OCTOBER.
The air was chillier by the day, yet Iris and her friends looked every bit as glamorous as in summer. I stepped off my bike and watched them shout to one another from halfway across the park, lugging carts over the lawn and carrying crates of drinks. Nearby speakers blasted music from a local Moroccan rock group.
"You came!" Iris jogged to me. "Can I?"
I nodded, embarrassed as always, and she wrapped her arms around me and grinned by my ear. I returned the hug, one hand twined around her ribs.
"We've missed you here, you know."
"Oh?" I eyed Iris's friends. Two of them had put down a crate to dance, heads tossed back, laughing. I liked the idea of them wanting me here, but it was hard to believe. Whenever I attended these small festivals Iris and her friends organized around the neighborhood, I sat at a distant table. I liked the music, the food, the atmosphere, but I never really participated.
"They like you," Iris said. "They're not sure you like them, but they like having you around. You're honest, and say smart shit sometimes. I mean, I'm never around to hear when you do, but that's what they tell me."
I laughed, hiding my blush. "Real nice, Iris. You want to hear what kind of honest things I tell them?"
"Ouch. I don't think I do." Iris beamed. "It's only right that you're here for our very last festival. I have to help Kev and Anna set up the stage—Oh, damn, and call that bakabana guy. Food has been impossible to arrange. But go chain up your bike and we'll talk about the Way Station in a minute, OK?"
I shook my head without thinking about it.
"No?" Iris already stepped away, but now she lingered.
"I—" My breath caught in my throat.
"You told them? That you're not coming anymore?"
I nodded, then shook my head again, then squeezed my eyes shut. Worse, I wanted to say. Worse. I'd held the panic at bay ever since leaving the Way Station hours before. I could keep it up a few hours longer to enjoy the festival. I'd nibble on warm bakabana and awkwardly turn down cute boys' invitations to go dancing by the stage but feel flattered that they asked. I could do this. I could.
"Take your time, sweetie." Iris was back by my side.
I made an odd sound in my throat. Another shake of my head. I managed to say, "Wednesday." And: "A vet is coming. Wednesday." I swallowed a lump and finally finished the sentence. Tears plunked onto the grass. "They're putting the animals down."
As helpful as Mirjam was, most people I approach share Engine Room Guy's reaction: they're harried and confused and don't want a stranger mucking with their work. I always felt the same way when we got a new volunteer at the shelter—they'd lift the cats wrong or leave the cages only half cleaned—so I can't even really blame them.
I circle my way back to the kitchens but slip into a nearby bathroom first.
And come face-to-face with Mirjam. She's standing in front of the mirror. The skin around her eyes is swollen; red-white splotches paint her cheeks. She's been crying. Why would she be crying? She seemed fine when I left the kitchen half an hour ago. I stare, blink, trying to think of what I'm supposed to do.
"What?" Mirjam snaps.
"I'm sorry." I scramble back. "I'll go. I'm sorry."
I find another bathroom a few hallways away, offering my help to nearly everyone I pass. My mind is stuck on Mirjam: both her teary-eyed face, and her earlier explanation of how people had gotten onto the ship. We might not stand a chance the normal way, but Mirjam said that Captain Van Zand had made exceptions. He—or Michelle—might do the same for us. I have to keep trying.
Still, by evening, my tenacity feels suspiciously like desperation.
"Hi," I say to a woman chugging a bottle of water. "This may be a strange question, but is there something I can help you with?"
She looks around the hallway like there might be someone else talking to her, her water bottle hovering by her lips.
"Your work, on the ship. Can I can help you with anything?" Smile, I think, hands still.
"Why?"
I'd like to say, So I can impress Michelle or Because it's nice to be looked at with gratitude instead of pity, but I say what I've told everyone who asked: "The lockdown is getting to me. I'm trying to kill time."
"The lockdown just ended. Like five minutes ago." She shrugs. Her water bottle sloshes. "You could probably help in the laundry rooms."
"The lockdown just ended. The lockdown just ended." My hands flap. So much for keeping them still. All of a sudden, neither Mirjam nor the ship's application process matters. I try to find words of my own. "Wait—we can leave the ship?"
"I wouldn't recommend it. It's still raining dirt. But the worst is over, and we want the engineers to continue repairs as soon as possible, so …"
Iris.
"I have to go!" I almost shout. By the time I remember to thank her, I'm already up two flights of stairs and swerving toward the third.
Mom isn't in our cabin. I've barely seen her all day. I check the time on my tab, then realize just how long "all day" is: it's dinnertime. The thought makes my stomach rumble. With my running around the ship, I completely skipped lunch.
I'm getting used to an apocalyptic diet, I think, which has me smiling wryly.
The lockdown is over. Iris. Iris!
The more I've thought about it, the surer I am that if Iris is alive, she's in the Gorinchem shelter our family was assigned to. She might've been late—she's late all the time; she's almost as bad as Mom—but that only means she'd have gone straight to the shelter rather than taking the long way around to meet us.
If we can find her anywhere, we'll find her there.
From my nightstand, I grab the can with the remains of that morning's mushroom ragout, spooning up bites as I jog back out again. I spot Mom in the third dining hall I check. She's at a long table, laughing, her back to me.
"Mom!" I cross the room. I have to step between her chair and her neighbor's to see her face properly, and the nearness bugs me, but I push past it. "Mom, the lockdown is over. We can"—something is wrong, I realize, but too slowly—"go out to the shelter and find"—I swallow, my eyes meeting Mom's shiny red ones—"Iris."
"Honey!" Mom rests her head against my hip.
I flinch. I barely keep from backing into the woman behind me.
"Oh, honey, don't be like that. I'm just happy to see you. Isn't this ship great? And look! Matthijs is here!"
Matthijs? I set the ragout can on the table and follow Mom's excited gaze. She's talking about the man across from her. He's tall and slick and tan and definitely familiar.
"Little Denise?" he says. "Wow! I barely recognized you."
Little Denise. Now I remember him. He used to come over, years back when Mom still worked and her coworkers hadn't yet dumped her for going overboard on the drugs. They'd pick her up or drop her off or sit on our couch and sniff the same crap Mom did.
I never liked Matthijs. I never liked any of them. They leered and laughed too loudly, too late at night, and when Iris and I woke up the next morning the room would be a mess and sometimes one of them would be asleep on the couch, a trail of drool in my favorite spot. Sometimes they'd nudge us and make some racist joke that Mom tsk-tsked at but still didn't stop them from telling; even Matthijs, who's Indo, would say shit about my lips or hair and Iris's—Iris's everything, because back then no one outside of our family knew she was Iris yet, but they still knew something was different about my so-called brother, and—
I'm bashing my fist into my collarbone. I try to gather my thoughts. They scramble out of reach like startled cats.
"Honey, honey! Why don't you calm down?" Mom reaches for my fist. I yank it back and slam my shoulder harder. Knuckles hitting flesh. Again, again, again. I can't look at Mom like this. I hate those eyes. They're too shiny, too restless and eager. She's still smiling that sappy smile I wish I didn't recognize.
"Iris," I say. "There's no more lockdown. We can drive. Iris."
I look around the table. They're staring at me, all five or six of them. I can't count right now. I can't look at them, either, so I just crane my neck and stare up at the ceiling.
"Iris," I say again.
"Honey, honey, why don't you sit down? These people are so smart, Denise, God, you'll love them. I was just telling them, I was just saying … this ship is like its own life. Do you get that? This ship is like its own life." She tries to catch my gaze and nods, all seriousness.
I hit myself louder. Again, again. The thudding reverberates into my lungs. "I have to go."
I squirm out from between Mom and the woman behind me. I snap my head down so I'm looking at the ground instead of the ceiling, and I'm still hitting my shoulder, and I forget the ragout but don't want to go back.
"What's wrong? Honey!" Mom calls after me. She giggles, high-pitched, like she said the funniest thing.
I flee.
