know what it’s like to sit alone, covered in candle wax, day after day after dark goddamn day?”
Pi is looking at me like I’m wielding an ax instead of a wineglass. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says, hands in half surrender. “I should have come for you back then, before. I should have come myself. Your father kept saying . . .”
“That’s not the point, Pi. Just because I’m not in the City right this minute doesn’t mean it isn’t still happening to the rest of the Survivors. Danny still dies whether I’m here or there. How can you—how can New Charity—just sit on your hands?”
“Even if it were up to me, would you really have us gamble with the lives of your Survivors? Think about it.”
“Don’t give me that nonsense about the virus being in the water. Most of the Survivors have antibodies—they’re as immune as those of us from New Charity, and people have been drinking from the dregs of the Basalt the whole time. Whatever you’ve got in that reservoir has been diluted over the last five years. Even if we have to keep boiling the water, we can’t rebuild without electricity, and now we’re dying in other ways. Preventable ways, Pi.”
“Syd, I hear you, but I need you to be careful. Take a few weeks and process your father’s death before you go spouting your discontent all over town.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Look, Syd, the Bishop can’t see forward, only behind. But the twins . . . All I’m saying is be careful about the positions in which you place your friends. You think this is all for the greater good, but there are people’s futures at stake.”
“There are people’s lives at stake, Pi,” I find myself yelling. “Don’t you get it?”
He pulls his jacket on and looks at me, the color drained from his face. “More than you know, Syd.” The soft bump of the screen door punctuates his exit.
I’m so tired I hurt. So pissed off at Pi that I almost feel awake again. But I know that sleep is a necessary evil. I let my deep memories lead my feet, unsteady with wine, up the stairs and down the hall to my old bedroom. Shouldering the door open, my hand lands on the switch, once more right where it should be. The room brightens, and I gulp for air.
In the City, it’s not all that uncommon to happen into perfectly preserved spaces. Though I’m usually searching for libraries, I’ve blundered into sewing nooks and laundry rooms and walk-in closets. There’s a hush, a reverence, as it happens, an involuntary flashback to some part of my own life.
Sometimes I visit these spaces intentionally. Last year, I made my annual ballet memorial trek through the dressing rooms of the Company. I wandered the row of women’s lockers, trying to resist the urge to cry over the rat-chewed satin and tulle littering the room—a feat made easier with Danny trailing behind me, proclaiming that once a place smells like feet, the place will always smell like feet, come hell or high water, as will the people who spend their time in such places. People like dancers. All dancers but me, right? He’d remained mercifully silent.
But the laugh he would’ve loosed over the pink monstrosity of my preteen bedroom would have been heard clear to the Survivor camp. Nary a scrap of wallpaper can be seen beneath the adages illustrated with dancers in unlikely poses, posters of new satin slippers juxtaposed with ratty leg warmers, and playbills from trips to places that probably no longer exist. Tiaras and headpieces, favorite tutus, and worn-out pointe shoes hang from tattered ribbons. The corners of my four-poster bed are draped with costumes I left behind, sweated through and outgrown, and dried bouquets of roses. It’s the work of an insane balletomane. There is no trace of me here, though. No real person, just ruffles and hopes. I don’t remember being this myopic, but here is the evidence.
My mom had said we’d start fresh in the City. And we did. I left the
Pi is looking at me like I’m wielding an ax instead of a wineglass. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he says, hands in half surrender. “I should have come for you back then, before. I should have come myself. Your father kept saying . . .”
“That’s not the point, Pi. Just because I’m not in the City right this minute doesn’t mean it isn’t still happening to the rest of the Survivors. Danny still dies whether I’m here or there. How can you—how can New Charity—just sit on your hands?”
“Even if it were up to me, would you really have us gamble with the lives of your Survivors? Think about it.”
“Don’t give me that nonsense about the virus being in the water. Most of the Survivors have antibodies—they’re as immune as those of us from New Charity, and people have been drinking from the dregs of the Basalt the whole time. Whatever you’ve got in that reservoir has been diluted over the last five years. Even if we have to keep boiling the water, we can’t rebuild without electricity, and now we’re dying in other ways. Preventable ways, Pi.”
“Syd, I hear you, but I need you to be careful. Take a few weeks and process your father’s death before you go spouting your discontent all over town.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Look, Syd, the Bishop can’t see forward, only behind. But the twins . . . All I’m saying is be careful about the positions in which you place your friends. You think this is all for the greater good, but there are people’s futures at stake.”
“There are people’s lives at stake, Pi,” I find myself yelling. “Don’t you get it?”
He pulls his jacket on and looks at me, the color drained from his face. “More than you know, Syd.” The soft bump of the screen door punctuates his exit.
I’m so tired I hurt. So pissed off at Pi that I almost feel awake again. But I know that sleep is a necessary evil. I let my deep memories lead my feet, unsteady with wine, up the stairs and down the hall to my old bedroom. Shouldering the door open, my hand lands on the switch, once more right where it should be. The room brightens, and I gulp for air.
In the City, it’s not all that uncommon to happen into perfectly preserved spaces. Though I’m usually searching for libraries, I’ve blundered into sewing nooks and laundry rooms and walk-in closets. There’s a hush, a reverence, as it happens, an involuntary flashback to some part of my own life.
Sometimes I visit these spaces intentionally. Last year, I made my annual ballet memorial trek through the dressing rooms of the Company. I wandered the row of women’s lockers, trying to resist the urge to cry over the rat-chewed satin and tulle littering the room—a feat made easier with Danny trailing behind me, proclaiming that once a place smells like feet, the place will always smell like feet, come hell or high water, as will the people who spend their time in such places. People like dancers. All dancers but me, right? He’d remained mercifully silent.
But the laugh he would’ve loosed over the pink monstrosity of my preteen bedroom would have been heard clear to the Survivor camp. Nary a scrap of wallpaper can be seen beneath the adages illustrated with dancers in unlikely poses, posters of new satin slippers juxtaposed with ratty leg warmers, and playbills from trips to places that probably no longer exist. Tiaras and headpieces, favorite tutus, and worn-out pointe shoes hang from tattered ribbons. The corners of my four-poster bed are draped with costumes I left behind, sweated through and outgrown, and dried bouquets of roses. It’s the work of an insane balletomane. There is no trace of me here, though. No real person, just ruffles and hopes. I don’t remember being this myopic, but here is the evidence.
My mom had said we’d start fresh in the City. And we did. I left the
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