Contaminated (18 page)

They’ve told us nothing can help. Well, except the collars, and those are meant for prevention, not progression. I look into the backseat, hoping to see my mom straining toward the door, but she’s sitting quietly without expression.

He nods. “Yes. It might.” He turns off the car. “I’ll walk you up.”

“You don’t—”

He shakes his head. “I’ll walk you up. Come on.”

He helps my mom out of the car. She doesn’t pull away from him when he links his arm through hers. We have to
climb over the tree, and she struggles but manages with his help, while I carry the backpacks.

We have a long, steep driveway. By the time we get to the top, Mr. Behney’s huffing and puffing and so am I. Those bags are heavy. Only Mom seems unmoved. She stands in the drive and stares up at the house. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder what she can think.

I don’t have a key, which is so stupid, I want to kick myself. Then I remember the spare key hidden in the plastic rock in the rosebushes by the front door. The bushes are bare of blooms but full of thorns, and one scratches me as I reach for the rock. The key’s still inside, and sucking at the blood on the back of my hand, I pull it out.

“You have a broken window.” Mr. Behney puts a hand on my shoulder as I’m fitting the key in the lock. “Let me go first.”

He’s older than my dad, with a belly. He doesn’t look strong. It’s nice, though, that he offers, when I’m sure he must be as nervous as I am. I don’t want to let him go first—I feel like I could defend myself better than he can. He goes first, anyway.

“Looks okay.” He sounds relieved and steps farther into the house. “C’mon in.”

He’s wrong. It doesn’t look okay. Someone’s been in our house. The dining room’s immediately to the right, and the table inside has three claw-and-ball feet in the air. The fourth leg’s missing. The chairs are broken and overturned,
the curtains shoved to the side. The door to the left that leads into the living room is closed. The family room’s straight ahead, and I push past him to check it out.

The furniture here, too, has been overturned and trashed. The fireplace screen is missing, and someone took a piece of burned wood and drew pictures on the walls. There’s a window broken back here. The bookcases have all been dumped, books everywhere, pages bent and torn.

Connies didn’t do this. They’re destructive, murderous, violent, but they don’t care about vandalism. Regular people did this, just because they could and get away with it. My stomach twists again.

Mr. Behney’s moving around the house, looking for who knows what. From the family room, I can see into the kitchen. The sliding glass door that Craig broke was boarded up when we left the house, and at least it still is. The fridge hangs open, the light not on. There’s no stink of spoiled food, at least, since whatever was in there’s long gone. I expect to see the dishes shattered, but they’re all in the cupboard.

Everything’s covered in dust, the floor gritty with dirt that crunches under my shoes. All the hanging plants are dead and dry, but the bushes outside have grown up lush and thick against the windows. It makes the inside of the house dark, with moving shadows I catch from the corners of my eyes.

My mom walks slowly, following me. In the kitchen, she stops. She looks around. She painted this room with sunflowers, bright and cheerful. Everyone always complimented our kitchen. She walks to the wall and strokes one of the flowers.

“We’ll clean it up, Mom. Don’t worry about it.”

Her head turns toward the sound of my voice.

“We’ll clean it up,” I tell her again. “Just like new.”

Mr. Behney’s feet sound on the stairs, and in the next minute he’s in the kitchen. “Whoever messed around down here didn’t do much damage upstairs.”

He pauses, looks embarrassed. “I think they stole some things, but they didn’t ruin the rest.”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I don’t think we’ll miss much of what they could’ve taken.”

He nods. He flicks the light switch. Nothing happens. “You’ll need to get the power turned on.” He goes to the sink, turns the faucet. Water comes out.

“We have a well,” I tell him. I don’t mention that I probably don’t have the money to pay for electricity, which was included in our subsidized rent before. Not to mention that the fallen tree out front looks like it ruined the wires. “My dad always said the pressure was so good that even with the power out, we’d have water. I guess he was right.”

“Velvet, are you sure about this? Really?” Mr. Behney looks around.

My mom’s moving around the kitchen, slowly touching things. She shrugs out of her coat as we watch. She lets it fall to the floor without paying any attention to it. I remember doing the same thing when I was a kid, only she’d yell at me to pick it up. I don’t yell.

“Look at her,” I say softly. “She knows this place. What if they’re wrong about them? What if they can get better?”

“That’s the problem, Velvet. Nobody knows. It hasn’t been long enough for anyone to know. There aren’t enough resources to do the sorts of testing required. This,” he gestures at her, “is maybe the best anyone can do.”

“That’s why I had to bring her here. To do the best I can.” These words taste right, like truth, even if it’s more complicated than that.

“I’m not sure it’s safe for you girls out here alone.”

“We can take care of ourselves. We did it before. We’ve been doing it for over a year.”

He fumbles in his wallet to pull out a business card. “Ignore the stuff on the front. I don’t work there anymore. But here.” He scribbles a number on the back. “If you need something, anything, you call me, Velvet, okay?”

“Sure, Mr. Behney, thanks.”

He looks into the family room, at the overturned chairs and the scrawled obscenities on the walls. I see a struggle on his face. I think he might be ready to offer more than a number. Just minutes ago I half hoped he would, but now that we’re here, in our house, I know I can’t ask him to take us on. He’s a stranger. This isn’t his responsibility. It’s mine.

“I’ll find out if there are still patrols that come through here. Make sure someone checks on you.”

I nod, though that might be the last thing I actually want. “Sure. That would be great. Thank you.”

He pulls a couple of bills from his wallet and presses them into my hand, though I try to pull away. “No, take
this. You can use it. You have your mom and sister to worry about now. And I have … only me.”

My fingers curl over the money. I don’t look to see how much it is, but tuck it into the pocket of my jeans. “Thanks.”

There are people in the world who are kind and good, the same way there are bad ones. I wish it were easier to figure out who’s who. Or what kind of person I’d be if I weren’t who I am.

“You’ll be okay?” Mr. Behney asks.

“Yeah. I think so. Lots of cleaning to do, but that’s okay.”

We both look at my mom, who’s moved into the family room. She’s touching the couch, the chair. She runs her hands along the mantelpiece like a blind woman trying to see the world with her fingertips. She’s still silent in her inspections, but she’s not crying. That’s good.

“Well.” Mr. Behney slides his palms together with a little clap. “I guess I’ll let you get settled.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I’m not looking forward to that part of it, even while I’m eager to check out my room, see what’s left.

He looks at my mom, then back at me. “Not many would do what you’re doing, Velvet. You know that.”

I shake my head and think of how he mentioned his wife. “I think more would do it than you think. She’s my mom, Mr. Behney. Wouldn’t you do it for someone you loved?”

His mouth thins. I’ve said something wrong. His eyes glisten; I don’t want to see him cry. That’s too intimate, too embarrassing.

“I waited too long,” Mr. Behney says. “I couldn’t
decide if I could handle the responsibility, and I waited too long. They sent her back to the lab. And once that happens … they don’t come back.”

I have nothing to say. My mouth opens, no words come out. I’m not full of advice or wisdom, I’m still a kid. Adults are supposed to have the right words to say in situations like this.

He doesn’t seem to expect anything. He looks at my mom again. He squeezes my shoulder. Then without saying anything else, Mr. Behney leaves through the front door.

In the pantry, there are cans and jars and bottles and boxes. My mom had always joked that she shopped in bulk in case there was an Armageddon. The joke doesn’t sound funny in my head when I remember it, but I’m glad she’d done it because at least it means we’ll have something to eat, even if it’s plain white rice.

The rest of the kitchen is a mess I ignore for now. My mom’s found a nest of cushions and plops down in them. I have a vision of them being filled with mice or worse, squirrels, but though I run to her and pull her up, the cushions aren’t even chewed. That’s lucky, at least.

“Mom,” I say. “We’re home.”

It’s really too much to hope that she responds to this, but of course I’m disappointed when she doesn’t. I sigh and squeeze her hands. I sit back on my heels. I’m suddenly so tired, all I want to do is take a nap. The room, in fact, spins a little bit.

“Let’s get the couch set up. Maybe light a fire. At least it’ll be warm.”

There’s still some wood in the basket next to the fireplace, even if the rest of it is thrown all over the room. I pick up all the wood I can find and put it back in the basket. The floor and walls around the broken window are dark with mold. Leaves have blown inside, and I gather those up, too, stuffing them into the wood basket I use to help start the fire.

Our house always used to smell good. Like baking bread or the scented candles my mom liked to burn in different “flavors.” My favorite was Clean Linen. The smells lingering in the family room aren’t clean; they sting my nose and the back of my throat, and I don’t really want to think about what made them.

From her place on the couch, my mom watches me. Actually, she doesn’t watch, she stares but doesn’t seem to see. Her gaze is steady, unblinking and blank. Her mouth drops open. Drool leaks from her bottom lip, stretching thin like a spider’s thread down her chin and hanging in the air.

“Mom.”

Nothing. She doesn’t move or speak or react. Her breath rattles.

I tell myself she’s tired, worn out from walking and the drive. It feels like an excuse, but I keep making it because I don’t want there to be another reason why she’s gone so silent. I busy myself with cleaning up the room, even though I’m tired, too.

All the dust is making me cough and sneeze. My eyes water, and I scrub at them. My back aches. I’ve cleaned up a lot, but the couch is still overturned. I rub at my runny nose and study it. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get it turned over on my own.

“Mom, can you help me?”

No response. I struggle with the end of the couch. My fingers slip on the leather. I grunt and yank, but the couch is easily eight feet long and really heavy. It took two big burly deliverymen to get it in the house, and even when we tried to move it for vacuuming during spring cleaning, my dad had to help Mom.

I can’t do this alone, and I’m suddenly frustrated. Sore. I shove at it again, barely shifting it. I need someone else to help me tip it, that’s all it would take.

“Mom!”

Again, she doesn’t answer. She sits on the pile of cushions without moving or blinking, her mouth gaping wide. She looks old. She looks demented.

“Mom, get up!” Anger is boiling in me, my fists clenching, even though I feel like I’m staring down at myself, watching, and sick in my guts at my fury. I kick the couch and let out a scream. It doesn’t make me feel better.

I want to break something.

Is that how they feel? I wonder, as everything inside me twists and shifts and breaks apart. Is this how the Connies feel when they can’t control themselves any longer?

“Mom, I need you! I need you!” It’s what I used to scream in the night when I had a bad dream, when she’d come running down the hall to turn on the lights and chase away the monsters.

There is no light to turn on now, and who’s the monster? Her? Or me?

I’m leaning over her, my fingers clutching at her shirt. I mean only to get her attention, to make her look at me. I want my mom to see me. Her hands fly up, fists. I duck, jerking back, but she’s not trying to hit me. She’s being defensive.

She hunches over suddenly, hands still in front of her. People compare Connies to animals. To dogs. And I can’t deny that’s what she reminds me of just now, a growling, scared dog.

My heart hurts for whatever she went through while she was missing, that she should automatically assume someone grabbing at her means her harm, and I can’t blame her because I was being too loud. Too abrupt. I’m ashamed.

I put my hand out slowly. They say you shouldn’t do that to dogs, that you’ll just get bitten. But she’s not a dog. She is my mother, and I’ve said that to enough people already that I need to make sure I act like it now.

“Mom. Shhh. It’s me, Velvet. I just need you to help me with the couch, okay? Get it turned over so we can sit on it. Okay? It’s okay.”

She gets slowly to her feet. She pushes on the end of the couch. I take a couple of steps back, and she watches me.

“See? I’m going to the other side. Then we’ll push it together. Okay?” First, I move the end table and lamp, useless without electricity, out of the way. Then I go back to the couch’s other side and put both hands on it. “We have to tip it together, at the same time.”

I know she hears me, but does she understand? I’ll just have to find out. I take a deep breath, count slowly to three. We both push at the same time. I push too hard, not expecting help from her, and the couch tips but also slides. I manage a grin. “Yes! Again! We almost got it!”

I count slowly again. On three, we both push. The couch tips from being upside down to rocking onto its back legs, then all the way upright. It’s a mess, the leather scratched and dirty. Cushions are missing. But as with the others, they don’t seem to be chewed or ruined by rodents.

“Yes!” Fist pump. High five.

She hasn’t raised her hand for it. I end up putting mine down while she stares. Then I reach for her. Hold up her hand. Smack it gently with mine. She doesn’t tense this time. She does hold her hand up to her face, looking at it curiously. This time, when she settles herself on the couch without moving, I leave her alone. I’ve figured out what my mom had always meant by “I can do it faster by myself.” And really, does it matter? The only place I have to be is Opal’s school at 3:30, and I still have a couple of hours before I have to leave in time to get there.