On the Edge of Gone Page 27

  . . . and we unloaded dishes and looted the airport side by side, and she’d joke about her flaky brother and explain how the Nassau worked . . .

  “We were supposed to tell stories about her,” Max says. “In our cabin, I mean, this past week. It’s part of shiva. But Mom’s telling only the nice stories, or the ones from when Mirjam was really young that I don’t even remember. Dad isn’t talking at all. The others—that family you saw at breakfast and another young couple—they’re around all the time and they try to be supportive, but they don’t even know us. They just keep saying how young and pretty Mirjam was.” He pauses. “Your mother makes a convincing engineer, apparently.”

  “What?”

  “They found her an outfit. My mother sent an update . . . Never mind.”

  “Why are you here?” I repeat.

  “Why should my mother like you?” he says. “I like you. I really—I like you. But why should my mother like you? Can you blame her? I mean?”

  Max isn’t making sense. This can’t simply be me being tired or slow to process. I feel vaguely like I should be offended, but more than anything, I’m concerned. For all of Max’s oddness, he’s never acted this way.

  He presses his hands flat on the table. “OK. I’m smart. I’m so smart I’m dumb sometimes. I have practical skills for this ship. My family didn’t. So, I had to be smart enough to make up for three extra mouths to feed. I ended up hacking into the captain’s tab to prove it.”

  “I get it. You’re smart.” I scratch at my jeans. My nails—short, ragged—keep getting stuck in the fabric.

  “You don’t have those skills. You weren’t even supposed to stay. I—” Max purses his lips. “No, that was mean.”

  It’s the truth. Being able to coax any cat out of hiding isn’t a useful skill in a place like this. It doesn’t mean I enjoy the reminder. “Do we have to do this now?” I ask. I don’t even know what “this” is.

  “I’m almost done. I know you saved my life by coming back for us. And I want you on board. I just can’t disentangle the two. OK? I can’t think, Wow, Denise saved my life, and be happy that you got on board, when Mirjam’s dead.” He pauses. “It might be sinking in. I don’t know. I just—” His voice hitches. “Yeah, OK, it’s sinking in. My sister is dead. Do you get that? I thought I’d managed to save my family, we’d survive, and then my sister dies and you’re here and—you’re just looking for typos in announcements. Your sister gets to live, and she’s here only because people like my sister died, and then you smuggle your addict mother on board, even though we don’t have the supplies. You work with Els! You know we don’t! You know the rules! But still your entire stupid family gets to . . . All this trouble for a drug addict when my family is out there dying?” His jaw clacks shut. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Why am I being so mean?”

  His skin is a red, blotchy mess. I want to lash out. I want to apologize. I want to stalk away so I don’t have to decide.

  I want to tell him that he doesn’t even know my mother, who helps lost women on the street at the end of the world, who sleeps best with cooking shows on, who I sometimes wonder whether I hate, who makes faces at the window when it rains and offers me a ride to school.

  “’Cause she’s an addict doesn’t mean she deserves to die,” I only say.

  “What’ll she even do on board?”

  “I don’t know. She’ll survive. Isn’t that why the ship exists?”

  “OK,” Max says. “OK. I’m sorry. But if it’s between your mother and mine, I’m on my mother’s side.” His voice is a little calmer, a little more strained. “I don’t want to lose anyone else. Do you get that? I’m a bad enough son already. I’m not even mourning correctly. I’m avoiding the cabin. All I’m doing is not shaving or showering and that’s—that’s easy. Even saves on water. Right? And why shouldn’t my mother ask you to save my cousin’s life when you’re out there anyway? And for that, you’re blackmailing her? Another of my family to . . .” He breathes deeply. His hands slide off the table. “I’ll stop. OK. That’s it.”

  I’m silent for a long time. There’s just my fingernails on old jeans. Occasionally Max reaches up with one hand and drags a finger across his projection. I dimly recognize that he’s still helping his mother protect mine.

  “I can leave,” he offers.

  “I just want my family to survive. I don’t want it to be at anyone else’s expense.” I’m stealing Heleen’s words. They’re the right words, though. I pronounce them precisely, calmly, though the rest of me is still a tense mess. “I don’t think it is at the cost of anyone else, though. I think it’s all just . . . timing, and the situation . . .”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t want your mother off the ship. I just want my mother on it.”

  Max rolls his chair back. He laughs. Even with his face wet with tears, that laugh is just as intense and sudden as his other laughs. “Ditto.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  ELS COMES BACK AN HOUR LATER. I pretend to work, but my thoughts are as slick as oil for all that they let me grasp them. I read words that don’t register. I tap my foot. The sounds of my jeans brushing over my shoes and Els shifting in her chair grate like barbed wire dragged through my ears, and Els smacks her lips and I want to scream for her to shut up.

  The thought hits me out of nowhere. I gasp for breath, tears suddenly right there, pressing behind my eyes, and I no longer know what I’m doing here. I don’t know why I ever thought I could be here. I’m not the kind of person who can sit at her tab all day and smile and work and chitchat. I’m not Dr. Meijer. I’m not Els’s colleagues at the university.

  Sometimes I think I could be, and that I have a hard time because I’m lazy, and that the way I’m suddenly staring at the plant in the corner for twenty minutes straight and seeing how many leaves are on a twig and how many twigs are on a branch and if any branches break the pattern—that that’s me looking for excuses. I’ll think that the only difference between me and the rest of the world is that I have no goddamn discipline, and all of this is in my head, and if I tried, I could fit in and be the productive little cog I ache to be.

  I’m not like those kids at the shelter, the ones playing. Not really; not anymore. Maybe I’m not different at all, my autism is just bullshit, and all I am is a failure. I should do more than I am. I should be more than I am.

  But if what my head feels like now truly is what other people feel all the time—if everybody I see on the street or on TV really manages this day in, day out—

  They can’t be.

  The world can’t be that hard.

  Els gets up to use the bathroom. She slides open the door. That squeal—at once familiar and worse than ever—rings out. “Can’t you just—get that—looked at—” I choke out a sound. Then I’m past Els, outside, and gone.

  I walk around the ship. I keep startling at movements in my peripheral vision. People come up to ask about the scooter or shelters, but I only shake my head.

  I end up in the VR room, of all places. Gloves and goggles rest in the seats of the VR chairs. I move them aside and curl up in one of the seats, sinking into the cushioning. I pull up my legs, rub my shins up and down.

  It’s quieter here.

  I imagine I’m on the couch with Dad as he introduces me to his favorite Suri podcast, the way he did years ago. I didn’t hear half of what the voices said. I just liked him on the couch beside me, one broad arm around my shoulder. He’d nod at certain spots, chuckle to himself at others, translate Sranantongo words he thought I might not know that were mixed into the Dutch. He was so patient.

  I haven’t thought of that in years. I’m not sure why I do now.

  After a while, the door slides smoothly open. I close my eyes, as though that’ll prevent the world from intruding. There’s a mutter, and I hear chairs being turned. “As though anyone actually . . . Denise?”

  My eyes blink open.

  Iris stands in front of me, a rag in one hand. “I thought you were working
. What’s up?”

  “Mmm,” I say, remembering her silhouette climbing on that ramp.

  “Not good?”

  I shake my head. Then a second time, as if to contradict myself. “Mom,” I say.

  “What’s with her? Did anyone—”

  “Mmm.” I wrap my arm tightly around my shins. “They’re doing another search of the ship. In secret this time. Anke moved Mom; she’ll be moved back later, when it’s safe.”

  “Did Anke give you any trouble?”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you OK?” She crouches, dropping the rag.

  I pull my legs in closer. I’m a compact little ball pressed deep into this chair. I’m nothing like Iris: even sitting in a crouch, she’s so open. She’s got one hand on her knee, the other supporting her on the floor. She held a similar pose for an instant when she was climbing out of that canoe.

  “Work is hard,” I say, which is not a lie.

  “Is Els pushing you? Was it what you saw at the shelter?”

  “No. I don’t know. Yes.” I’m not making sense, and I’m so tired of having to make sense. I’m even more tired of talking about how OK or not OK I am. I’m not. I’ve failed. That’s it. People should stop going on about it. “You!” My voice is loud. I reel it back in. “I’m sorry. What about you. What are you doing.”

  “I’m cleaning.”

  “No one uses this room yet. Waste of power.”

  “You’re not the only one who hides here. Denise . . . you look . . .”

  “Have you been cleaning all day.” I’m forgetting about making my questions sound like questions. God, I’m a mess. Iris looks two seconds away from calling Dr. Meijer. Unlike with Heleen, I can’t blame it on her not knowing me. Iris knows me better than anyone.

  I need to get it together. Here and now, all I’m expected to do is talk. I can do that.

  “All day? Nah,” she says. “On and off.”

  I grimace at that unhelpful answer. I should ask other things to try to get at the truth. Maybe Anke is blackmailing her, or . . . “I saw you on a canoe. What were you doing?”

  She startles. “Just a side job. Not important.”

  “Why couldn’t you use a scooter? Why you and not someone else?” I’m remembering my questions. I sound a little better, I think.

  “It’s not—Denise, don’t concern yourself with me. Anke must’ve stressed you out. She’s hard to deal with.”

  I frown.

  “Why don’t you go to the cabin? You brought that cat book, didn’t you?”

  I frown deeper. “You aren’t answering.”

  “Stop worrying about me.” She nudges the tip of my foot. A brief gesture. Friendly. I still yank my foot in as though it were Mom touching me. “I’m serious. Try to calm down. Read, play a game, sleep.”

  “You aren’t answering,” I say louder.

  “Maybe talk to Dr. Meijer. You used to take valerian when you were stressed in school.”

  “You aren’t . . .” She would answer. Under other circumstances, she’d answer. I want to rationalize it away—She must have her reasons, she wouldn’t lie, it’s not about me—the way I rationalize away everything else that hurts, but it’s not enough.

  She might not be lying because of me. Dad might not have left because of me. Mom might not be addicted because of me.

  But I’m not enough to make them stop, either.

  “Stop it. Stop it with, with valerian, and my book, and—I know there are more important things going on. I’m trying to help. And you’re hiding something.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “You’re acting like Mom.”

  She goes silent. “That’s hurtful.”

  “It’s true.” I try to meet her eyes. It’s the last thing I want, but she has to know I mean it.

  “I . . .” She breathes deeply. “We’ll talk later. When you’re calm.”

  “Screw you,” I say, but my voice is quiet.

  I don’t know when Iris first told me she wasn’t a boy.

  She’d said it for years on and off, but Mom and Dad laughed uncomfortably at her imagination and said she was making herself a target for bullies. She stopped, eventually.

  But I remember when I was seven and Iris was nine, and we were sitting in Iris’s room under a blanket pitched to make a tent. We had a candle underneath for atmosphere even though Dad would ground us for a year if he found out. The heat hurt the fresh scabs on my face from when I’d been picking at them, but I forgot all about that when Iris leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Denise. You want to play a game?”

  “What kind?” If it was her game, she’d be the boss, but she’d get the rules all wrong and stupid. But Iris and I didn’t often get along—me too difficult, her too frustrated—so when we did, the two of us whispering and warming our hands on that candle, I didn’t want to waste it. I had only so much big brother time.

  “In the game, can you call me Iris?”

  “You can’t be Iris. Iris is a girl’s name,” I said. “I’ll be June, like in last night’s movie.”

  “Sure, you can be June, but I—I’d like to be Iris.”

  “Iris is a girl’s name!” I said, growing hot. “You can’t be Iris, Iris is a—”

  “Relax!” Iris drew back, her hands up in defense. “It’s just make-believe. I’m pretending to be a girl, OK? So then I need a girl’s name, right?”

  I had my lips all scrunched up and angry, but—but that made sense.

  As usual, the rules of the game didn’t. Iris made them up as she went along, and they were inconsistent and too slack, but for the first time, she let me correct her. She played by my rules, and we were using the props I wanted and playing the stories that fit with June—thieves! and parachutes!—and by the end I was so loud and excited that I almost missed Dad calling us for dinner.

  We blew out the candle—just a stub now—and Iris opened the window to get the smell out. She whispered, “Hey. When it’s just you and me, can you keep calling me Iris?”

  “We’ll keep playing the game!” I said, delighted.

  “Yeah. We’ll keep playing the game. But only when it’s just the two of us, OK? Not around Mom or Dad or anyone else.”

  I didn’t get why, but the rules were straightforward. “OK. Did I win?” I asked as we stepped out of the bedroom.

  She shut the door behind us. “Sure.”

  A month after that, she pointed out a trans character in a comedy series we watched sometimes. Later, she showed me an entry in a schoolbook and said, “I think this is me,” and that description fit, and it made sense, so it was OK.

  I mean, I messed up sometimes. We’d fight and I’d call her loudly by her boy’s name once I realized it hurt her, or I’d slip up and call her Iris around Mom or Dad and she’d hastily correct me and glare daggers at me all the while.

  It was months before Iris told Mom and Dad, and a year before they and the doctors decided on hormone blockers, and longer still before she got her estrogen implant and other treatments, and I don’t know when the coin finally dropped and I realized: Iris told me before she told anyone else.

  I wasn’t just her difficult little sister, her bossy little sister, her vulnerable little sister.

  She trusted me.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  THIS TIME, SAMIRA AND NORDIN ARE right where we agreed to meet up. When I see those telltale lightstrips around their arms and Samira’s muddied hijab, I don’t know whether to relax—They’re here, they’re alive—or tense up worse—because now I’ll have to face them.

  As they climb from the hospital rubble to their scooter below, I steer mine closer, preparing all kinds of greetings, only to end up with a clumsy “You’re alive.”

  “In the flesh,” Nordin says.

  “But—oh!” Now that we’re close, I see one of his eyes is swollen shut. Half his face is a mottled purple and black. “What happened?”

  “Someone from a shelter attacked him,” Samira says. “Carried a kitc
hen knife the size of his arm. He was after the scooter.”

  My eyes grow wide.

  “Hey, I have Samira around. Guy didn’t stand a chance.” Nordin attempts a grin, but hastily aborts it. “Ow. I mean, I got lucky. The knife slipped from his hand almost right away. He threw a few punches, is all.”

  “A few punches.” Samira glares and turns to me. “Nordin has a deep cut on his arm. Possibly a minor concussion. It’s not the first time someone has tried to take the scooter—yesterday, a woman we picked up from a raft tried to wrestle us into the water. A few days ago . . . Enough about this. You went to Weesp? What were you doing there?”

  “Look,” I say, hoping I’m not too transparent about dodging the question, “I brought you food.” I sneaked as much as possible past the guards, hiding wrapped tofu chunks from dinner in the pockets of the extra set of clothes I brought, sneaking fruit bars into my bra. Samira has already figured out I haven’t been truthful; if this increases their suspicions, so be it.

  Samira slides into her scooter seat. “Heleen said you could help us find medication.”

  “No. Just food.” I climb off my scooter, wobbling on the slick, uneven slabs of wall under my feet. I almost slip once—wait till my grip is steady—then step closer. I clutch a raisin bun wrapped in a napkin. “It’s not much.”

  “Where did you get it from?”

  I don’t answer. Samira doesn’t ask again. Within minutes, she and Nordin have either eaten the food I brought or stored it away, but their faces are still drawn and hungry and I wish I could’ve brought more.

  It’ll keep them going. Help is on the way. I cling to the memory of the morning’s announcement. I’d almost forgotten in all the chaos that came after.

  “I guess I don’t need to ask if you want any yourself?” Nordin says.

  “I don’t know how to say this without sounding ungrateful,” Samira says. “I’m not. I’m so grateful. But . . . you’re clearly not in the same kind of situation we are. We need your help.”