I had no choice but to follow. If she left the nursery, there would be no light. I needed her light, dim and distant as it was.
We returned to the supply closet. Outside the building, the metallic rattle of a nourishment box lid caught my attention. Lizzie’s, too.
“Good,” she said. “Break time. Before we have to gather up the empty bottles and diapers. Wait here.” She went into the corridor, leaving me in the total darkness of the supply closet. I heard her footsteps against the concrete floor, a scuffling sound that faded away briefly and then returned as she walked back to the closet, the narrow beam of light preceding her, bouncing from side to side like a firefly.
When she came back in, I saw she was carrying a hard-boiled egg. Just one. She sat down in the rocking chair and began to peel off the shell, putting the small fragile pieces in a Re-Cy container beside the chair.
“Guess Randall forgot to requisition an egg for you. Funny, he did take the time to write my name on this egg. Look here. It says Lizzie. So it’s mine. Better luck tomorrow night.” I heard the tiny bits of shell pinging into the metal container. “In fact, I’ll remind Randall that you need an egg. That’s only the right thing to do, don’t you think? And Randall pretty much does anything I ask. Know what I mean?”
She took a bite of the egg and smiled at me, bits of yellow yolk stuck on her teeth.
“You know, working the night shift has its benefits. Like this egg.” She held the last bit of the egg up, like a trophy. “The Authority makes sure we get a middle-of-the-night nourishment. Praise be to the Republic.” She ate the last of the egg and leaned back in the rocker. “And now we rest.”
With that she turned off her torch. The darkness was immediate. I couldn’t see a thing, but I could hear the collective breathing of the children. The older ones turning in their beds. One of the babies was crying but Lizzie didn’t seem to hear that.
“Lizzie,” I whispered, “one of the babies is crying. Shouldn’t we check?”
The rocker creaked as she shifted her weight.
“So? Babies cry. That’s what they do. I bet I cried when I was a baby. And I bet nobody ever held me.” I thought her voice sounded sad. Or maybe mad. A strange mixture of the two.
“We should check, just to be sure.”
“Just to be sure of what?” The rocker creaked again.
“Maybe the baby needs something. I don’t know. Maybe a clean diaper. Or some more bottle. Joan said—”
She snapped on her light, aimed it directly into my eyes, and leaned forward.
“I’ve been in the Village longer than Joan. She came from what, the farm co-op? Please, you think she knows anything? We diaper them all at the end of our shift. They eat what we give them. When we give it. End of story. No child, no baby, gets more than any of the others. That’s the rule.” Snap. The torch was turned off again. “That was the rule when I was raised here. No one ever held me.” I didn’t like hearing those words in the dark. This time I didn’t hear sadness or anger. Just a voice as flat and cold as ice on stone. “Besides,” she added, “it’s good for them. Good for them to learn straight away how things are.”
“Do you really believe that? That it’s good for them?”
“Of course I believe it. I was raised that way and I turned out okay.”
“But—”
“But nothing. It’s how it is, and it’s what’s right.”
I leaned against the wall, feeling the cold concrete through my uniform. The baby was still crying. Nothing seemed right. Joan said not to restock on night shift. Yet we restocked. Joan said I would be stationed in the nursery. But here I was in the supply closet. Joan had said nothing about a torch.
Soon I could hear Lizzie’s deep breathing, a snoring sound with a bit of a whistle at the end of each breath. Regular, in and out, the sound of deep sleep. I couldn’t believe she would actually fall asleep while on duty. I tried to remember if Joan had said anything about sleeping. Even if she hadn’t, sleeping on duty made no sense. Didn’t seem right. A baby was still crying. If I had to, I would report Lizzie for sleeping. Whatever it took, I would do it.
I felt along the wall, moving slowly, until I came to the open door. The air in the corridor was cooler than in the supply closet. Quietly, keeping my hand on the wall, I walked toward the nursery, toward the crying baby.
I passed the twin hallways that led to the older children, boys on one side, girls on the other. Moving forward, slowly, ever so slowly, with my arm out, wanting to feel the touch of the wall when it resumed. Picking my feet up tentatively, trying to remember if there was anything in the corridor that I might bump into, anything that would make a sound and wake Lizzie.
The baby was still crying. The closer I got, the louder it got. A long wail followed by little sobs, little short-of-breath sobs, then another wail. Long, short, short. Long, short, short. A rhythm of need.
Finally, the nursery. I felt my way along the line of cribs, evenly spaced cribs, evenly spaced babies, and moved closer to the crying. It was the first baby on the boys’ side. The nipple had fallen from his mouth. I repositioned it close to his lips and patted his back. Soon he was quiet and eating.
I moved farther into the nursery, toward Elsa, moving from crib to crib, feeling the wooden edges until I came to the last one. In the darkness, I leaned over Elsa, felt the warmth of her on my hands. I picked her up and held her against me. How light she was, how easy to pick up. She curled against me, her head on my shoulder, her cheek next to mine. Skin to skin. I breathed in the smell of her, milky and warm, wanting to pull it into me and never let it go, never forget it. I patted her back and swayed back and forth, holding her. She nestled even closer, and we fit together perfectly. My baby, my Elsa. Warm tears slid down my cheeks—warm, happy tears.
I forgot about the Gatekeepers and their clipboards. I forgot about the Authorities and the Enforcers. I forgot about Randall and Lizzie. There was only Elsa in my arms and I wanted it to go on forever.
A torch snapped on. Light in my eyes. Lizzie stood in front of me, hands on her hips, shining the light without mercy on my face.
“Citizen,” she said in a low, menacing whisper, “you have broken the rules.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I tightened my arms around Elsa and took a small step backward. Lizzie took a step closer to me, her hands on her hips.
“The rules?” I asked.
“Yes, the rules. Like I told you.”
Elsa moved her head against the side of my neck. Her hair was soft and warm, but I felt cold and afraid. Through the window slit I saw the dim light of the moon and heard the clumping steps of the Gatekeeper.
“I know you told me,” I whispered because I didn’t want to wake Elsa. She moved her head again, and squirmed in my arms, her legs pushing against my chest. I had to think of something, anything, that would explain my actions without making it worse. “I was doing what Joan had told me we were to do. Comfort the babies. She’s my boss, and she’s your boss, too. Besides, I was afraid the crying baby would wake you up.”
She took another step, her face pushing closer to me. I took another step back, against the wall.
“Are you crazy?” she asked. “I wasn’t sleeping. Hear me? I wasn’t sleeping.” I could smell her breath. I turned my head away but I could still smell the hot, musty egg yolk.
“As far as Joan goes, I got friends that will say I comfort babies. I got friends that will say you’re lying. Joan doesn’t have friends here. You don’t have friends here. I do. I’m not farm co-op. I’m not home-raised. So put that baby down. Now.” She stepped back and I could see the shadow of her arm pointing to the crib. “Or you will be sorry.”
“Everything all right in there?” Randall must have been outside by the window slit. He must have been listening, hearing everything. “You need my help in there, Lizzie?”
“Not right now. Least I don’t think so,” she answered, still pointing at the crib. “But I caught this new worker sleeping. Can you b
elieve it? Sleeping. First night on duty.”
“Well, then,” he said through the slit, “that needs to be reported, don’t you think? I mean, after all, you know—”
“I’ll think about it. Don’t you go telling anybody till I decide. I might let it go if she promises never to sleep on duty again.”
At first I was stunned. But then I knew with clear, cold certainty exactly who Lizzie really was: a snake. An evil, slimy snake who, just like the real snakes, was being protected.
Randall said, “I’ve got to finish rounds. Got to make sure the Authority’s special supply building is locked. But I’ll check back. Put out a flag if you need me.” I heard him clumping away on his uneven footsteps.
Lizzie turned back to me. “Put the baby down. Now. We’ve got some talking to do.”
I moved to the crib, felt the hard wood of the side against my thighs, and bent forward to lay Elsa gently on the mattress. I took my time doing it, savoring every second, making Lizzie wait. Lizzie turned her light on the crib and watched me. Elsa curled on her side, still asleep, her pink fist by her mouth. Her nourishment bottle was still half full.
“Follow me,” Lizzie said.
We went back to the supply cupboard. Lizzie sat in the rocking chair and motioned for me to sit on the stepstool. Lizzie rocked and her torch bounced up and down. Shining off the walls, off the bottles of nourishment, sweeping past the clipboard with its list of names, up to the ceiling, across my face, down to the floor. The stepstool was low and my knees were up around my chin. My back was cold against the wall. Somewhere down the dark hall a child was coughing.
We sat that way, in silence, for what seemed a long time.
Finally Lizzie spoke, her voice gruff. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” She kept rocking.
My mouth felt dry, as though my tongue were made of shoe leather. “Nothing,” I said. The words seemed to quiver and hang in the air in front of me as Lizzie stopped rocking and the torch settled on my face.
“You bet you got nothing to say.” She rocked awhile, the chair creaking with movement. “And I know why you don’t understand. You were home-raised. Aren’t many of your kind left, thank goodness. Bet your mama never taught you anything, now did she?”
“She told me about the before-time.”
“Before-time! It’s over. Forever. So why even tell you about it? I heard she was a little bit crazy. Word gets around.”
Through the window slit, I could see dirty gray clouds slide over a sliver of the moon.
“Heard she didn’t like the idea of change. None of them liked the idea of change. They were stuck in the muck of the status quo. That’s what I heard.”
I could hear Randall walking past the building, making rounds, his footsteps shuffling.
“If you had been Village-raised you’d know the real history. Like I do. Had to memorize it. Got good grades, too. That’s how I got this job.
“Real history had its beginning with the Republic. So let me tell you about it. Then maybe you’ll understand.”
She sounded proud and sure of herself. She paused, as if deciding where to start, and then went on. “Did she tell you how hard people had to work before the change?”
I thought of the photograph of Mother holding me, the way she was smiling, how green the grass was, the big house behind us.
“She never said anything about working hard, nothing like that—”
Lizzie interrupted me. “That just proves she was crazy. See, before the Republic, people had to work hard. Either grow their own food, or work and get money to buy food. Had to pay for their houses, too. And clothes. All that stuff. Big, big companies made the rules because they owned the energy and drilled the Earth for it. Regular people didn’t have a chance. The Earth didn’t have a chance.”
From the nursery, I heard a baby cry. I wanted to go there. I didn’t want it to be Elsa.
“Sit still,” Lizzie said, as though she could read my mind. “It’s all part of their learning. Sleep when it’s time to sleep, eat when it’s time to eat. I was raised here. I learned it. They will, too. That’s how it works.”
“But they’re just babies,” I said.
“They’re Citizens,” she answered. “We all live by the same rules.”
The crying slowed, harder to hear. A brief quiet. Then it started again.
“Back to your history lesson,” Lizzie said. “Stuff your crazy mama never told you. Bet your daddy didn’t tell you much, either.”
“He taught me a lot.” Do whatever they ask.
“You don’t act like he taught you a lot. Guess he had his hands full keeping your mama under control.” She shifted in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. Her pant leg pulled up and I could make out the bony knobs of her ankle.
I stood up and stared down at her. “Don’t talk about my parents like that. You have no right! They loved me and took care of me.”
“And where are they now?” she asked in a cold, flat voice. “Are they here now?” She stared back, blinding me with her torch. “Sit down. We’re not done.”
I remained standing, ignoring her command. She either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.
“Things got worse,” she continued. “Some kind of new crisis every day. Food prices skyrocketing, energy shortages, riots in the streets. People grew restless, scared. That’s when the Republic was born. One wise and powerful man became the Ultimate Authority. His name was Fabian. He chose other wise and powerful men to join his Authority and the people became Citizens. Proud Citizens. Praise be to the Republic.”
Her voice had slipped into a monotone, almost trancelike.
Another baby was crying. Then another. The babies needed me. I needed to go to them. I started to walk out of the room.
“Sit,” Lizzie said. “I’m still teaching. Remember, I can report you for sleeping, for breaking the rules. And Randall will, too. And then what will happen to you?”
She rocked. Babies cried. I felt tears behind my eyes, a burning pressure.
“But it wasn’t easy,” she went on. “There were some who didn’t believe in the Central Authority.” She said didn’t believe in a way that I could imagine her lip curling up over the words. She rocked harder, the light from the torch bounced faster, like lightning in all directions.
“Your mama didn’t believe. And her mother and sister didn’t believe.” Her mother? Her sister? That would be my grandmother and my aunt, but I never knew a grandmother or an aunt so how did Lizzie?
“How stupid. How very stupid they were. The Central Authority was promising to take care of them, give them food and clothes and housing. Meet all their needs. And at the same time, protect the Earth.” She had slipped back into the monotone, the rocking slowed, and she fell silent for a long moment. Then she started again. “Those stupid people tried to organize against the Central Authority. Can you imagine that? Organize against the Central Authority?” She made a snorting sound, like a hiccup and a laugh mixed together. “And when the relocation of Citizens began, they held protests. Right there at the train stations. Protests. Big protests by small people. Status quo people.”
“Why don’t you just stop talking?” I asked.
She ignored me. “What do you think happened next?”
“I have no idea.”
“They were shot. Right then and there. In front of everyone.”
“Shot?” I tried to imagine that scene. I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine it. I’d seen guns on the army members when they marched on display at the Social Update Meetings. But they never seemed real.
“Yep. Shot. Killed. I heard that your grandmother and aunt were shot. Right in front of your mama. Others were, too. Guess there was a whole pile of bodies. Different people told me that. Randall saw it for himself, before he got on the train.”
The room was silent, except for the rocking. Except for the noise in my head, in my ears.
“From what I’m told, that’s when your mama started acting crazy. Some of the others
did, too. Your daddy worked hard to keep your mama from acting out. Had to remind her, from what I hear. Had to remind her not to say anything.”
Again, silence. In that silence, in that darkness, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Did David know all of this? Did Joan and John? Surely they did. But no one ever told me. Father never told me. Piles of bodies, and nobody told me? Mother digging at her skin with her fingernails, and turning away from me when I asked questions. The questions, the memories tumbled in my head, pushing against each other, throbbing and pounding, making me dizzy, making me feel like I was going crazy.
“Only reason they didn’t shoot your mama was that she had to raise you. They didn’t have a Children’s Village yet. See, they were busy making sure everyone had food and shelter. And they had so much to do to start healing the Earth. The most necessary things first. So they needed her to raise you. From what I’ve seen so far, you’d have been better off if they’d shot her. Right then and there. You’d understand the rules better. Raised by a crazy mama, that’s what you get.”
“She wasn’t crazy! She was my mother. How dare you talk about her like that!” My voice was shrill and loud. I wanted to slap her oily, dull face.
She rocked again, the creaking of the chair loud and regular.
“I talk. You listen. That’s how it works here at the Village. Understand now?” she asked.
Oh, I understood all right. I understood hatred. I understood fear of the Authority. I understood, perhaps for the first time in my life, what it felt like to be trapped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The darkness through the window slit began to turn lighter shades of gray. Lizzie stood up and stretched. “Time to get the children ready for the day,” she said. I followed her out of the supply cupboard and into the corridor. As much as I despised her, I had to work beside her so I could see Elsa, make sure Elsa was cared for. Whatever you do, Emmeline, don’t fight them.
We went into the boys’ dormitory first. Their room had a mousy smell of bedding that needed to be sanitized. Their sleeping mats were lined up along the walls. In the gray light I could see small wooden chairs between each mat, and a pile of folded clothing on each seat. The mats were a dark color and the small faces of the sleeping boys were pale against their dark pillows. Lizzie went from mat to mat touching each boy on the shoulder. One by one they stirred, sat up on their mats, rubbed their eyes, and yawned. I followed, unsure of what she wanted me to do. My legs felt weak and my feet heavy. The boys looked puzzled. Perhaps it was because there were two workers instead of just one. They remained silent but glanced at each other as we passed. I counted twenty in all.