anything?”
“Didn’t look like it. I don’t know what they had before, but their stuff all seemed to be there.” Everything was as neat as I’d ever seen it. The mother’s name was Courtney. I remember standing in that berth and taking the containers of stewed fruit from her when she was done and thanking her. I can’t remember her children’s names. She must have told me them. Must have. And now, as quickly as they’re gone, I’ve forgotten them.
“They attacked others last night,” she says. “A few different people.” She lies back and stretches out her knees. They click as she unbends them, something in her bones and muscles grinding away inside her. I wonder if they hurt or if she’s used to it now. “Maybe they’re looking to expand. This happens.” She waves her words away as if they don’t matter. “It’sa cycle: This has happened before, and it will happen again. We’re powerless, so there’s no sense in fighting it. You should move.”
“I tried to help,” I say. “I went down there, and I was . . .” I don’t know how to finish that. I dawdled. I stood back. I let it happen.
“You shouldn’t have done anything,” she tells me. She doesn’t look at me when she says it, though. “These things will happen, and the best you can do is to stay away from them.” She sits up. “We should get back to work. Life doesn’t stop just because we do.” And then she’s up on her feet and she’s back at the bushes, plucking the berries out and dropping them into her basket. She doesn’t wait for me to join her.
The day goes slowly, as it always does, and I can’t stop thinking about the missing Courtney and her dead husband and sons and how there might have been something that I could have done. I wonder what Agatha would have done in that situation.
I wonder what my mother would have done.
At night I try to sleep, but the ship is shouting. It seems louder than usual, the noise of the Lows echoing through the gulf in the middle of the ship. All around me people are worried. I don’t know how this happens: something in the air, I suspect, that sets everybody on edge. I’m scared, and I don’t mind admitting that. There was a time when I thought that it was enough to have my mother and Agatha here with me, that they would protect me and I didn’t need to worry about shutting my eyes. Now I sleep so lightly that anything—the slightest rustle, the faintest patter of feet on metal floor—canwake me up. Tonight there’s no way that sleep’s coming in the first place. It’s chasing ahead of me and I can see it, but it’s out of reach. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that makes them water. It makes everything worse.
So I picture the things that have made me feel safest. My mother’s face: her eyes, which were so dark that they were nearly black; her hair, the same as mine, tight dark knots constantly fighting to grow out of coarse stubble; and the touch of her soft skin on my face when she held me and told me that this would all be all right. That was her mantra, a song that she used to sing, like a hymn, passed down. Everything’s gonna be all right. Every little thing’s gonna be all right.
I sing it to myself under my breath, so quiet that only I can hear it. It’s a lie, I know. As the noise from the Lows’ half of the ship gets louder and louder, it’s suddenly harder to believe that song than it’s ever been.
“Chan?” Somebody says my name, and that makes me sit bolt upright, my hand darting to my pillow, to my knife. “Chan, are you awake?”
“Yes,” I say, and the cloth drape serving as a door to my berth is pulled back with a musical tinkle from the metal scraps I’ve hung. It’s Bess, the woman who lives in the berth next to mine. She’s holding her son in front of her, and his eyes are a bitter red mess of tears, snot covering his chin.
“We’re scared,” she says. “Can we come and sit with you?” I shuffle to one side of the bunk and pat the
“Didn’t look like it. I don’t know what they had before, but their stuff all seemed to be there.” Everything was as neat as I’d ever seen it. The mother’s name was Courtney. I remember standing in that berth and taking the containers of stewed fruit from her when she was done and thanking her. I can’t remember her children’s names. She must have told me them. Must have. And now, as quickly as they’re gone, I’ve forgotten them.
“They attacked others last night,” she says. “A few different people.” She lies back and stretches out her knees. They click as she unbends them, something in her bones and muscles grinding away inside her. I wonder if they hurt or if she’s used to it now. “Maybe they’re looking to expand. This happens.” She waves her words away as if they don’t matter. “It’sa cycle: This has happened before, and it will happen again. We’re powerless, so there’s no sense in fighting it. You should move.”
“I tried to help,” I say. “I went down there, and I was . . .” I don’t know how to finish that. I dawdled. I stood back. I let it happen.
“You shouldn’t have done anything,” she tells me. She doesn’t look at me when she says it, though. “These things will happen, and the best you can do is to stay away from them.” She sits up. “We should get back to work. Life doesn’t stop just because we do.” And then she’s up on her feet and she’s back at the bushes, plucking the berries out and dropping them into her basket. She doesn’t wait for me to join her.
The day goes slowly, as it always does, and I can’t stop thinking about the missing Courtney and her dead husband and sons and how there might have been something that I could have done. I wonder what Agatha would have done in that situation.
I wonder what my mother would have done.
At night I try to sleep, but the ship is shouting. It seems louder than usual, the noise of the Lows echoing through the gulf in the middle of the ship. All around me people are worried. I don’t know how this happens: something in the air, I suspect, that sets everybody on edge. I’m scared, and I don’t mind admitting that. There was a time when I thought that it was enough to have my mother and Agatha here with me, that they would protect me and I didn’t need to worry about shutting my eyes. Now I sleep so lightly that anything—the slightest rustle, the faintest patter of feet on metal floor—canwake me up. Tonight there’s no way that sleep’s coming in the first place. It’s chasing ahead of me and I can see it, but it’s out of reach. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that makes them water. It makes everything worse.
So I picture the things that have made me feel safest. My mother’s face: her eyes, which were so dark that they were nearly black; her hair, the same as mine, tight dark knots constantly fighting to grow out of coarse stubble; and the touch of her soft skin on my face when she held me and told me that this would all be all right. That was her mantra, a song that she used to sing, like a hymn, passed down. Everything’s gonna be all right. Every little thing’s gonna be all right.
I sing it to myself under my breath, so quiet that only I can hear it. It’s a lie, I know. As the noise from the Lows’ half of the ship gets louder and louder, it’s suddenly harder to believe that song than it’s ever been.
“Chan?” Somebody says my name, and that makes me sit bolt upright, my hand darting to my pillow, to my knife. “Chan, are you awake?”
“Yes,” I say, and the cloth drape serving as a door to my berth is pulled back with a musical tinkle from the metal scraps I’ve hung. It’s Bess, the woman who lives in the berth next to mine. She’s holding her son in front of her, and his eyes are a bitter red mess of tears, snot covering his chin.
“We’re scared,” she says. “Can we come and sit with you?” I shuffle to one side of the bunk and pat the
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