking around. My room is sterile—white walls, a small sink and toilet in the corner, and the bed I’m sitting on. I’m still trying to figure out what is going on—to remember what brought me here. I look down at my food and, unwillingly, I make myself eat it, my stomach already queasy. Either the drugs aren’t settling well or it’s the stress. After I finish, I push the tray onto the floor and lie in bed, clutching my stomach. Despite the pain, I fall into an uneasy, pill-induced sleep.
When I wake, I don’t know if it’s been hours or days. I can’t help but wonder: Where did it all go wrong? I struggle to think back to when I saw my mother for the first time in years.
• • •
“Amy?” My mother looked at me, unbelieving, her hand covering her mouth. She walked forward slowly. “Is that you?”
I nodded. I’d already begun to cry. Not the silent tears that I’d developed in the After, but loud, blubbering sobs. Baby held tightly on to my waist. I could tell she was agitated.
My mother crossed the room and instantly I was in her arms. It was strange yet comforting. She smelled the same as I remembered: fresh and flowery. I bawled onto her shoulder. She rubbed my back, and I got lost in the feeling.
Eventually I could breathe again. I raised my head and wiped my nose. My mother gazed at me, beaming. Tears had stained her face.
She touched my head and studied my newly cut hair. “You always did want a Mohawk,” she said. I managed a laugh.
“Baby cut it.” It was strange to finally talk, to say Baby’s name out loud. I’d only ever signed it. As soon as I said it, though, I noticed she was no longer clutching my waist. I turned to find her crouching on the floor against the wall, her hands covering her ears. I went to her quickly, bent down, and touched her arm.
“Are you okay?” I asked. Then I realized she wouldn’t understand what I was saying and signed it instead.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Yes. You talked loud, she accused.
I did Before. You know that.
It just scared me.
I’m sorry. I smoothed down her hair. We’re safe here. I promise. I was sure.
Did the princess tell you that?
Princess? I turned and looked at my mother with a smile. She’s not exactly a princess. She’s my mom.
Baby stared at me, astounded. She was as amazed as I was to see my mother in front of us, alive. I took Baby’s hand and helped her stand up.
My mother placed her arm around my shoulder. “I have so much to tell you. Let’s go, you and . . .”
“Baby,” I offered.
“You and Baby can come with me. I’ll show you where you’re going to live.”
“Mom, where are we?” I felt like at any moment I would wake up and discover it had all been a dream.
“You’re in New Hope, the largest postapocalyptic community of survivors in the Northern Hemisphere.”
I smiled at the words: hope, survivors, community. Baby and I followed my mother back down the corridor and into the light of day. We were home.
We saw very little of New Hope that day. We were poked and prodded by doctors, since my mother insisted on a complete medical evaluation. She stayed by my side the entire time, fawning over me. It felt so good, almost unreal, having my mother back. I’d always hoped she was alive, but after so many years, the hope had seemed more like fantasy. My mother rubbed my back and played with my hair. She whispered how much she’d missed me as tears welled up in her eyes.
I was in a hospital room for several hours while they took my blood and conducted a full physical. My shoulder turned out to be sprained, and I was warned to be careful with it for a while. Then came all the medicine. I explained shots to Baby and how they were a good thing, despite the pain.
“Richard,” my mother told the boy from earlier. “Do a complete workup on the child.”
“Yes, of course.” He took Baby’s hand to lead her to another room.
“Wait,” I said tentatively, the word not as forceful as I had hoped with my newly found voice. “I want to stay with her,” I insisted.
The boy smiled. “Sure. I can examine her in here, if it makes you more comfortable,” he offered. Grateful, I gave him a faint smile back. Baby looked around uncertainly.
“It’s okay,” he told her kindly.
“She doesn’t understand you. We never spoke out loud at home. She’ll have to learn. . . .” I paused, thinking of Amber whispering to Baby secretly. “I’m not sure if she remembers any English. . . . It’s been a long time and she was only a toddler when I found her.”
My mother took charge of Baby and helped her onto a hospital bed. “A lot of the children we find don’t talk at first,” my mother told me. “They’ve learned to be quiet to survive and have a hard time adjusting. We’ll put Baby in a language class and I’m sure she’ll regain her ability. You’d be surprised at how strong the language instinct is in children.” She returned to my side and hugged me close. I nodded but still wondered. Baby had never even attempted to speak.
The boy examined every inch of Baby, pausing only for a moment at the nape of her neck, peering closely at her scar. He glanced around quickly, placing her long hair back over the mark. He caught my eye and for a moment I saw he was afraid, but the look passed quickly and I wondered if it was really there at all.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Of course,” he smiled, adjusting his glasses. “Do you know how she got this wound?” He motioned to her leg.
“No. She had it when I found her.” I licked my lips. I was sweating, although the room was chilly.
“Probably a dog bite,” the boy told my mother, but he called several other people over to Baby’s bed, where they all made a commotion over the scar on her leg. My mother examined it herself, taking photographs and measurements. I held Baby’s hand and signed to her that everything was going to be okay, although the attention being paid to her was making me nervous.
After they took her blood and gave her a few more shots, my mother informed us that we were in good health, if a little malnourished. “Time to go home,” she said, stroking my hair.
“Excuse me,” the boy addressed my mother, his tone surprisingly authoritative, “but I believe Dr. Reynolds wanted to complete a psyche-eval.”
“It can wait,” my mother said firmly. “I’ll speak with Dr. Reynolds tomorrow about rescheduling. Right now I am taking my daughter home.”
My mother took my hand and I took Baby’s. As we walked out of the room, I glanced back. The boy was staring at me. He smiled, but he had a worried look in his eyes. He raised his hand to wave. I nodded and smiled back, then turned as my mother led us down a corridor and outside, into the sunlight. I shrank back, but she put her arms around my shoulders and whispered, “Be strong, Amy. I’m here.”
I mostly stared at my mother’s face as we traveled in a golf cart on a short ride to her apartment. Her building was large and white and looked like every other structure in the town, which seemed more like a college campus with bland buildings and shabby, weed-infested lawns.