California(95)

A shelf ran along the length of the room, directly below the windows: it was smooth, and when Frida shined the candle she saw it was made of wood. Different candles lined this shelf, some of them burned almost to nothing, others long and tapered. None of them were lit, but Frida imagined that when they were, they transformed the room. It’d be like standing in an elegant little restaurant: spare, honey lit. All it lacked was a hostess stand, some skinny cute woman with a handful of menus, ready to show you to your table.

Against one wall was a single sleeping pallet, empty, and in the center of the room a stove huffed. It was warm in here. Micah must have left recently.

Frida was stunned by the anger she felt. Or maybe it was envy. The house’s exterior was nothing special, but it was welcoming inside, almost beautiful. Someone had renovated this carefully, but if you saw it from the outside, you’d never have any idea. Everyone knew Micah lived here, but how many were invited inside?

She stepped to the window and for a moment felt like she’d found herself in a charming country home. That didn’t seem like Micah, though: he’d want to wake up to see the Land’s dangerous and unique border. Maybe when the sun rose, it revealed a line of sharp Spikes in the distance.

Frida pushed away from the window, the glass solid and smooth against her hands, and rounded the stove. Behind it was a table, low to the ground, and beneath it, a pile of clothes, a few folded neatly, others flung carelessly aside. Frida picked up a blue T-shirt and held it to her face. There it was, her brother’s smell, as if he were still fourteen years old, showering every morning for three minutes, timed, like he was training for the military. Frida knew she was caught in a fantasy, but she didn’t care. She breathed in deeper.

On the table were a few odds and ends: a fingernail clipper, a brush for Micah’s long hair, and a bandage, the kind you’d roll onto a sprained ankle.

And then she saw the toy.

They had called it the Bee, even though someone, Dada maybe, eventually realized it was a butterfly. By then, it was too late, the Bee was the Bee.

It was a plastic butterfly with clear blue wings and a big smiling face. From its head protruded a ring that opened and closed; Hilda used to hook it onto their stroller or onto one of their car seats. Not that Frida remembered any of that; when they were older, the toy used to sit on the mantel like a vase, and Hilda would sometimes talk about it. When Frida and Micah were babies, she said, the Bee had the miraculous power to turn their distress into something more palatable. It had saved the family on many crosstown car trips.

Frida picked it up and rubbed her hand over the ridges of the wings, across its smile, its big orange eyes. Its body was striped, black and white, but now the white paint had peeled off, revealing a sad gray color beneath. The Bee.

Her brother had taken this toy from their home. He must have wanted a souvenir before he left L.A. for good, and he knew it wouldn’t be missed. Frida had forgotten all about it.

There was no way Micah saw this now and didn’t think of their family, of their mother’s stories. He might not want children on the Land, but it wasn’t because he was evil. He had to have a reason; it had to be an act of compassion.

Maybe her brother would give this to her, pass it on to his niece or nephew. He loved her, and he loved his family. Frida remembered what he’d said to her in the tree house. He thought she’d go to the encampment with their parents. He’d wanted her to be safe, too. Her little brother was mixed up, but she could forgive him for that.

*



As Frida walked into the kitchen, Anika said, “I thought we’d try breadsticks today.”

The kitchen was dark, the candle between them throwing shadows across Anika’s face.

“Those were my brother’s favorite, growing up,” Frida said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“He loved stale, store-bought ones. He loved how crunchy they were.” Frida laughed. “It was kind of weird, actually. But also funny.”

“Sounds about right,” she said.

As they worked, Frida said, “The kids had to leave when Micah got here, right? That was a condition of his help?”

Anika nodded, but she didn’t look up. “It was practical.”

“I thought so,” Frida said.

“August had access to a Community. At first, we didn’t know which one.”

“And you didn’t know it was Pines until August brought the objects for the Forms?”

Anika didn’t answer.

“Anika?”

“Back then, the Communities had everything figured out except one thing: children. What if someone couldn’t conceive, even after IVF and all that? What then? It didn’t happen often, but occasionally, there was one unlucky couple on the block.”

Frida remembered what Toni had told her: that in Communities, childless couples were frowned upon.

“August took the youngest children there,” Anika said. “To live.”

“Adoption?”

“They wanted babies.”

“What about the older kids?” Frida asked.

“Bo and Sandy took Jane to live off the Land. They were the only ones. A handful of others were going to do the same, but right before the Millers left, another family lost their child. Melissa—our oldest. I told you she had that fever when the Pirates came? Well, she died of it.”