California(96)

“My God.”

“It frightened us, the thought of being out there alone, vulnerable to something like that happening. Micah told us we were right to worry. I’m not sure if his goal was to scare us into keeping close, but it worked. Melissa’s parents are still here.” Anika didn’t say their names, and Frida didn’t ask. She’d let them be themselves, not their tragedy.

“I assume Pines was able to take care of the children?” Frida asked. “They wouldn’t die of fever there. But I bet it’s terrible sometimes being without Ogden.”

Anika nodded. “It is. But I’m glad he was young enough to be adopted. Micah said he’d go to a family immediately, a well-off one. The older kids didn’t have it as easy.”

“They weren’t adopted?”

“No. They were sent to a place called C.A.P., the Center at Pines. That’s where children too old to be adopted are educated and trained for jobs. Micah said they’ll be well fed and safe. He showed us pamphlets. It looks like a nice boarding school, with classrooms and a cafeteria. Once they’re old enough, they receive apprenticeships. The kids who grow up at C.A.P. are guaranteed jobs upon turning eighteen. It’s manual-labor stuff. They’ll only be eligible for certain jobs, but they won’t die of fever or starvation, and their lives will be easier there.” She paused. “Micah said it was the best thing for them. Didn’t we want a better life for our children?”

“But to give them up—” Frida stopped herself midsentence. She wished she could take it back.

“I’ll never forget it. All the kids left together on the school bus, dressed in clothes August had provided for them. Crisp, clean dresses for the girls and pants and button-down shirts for the boys. Even tiny outfits for the little ones. Ogden had a smile on his face when they put him into his carrier, like he was proud of how he looked, like he was excited for the ride. We could almost pretend it was normal, our babies’ first day of school. We waved until the taillights disappeared.”

Frida remembered the bus, parked in that meadow like something out of a children’s book. Frida imagined Anika giving her baby away. He would be covered in a light blue blanket, to protect against the chill of the early morning, his tiny clenched fists hidden beneath it. Had Anika run her index finger over Ogden’s gums one last time, to feel the teeth cutting through? Did she cry out as Ogden’s familiar weight left her arms? Or did she remain stoic? As something dark pressed at the edges of her chest, did she press back? This was best for Ogden, she must have told herself. Wasn’t it?

The day they found out Micah was dead, Hilda said she could still feel the top of his baby head beneath her nose, against her mouth. She said she remembered the way she’d comb her fingers through the fuzz of his hair as she nursed.

Anika gestured for Frida to step aside so she could roll out the dough.

“You can’t think too hard about this, Frida. We all had to make sacrifices. I suppose that includes your brother as well.”

“Micah is sweeter than he lets on,” Frida said with a smile. “You know he kept this toy? We loved it when we were kids. It’s a little bee, well, it’s a butterfly. But my brother has it in his room.”

“The Bee?” Anika said.

“You know it?”

“He gave that to Ogden, before they left.” She put both hands on the table before her, to settle herself. “He took it back?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation…” Frida didn’t know what else she could say. Her brother had given the toy to a baby, and then he’d taken it away. It was petty at best. At worst—she couldn’t go there.

She wondered what other cruel things Micah was capable of. She tried to imagine Randy hanging the Pirate’s head from the top of the tallest Spike. He was probably crying, and her brother would have remained calm, as if instructing the boy how to decorate a Christmas tree.

“What about Randy?” Frida asked.

“He’s at C.A.P. now, too.”

“Deborah let him go?”

“It was the only way,” Anika said.

They didn’t speak for a moment, and then Anika placed both her hands flat on the table and said, “Frida, let me tell you about your brother.”

“I know my brother.”

“You don’t,” she said.

Frida waited.

“The first year Micah was here, I was very difficult to live with. Losing my baby was harder on me than the others, I don’t know why. I wasn’t very cooperative, I talked back, I didn’t want to help with the Forms, or anything, really.”

Frida wished she could stop listening; she knew something bad was coming. If only there was a door to slam, a bridge to jump off. But she let Anika keep talking.

“On a particularly dark day,” Anika said, “I refused to show up to the Church’s meeting. I lay in bed all day, crying. I thought I’d be reprimanded publicly, but it was worse.” Anika stopped.

“What is it? Just tell me.”

“Micah came to my room when the others were outside working. He told me that if I didn’t get in line, there would be no place for me on the Land. He said it would be worse than I could ever imagine. He was whispering. He said the Pirates were still out there, beyond the Forms we were building, and that they’d kill me if they ever got the chance.”