They had called it the Bee, even though someone, Dada maybe, eventually realized it was a butterfly. By then, it was too late, the Bee was the Bee.
It was a plastic butterfly with clear blue wings and a big smiling face. From its head protruded a ring that opened and closed; Hilda used to hook it onto their stroller or onto one of their car seats. Not that Frida remembered any of that; when they were older, the toy used to sit on the mantel like a vase, and Hilda would sometimes talk about it. When Frida and Micah were babies, she said, the Bee had the miraculous power to turn their distress into something more palatable. It had saved the family on many crosstown car trips.
Frida picked it up and rubbed her hand over the ridges of the wings, across its smile, its big orange eyes. Its body was striped, black and white, but now the white paint had peeled off, revealing a sad gray color beneath. The Bee.
Her brother had taken this toy from their home. He must have wanted a souvenir before he left L.A. for good, and he knew it wouldn’t be missed. Frida had forgotten all about it.
There was no way Micah saw this now and didn’t think of their family, of their mother’s stories. He might not want children on the Land, but it wasn’t because he was evil. He had to have a reason; it had to be an act of compassion.
Maybe her brother would give this to her, pass it on to his niece or nephew. He loved her, and he loved his family. Frida remembered what he’d said to her in the tree house. He thought she’d go to the encampment with their parents. He’d wanted her to be safe, too. Her little brother was mixed up, but she could forgive him for that.
*
As Frida walked into the kitchen, Anika said, “I thought we’d try breadsticks today.”
The kitchen was dark, the candle between them throwing shadows across Anika’s face.
“Those were my brother’s favorite, growing up,” Frida said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“He loved stale, store-bought ones. He loved how crunchy they were.” Frida laughed. “It was kind of weird, actually. But also funny.”
“Sounds about right,” she said.
As they worked, Frida said, “The kids had to leave when Micah got here, right? That was a condition of his help?”
Anika nodded, but she didn’t look up. “It was practical.”
“I thought so,” Frida said.
“August had access to a Community. At first, we didn’t know which one.”
“And you didn’t know it was Pines until August brought the objects for the Forms?”
Anika didn’t answer.
“Anika?”
“Back then, the Communities had everything figured out except one thing: children. What if someone couldn’t conceive, even after IVF and all that? What then? It didn’t happen often, but occasionally, there was one unlucky couple on the block.”
Frida remembered what Toni had told her: that in Communities, childless couples were frowned upon.
“August took the youngest children there,” Anika said. “To live.”
“Adoption?”
“They wanted babies.”
“What about the older kids?” Frida asked.
“Bo and Sandy took Jane to live off the Land. They were the only ones. A handful of others were going to do the same, but right before the Millers left, another family lost their child. Melissa—our oldest. I told you she had that fever when the Pirates came? Well, she died of it.”
“My God.”
“It frightened us, the thought of being out there alone, vulnerable to something like that happening. Micah told us we were right to worry. I’m not sure if his goal was to scare us into keeping close, but it worked. Melissa’s parents are still here.” Anika didn’t say their names, and Frida didn’t ask. She’d let them be themselves, not their tragedy.
“I assume Pines was able to take care of the children?” Frida asked. “They wouldn’t die of fever there. But I bet it’s terrible sometimes being without Ogden.”
Anika nodded. “It is. But I’m glad he was young enough to be adopted. Micah said he’d go to a family immediately, a well-off one. The older kids didn’t have it as easy.”
“They weren’t adopted?”
“No. They were sent to a place called C.A.P., the Center at Pines. That’s where children too old to be adopted are educated and trained for jobs. Micah said they’ll be well fed and safe. He showed us pamphlets. It looks like a nice boarding school, with classrooms and a cafeteria. Once they’re old enough, they receive apprenticeships. The kids who grow up at C.A.P. are guaranteed jobs upon turning eighteen. It’s manual-labor stuff. They’ll only be eligible for certain jobs, but they won’t die of fever or starvation, and their lives will be easier there.” She paused. “Micah said it was the best thing for them. Didn’t we want a better life for our children?”