Rise (13 page)

The Jeep continued on. Clara pressed her face against the wall, her eyes on the road. “They're leaving,” she said after a long while. “I can barely see the taillights anymore.” She looked down at Bette, who was tense under my grip. It was only then that I noticed how tightly I was holding her.

I released her but held on to her arm, even as she tried to pull away. “If you want to leave, leave now,” I said, pointing to the door, which was resting on its side, the hinges broken. “But no one is going with you.”

I let her go. She sat back on the floor. Against the dim light from the window I could see how small she was. The T-shirt she wore was three sizes too big, her arms bony and thin. She didn't get up to leave. She didn't even acknowledge what I'd said. Instead she picked at her bottom lip, the silence swelling around us.

“She didn't mean it,” Helene finally said. She slid down off the bed, offering Bette the towel she was holding.

In some other place and time I would've gone to her, helping her up, telling her not to get upset. But I felt nothing now, even as she cried. If they'd heard her, seen us, as she wanted, I would've been taken back to the City, three of us—Clara, Beatrice, and I—hanged as traitors.

I settled down in the chair in the corner, trying to relax into the thin cushions. It was Clara who helped her, who assembled the rest of the girls' beds so they each had a spot to rest. “We're all tired” was the only thing I managed to say.

As the room quieted, Helene comforted Bette, whispering something to her before they went to sleep. The rest of the girls lay down, giving in to exhaustion. I waited until my breaths slowed, the sound of the Jeep fading in the distance as it climbed the road.

Even if nothing had happened tonight, I had the horrible, sinking feeling I'd made a mistake. Maybe I shouldn't have brought them here, thinking they'd be better off. Maybe in some ways, Bette was right. All of us making it to Califia, alive, would be impossible.

THE ROAD SPREAD OUT IN FRONT OF US, RUNNING ALONG THE
ridgeline and out into the sky. As we started into Death Valley we kept climbing, higher into the mountains, the salt floor hundreds of feet below. I tried to steady my hands, but they still shook, the sour sting of bile in the back of my throat. My legs ached; my feet were cracked and swollen. The tender spot between my shoulder blades hurt from carrying the bag for so many miles. I'd tried to stay on a schedule, drinking some of the boiled rain-water every three hours. But with every mile my thoughts returned to the baby, wondering if we'd both survive.

Each day that went by, each morning I woke up with the same queasiness, was another confirmation that she was still alive, that we were together. It was easy to go there, whenever my thoughts wandered, to imagine what she would look like, what she would be like, if she'd have Caleb's pale green eyes or my fair complexion. Sometimes I'd let myself imagine the possibility of Califia, of a life like the one Maeve had assembled for Lilac. I'd think up a houseboat or imagine one of the abandoned cabins that were perched in the mountains over the bay, trying to picture what those dark rooms would be like if they were cleaned and restored, the thick vines cleared from the windows.

On my clearest days, when the truth kept presenting itself to me, I knew that life in Califia was part fantasy. As long as my father was alive he'd always be looking for me—for us. I was probably already on the billboards inside the City, listed among the rebels. However hard it had been to avoid the soldiers before, it would be even harder now.

“I can't walk anymore,” Helene called out. She knelt down a few yards ahead, her eyes squinting against the morning sun. “When is the next stop?”

“We just started,” Clara pointed out. “We've been on the road for less than an hour.” She slowed in front of me, the plastic sled skidding on the pavement behind her. We traded on and off, dragging it along, bringing the few supplies we'd collected in the past four days. Old blankets and clothes were wrapped around the last bottles of water. We still had five unmarked cans left, some plastic rope, and tape, as well as an unopened bottle of alcohol we'd found in a cellar. Our only map—the folded sheet Moss had given me—was tucked into the waist of my pants, right beside my knife.

“I can't help it. It hurts,” Helene said, her braids falling in her face as she examined her shoe. She wore the same pair she'd brought from the hospital. The leather slippers were broken in the back, her heels bloody and raw.

I turned back, looking over my shoulder. I could still see the gas station a mile back—the only structure on the ridgeline. We'd spent the night there, the small, cramped room providing relief from the wind that ripped through the valley. “Try this,” I said, grabbing an old roll of duct tape nestled in the sled. My eyes met Beatrice's—she was the one who'd insisted we take it from under the broken cash register, saying we could use it, if only for makeshift bandages.

“I'm thirsty,” Bette said, grabbing for a bottle in the sled.

“Not until the next break.” I took it back, hiding it beneath the blankets, out of sight. “This has to last us until the next lake.”

Bette turned away without acknowledging me, as she'd done for most of these first days. She threaded her arm through Kit's, a girl with deep auburn hair that cascaded down her back. She'd tied it back with string she'd found along the way, but it was always coming loose.

“You all right?” Clara said softly, as Helene finished bandaging her foot. “You don't look well.”

I glanced ahead, where the other girls walked together in small groups, their steps slow and uneven. “Just the usual,” I said, shaking out my hands, waiting for the quaking in my stomach to pass. Beatrice and Sarah turned back, watching me over their shoulders, as I paused at the edge of the road, where the pavement dropped down a steep incline. “Go ahead. I'll catch up.”

I felt the nausea taking over again. Clara waited there, seeing if it would pass. Finally she turned to go, following the girls over the twisting road, which narrowed up ahead, the rocky cliff ledge the only thing between us and the salt floor below. There was no stopping it. My body tensed as I leaned over, staring at the pavement. My stomach was empty, though, the past days a string of insubstantial meals, my throat throbbing from the effort.

Come on, you've been through worse than this
, a familiar voice rose up from somewhere inside me. It was Caleb—that gentle, joking tone he sometimes took with me. I could almost hear him now, having just the tiniest laugh at my expense. Wasn't he right, though? Hadn't I been through worse? I'd made it to Califia once before. I'd escaped my father. I'd lost the one person I loved despite myself, this quiet voice the only thing I had left. What was this quick, passing illness compared to that?

I wiped my mouth and stood, noticing Beatrice there for the first time, her lips pressed together as she watched me. She looked older than when I'd first met her, her shoulders stooped, her skin dry and leathery from the sun. “You should have told me sooner,” she said, turning over her shoulder to make sure the girls were far enough ahead.

“Told you what?” I asked.

“That you're pregnant.” Beatrice pushed a piece of hair back from her face. “There were murmurings of it at the adoption centers, but I wasn't certain if it was true. This is the third morning you've been sick. Maybe that's lost on the girls, but not on me.”

I looked down at the pavement, kicking some sand over the tiny pool of spit. “I didn't want them to know,” I said. “They're already worried enough as it is.”

She helped me up, away from the rocky ledge, and we started after the girls. She stared ahead, not daring to look at me as she said it. “It's Caleb's?”

I didn't answer. With every person who knew the truth it became more real, and I became more attached to it all—the idea of this little girl, my daughter, and a life we could have in Califia. It was nearly impossible to focus on what was before me: how we'd get to the ocean, our next meals, where we'd spend the night. There was still a chance I could lose her, that it all could go away.

Beatrice kept her head down, her voice slow and deliberate. “You can tell me, Eve,” she said. “You have to know you can trust me. What happened with Caleb was a mistake. I panicked. Your father had threatened her.” Her eyes fell on Sarah, who was walking several yards ahead, helping Helene along.

“I do,” I said. “I know you would take it back if you could.”

Beatrice covered her mouth with her hand. “You'll see,” she said. “It's not easy. Sometimes I feel like I've made so many mistakes—too many. I've tried so hard to protect her.”

“You didn't know about the Schools,” I said, remembering the night I had met Beatrice, how well kept the secret had been. She, like most in the City, believed the girls had volunteered to give birth.

“You should've told me you were pregnant,” Beatrice went on. “I could've helped you. Here we are, all alone, and you're suffering like this. You should have told me.” She squeezed my hand, the warmth of it comforting me.

I watched Sarah up ahead, beside Helene, kicking a rock as they trudged over the narrow road. She'd found a cloth bag in a house miles back and carried a few of her things inside, letting it swing on her shoulder. The girls stayed in the center, as I'd directed, away from the steep drop. “She'll be okay, Beatrice,” I said. “She's handled this the best out of all of them. That has to mean something.”

Beatrice watched the road as we walked. “You're polite,” she said. “She hasn't exactly taken to me so easily. You've seen her, I know you have.”

I nodded. When Sarah went to sleep for the night, settling down beside Helene or Kit, I'd seen the passing disappointment on Beatrice's face. Sarah insisted on carrying her own bag, on walking with her friends, and the conversations I had overheard between mother and daughter always seemed a little forced and awkward. Beatrice asked questions, and Sarah provided short, one-word answers. “It'll take time,” I offered.

Beatrice nodded. She squeezed my hand again, her eyes returning to Sarah. The girls had stopped at the edge of the road, Clara with them. They were looking down at something below. “I hope,” she said. “And I'll keep your secret if that's what you want, but you'll have my dinner tonight.”

“Beatrice, that's not—”

“I know there's not much, but you need it. And we'll figure out more provisions in a few days, when we get to the lodgings on the map,” she said. “I insist.”

“We can hunt when we get to the first lake,” I said, trying to ignore the growing pain in my stomach. “It's only two days off.” As we approached the girls they were smiling, Kit pointing to something out across the valley floor.

“You can see them!” she yelled to us over her shoulder. “Sheep!”

I squinted against the morning sun, noticing the horned sheep moving up the side of the rock face, a hundred yards below, just to our left. Beatrice walked beside me, laughing when she noticed them. There was a whole herd, two smaller ones in the center. They nearly blended in with the sandstone rock. “I spotted them first,” Kit called to us, her fingers combing out her long ponytail. “Do you see, Eve?”

We made our way up the narrow road. The girls had turned to us, waiting for my reaction. It was a relief to see them smiling, the heat of the day not yet upon us, their thirst and hunger forgotten, if only for a moment. I was about to comment on their discovery when I was distracted by Helene. She stood to the side of the group, near the edge of the cliff, where the pavement gave way to rock. She held one heel in her hand, fiddling with the same shoe that had bothered her before.

It happened so quickly I barely had time to react. She set her foot back behind her, too close to the edge, and the rock crumbled beneath her step. She was pulled down the side of the steep cliff, the earth going with her. She let out a choked yell as she slipped away, out of my view.

I HEARD HER LOW, BROKEN CRIES AND THE SOUND OF THE ROCK
giving way, hundreds of tiny pebbles careening down into the ravine, toward the valley floor. A few of the girls knelt, trying to reach her, but she was already too far below. Her body fell farther down the jagged cliff. There was the horrible, skidding sound of her hands dragging against the stone, trying to find something to hold on to.

“Stay back from the ledge,” I called, motioning for Bette and Sarah to move away. As I reached them I studied their faces, afraid to look over the cliff, into the valley. There was a thudding sound a few meters below, then quiet. As I ushered them back, farther onto the road, I peered over the edge, careful to keep both feet on the pavement. Helene was thirty feet down, maybe more, lying on an outcropping of rocks. She was holding her shin with both hands. Her knuckles were scraped to the bone. A gash had opened at the front of her head, the blood running into her eyes.

“My leg,” she called. Her face was contorted in pain.

“How far did she fall?” Clara asked. “How badly is she hurt?” She pushed the girls back, farther away from the ledge.

Bette's eyes filled with tears. She kept running her hand over her blond ponytail, pulling at it. “I told you,” she said, her voice uneven. “This is what—”

“That's not what we need right now,” I said. “She's hurt.” I went to the sled and riffled through it, trying to find the plastic rope. I loosened it, threading one end around my waist, through the belt loops at my hips.

“What are you doing?” Clara asked. She glanced sideways at Beatrice, trying to gauge her reaction.

“There's enough,” I said, showing her the other end of the rope. There was at least forty feet, possibly more. I searched the edge of the road, looking for something—anything—to anchor it. “Someone has to go down and get her.”