Contaminated (28 page)

“He didn’t look so bad.”

Dillon shakes his head. “He hasn’t recovered half as much as your mom has. He can’t talk, has trouble eating. He has to wear a diaper. We don’t think he’ll ever get better.”

“But … he’s not getting worse, is he?”

From the back room, a laugh track makes me wish any of this were funny. Dillon scrubs at his hair again, rumpling it. I reach to smooth it and he captures my hand to kiss it before squeezing my fingers in his.

“No. Not worse.”

“What did they do to him?”

Something painful flits across his face. “He was the second wave. Mom and I didn’t even know he’d ever used ThinPro—he didn’t need to lose weight. We found out later the break room at his job stocked them in the soda machine. We think he just liked the taste. When he didn’t come from work, Mom called the cops. They were on the
lookout for him. Found him in someone’s garden, tearing up the rosebushes. They … they staked him.”

Dillon touches the inner corners of his eyes. “Ice-pick lobotomy. That’s what they were doing to everyone.”

“I remember.” I shudder. “I’m so sorry.”

“They were honest in the report. Said he hadn’t done any harm they could tell, hadn’t seemed aggressive, made no moves toward the arresting officers. He was just tearing up the flowers. He had his wallet still with him, so they could get his ID. And they just … did him, and not gently.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s an honest but not helpful thing to say again.

Dillon shakes like he’s throwing off bad memories. “Anyway, they were just following orders. Who knew, right? There were a lot of people just going nuts. They didn’t know my dad. And who knows … he might’ve done something … eventually.”

I know there’s a good chance my mom committed crimes. Destruction of property. Maybe attacked someone. There’s no record of it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

“Some date, huh?” Dillon says. “Sorry.”

“No. Don’t. I’m glad you brought me to meet your dad.”

“Oh, that’s not the date.” Dillon brightens, takes me by the hand. He leads me into the dining room, where the table’s been set with good china and glasses. “This is the date.”

“You made me dinner?”

“Well …” He looks sheepish for a second. “Mom made the dinner. But it was my idea. It’s sort of … to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” My mouth’s already watering at the good smells coming from the kitchen, and my stomach rumbles. We aren’t lacking for meals, Opal and me, but they’re usually simple and cheap and, because I try to be responsible, healthy.

“We’ve never had a date,” Dillon says.

I stop cold in the doorway to look at him. It’s the sweetest, most romantic thing any boy’s ever done for me. Not that a lot of boys have ever done anything for me. It’s all the more special because of that.

Dillon—or Jean, really, but it doesn’t matter—has made roast chicken. Baked potatoes. Dinner rolls with real butter, corn, and Brussels sprouts. Baby carrots so tender, I want to cry when I bite into them. And soda! I haven’t had cola in so long, the bubbles make me cough.

Then there’s dessert. Chocolate cake with chocolate icing and mint chocolate-chip ice cream with hot fudge and whipped cream. Minutes before he brings them out, I’d have said I couldn’t force myself to eat another bite, but I know I will. No regrets, either, as I finish off a full plate and lick the fork, then my fingers.

I sit back with a sigh. “I’ll need bigger jeans.”

“My mom says you could use some extra meat on your bones.” Dillon’s eaten just as much as I have, and he rubs his belly. “She says it about everyone, though.”

“Dillon. Thank you. This was the best date I’ve ever had.” I mean it.

Dillon smiles. “I wanted you to have something, Velvet.
You work so hard, keeping everything together. And I know it’s hard for you. I just wanted you to have something nice.”

There aren’t many teenage boys who’d think of such a thing, much less go through the effort of making the gesture, but Dillon’s not a boy, I think. He’s young, but he’s a man. He doesn’t get to be a boy any more than I get to be a girl. We’re both grown-ups, even if we’re not really adults.

It isn’t so hard right now to imagine myself spending the rest of my life with Dillon.

It is hard, though, to imagine spending the rest of the night. Already the sky’s getting dark, and we did promise Opal we’d be back before dark. Dillon helps me wrap up leftovers, and I don’t even protest. I’m proud, but I’m not that proud. Besides, I know Opal and my mom will love the chocolate cake as much as I did.

I’m full and happy and content as Dillon drives me home, and not even the roadblock ahead can ruin it. The soldiers can, though. This time it’s a woman who motions for Dillon to roll down his window.

He shows his throat at once, but she barks out, “What’s your business here?”

“I’m driving my girlfriend home,” Dillon says.

She looks down the road, which has no other traffic this far out of town. “Where does she live?” She waves a hand. “Never mind. Let me see her throat.”

I open my coat.

She stares at me with narrowed eyes. “Say something.”

“What?” Dillon says.

“Not you.” She points. “Her. What’s your name?”

“Velvet Ellis.” My voice sounds raspy.

This seems to satisfy her, though. She nods sharply, but doesn’t step aside right away. “You know you’re almost breaking curfew, don’t you?”

“It’s only—” I begin, but Dillon answers.

“I thought it was at eight!”

She shakes her head. Her face softens a little. “New curfew in effect. Nightfall. We’ve had some reports of incidents in Lancaster.”

That’s twenty-five miles from here. Yet still close enough, I guess, to worry about. I have to ask. “What kind of incidents?”

“The usual.” Her eyes narrow again. “Nothing for you to worry about. Just move along. And get off the streets.”

As she says this, an ambulance, followed by a police car, both with lights flashing and sirens wailing, speed past us. They don’t stop for the soldiers, who merely wave them past. She looks back at us.

“Remember, curfew starts at nightfall.”

She waves us on.

WE’RE QUIET ON THE WAY HOME. WE DON’T pass any other cars on the road, which hasn’t been unusual for months but seems especially chilling now. I’m angry that our date, our first and only one, has been ruined by all of this.

By the time Dillon pulls near my driveway, I’m clenching and unclenching my fists because I can’t do anything else. I resist when he pulls me into his arms, but only for a second or two. Then I’m melting against him.

This isn’t like the times with Tony, when we stayed in his car as long as we could before my mom started to flick the light switch on and off to let us know it was time for me to come in. It’s not even dark now, but it doesn’t matter since there’s nobody to catch us kissing.

“It’s going to be okay, Velvet. It’s all going to be okay.”

I don’t believe him, but it’s nice to hear him say it. “All of this stuff, Dillon. It’s all so …”

“I know.” His fingers twirl around a lock of my hair, not pulling. “You’re going to make it through this, you know. And it’s all going to blow over.”

“The way it did the last time? Look how well that turned out.” I look out the window at my house. There aren’t any lights on inside because I haven’t turned on the generator. “You’d better go. It’s getting dark. You’ll be out after curfew.”

There’s really been no information about what happens to you if you get caught out after curfew, but it would be trouble I don’t want Dillon to get into. He’s done enough for me. For us. It’s not fair to expect him to do more.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t move.

I smile. “Now, Dillon. You don’t want those soldiers stopping you again.”

“They’ll stop me, anyway. It’s a roadblock.”

Both of us fall silent at this, at how it’s awful and yet has become so natural—soldiers on the streets, curfews, power outages, and lately, food shortages. I kiss him again. We haven’t been together long, but it feels more normal than anything else.

A light flashes.

“Gotta go,” I say automatically. “My mom—” I stop and stare at the front door of the house. The porch light’s not on, of course, but there’s definitely a light flashing. On, off. On, off. Just the way my mom used to do it. We both get out of the truck. I reach the door before he
does, though Dillon’s right behind me. My mom’s standing inside the storm door, pointing a flashlight out at the driveway. On, off. On, off.

She lowers it when she sees me. She opens the door and holds it for me. I look over my shoulder at Dillon, who’s just staring. He looks amazed and a little sad, and I know he’s thinking about his dad.

“Sorry, Mom.”

She makes a noise that might’ve been a word, but wasn’t quite. It’s enough, though. There were times before all this happened that my mom could yell at me with only her eyes, and she’s doing it now. I giggle, not because it’s funny but because with everything else going on in the world, for my mom to be scolding me for kissing a boy seems just so … normal.

“Night, Mrs. Ellis,” Dillon says politely.

She blinks the light in his face. Then she closes the door on it. She shuffles away into the family room, which is tidier than it was when I left. I hear the clink of metal on wood when she puts down the flashlight.

“Where’d you go?” Opal says. She’s curled up in the armchair, reading a book in the last fading light coming in through the window.

“To Dillon’s house, that’s all. I met his dad. He’s like Mom.”

Opal nods. “Oh. Mama made me some grilled cheese.”

“She did? How? What about the beans?”

Opal points to the fireplace. I see a stoneware bowl with a lid settled in the ashes. “She baked them in that?”

“Sure. They were good, too. I love grilled cheese. Can you get some more cheese the next time you go to the store?”

“We’ll see.” The shortages are mostly with junk food and high-priced stuff like steak and seafood. Luxuries. Stuff I can’t really afford, anyway. “Did you do your homework?”

“Yeah. Mama checked it.”

I look over at my mom, who’s in the kitchen washing some dishes. “C’mon, Opal. You know she can’t do that.”

“She can do lots of stuff.” Opal puts her book down. “But you can check it if you don’t believe me.”

“Tomorrow.” I’m too tense to worry about it now, and even though I’d never want Opal to think it doesn’t matter, I’m not sure her homework really does. Not anymore.

I go to the kitchen and watch my mom as she slowly washes each dish, rinses it, and sets it in the drainer to dry. “Mom.”

She turns at the sound of my voice. Her smile’s crooked, but real. She’s looking at me, not through me. She tilts her head like she’s curious. “How are you, Mom?”

She blinks rapidly. She lifts a hand, tilts it back and forth. Then she touches her forehead with the tip of one finger in two places, once on each temple. Then she touches the collar and her smile tips into a frown.

“You want to take it off.” It’s not a question.

She blinks again, eyelids fluttering. Her fingers fall away from the collar. Her gaze is a little blurred when she looks at me again. I don’t know how sophisticated the technology is, if they can somehow trace something in her brain that’s reacting to her thoughts, but something’s definitely happened.

Then she shakes her head sharply. Once, twice. She slaps her face next and I’m so startled, I don’t even move to stop her. The sound of her palm on her cheek is loud enough to get Opal’s attention, too.

“Mom, don’t.” I catch her hand before she can do it again, and her fingers twist in mine. There’s a red mark in the shape of her hand on her face.

But her eyes are clear again. I don’t understand this. Something is going on with the collar, with my mom. She’s trying to tell me something with the motion of her fingertips, sign language I can’t figure out. Opal’s been better at interpreting than I am, but even she doesn’t have a clue.

My mom stops. She clings to both of us, hugging tight. When she pulls away, she looks so much like the way she used to that I have to swallow hard against the rush of emotions threatening to choke me.

They told us the Contaminated would never be the way they were. There was no cure. You can’t fix a brain, you can only hope to rewire it. But what if the scientists and doctors and government officials are wrong?

“I can’t take off the collar, Mom. It’s programmed to go
off if anyone tries to get it off without a special key. I don’t have one.”

She nods. She touches her head again, once and twice. Then she touches her throat, just above the collar. Then her lips, almost like she’s blowing a kiss.

“What’s she saying, Opal?”

Opal tilts her head just the way my mom did. She’s such a little minimom. “She wants to talk, but she can’t. Something in her throat is wrong, and her mouth won’t work.”

“From the collar.” It has to be.

My mom opens her mouth. Noises come out, but they’re not words. I can see the frustration in her face. She tries again. And again.

The green light blinks.

“Mom, enough. You’re going to hurt yourself.” An idea strikes me. “Opal. Pen and paper!”

Opal jumps at once to the junk drawer, where she pulls out a pad of paper and a dull pencil. “Mama, can you write?”

“Can you draw a picture, maybe?”

My mom takes the pen and paper and looks at them like she’s not sure what they are. My heart’s falling, but Opal takes our mom’s hand and puts the pen to the paper, demonstrating. Mom brightens. The pen skids across the paper, leaving an unsteady black line.

We’re all excited now, the way we used to get when we played Pictionary. My mom’s scribbling. Opal and I are calling out possibilities. My mom keeps drawing.

“House! Um … boat? Noah’s ark!” Opal shouts.

I’m trying harder to make actual sense of this. “House? Our house?”

It’s a square with a pointed top added, but beyond that, I really can’t tell what she means. My mom shakes her hand and lets the pen drop. She flexes her fingers and reaches for the pen again, but it won’t stay still in her grip. She lets out a long, low groan of frustration.