Malorie(3)

Something enormous crashes. Glass explodes.

Malorie wouldn’t be able to hear her daughter if she spoke. They are in the eye of it now.

Olympia’s grip tightens.

Someone thumps against Malorie, shin to shin. Then, bricks again, against her bad shoulder. She recognizes some of the voices. They’ve spent two years here. They know people. They’ve made friends.

Or have they?

As Malorie steps deeper into the madness, she hears a distant question, asked in her own voice, her own head, asking if she was righteous in her staunch safety precautions, the fact that she was often chided for wearing her blindfold indoors. Oh, how the people of this place were offended by her measures. Oh, how it made the others feel as if Malorie thought herself better than them.

“Tom,” Olympia says.

Or Malorie thinks she hears it. The same name of the man she most admired in this world, the optimist in a time of impossible despair. Yes, Tom the boy is much like Tom the man, though the man was not his father. Malorie can’t stop him from wanting to fashion stronger blindfolds, from covering the windows with layers of wood, from painting false windows on the room they’ve called their own for two years.

But she can stop him from doing it.

Someone hits Malorie on the side of the head. She swings out, tries to push the person away, but Olympia pulls her deeper into the derangement.

“Olympia,” she says. But she says no more. Cannot speak. As now bodies press against her, objects break above and behind her, words are sworn close to her ear.

It can sound like a celebration if she wants it to, the screams no longer of terror, but excitement. The heavy thuds only heavy feet upon a dance floor. No anguish, only cheer.

Is this how Tom the man chose to see this world? And if so…can she do it, too?

“Tom,” Olympia says. This time Malorie hears it clearly, and she understands they are on the other side of the violence.

“Where?”

“Here.”

Malorie reaches out, feels the doorjamb of an open classroom. It smells of people in here.

“Tom?” she says.

“Mom,” Tom says. She hears the smile in his voice. She can tell he’s proud.

She goes to him, crouches, and feels for his eyes. They are covered with what feels like cardboard, and Malorie thinks of Tom the man wearing a helmet of couch cushions and tape.

The relief she feels is not tempered by the chaos in the halls. Her children are with her again.

“Get up,” she says, her voice still trembling. “We’re leaving.”

She steps farther into the room, finds the beds, removes three blankets.

“Are we taking the river again?” Tom asks.

Beyond them, the madness does not quell. Boots clamor up and down the halls. Glass breaks. Children scream.

“No,” Malorie says. Then, frantic, “I don’t know. I have no plan. Take these.”

She hands them each a blanket.

“Cover yourselves from head to toe.”

She thinks of blind Annette, blue robe, red hair, the knife.

“They can touch us now,” she says.

“Mom,” Tom says, but Malorie reaches out and takes his hand. The violence swells, swallowing the questions he was close to asking.

Olympia takes Malorie’s other hand.

Malorie breathes in, she holds it, she breathes out.

“Now,” she says. “Now…we go.”

They step, together, out of the classroom and into the hall.

“The front door,” she says.

The same door they entered two years ago, Malorie’s body and mind then ravaged by rowing and the constant bowstring terror of navigating the water blind.

And the fear then, too, of a man named Gary.

“Malorie?”

Malorie, under the blanket, grips the hands of her children. It’s a man named Jesse who speaks to her. Malorie knows Jesse, when sane, had a crush on her. He does not sound sane now.

“Malorie? Where are you taking the kids?”

“Go,” Malorie says. She does not turn around. She does not answer Jesse, who now follows close behind.

“Malorie,” he says. “You can’t go.”

Malorie makes a fist, turns, and swings.

Her fist connects with what she believes is Jesse’s jaw.

He cries out.

She grips the hands of her children.

Tom and Olympia move in concert with her, the trio making for the open front door.

“My blindfold worked,” Tom says. Still, despite the horror, there is pride in his voice.

“It’s here,” Olympia says, indicating the door.

Malorie places a palm against the doorjamb. She listens for Jesse. For anyone.

She breathes in. She holds it. She breathes out.

“How many are out there?” she asks. “How many do you hear?”

The kids are quiet. The frenzy continues deeper into the school. But it feels far now. Farther. Malorie knows Tom wants to answer her questions exactly. But he can’t.

“Too many to count,” he says.

“Olympia?”

A pause. A crash from far behind. A scream.

“A lot,” Olympia says.

“Okay. Okay. Don’t take the blankets off. Wear them until I tell you otherwise. They touch us now. Do you understand?”