“Just tell me. Are they okay?”
The day Hilda and Dada moved to the Group’s encampment, Frida said she was disgusted. “I know you’re scared out here, I get that,” she’d told them. “I know they’ve promised to keep you safe, that you won’t have to worry about money. They’ll probably treat you like royalty. But they took Micah from us. Doesn’t that matter?” When her parents wouldn’t answer, she told them of her and Cal’s plan. “We’re getting out of L.A. as soon as we can.”
“Don’t be stupid,” her mother had said. “You have to stay.”
That’s when her father had called her a traitor, for leaving willingly. Frida didn’t say that Micah was the real traitor. She wouldn’t.
Her mother had hugged her goodbye and said, “Enjoy the air out there.” Her father had hung back, saying nothing.
The Group had welcomed Hilda and Dada to join them and partake in their resources. They would make sure they were safe and that they’d never go hungry. After all, their son had died for the cause. All the Group asked for in return was the house, which they’d dismantle for parts, and the land, which they’d use for who knew what. Frida didn’t want the property; she didn’t care about inheritance and all that. The pain she felt at their leaving for the encampment was about something else. She was losing everyone. Cal had been trying to convince her to leave L.A. for months, but it wasn’t until her parents told her of their plan that she agreed to go. There was no reason to stay.
“I haven’t been in touch, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Micah said. “But the encampment stretches to downtown now. And there’s another one planned. This time, near the beach.” He paused. “I’m sure they’re fine. Better than fine.”
“How can you say that? They think their son is dead.”
Micah said nothing, only stacked the cups and put the cap back on the bottle of liquor. There were only a few drops left; it would be empty in one tiny sip.
“You could have gone, too,” he said. “It took Hilda and Dada two years to agree to it. I would’ve thought you’d join them right afterward.”
God, she wanted to shove him off the tree. “I would never.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You never did live in reality, Frida. Or maybe I’m wrong, and that’s more Cal’s problem.”
“Leave him out of this.”
“Frida.”
“What?” She hated him saying her name.
He was looking right at her.
“What I did, my disappearing, it wasn’t selfish.”
“Sure, it wasn’t. You had a cause, you said that already.”
“No,” he said. “Well, yes, but also Hilda and Dada are comfortable now.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She couldn’t describe to him how it felt to have first her brother taken, and then her parents.
“What else can I tell you?” Micah said after a moment.
“Can you guys procreate?” she asked. “Are the women infertile?”
“That’s what you want to know?” He laughed. “Wow, Frida. I never knew you were such a geek. You like zombie movies, too?”
“It’s a good question, and you know it.” This was the moment to tell him she was pregnant. Do it, she thought. But she couldn’t even open her mouth.
“We can procreate, yes. But that doesn’t mean we do.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “You believe in containment.”
“Don’t make fun of our brand.”
This time, they both laughed.
“The containment stuff…does it have anything to do with blood?” she asked. “Like, you know…rejecting it?”
“Why?” But then he held up his hand to keep her from answering. “It’s not blood that’s the problem.” He paused. “It’s the color.”
“Red?”
Frida remembered Sandy. That first time, meeting by the creek. How Sandy had snatched Cal’s red bandanna from Jane. And, later, how Sandy had turned away from Frida in the shed so as not to see the red sleeping bag.
Like Sandy, Anika was afraid of a color. How had Frida not put that together?
Frida looked at Micah. “Why is she afraid of it?”
Micah smiled. “It’s a thing. She has negative associations.”
“What does she associate it with?”
“Pirates,” Micah said, and Frida reared back.
“What?” she said. “What do you mean? They’re real?”
“They’re nothing to worry about,” he said. “They were only a problem for the original settlers.”
So Sandy had to be an original settler. Bo, too.
Frida held her voice steady. “Tell me about Bo and Sandy.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“So you don’t deny knowing them.”
“I don’t want to scare you away.” He smiled. “Not yet, at least.”
“That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
“For now.”
Her brother stood and held out his hand to help her up. His hand, she noticed, was unscathed, uncalloused, unworked.
“You’re the boss here,” she said.
“Somebody’s gotta be,” he said, and shrugged.