THE MUSTANG’S NOT THE BEST CAR FOR going back and forth. Fun. Fast. But not that big and not really practical. We find a Chevy Suburban, and I take that instead. Dillon’s not willing to give up his dad’s pickup, though he admits that if it does break down, he can see the benefit of looking for something else.
“It’s like our own private car lot,” I tell him as we arrange supplies in rows on the shelves we’ve set up in the basement, echoing the way it was in Sandra’s house. I push that thought away, not wanting to think about what else they’d kept in the basement. We’ve built a little shelter, way more comfortable and safe than what she had. But I don’t want to think about my mom needing to use it. Or me, for that matter. “And shopping mall. And warehouse club. And we don’t even need a credit card.…”
Dillon gives me a strange look. “You love this.”
I pause in arranging the cans of fruit I’m organizing by type. “I don’t love it.”
But there is something exciting about it. Once we got started, Opal and I have become really good scavengers. We can strip out rooms in minutes, taking what we can use and putting aside what we can’t. We can clear a house in a day, sometimes one in the morning and one in the afternoon.
Dillon grabs my arm to keep me from taking another handful of cans from the plastic bin I’d packed them in to bring home. He squeezes my bicep. “You’re getting strong.”
I curl my arm, making the muscle bulge. “Rawr.”
In the harsh white light of the LED lantern, his eyes look very bright. His hair’s grown long enough to fall into his eyes, and he shakes his head to push it away. All at once, he’s so handsome, I can’t stand it. I have to kiss him.
“What’s that for?” He laughs, kissing me back.
“Because I … wanted to,” I finish, unable to say more than that. Lame. Oh, so lame.
Cheeks burning, I turn back to pulling out cans of fruit and vegetables and soup, stacking them in order.
“Velvet,” Dillon says softly. “Hey.”
I don’t want to look at him. We’ve never talked about being in love. We went from dating to being married in what seemed like a snap of our fingers. And even though we’d barely been boyfriend and girlfriend before that, I didn’t mind the titles of husband and wife, that legality, because it made sense. It had always felt like a totally practical decision we’d both made when we got the word that they were going to start restricting ration disbursement and health benefits. It hadn’t been romantic. We hadn’t talked about our feelings. We’d just decided that the benefits made sense. But now …
“It’s going to be dark soon. We should get this stuff put away,” I say.
The work goes fast. And he was right, I think. I do love it. Not just the clearing out of the houses, one by one, which leaves me feeling accomplished and at least like I’m doing something worthwhile for the future. But actually having all the stuff here, lined up like this, as some kind of insurance against the future. Yeah. I do love that.
“It makes me feel better.” I take the last of the cans out of the bin and settle them into their correct places, according to what’s in them. And alphabetically, for good measure. “When I lived with Opal in the apartment, looking for my mom, trying to go to school and work, I was always worried that we weren’t going to have enough. That we were going to run out of food before the next check. Or that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with my grades, that Opal would flunk out of school. That I’d never find my mom. So all of this stuff, barricading the windows, making all the safety things really does make me feel better. I do love it. I guess I have a thing for organization.”
“That’s kind of weird, you know,” he says. “The alphabetizing. Weirdo.”
I stick out my tongue, because I can tell he’s teasing. “Takes one to know one.”
We’re silly with it. He chases me up the stairs, trying to pinch the backs of my legs. Teenage-boy stuff, but I don’t mind it, and we both tumble out into the kitchen with sort of guilty looks on our faces like we’re doing something we shouldn’t.
I know at once something’s wrong. Dexter’s whining in the living room, and I hear Opal saying, “Mama,” over and over. Mrs. Holly is bent over, just the top of her head visible over the arm of the couch.
“What happened?” I’m at my mom’s side in a moment.
She’s on the floor, gaze blank, flecks of foam curdled in the corners of her mouth. Her body tenses and releases rapidly, like she’s shivering. A low, grunting moan slips out of her, and Opal claps her hands over her ears and scoots away from her.
“How long has she been this way?” I ask Mrs. Holly.
“It just happened.” Mrs. Holly lifts my mom’s hand, patting it. “Shhh, shhh. Malinda, it’s okay.”
Dillon brings a damp cloth and kneels beside me. I use it to wipe away the spit. My mom’s eyes roll back so far, all we can see is white.
Then everything relaxes. Her eyelids flutter closed. She lets out a soft sigh.
Then she sits up.
“Velvet? Opal?”
“Mama?” Opal launches herself into Mom’s lap. “You’re okay!”
“Mom …”
She hugs Opal tight, looking at me over her shoulder. She’s confused, but … clear in a way she hasn’t been since before the Contamination. She gives me a half smile.
“Opal, ouch, get off me.” She shifts Opal to the side and gives her another confused look. “My goodness, you’ve gotten so big.”
We all stare at her. She looks around the room and settles her gaze on Mrs. Holly. “Vera … what on earth?”
She doesn’t remember anything; that seems clear enough. Her gaze settles on Dillon, and something flickers across her expression. She recoils the tiniest amount, but I notice. I look at him, but he’s not doing anything.
“Hello,” she says. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Dillon. I’m …” He gives me a helpless look.
My mom shifts Opal off her lap and puts her fingertips between her eyes, the way she always used to when her head was hurting. Her shoulders rise and fall. She shakes her head a little. Her gaze is somewhat less unfocused when she looks up again.
“I’m so tired,” she says. “So very, very tired.”
Then her head falls forward, and she’s unconscious again.