Afterland (6 page)

              “We’ll have more fun back at camp. Besides, we have to decide, and you should be sober for that. Let’s go.”

They go up the stairs where I assume they rented rooms.
Decide what?
What are they talking about? Why are they here? I wish I hadn’t told them to leave the next day. I am jealous of everything, every small detail of their life. What I envy the most isn’t even the fact that they are changing the world and I am serving liquor. I am jealous of their snowmobiles and their sleek-looking helmets. I am jealous of how close they all seem to each other and how they all have their own unique personalities that are so different from the type of person Hopetown has made all of us into. I am jealous of the fact that they get to drink alcohol instead of serving it. I am jealous of Mike and Nathan for knowing what it is like to have siblings. I am jealous of the air they breathe and the sky they see and the sun they wake up to, because the fact that it is theirs makes it different somehow. I am jealous of wherever their home is, because anywhere is better than here, but I’ll never get out.

I sigh.

I suppose I’m destined to stay here forever.

__              __              __              __              __              __              __              __              __              __             

The next morning, the entire village is gathered around Thirty One Center Street. The roads here are packed enough to walk on without falling through. I creep up to the back of the crowd, making myself as small as possible, but the person standing in front notices me and steps to the side. Immediately the whole crowd has parted in front of me, leaving a clear path leading to the door. I understand that they want me to go in. Probably because half of them don’t expect me to come out alive.

              Carefully and painstakingly slowly, I walk to the door. I am uncomfortably aware of the awkward crinkling of snow beneath my feet. It is the only sound breaking the silence. I want to run inside quickly, or better yet, run away completely. But instead, I walk in what I hope is a dignified way, adopting a prouder stance with every step. They want me to fail? Well, in that case I’ll prove them wrong. Them and myself both.

I open the door.

The four rebels in full attire are walking down the stairs at that moment.

“Come to wish us a farewell?” Mike says.

“I came to make sure you would keep your promise. So you can go now.”

Part of me really does want to see them go, so that I could forget my taste of another world and return to the repetitive lull of Hopetown. I can’t bear any more of this false hope. Just a little more and I’ll be at their feet begging them to take me along, and I wouldn’t be able to handle their rejection.

“We’ll be gone very soon. I promise. But,” he smiles a little, as if he knows something I don’t and my heart catches in my throat. I breathe out softly.

Say it.

Say that I’m worth it.

Say that I’m worth bringing along.

Please.

“You know, you could come with us.”

My body breathes out in relief, fear, and electricity.

He did it.

I can’t believe it, but he really did it.

And I can’t believe it, but-

My heart stops and I hold my breath as I am torn in half. I don’t trust this Mike character, I can’t. He could be lying and he probably is, because things like this don’t happen, and he’s probably just a spy, and he must be taunting me, and why would they ever want to bring me with them, but-

But, my goodness, I want to believe. My chest hurts from how much I want to look at the faces in front of me and call them the Rebellion. How much I want to look at my own face and call myself the same.

Come with us.

I have absolutely no idea how to respond so I just stand there with my mouth open.

I throw a glance around the bar and out of the single grimy window. This
—
all this
—
has been my home for almost thirteen years. Most of my life has been lived out here. Most of my memories are from here. Everything I am now originated here.

              Would I even survive in a different world? I am so carved for life here that I might never be able to make it out.

My heart rises to my throat.

The truth is, I want to say yes, I want to go. More than anything else in the world, I want to get onto one of the snowmobiles and ride far, far away from here and not come back. Every molecule in my body protests against staying here. Every breath I take begs to leave. And here it is, the chance to do it, placed right at my feet.

But the scale of that decision stops me from agreeing.

So instead I say, “No.”

I think my voice must be shaking.

“Why not?”

Check.

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you do. For all I know, you could be CGB spies. I don’t trust you.”

Your move.

“Don’t you? What’s your name.”

“Molly,” I respond automatically. Why did I tell him my name?
You don’t trust him, remember?
I remind myself. But it is too late.

“Aha!” He cries triumphantly. “So you
do
want to come with us!”

“What?” I cross my arms across my chest, attempting to express an emotion I can’t explain. “I never said that!”

“Didn’t you? Why did you tell me your name then?”

Because I do want to come, more than anything else in the world, and I despise you for knowing it.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say, though that is not a real answer and my tone of voice is so unconvincing, even I don’t believe myself.

“That means everything,” he objects. He thinks for a moment. “Fine, if that doesn’t convince you, tell me this: what do you want more than anything in the world?”

Checkmate.

I could lie, of course. I could tell him that I want to settle down and live a peaceful life with my family, and watch the ocean winds wear Hopetown to the ground. I could tell him that I never see the faces of the Rebellion ever again. I could tell him that this means nothing to me and that he’s wasting his time trying to convince me, but my tongue trips over itself every time I open my mouth to try and say it.

I can’t bring myself to lie about this.

“I want to change the world,” I admit quietly. The words are sweet and acidic in my mouth.

Mike smiles triumphantly.

“In that case, we leave in half an hour.” I nod silently and turn my back to the Rebellion, just for a moment, and return into Hopetown.

The crowd watches me curiously. I think they still expect me to be dead.

My parents are waiting a few meters behind everybody else. I pull them back several meters more.

“Mom, Dad,” I say, “I love you, you know that right? I want you to always know that.”

“Of course,” my dad responds. “We love you too, Molly, more than anything in the world.”

My heart pangs.

I love you too. That’s why I’m leaving, alright? Can you understand that?

“What’s going on? Is everything alright?” my mother asks anxiously.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, all right?” I leave them standing with the crowd and run to my house. The door creaks familiarly as I push it open and rush into my room. I pull a backpack from under my bed. Mike didn’t specify what to bring, so I stuff in as much as fits and hope that I’m bring the right things: several shirts, pants, sweaters and basic toiletry. I put my paint blocks and two pads of paper into it as well. I tie my snowshoes to the back and push several books into the pockets. My hands move automatically, as if by a rehearsed routine. From the corner of my bed, I take the bunny that I ran with from the ash clouds and my closest friend for thirteen years. One of his ears is falling off. I’ve never noticed that before.

Is that all I want to bring?

No. There’s one more thing. In the very corner of the wasteland under my bed is a small chest. I pull it out and open it. Inside is a small locket with a photo of my parents and me before the Tragedy. I clutch it tightly to my chest and breathe deeply, inhaling its musky scent. That smell has always been the beacon of comfort and safety.

I blow the dust off of it and open it, running my fingers fondly along the photograph’s faded surface and the tarnished metal of the locket. This is what I’m leaving behind, but I know that and I’m doing it anyway. I slip it over my head, put the backpack on and head out. I am surprised at how easy this is for me. Where are all of the regrets, the guilts, the hesitations?

I open the door.

Ah.

There they are.

Somehow the creak of the door tells me that I’m not ready to leave this place, not yet. I go back inside, running my fingers over the walls, turning over spoons in my hands, dragging my feet over the floor. I turn the light bulb on and off several times. I run a finger over the top of the fireplace and it comes off gray with soot. Gray with home.

I go into my parents’ room. I press their covers to my nose, taking in the warm smell and trying to recreate our happiest memories together. I clutch the bedknob on their headboard and rub my fingers over the lacquered surface.

I press my hands to the cold glass of the windows, leaving my fingerprints behind. I close the shutters, but then decide to open them again. Why should there be less light if I’m gone?

I stop at my door frame, almost afraid to go in. I place my hands on the frame, one on either side and take a deep breath. Finally, I step in. I take it in hungrily, as if seeing it for the first time. I run my fingertips over the walls, the bed, the mirror, the drawer, the window frame. I trace every paint splatter, every unevenness in the wall. I breathe in the stale smell of paint. I look at all the paintings on my walls. Every one of them is a memory. Very few are happy, but they are all part of me.

I wipe the dust off of the mirror and try to remember myself exactly like I am now. I run my fingers over my own face, as if it will change somehow. My cheekbones stand out and my eyes are sallow. My hair hangs limply down my shoulders and looks more ashen than blonde. And the sour half smile that constantly haunts my face hasn’t gone anywhere either.

Maybe this isn’t such a good way to be, but this is me. No matter whether I like it or not, this is who I am.

And now it’s time to change that.

I look at my reflection again.

“Rebel,” I whisper out loud to it.

Is that who I am? Am I ready to become that?

I guess we’ll just have to find out.

I’m ready to leave now. I look at the paintings hanging on the wall and wonder if I should take any, as a reminder of home, of whom I used to be.
No,
I decide. Let these parts of me stay here, in Hopetown, as a tribute who I was and who I will become.

I close the door to my room and to my parents’ room. It seems wrong to leave any door open. I close our front door for the last time, hearing it creak for the last time. I walk through Hopetown’s streets slowly.

For the last time.

I may hate it, but there is no denying that Hopetown is important to me. 

I look back at our house and the word
prison
comes to mind. Deliberately, I walk back to the door and spit from the porch.

I might as well let out my spite on Hopetown one last time.

When I get back to Thirty One Centre Street, the crowd has dispersed. Only a few stragglers, including my parents. remain. When they see me, they start toward me. I try to explain properly, but I can’t find the words.

“Tell my boss I resign.”

“Molly, they’re...they’re taking you with them, aren’t they?”

“Yes, mom,” I answer with a sad smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you
sure
this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then...I...we…” she says, the sound catching in her throat.

“We love you too,” my father finishes. “Now go, go and-”

“Go and change the world,” she whispers.

They didn’t even try to stop me. They really believed that this is the right thing for me, and didn’t stop me, their only child, from leaving to pursue my destiny. That, I think, is true love and true courage. It makes me smile. Just a little.

“Thanks,” I say quietly.

“Molly, wait, before you go, promise you...promise you’ll never forget us.”

“Of course not,” I say, and hug both of them. We hug tighter than we ever have before and none of us want to let go.

“And promise...promise you’ll...you can’t…” My mother whispers against my ear.  She doesn’t finish, only whispers ,“so young,” but that is enough for me to understand.

“I promise. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Molly.” We let go and I can see that my mother is crying. I hug her one more time.

“Bye, Mom,” I whisper.

“Molly, wait. Before you leave. Take this. It’s my medical kit.” She pulls the small box out of the pocket of her doctor’s jacket and presses it into my hands. “It’s the last way that I’ll be able to keep you safe.”