California(43)

The world slipped sideways for a moment, Cal’s stomach lurching with it. He leaned over and vomited into the dirt.

“Easy now,” Peter said, and patted him on the back.

Suddenly there was a canteen of cold water at Cal’s mouth. But he could not swallow. He forced himself to stand. Frida was just a few feet away from the man who looked like Micah. She was weeping, hiccuping.

“You,” she was saying.

The man who looked like Micah held his face steady, as if trying not to betray whatever lay beneath his placid expression. Cal saw it in his eyes; they were darting over Frida’s face, taking in the ways she had changed and aged and the ways she had remained the same and would remain. The man stepped forward finally and took Frida into a bear hug. She collapsed into his arms, her legs giving out. He held her up.

“Yes!” Sailor cried, his arm pumping in victory.

Cal was shaking as Frida had been. He felt like vomiting again, but his stomach was empty. He held on to Peter’s canteen and willed himself forward.

“Micah?” he tried.

The man looked over Frida’s shoulder as he held her.

“Is that you, California?”





9



He smelled the same. She hadn’t hugged him for years; even when he was alive, they barely touched, but now she couldn’t let go. That smell: what was it? Pajamas worn until noon, and potato chips, and the leather band of their father’s favorite watch, and the baby detergent their mother never stopped using, and his old room, the window never open, the blighted avocado tree blocking views and voyeurs alike. Her brother, his smell.

She couldn’t stop embracing this ghost. A ghost in a ghost of a ghost town. Ha. It was a word problem, a riddle, a mirror inside a mirror inside—of course he loved that.

Micah. Her brother was alive.

His shirt was the color of a tennis ball, and she was imprinting its insignia of a man on horseback onto her cheek. She was pushing her face so hard into the ghost’s shirt it was like she wanted to graft the fabric onto her own skin. Not a ghost. Her brother. Micah. He had on such a stupid shirt, and a theatrical beard and a farmer’s hat, and he was breathing deeply, as slowly as a bridge rises to let ships pass. Was she the ship?

“Hi, Frida,” he said into the top of her head, so quietly that no one else heard. And when he pulled away to greet Cal, she almost fell.

*



Nearly every time Frida tried to open her mouth, the words clogged in her throat, and she stood there dumb and struggling. They’d been following Micah as he led them back up the path. Is this real? she wanted to ask. Are you really here? Will you let us stay? Instead of speaking, she wandered the Land like a child in a picture-book world: blue sky, brown dirt road, yellow sun, her mouth a flat black line. No text.

Cal was trying hard not to roll his eyes at her. Not hard enough. She could tell he wanted her to get her shit together and help him figure out what was going on, but she was incapable. Her legs still felt rubbery when she walked, and she didn’t think she’d be able to speak ever again. Her hands seemed to belong to someone else, and her mind kept returning to that first sight of Micah, of his green shirt and his long beard.

Her brother!

Cal had already asked him half a dozen questions. Micah hadn’t answered many of them, but that didn’t keep Cal from trying.

“How are you alive?” he’d asked as soon as he could, even with everyone watching.

“It wasn’t a resurrection,” Micah replied, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t,” Cal said, and Micah laughed.

Cal said nothing. He looked at Frida, as if pleading for her assistance, but she looked away. The truth was her brain was still playing catch-up. Micah was alive. Her brother wasn’t dead. Micah was alive.

She felt a little sick.

When Micah stepped away from her to greet Cal, Frida had slumped forward and caught her balance just in time.

“So you two are still together,” Micah said.

Cal raised an eyebrow. “Don’t act so surprised.”

“Oh, never,” Micah said, and winked at Frida. “First things first: you guys need to wash.”

“We do?” Cal asked.

Micah smiled. “You might’ve seen a little building on the way in—a kiosk-type thing. We call it the Bath. In there we’ve got antibacterial soap and talcum powder. Even though we also have outdoor showers, you’ll probably feel more comfortable with a little privacy.”

Frida had felt a rush of relief then. Clean. They would get clean.

“I’ll meet up with you after that,” Micah said.

He was already nodding at Sailor, turning away from her. Frida couldn’t believe he was leaving them again, and so soon. He very well might disappear. He’d done it once before.

Her brother looked at her and smiled, gently. “You won’t be gone long,” he said, and because Frida couldn’t speak, she followed Cal and Sailor.

Sailor led them to the Bath. Inside, there were two shallow plastic tubs, the size of foot baths, and two plastic chairs that looked vaguely medical; Frida imagined they’d been used in hospitals, for the sick or elderly, people who needed to sit down while showering. An array of products awaited them on the built-in counter where an employee must have once peered out the ticket window: the soap and talcum powder Micah had mentioned, various creams and lotions. Even a bag of disposable razors; Frida’s heart quickened at the sight of them.