I’d only ever seen the small bits of video sometimes captured from beyond the wall. We would crowd around, staring at the tiny screen that the Teacher held in her hands. I’d seen packs of wild dogs feeding on deer. I’d seen tall grass moving as gangs made their way through it, crawling on their elbows and knees to avoid being seen. But this was entirely different. Shots flitted across the screen: a hammer breaking down a rickety old wall, a woman jumping into a man’s arms for a kiss, people making their way down large city streets, just as Otis had described. Arden and I stood, staring.
“You can sit down.” Marjorie laughed, ushering us to the couch. My body collapsed into the cushions and I slowly forgot where I was, instead disappearing into the world in front of me. I blushed when Sam wrapped his arms around Molly and the wet pottery collapsed beneath their fingers. My body tensed, my breaths shorter, as they were attacked on the dark street. By the end, I covered my mouth to keep from crying as they said good-bye.
When the wall went black, Lark begged Otis to put on another. But I couldn’t speak. The movie had been about love, about separation and death. I could only think of Caleb.
“I’m going to lie down,” I said, careful not to meet Arden’s gaze.
Marjorie stopped cutting. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Stay,” Lark urged. “We’ll just watch one more.”
I was already at the basement stairs. “I’m fine, just feeling tired. It must be everything catching up to me,” I lied. Arden gave me an understanding nod as I started down the steps.
“She sometimes gets like this,” I heard her say over my shoulder. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
In the dark secret room I lay down on the bed and allowed myself to cry. Soon I was sobbing, the deep, choked sobs of someone who never got to say good-bye. There was only that bunk, only the road to Califia, just a few days until I was back on the run. I would never see Caleb again.
When Lark and Arden came to bed hours later, stacking the cans behind them, I pretended to sleep. Arden pulled the blanket over my bare toes and carefully tucked it around my feet. “Good night,” she whispered. Soon their breaths were softer, slower, and they fell into a deep slumber.
I would not sleep, though—I couldn’t. I thought of the wood shelf that lined Marjorie’s wall, of the radio that sat on top of it. I imagined Caleb that night at the labor camp, twisting the knob of the machine back and forth, listening to it as he lay in bed. I remembered the one that sat on that tiny broken table in his room. He had to listen to it still. How else would he receive word from the City? How else would he communicate with Moss?
I stood, not feeling the hours that had passed, the exhaustion of the journey with Fletcher, or the tears that had emptied me. Unstacking the cans as quietly as I could, I felt only possibility.
He especially loved people—is so happy, especially remembering Eloise.
Upstairs the living room was dark. I felt around, eventually finding a lantern on the kitchen table. I thought of getting Marjorie, but there was too much to tell. About the raid, what happened with Leif, and the sentence that had sent Caleb running into the woods.
I opened the kitchen cabinets, looking past burnt pots and jars of food, for a piece of paper with a location on it. Teacher had said once, long ago, that before the plague a whole system existed for dispersing mail. Addresses, was the word she had used. I searched a drawer of utensils, and another of batteries, rubber bands, and scissors. In the table behind the sofa there were old photos of a young Marjorie, pregnant, with a small daughter clinging to her leg. I flipped to another of two children in a soapy bath. It was strange that they hadn’t mentioned their daughters, that the walls hadn’t revealed even a trace of them.
Beneath more photos sat three thick paper cards with pictures on them. One said Phuket, Thailand, with water stretching to the horizon. The back read: Hi Mom and Dad, Thom and I are having a great time. The most beautiful beaches in the world are here. It’s paradise. Love, Libby. The address beside it read Sedona, Arizona.
I pulled the radio down from the shelf, twisting its knob the same way I’d seen the Teachers do at School, during our assemblies. A low static filled the room. I held the handset in my palm and pressed on the button. The static stopped. I spoke carefully, making sure each word was clear. “If the islands south ever vanish, even farther into navy depths, my Eloise could appreciate lovely endless blues.” I repeated it again, then another time, as if I were telling him simple truths: I missed him. I needed him. I was sorry.
After I’d said it ten times, the rhythm overtaking me, I added, “See Eloise dive over nimbly, ambitiously.” I repeated that. Then I released the button. There was only static.
Please, say something, I thought, imagining him in that beaten armchair, my voice filling his room. Say something. But only the dumb rush of nothingness hit my ears. I waited there, staring at the black handset, until finally I set it back on the shelf. He might not have heard. He might still be angry. And yet I wasn’t deterred.
Tomorrow, and the next day, and every day until we left I would send out more messages. My voice would echo in that cavern, the words wound together in coded sentences, recited over and over until they reached him, there in the night.