In the After (8 page)

What this?
she asks one day of the mark on Baby’s neck. Amber enjoys brushing out Baby’s hair,
styling it into different looks. She studies the strange, barely perceivable diamond,
traces it with her finger.

I shrug.
Baby, show her your scar
.

Baby grins and hikes up her skirt to show Amber the scar on the fleshy part of her
thigh. Amber lifts up her face and shows us a fine white scar under her chin.

Was fallen
. . . She struggles and goes to grab a pen and paper. Amber often writes me notes
when she doesn’t have the vocabulary to sign what she wants to say, or when Baby’s
hands are going a mile a minute and Amber is lost.

Cheerleading
, she scrawls.
I was dropped and needed five stitches
, she adds proudly.

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 on a dark spot on the
carpet. Even though the blotch is several years old, there is no mistaking the black-red
stain. Someone has died there. Amber stares at the unpleasant splotch, her forehead
wrinkled. I realize I should have warned her about what to expect.

I wave my hand to get Amber’s attention. Her gaze lingers on the spot of blood for
another moment, then she focuses on me, eyes glassy.

It’s okay
, I tell her. I grab her hand and lead her across the living room. We need to find
the daughter’s room and grab some clothes for Baby while she searches for canned food.
I don’t want to take longer than necessary.

We find the staircase past the dining room. I test the stairs first, making sure the
water damage doesn’t extend to the wood. I don’t want to fall through and hurt myself
since there isn’t anything I can do if I break a bone.

The stairs are solid, though a couple sag. Two squeak loudly. I make a mental note
of which ones, so I can avoid them on the way back down. I motion for Amber to follow.
Her face is pale, her lips pressed firmly together. She’s still shaken from the gore
on the carpet and imagining what took place there.

I take her hand again and lead her slowly up the staircase. The wall is lined with
family photos. One is pushed sideways, a picture of the little girl taken at the lake.
She wears a bright pink bathing suit, grins at the camera. I had a blue-and-white-striped
suit when I was her age. “Cheese-it,” my dad used to tell me before he snapped a photo.

I reach out to straighten the picture but suddenly change my mind. At the corner of
the glass is a smudged red fingerprint. After being attacked downstairs, someone tried
to escape up here, to hide. I try not to think about it. I’ve had to survive my own
horrors; I don’t need to live the terrors of others. I squeeze Amber’s hand. There
will be more bloodstains upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, I scan the hall for signs of what happened there, but there
is no broken furniture, no gory scene. I know better than to feel relieved. The hallway
is full of doors, any of which could lead to the room in which They caught their prey.

The door closest to the stairs is the only one open. The wood is littered with deep
scratches and the door handle is missing. I glance through the doorway but can’t make
out anything in the dark.

Stay
, I tell Amber.

I walk the few feet, holding my breath, and step inside a large bathroom. A shower
curtain lies across the floor, ripped to shreds. I sniff the air. It leaves a metallic
taste in my mouth. The plush bathroom rug feels strange between my toes. It is too
soft and fluffy for the After.

I force myself to look into the tub to confirm what I already know. Someone tried
to hide from Them in here, but wasn’t quiet enough. The white ceramic is splattered
with blood. The spots are brown with age, and hair is sticking to the porcelain sides.
I swallow hard.

When I back out of the room, closing the door firmly behind me, Amber stares, her
eyes asking,
Well?

I shake my head no and try the next door down the hall. The room is big, with a king-sized
bed and fancy carpet—definitely not a kid’s room. I almost move on, but I notice a
bookshelf against the far wall and my curiosity takes over. Amber keeps to my side
as I browse the titles, deciding which to take. After a while, she grows bored and
wanders to the walk-in closet.