Contaminated Page 2

  I just shrug again, not saying anything. Jean looks like she’s about to say something else, but for the first time in all the months I’ve been following her down gross corridors and looking in cages, she doesn’t say it. She takes the papers and taps them into a neat pile before sliding them into the folder.

  “We’ll call you,” Jean tells me.

  I back away with a nod. It feels wrong to leave here today with my hands empty, even if it’s the way I’ve left all the other times. But this isn’t all the other times; this time I’m leaving Mom behind. I think about asking to see her one more time before I go, but I can’t. If that makes me a coward, then I’m a big one.

  When the door closes behind me, I close my eyes and breathe in air so cold, it burns, but not the way the smell inside did. This burning is good. Gets rid of all the junk in there. It burns away the tears I wasn’t crying, too, and the sour taste on my tongue. I’m shivering in another minute, stupid for standing like this on the sidewalk when I don’t even have a hat or scarf, but I take another minute, anyway, just to breathe.

  I found her.

  Before I can think too long or hard about whether or not I wish I hadn’t, I turn on my heel and head for home. This means a pretty long and complicated bus ride. If there’s one good thing about what’s happened since the Contamination, it’s that the government put better public transportation into place. Lebanon used to have a pretty crappy bus system that could hardly get you anywhere. I didn’t care back then—I had my mom and dad to drive me anyplace I needed to go, and eventually my own driver’s license. Now the car’s gone, lost in a way there is no finding—not that I have money to spend on gas even if I knew where the car was and could prove it belonged to me as easily as I hope I can prove my mother does.

  Waiting at the bus stop, I watch the traffic crawl by. I count the military trucks and police cars the way Opal and I used to count yellow cars for points, only if I were playing that game right now, I’d win for sure, since there are way more soldiers and cops driving around. None of them slow as they pass me. The days are gone when just being out on the street meant you’d get stopped by soldiers and checked out, but I know if I were doing anything more energetic than bouncing on my toes to keep warm, at least one of them would probably stop to look me over. Knowing this should make me feel safer, but it doesn’t.

  Across the street from me is a faded and tattered billboard advertising Shamrock Shakes, and my mouth waters. The local McDonald’s closed about a year ago, and though I’ve heard rumors it might open again, it’s still boarded up, with weeds growing in the parking lot. There are commercials on TV for McDonald’s, so maybe in other parts of the country you can still get a shake and fries, but not anyplace around here. To me that says more about how things really are than any news report about how well the country is recovering.

  “Hiya, Velvet,” the bus driver, Deke, says as he opens the door for me. “How’s it going?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out. I found her. I found her! Suddenly I want to scream it, dance with it, tell the whole wide world I’ve found my mom! But I don’t know Deke that well, not more than enough to say hi, how are ya, stuff like that. I’ve never even mentioned I’m looking for her, because it’s not his business. He swipes my transit pass and gives me a smile, and he’s always been supernice to me, but I don’t know what he’d say if I tell him the next time I make this trip, it will be to bring her home with me. A Connie.

  “It’s going, Deke.”

  “Ain’t it always.” Deke laughs.

  I take a seat at the back of the bus, where the air from the vents can warm my frozen toes and fingers. The heat’s worth putting up with the bouncing and the smell of exhaust. Plus, it’s my habit to take a seat at the back. This way I can see everyone who gets on after me. It took only one Connie leaping onto a crowded bus through the back door and coming up on the passengers from behind to teach me the importance of that lesson. I lean my head against the cold window glass. My breath fogs it. It makes the world outside the windows fuzzy. It looks better that way.

  We pass a row of town houses, and the bus slows to pass by an army truck parked in front of one. The door’s wide open. Soldiers are standing on the sidewalk. I crane my neck to see what’s going on, though of course I’ve seen plenty of that on the news before. Soldiers carrying out Contaminated, most still screaming and biting. Not that the news shows it any longer. The news doesn’t show much of anything. The bus pulls out of sight before anything happens, which I guess is just as well. I don’t need to be reminded of what the Contaminated can do.

  I really want to get home, but first I take the bus to Foodland. The selection in the bakery sucks, but I find a marked-down cake with a frosting clown that’s only a little smeared. Chocolate, for the win! I look with longing at the fresh fruit, my mouth puckering at the memory of strawberries I haven’t tasted in forever. Too expensive, though, and besides, we haven’t had cake in forever, either. The cashier’s not too happy when I pay with change I’ve pulled from my pockets, the depths of my backpack, and a couple of quarters I was lucky to find on the bus floor.

  At home, Opal’s at the kitchen table, her feet swinging as she bends over her homework. She used to greet me at the door every time, begging to know if I’d found Mom, but she stopped doing that a few weeks ago. She didn’t say why and I didn’t ask her, but I know it’s because of the TV special we both watched. The one where that movie star, not the one who starred in all the original ThinPro commercials but the one who sort of looks like him, narrated the statistics about the numbers of Contaminated who’d been claimed… with no mention about what happens to the ones who aren’t. It was listed as being TV for mature audiences, but I let her watch it, anyway. I sort of wish I hadn’t let either of us see it.

  “Hey.” I close the door behind me and slip the dead bolts into place. One, two, three. The chain lock sticks, but I manage to shove it closed, too. It wiggles on the screws. I doubt it would keep anyone out if they really tried hard to get in, but it’s important to act like we still believe in locks and doors.

  Opal looks up. She has our dad’s face, smaller and more feminine. His hair, too, red curls all around her face. We don’t look a lot like sisters. When I wanted to be mean, a long time ago, I used to tell her she was adopted. I’d never do that now, no matter how bad we fight.

  “Hi, Velvet. I’m doing my homework.”

  “I see that.” I keep the bag with the cake hidden and shrug out of my coat, hang it on the back of a chair. “Did you eat anything?”

  “Peanut butter sandwich.”

  “You’re going to turn into a peanut butter sandwich.” It’s what our mom would’ve said, and Opal’s lower lip quivers. “Hey. Guess what.”

  “Chicken butt,” she says, sounding resigned.

  “Not today. Guess what else.” Now I can’t hold back the excitement in my voice. My hands are shaking, so I make them into fists, shove them deep into the pockets of my jeans, which need washing.

  “What?” My little sister looks up at me, her pencil still clutched in one hand.

  “I found her.”

  Opal stares at me for too long without saying anything, so long, I start to worry. Then she throws down her pencil, leaps from the chair into my arms. We dance together, slipping on the ratty rug. We’re laughing, dancing, crying.

  “I found her! I found her!” I say it over and over as we squeeze the breath out of each other.

  “You found her! When can she come home? When?”

  The top of Opal’s head comes only to the center of my chest. We hold each other tight. I can’t believe that I used to hate her sometimes.

  “They have to run the tests to make sure she’s really our mom. They told me it would take about a week.”

  Opal pulls away, frowning, brow furrowed. She’s probably thinking of the TV show. “She’ll be okay until then, right, Velvet?”

  “They said yes. And the lady who works there is really nice. She’l
l make sure Mom’s okay. She promised.”

  Opal squeezes me again. “You’re sure it was Mama?”

  “I’m sure. She was wearing Mama’s shirt. And it looked like her.” I think again of the times I’d passed her by, and of how she’d reached out a hand to grab at me. Of how I’d have missed her if she hadn’t. “It’s Mama, Opal.”

  “Hooray!”

  I love that she can still say stuff like that. “Yeah. Hooray. Hey, finish your homework now. Maybe we can play a game after I get something to eat. And guess what I got!”

  Opal squeals when I pull out the cake. I have to hold it up high so when she tackles me, I don’t drop it. We dance again around the kitchen while we get plates and forks.

  I have my own homework to do, though it feels pointless since I’m taking only three classes now, because I have to work every afternoon at the assisted-living home. There’s an entire basket full of laundry, too, which means a trip to the communal laundry room. And that phone call to Tony to make. It’s already close to five and his mom doesn’t like it when I call after 9 p.m. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me.

  “Can I invite Carissa to come over?”

  Carissa Lee lives a couple of buildings over with her grandma. I think she lived with her grandma even before everything happened, but Opal’s mentioned a few times that her parents are also gone. I like her, even if when she and Opal get together, there’s way too much screeching. I like her grandma, too, and I send Opal off to invite both of them.

  She comes back with Carissa and Mrs. Lee, who brings along a platter of sugar cookies. Also the new lady who moved into the place just beneath us. She has a little baby and no husband, and she looks shy when I open the door, like I might tell her to get lost. She holds out a paper sack of apples and a bowl of cream-cheese dip.

  “I said she ought to come to the party,” Opal says as everyone shuffles into our tiny apartment. “Carissa, c’mon, let’s put on some music.”

  Just like that, it’s a party. I feel a little bad that we’re celebrating finding our mom when the new lady, whose name is Anne-Marie, is still looking for her husband. But she’s laughing and smiling, bouncing her little boy, Hank, on her lap. His mouth is smeared with chocolate cake.

  “Thank you for letting us come,” she says as Carissa and Opal perform some sort of dance routine to an old pop song on the radio. “This is really… I need this, Velvet. Thank you.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I nod and offer Hank a cookie. His tiny fingers pluck it from mine, and he stares at it like he’s not sure what to do with it. Then he takes a cautious bite and beams from ear to ear. And drools.

  “It gives me hope,” Anne-Marie says quietly. “If you found your mom, I can find Jake. I know it. He’s out there. I’ll keep looking.”

  I’m not sure I feel okay with her using me as an example—it’s not like I did anything special other than not give up. Her praise tickles me with warmth, though, because for the first time in a really long time, I don’t feel like I want to go to sleep and never wake up. My stomach stuffed with treats, I watch Opal and her friend shaking their booties until they fall onto the carpet, wriggling with laughter. It’s important to me to hear. When I see my baby sister laughing, it makes me feel like I can smile, too.

  THREE

  WE FINISH THE ENTIRE CAKE AND PLAY Apples to Apples and Connect Four for about an hour, and then it’s time for our guests to leave.

  “We should do this every week,” Opal says.

  Before I can tell her there’s no way we can party every week, Mrs. Lee nods. “Next week, my house. I’ll make a chicken pot pie.”

  “I’ll make a nice salad,” Anne-Marie offers, hitching baby Hank higher on her hip. “Night, Velvet.”

  After they’ve gone, I tell Opal it’s time for her to go to bed while I do the laundry. “Lock the door behind me.”

  Opal rolls her eyes. She’s had a shower and her hair is tangled. I told her to comb through it, but she’s only made a halfhearted attempt. I should stay here and supervise, but we played too long and it’s getting late. I really want to finish this laundry so I have something clean to wear tomorrow.

  “I’m not stupid, ya know.”

  I know she isn’t, but she’s also only ten. When I was ten, I still played with my stuffed animals and watched cartoons. Opal has hardly any toys. We left most of them behind. And the cartoons are only on once a week, on Saturdays, the way they were back when my mom was a kid. Like almost everything else, ten’s not the same anymore.

  “Sure you are,” I say. “Ugly, too.”

  Opal sticks out her tongue and crosses her eyes at me.

  “That’s an improvement,” I tell her, and she chases me around the table until I hold her off with one hand on her forehead while she swings her arms, unable to reach me. “Back off, booger brat. I have to go wash these clothes.”

  The cake and dancing must’ve mellowed her, because instead of fighting with me about it, she stops flailing. She doesn’t like being alone here, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She has to get to bed so she can be ready for school in the morning. The thought of my bed, my pillow, my warm blankets, is so much better than facing the laundry room. Opal will happily wear the same outfit a week at a time, if I don’t make her change. She doesn’t care about laundry. Or cleaning the toilets or mopping the floor. Those are all grown-up tasks, and she’s still just a kid. I envy that.

  I pick up the basket, pushing it against my hip. The detergent usually makes the basket heavy and unbalanced, so I shift it, but tonight it seems lighter than usual. Maybe I’m getting some guns from all the lifting. More likely, Opal hasn’t put all of her dirty clothes in it and I’ll find them later under her bed.

  “You put all your dirty stuff in here, right?” I give her the stinkeye.

  She gives me puppy face. “Yes!”

  I heft the basket again, sorting with one hand through the clothes. She really has. I guess I’m sugared up from the cakes, because instead of making my back hurt almost immediately, I feel like I could carry this for hours.

  “Lock the door behind me, Opal. I mean it.”

  Only when I hear the bolts slide shut do I head toward the stairs, but before I can move, the door across the landing opens. Mrs. Wentling looks out. She’s got that frowny face on, not that I’ve ever seen her with any other kind.

  “What’s all that noise? Haven’t I told you girls to be quiet?”

  It makes me want to punch her in the face, her complaining about a little noise when her stupid, yappy dog barks and barks all the time, or when her stupid, delinquent son comes home drunk and pounds up the metal stairs with his heavy boots, talking on his cell phone at the top of his lungs. I don’t like feeling as though I want violence. There’s been too much of that.

  “Were you having a party?”

  Ah. That’s it. She’s mad about not being invited.

  “You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I mutter as I walk away from her, down the rusting metal stairs.

  “I told Garcia letting you people in here would run the place down!”

  She shouts after me, but I ignore her. She can shout all she wants. It won’t change anything. The landlord had no choice in letting me and Opal come here, because the government fixed all that up. So long as he gets his rent checks on time, he doesn’t care about anything.

  To get to the laundry room, I have to walk outside, across the parking lot, and past the pool, which hasn’t been filled the whole time we’ve lived here. There’s supposed to be a lock on the door, but it’s been busted since before we moved in. The door sticks, too, so you have to yank it really hard to get it open. I need to put down my basket to do it and use both hands, but I pull too hard and the door flies open hard enough to bang against the wall.

  Inside, there’s a long, dim hall. It’s supposed to be lit by at least six fixtures set into the ceiling, but more than half are broken. One has a burned-out bulb. The other two flicker. On one side of the hall is
a door to the maintenance office, locked because nobody’s in there to use it. On the other side is the door to the game room, which is open because there’s nothing inside for anybody to use or to steal. And finally, at the end of the hall, past the restroom doors, also locked to prevent vandalism, is the laundry room. I don’t even pretend I’m not going to scurry down this hall like something might reach out and grab me.

  When I was a little kid, maybe six or seven, my parents let me stay up to watch a movie on TV called Orca: The Killer Whale! It had been made before I was born, and I didn’t quite understand all of it, but one scene scared the crap out of me—the killer whale watching from the water, the man who’d killed its mate reflected in its huge eye. For months after watching that movie, even though it was silly, I couldn’t walk down the dark hall past my parents’ bedroom to get to the bathroom. I had to run, like maybe a killer whale was going to jump out at me from the doorway and grab me and eat me the way it had done in the movie.

  I’m old enough to know killer whales don’t lurk in bathrooms, but something else might. Things that really could grab and kill and try to eat me. The tenants of the apartment complex had signed a petition to get better lighting and locks in the laundry room, but nothing’s been done, of course. Nobody has the money or anything to force the issue. I guess we’re just lucky to have a laundry room at all, with washers and dryers that work. The complex on the other side of the mall lost theirs to a fire during the Contamination. My friend Lisa lives there with her parents, and they do their wash in the bathtub because it’s too much of a pain to try and drag it anyplace else.

  Standing in the doorway here isn’t any better than running down the dim hallway past the rows of doors. My sneakers thump on the tile and my breath whistles. I skid through the doorway into the laundry room, not caring if anyone’s in there to see me acting like a dork. It’s empty, anyway, one lone dryer spinning lazily with something thumping inside it.