A terrible taste soured Gemma’s mouth.
“The first day I was so happy. I hid far on the other side of the island and missed Stew Pot and all my testing, and I got in trouble from nurses afterward. But it was worth it. Sometimes the cell phone did nothing, and other times it lit and played music. Once I saw lots of numbers and I pressed all the buttons and I must have pressed at the right time and somebody spoke to me. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Hello.’ I was too scared to talk back. I liked to listen, though.” Calliope scowled. “And then the phone made music too loud and the nurses took it away from me. Nurse Maxine said she would cut my fingers off if she ever caught me stealing again. I was happy when Haven burned,” she added abruptly, and her voice sharpened. “I was happy when the roof exploded. I hoped she was inside, I hoped all her skin was burning, her and all the other nurses.”
Gemma took a deep breath, fighting the hard tug of nausea. “But think of how many people died,” she said. “And—and all those babies, the infants in Postnatal, the ones you liked to visit? Remember, you told me that?” Calliope’s face didn’t change. “They’re dead.”
Calliope shrugged. “Things die,” she said. “At Haven, things died all the time. The Pinks and the Yellows, mostly all of them died. Browns too. They got sick early and started walking into things. Forgetting where their cots were and being stupid clumsy.”
“So that’s it?” Gemma’s voice was inching into a scream, and Calliope looked up, frowning, as if the tone bothered her. But Gemma couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t calm down. “You don’t feel bad? You don’t feel sorry?”
It was like watching a shutter latched tight against a storm: all the expression went out of Calliope’s eyes. For a long time, she stood there, staring at Gemma in silence, still holding the hat she’d found in one of the closets, her long white fingers knuckle-tight on its brim.
“If it isn’t the owning that makes humans,” Calliope said finally, and her voice was all knit together, interlaced with tension, “and it isn’t the making, either, then maybe it’s the unmaking?”
Before Gemma could stop her, Calliope had ripped the ribbon from the crown of the hat. She tossed it on the ground and began to stomp it with a heel. Her face flattened, like a reptile’s, into an expression of cold anger.
“Stop it.” Gemma struggled to get to her feet. Calliope swept a hand over the kitchen shelves, crashing mugs, bowls, and plates to the ground. “Calliope, stop.”
She didn’t stop. She turned and darted into the living room. With two hands, she yanked the mirror from the wall and threw it. Gemma had to duck out of the way, folding her ankle again and barely catching herself on the counter. When the mirror hit the wall, the glass slid out of the frame and shattered.
A curse, was the first thing Gemma thought. A curse of bad luck.
“There,” Calliope said. Glass crunched beneath her shoes. “Now it’s ugly. Now it’s ruined. Now no one can have it.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Gemma said, tasting blood and tears in her mouth—she’d bit down on her tongue. Calliope lunged for her and Gemma screamed. But Calliope just gripped her by the wrist, squeezing so tight Gemma could feel the individual impressions of Calliope’s nails.
“What if they never come back?” Calliope asked, so quietly Gemma nearly missed it. Terror swept down her spine, like the touch of an alien hand.
“What?” she whispered.
Calliope was careful not to look at her. “You said the people who live here will come back,” Calliope said. “But what if they don’t? What if they stay away forever?”
Dimly, over the thunder of her heartbeat, Gemma heard Pete creaking down the hall. Calliope released her quickly—but not quickly enough.
“What the hell?” Pete had changed into a pair of loose drawstring pants and a clean shirt, and there was color in his face again, although his eyes were still too bright, as if he had a fever. Gemma was shocked by how intensely relieved she was to see him.
For a second Calliope just stood there, breathing hard. Then she shoved past Gemma and hurtled out the door, letting it slam behind her.
Turn the page to continue reading Gemma’s story. Click here to read Chapter 19 of Lyra’s story.
TWENTY
“SOMETHING’S WRONG,” GEMMA SAID. SHE thought of the way Calliope had flown at her, her sharp-fisted hands, the sour heat of her breath.
What if they never come back?
“That’s an understatement,” Pete said. He smiled, but only halfway, as if he couldn’t quite remember how to do it.
“No.” He didn’t see. He hadn’t seen how Calliope looked, and hadn’t heard what she’d said. “I mean, whoever lives here should have come back by now. They should have come home. Why haven’t they?”
“Hey.” Pete had to step very carefully: he wasn’t wearing shoes, and the floor was still littered with glass. “Deep breath, okay? You’re just scared.”
“What if—what if Calliope did something to them—” She choked on the words, on the very idea of it, and Pete put his arms around her, as if he knew it was the only way to keep her on her feet.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s all right. Home stretch. You’re exhausted.”
“You’re not listening to me.” Gemma pulled away and saw reality for a moment like a fabric sail, blowing away from its mast, straining in invisible currents. “She asked me what would happen if they never came back.”
“She’s never been outside, Gemma,” Pete said. “She has no idea what to think.”
Gemma shook her head. Her mouth tasted like vomit. She was dizzy with confusion and fear. “Where are they then? You said yourself—it’s not like they went on a road trip.”
Pete’s hair was wet: when he pushed a hand through it, water sprayed through his fingers. “Maybe they walked into town.”
“What town?” Gemma no longer cared that she was shouting. “I haven’t seen a town, have you, Pete? In fact, I think the whole reason we’re here is that there is no fucking town.”
He threw up his hands and let them fall hard, a clapping sound that made Gemma flinch. “So maybe they went to a picnic. Or a ukulele bonfire. Or to make soap out of lye or something. How should I know?” Pete was doing his best to be nice, but she could tell he was losing patience. His irritation kept showing, like the nub of something sharp rubbing up beneath a sweater, distorting the fabric. “I mean, shit. She doesn’t even know what a barn is. What could she possibly have done?”
“She knows what a barn is,” Gemma said: a stupid response, but she was on the verge of tears again. “She called it by name. She’s smarter than you know.”