On the Edge of Gone Read online

  Even after I met her friends, after she told me what she went through, she kept lying.

  Tears blur my vision. I rev up the scooter across an empty stretch of water. The current tugs at me, but I keep the handlebars steady. Slow down when I need to, speed up when I can. Around these knocked-down trees, branches and roots and old phone lines hooked into each other. West along a raised highway until I find a way through. Another open stretch.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I don’t need to decide yet. I can decide at the Nassau—maybe discuss it with Fatima. I go faster. The world blurs past, darkness on my skin, cool wind on my cheeks.

  The scooter stutters.

  I remember in a flash all the times it stuttered before and all the times I failed to warn the engineers. I slow the scooter down—too quickly, too abruptly. It makes a single screeching sound.

  The engine dies.

  “No,” I say.

  The lightstrips flicker once, twice, extinguish.

  “No!”

  My hand still grips the handlebar.

  It doesn’t let go for a long, long time.

  Then I slam an open palm into it. I try to restart the scooter. It does nothing. I slam it again. I scream. I lean back, kick the handlebars. The scooter rocks back and forth. The water around me splashes.

  I slide off the seat, folding double until I fit in the space meant for my legs. I wrap my arm around my knees, push my head against the seat.

  The current bobs me up and down. It drags me east. Away from the Nassau. Away from Iris.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say.

  Again: “I don’t know what to do.”

  Again, my voice pitched louder: “I don’t know what to do.”

  It becomes a rhythm. The words anchor me on this scooter, in this water, something tangible to keep my thoughts from growing so big that they smother me whole. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I scream again. My voice is frail over the water.

  Even if I did know, I wouldn’t be able to do it, anyway. I can’t even alert the engineers to a mechanical problem. I can’t even make my sister trust me. I can’t even get out of bed.

  I bash my head into the seat. I remember giving up months ago, when the news of the comet hit. Giving up cats and weakness and me that October day in the Way Station. Giving up nine days ago—We’re late—standing in my living room as Mom fluttered around the apartment. I gave up because we had no chance of surviving. This, now, is different. I close my eyes to the night-dark sky, let my body fall right again, again, again, thud thud thud, and I give up, not because I have no more chance of surviving,

  because I do,

  I might,

  but because it doesn’t matter. Even if I survive this, the person who survives can’t be the person she’s supposed to be.

  I give up. I’m silent.

  Then: “All right.”

  I open my eyes. Black wind sears my cheeks. I stare ahead, breathe deeply. “All right.”

  No more announcements, text tweaking, worrying over Mom, ignoring passengers’ questions, avoiding Dr. Meijer in the halls.

  No more cleaning my filter, preparing my backpack, wrapping my hair tight, navigating dark streets, watching for whirlpools and debris, rinsing my clothes after every trip outside.

  I’m still pushing my head into the seat, thump, thump, thump, but I’m gentler now.

  I’m lighter now.

  “All right.”

  That’s the last thing I say for a long time.

  I don’t know where the current sends me. I’m knocked into the water once. I climb back on, cold and bedraggled and shaking in pain from my arm, and dry myself with the hyper-absorbent towel from my backpack.

  The water spins me around, drags me into emptiness after emptiness. It thumps me into a copse of trees, only to push me out again a half hour later. The scooter bump-bump-bumps against a wall until I’m back into the open.

  Sometimes I peer around with my flashlight, but I don’t recognize the area.

  Mostly, I sit. I thump my head. I hope Iris is all right. I hope Mom will stay hidden until takeoff. I wonder about Dad.

  That’s how they find me later that night: cold, dirty, and silent.

  “Sweetheart, please talk to me.” It’s the Surinamese engineer. She steers her scooter—with me on the back—through the darkness. There’s just the sound of the water slapping against us, the wind gusting past, and now her voice. She has to shout to be heard, which turns her normally friendly voice shrill and wrong.

  And she’s asked this before.

  “You could have died out there. If we hadn’t tracked your scooter . . .”

  I hadn’t known they could track me. It doesn’t make sense that they could.

  There’s more I should be wondering. I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see the world rushing past us, too-fast too-cold grays and browns in the lightstrips of the scooters.

  “Did something happen?” she asks.

  “Just let people on the ship deal with her, Antonia,” Captain Van Zand’s brother calls from the other scooter. The wind slashes his voice in half.

  Antonia keeps trying anyway.

  We reach the noise and light of the Nassau. I don’t want to, I think. I can’t. Antonia’s hand appears too abruptly. I shrink back, almost enough to knock me off the scooter.

  “Whoa! Whoa. Sweetheart. I just . . . let me help you up.”

  My legs clench the seat tight, tight. Antonia stands on the ramp we’ve moored at, hand still extended.

  “I . . .” She sighs. Leans back. “I’m sorry.”

  When she’s far enough away, I climb off, slow and deliberate. My legs shake. The steadiness of the ramp feels odd after the constant sway of the past hours. I keep my eyes focused on the loading bay, ignoring the engineers still crawling over the outside of the ship. Some call at me. I start up the ramp, past Captain Van Zand’s brother and Antonia, needing to find my room, needing to see if Iris has made it back yet, even if she’ll want to talk and I don’t—can’t—

  I let out a whine without opening my mouth.

  “Good,” Anke’s voice says from far away. “You found her.”

  A few seconds later, she’s in my view. A flare of red hair, her lips set in a thin line. She picks at her nails and stares down coldly.

  “Let’s go lock her up.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  THEY LET ME WALK ONTO THE SHIP ON my own. I’m stiff. Shoulders hunched. They keep talking to me, but I register only bits and pieces, too focused on where I might be going, my eyes too sensitive after hours in the pitch-dark to deal with even the muted hallway lights.

  Here is what I do pick up on, though:

  Suspicious of Iris, they placed trackers on her canoe and my scooter. They tracked us to the Olympisch Stadion, missing me by minutes. They found Iris and the barrels, and things clicked for them as they did for me. They transported the barrels back as fast as they could.

  Only hours later did they wonder where I’d gone.

  “I need your tab.” Anke stops by a door in an unfamiliar area. No windows. Is Iris in here? Is it a cell? It never occurred to me that they’d need cells on board. I don’t understand why they’d bother.

  I don’t understand why they don’t simply abandon us outside. They will eventually.

  Anke grabs my wrist. Her fingers scrape over my skin. Her thumb hooks under my tab. The pressure wakes my every nerve, sets my whole body alight. I scream and yank my arm back, the movement sending me spinning until I’m flat against the door.

  “Fine, you take it off,” she says, glaring, but my heart is going a million kilometers an hour and the lights are still too bright. I can barely see Anke through the blur of panicky tears. “No? I’m running out of patience with you.” She grabs my arm again. I scream, try to tear it away, but I’m already up against the wall and there’s nowhere to go. I slap wildly with my bad arm. Pain flashes through. It’s like that piece of rebar is tearing it
s way through skin and muscle all over again.

  Anke clicks loose my tab and pushes me away. Captain Van Zand’s brother opens the door behind me. I stumble back, sliding off balance. I’m screaming again. Still. Not sure.

  “Why the hell would they ever let someone like you on board?” Anke’s spittle sprays onto my face. I must’ve gotten a hit in: blood freckles her lip.

  The door slams shut.

  I crumple to the floor. My breath comes in shallow spurts. What just—why—where am—

  I hear them walking away, and Anke’s voice, which sounds angry. She got spittle on my face. I can still feel tiny warm dots. I burn with the need to clean it, to make everything right and proper and mine again. I’ll need water and a towel. I have both in my backpack, but I—I don’t feel it sitting on my back anymore. They must have taken it. Did I even bring it with me from the scooter? I’m not sure.

  All I have now is my filthy coat.

  “Those assholes.” Iris crouches by my side.

  I start. I hadn’t realized she was here. I look past her. We’re inside a bedroom, smaller than our own cabin upstairs, but with the same two beds and two nightstands. A second door stands ajar, revealing a glimpse of a sink and tiled walls.

  “They told me they found you. I was so worried. I screamed at them to look for you. Can I . . . ?”

  She lifts her arms. There’s something in her eyes, something fragile, or a question, or—I lean away. I’m still shaking. The thought of her arms around me makes me clench up.

  I need to wash my face.

  Instead, I sit. I notice myself swaying back and forth after a while. Iris is talking to me: about my tab, I think, and the barrels.

  Get it together, I tell myself. Get it together.

  But I don’t.

  “They won’t listen to me.” Iris sits on one of the beds, her legs drawn up. “I told them I didn’t steal the barrels. Osman found them. They must be the ones that got swept away in the flood. I’m sorry for lying—I never meant—” Her voice breaks. “My friends need the barrels more than the Nassau does. You understand that. Right? Please tell me you understand that.

  “I know Captain Van Zand will kick me off the ship whether the barrels were stolen or not, but I’ve told them that you didn’t know anything. They think you helped me, though. They’ll keep us here until they know for sure. They’re working on identifying the barrels. I guess they’re worried we’ll tell people about the ship if they kick us off now. They’ll probably keep us here until right before launch. Did they tell you this already?

  “I don’t think you’re even hearing me.”

  Her laugh turns into a sob.

  I’m listening. I just don’t know what to say. Or how. Words crawl in the back of my mind but won’t take enough shape to reach my tongue. I stand, let my coat and scarf slide off my shoulders, and go wash my face.

  Iris sits on the right-hand bed. I’m on the other bed, curled on top of the blanket. I keep my eyes closed. I feel as though I’d collapse if I so much as try to stand, but somehow, sleep won’t come.

  Iris talks at me sometimes. She’ll say: “Captain Van Zand took the barrels back, didn’t he? Did they say if there was fighting? Were my friends injured?”

  Or she’ll say: “I almost forgot you used to barely talk at all. Isn’t that weird?”

  Or: “They won’t give us the benefit of the doubt. They never do.”

  Or she’ll say other things. It takes too much focus to listen and I—I can’t.

  So I’m silent.

  I wish my thoughts could be silent.

  Hollow thuds on the door. A whisper-shout. “It’s Sanne. Are you—”

  Iris shoots toward the door. “Sanne!”

  I’m on the bed, watching.

  “I can’t stay long—Fatima is distracting them—what happened? Where’s Denise?”

  Iris stands right by the door. I imagine Sanne’s silhouette on the other side. My fingers fuss with a coil of hair, running through it again and again.

  “Denise is here.”

  “Denise, you OK?”

  Iris glances at me over her shoulder. Like she’s waiting for something. “Denise is . . . she’s stressed. She doesn’t want to talk.”

  “Did they do something to her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” Iris doesn’t look fine. She’s been crying. It’s such a bizarre sight that I’ve been sneaking glances at her every now and then. It’s different. Not right. It makes me want to close my eyes until she and the rest of the world are back to normal. “Sanne, they think we stole the barrels. They’ll throw us out. But . . . listen. Two days ago, Denise and I smuggled our mother on board. Anke found out and blackmailed us. Later, we blackmailed her back, made her help us hide our mother. But everything we had on Anke was on our tabs, which she must’ve known—she took them from us the second she could. Now there’s nothing to keep her from telling the captain about our mother. If she does, Denise and I will get kicked off for certain. If I can convince them Denise had nothing to do with the barrels—she didn’t, I was the only one who knew—she stands a chance. Maybe. If they find Mom, she doesn’t.”

  Sanne is silent for a minute. “You want me to hide your mother from Anke?”

  “God, I—I don’t know! I don’t want to get you involved in this mess. But I don’t know what we can do. There’s still a day and a half before launch, and that’s a long time to keep her hidden with Anke on our bad side.”

  “I just don’t know if I can help.”

  “Maybe . . .” Iris rests her head against the door. “If you can’t find a place to hide my mother, can you get her off the ship entirely?”

  “You sure?”

  “Otherwise, she’d be found anyway.”

  “I don’t know how—Shit, Fatima messaged me that someone’s coming—”

  “Els.” I say the word slowly. “Els.”

  Iris turns, her eyes round. She takes a step toward me, pauses. “Sanne, ask Els Maasland for help. Tell her everything.”

  “Got it. Good luck.”

  “Thank you!” Iris calls as Sanne’s footsteps retreat into nothing. She turns back to me, is at the bed in a handful of steps. She crouches until she’s below my eye level. “Hey, sweetie,” she whispers. She’s trying to sound calm, like she’s got it all under control. “Hey. You feeling better?”

  Her skin is puffy, her eyes reddish. They make me think of Mom.

  All of a sudden, I realize why she’s been reminding me of Mom since I found her on that flooded playground. It’s because Mom’s smiles are for my benefit. It’s because Mom lies.

  Iris has been lying, too.

  At least I know now. The realization feels like someone tossing a pebble into a river and expecting a splash, and instead there are just quiet, quiet ripples that fade in seconds.

  “Denise, please. I’m worried. Talk to me. I want to help.”

  Her different not-Iris face, her reddened eyes, that pleading tone—I don’t know what to—it’s pushing at me. I look away. I’m swaying, swaying, letting the afterimages of Iris fade into the calm, pale gray of the wall. The panels in the wall have thin lines separating them. They’re horizontal, long, and of irregular widths. I’ve been studying them. Identifying a pattern in the different widths, seeing if they repeat themselves or if they’re random.

  “Denise—”

  I scrunch up my face. Stop stop stop. I shake my head, pleading, my hair swishing around me, Stop stop stop.

  “Please!”

  Just wait, just wait, just leave me alone, just stop stop just stop I was doing better it was getting quieter stop making it worse I’m sorry I’m sorry I can’t right now stop stop

  I bare my teeth. Hum a sound, my tongue pressed flat to the roof of my mouth.

  That’s all there is for a while. A hum a gray wall a lurch in my body and the mattress underneath.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING A
T EIGHT A.M., Antonia brings us food, which surprises me. They’re fine with us dying after they kick us off, but apparently we won’t go hungry on their watch.

  Captain Van Zand’s brother keeps an eye on Iris, who is standing by the door with Antonia. They’re talking just beyond my hearing range. Antonia keeps shaking her head, stealing glances at me. I turn to the wall and let my fingers glide over the thin impressions between panels.

  (I established the pattern last night. It almost seems to repeat itself, then doesn’t, which tripped me up at first, but I found the real break shortly after and then didn’t understand how I didn’t see it straightaway.)

  (I’m not at my best. I realize that.)

  “Hey,” Iris says once the door slides shut. She sets the tray on my nightstand. “I asked if they could give us something else, but . . .”

  I study the tray. Orange juice. Apple-pear crisps. My lips purse at the sight of the final ingredient: bread with chunks of walnut.

  “I know, right? It’s like they did it on purpose.” She lets out a low laugh. “Do you want me to pick out the walnuts? I’d wash my hands first. I’d be very, very thorough. And then if you want to give it a try, you can. Or do you want me to raise hell to get you something different?”

  I watch the bread. There aren’t too many walnuts. And I’m hungry. I didn’t even realize.

  “Tell me. No—sorry. No. You don’t have to talk. Just let me know what you need me to do, whatever way is possible.” Iris sinks onto her bed. When I don’t answer, she breathes in deeply, slowly.

  I nod toward the bread.

  Iris steps into the bathroom. She leaves the door open, offering me full sight of her as she washes her hands. She’s right: she’s thorough. She scrubs under her nails, applies soap twice, rinses well. She doesn’t touch the door or anything else on her way out.

  Then she crouches by the nightstand and starts picking.

  The door opens two hours later. Something is placed on the ground.

  “That’s the only favor you get,” Captain Van Zand’s brother says.

  The door slides shut again.