She’s out there somewhere, breathing, thirsty, eating, walking, swimming. Impossible, now, to contemplate going on with my life, impossible to imagine sleeping, and lacing up my shoes for a run, and helping Carol load the dishes, and even lying in the house with Alex, when I know that she exists: that she is out there, orbiting as far from me as a distant constellation.
Why didn’t she come for me? The thought flashes as quickly and clearly as an electrical surge, bringing the pain searing back. I squeeze my eyes shut, drop my head forward, pray for it to pass. But I don’t know who to pray to. All at once I can’t remember any words, can’t think of anything but being in church when I was little and watching the sun blaze up and then fade away beyond the stained-glass windows, watching all that light die, leaving nothing but dull panes of colored glass, tinny and insubstantial-looking.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Opening my eyes takes a tremendous effort. Alex looks hazy, even though he’s crouching no more than a foot away from me.
“You must be hungry,” he says gently. “Let’s get you home, okay? Are you okay to walk?” He shuffles back a little, giving me space to stand.
“No.” It comes out more emphatically than I’d intended, and Alex looks startled.
“You’re not okay to walk?” A little crease appears between his eyebrows.
“No.” It’s a struggle to keep my voice at a normal volume. “I mean I can’t go home. At all.”
Alex sighs and rubs his forehead. “We could go over to Brooks for a while, hang out at the house for a bit. And when you feel better—”
I cut him off. “You don’t get it.” A scream is welling inside of me, a black insect scrabbling in my throat. All I can think is: They knew. They all knew—Carol and Uncle William and maybe even Rachel—and still they let me believe all along that she was dead. They let me believe she had left me. They let me believe I wasn’t worth it. I’m filled, suddenly, with white-hot anger, a blaze: If I see them, if I go home, I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll burn the house down, or tear it apart, plank by plank. “I want to run away with you. To the Wilds. Like we talked about.”
I think Alex will be happy, but instead he just seems tired. He looks away, squinting. “Listen, Lena, it’s been a really long day. You’re exhausted. You’re hungry. You’re not thinking clearly—”
“I am thinking clearly.” I haul myself to my feet so I don’t look so helpless. I’m angry at Alex, too, even though I know this isn’t his fault. But the fury is whipping around inside of me, undirected, gaining force. “I can’t stay here, Alex. Not anymore. Not after—not after that.” My throat spasms as I swallow back the scream again. “They knew, Alex. They knew and they never told me.”
He climbs to his feet too—slowly, like it hurts him. “You don’t know that for sure,” he says.
“I do know,” I insist, and it’s true. I do know, deep down. I think of my mother bent over me, the floating pale whiteness of her face breaking through my sleep, her voice—I love you. Remember. They cannot take it.—sung quietly in my ear, the sad little smile dancing on her lips. She knew too. She must have known they were coming for her, and would take her to that terrible place. And only a week later I sat in a scratchy black dress in front of an empty coffin with a pile of orange peels to suck on, trying to keep back tears, while everyone I believed in built around me a solid, smooth surface of lies (“She was sick”; “This is what the disease does”; “Suicide”). I was the one who was really buried that day. “I can’t go home and I won’t. I’ll go with you. We can make our home in the Wilds. Other people do it, don’t they? Other people have done it. My mother—” I want to say, My mother is going to do it, but my voice breaks on the word.
Alex is watching me carefully. “Lena, if you leave—really leave—it won’t be like it is for me now. You get that, right? You won’t be able to go back and forth. You won’t be able to come back ever. Your number will be invalidated. Everyone will know you’re a resister. Everyone will be looking for you. If anyone found you—if you were ever caught . . .” Alex doesn’t finish his sentence.
“I don’t care,” I snap back. I’m no longer able to control my temper. “You were the one who suggested it, weren’t you? So what? Now that I’m ready to go, you take it back?”
“I’m just trying to—”
I cut Alex off again, rattling on, coasting on the anger, the desire to shred and hurt and tear apart. “You’re just like everybody else. You’re as bad as all the rest of them. Talk, talk, talk—it comes so easily to you. But when it’s time to do anything, when it’s time to help me—”
“I’m trying to help you,” Alex says sharply. “It’s a big deal. Do you understand that? It’s a huge choice, and you’re pissed, and you don’t know what you’re saying.” He’s getting angry too. The tone of his voice makes something painful run through me, but I can’t stop speaking. Destroy, destroy, destroy: I want to break everything—him, me, us, the whole city, the whole world.
“Don’t treat me like a child,” I say.
“Then stop acting like one,” he fires back. The second the words are out of his mouth I can tell he regrets them. He turns partially away, inhales, and then says, in a normal tone of voice, “Listen, Lena. I’m really sorry. I know you’ve had—I mean, with everything that happened today—I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
It’s too late. Tears are blurring my vision. I turn away from him and start chipping at the wall with a fingernail. A minuscule portion of brick crumbles away. Watching it tumble to the ground reminds me of my mother, and those strange and terrifying walls, and the tears come faster.
“If you cared about me, you would take me away,” I say. “If you cared about me at all you would go right now.”
“I do care about you,” Alex says.
“You don’t.” Now I know I am being childish, but I can’t help it. “She didn’t either. She didn’t care at all.”
“That’s not true.”
“Why didn’t she come for me, then?” I’m still turned away from him, pressing a palm against the wall, hard; feeling like it, too, might collapse at any second. “Where is she now? Why didn’t she come looking for me?”
“You know why,” he says, more firmly. “You know what would have happened if she was caught again—if she was caught with you. It would have meant death for both of you.”
I know he’s right, but that doesn’t make it any better. I keep going stubbornly, unable to stop myself. “It’s not that. She doesn’t care, and you don’t care. Nobody cares.” I draw my forearm across my face, swiping at my nose.
“Lena.” Alex puts a hand on each of my elbows and guides me around to face him. When I refuse to meet his eyes, he tilts my chin upward, forcing me to look at him. “Magdalena,” he repeats, the first time since we met that he has ever used my full name. “Your mother loved you. Do you understand that? She loved you. She still loves you. She wanted you to be safe.”