Justin Cronin - The Twelve

“Dani, I’m not really feeling myself today. Could you help me in?”

Sara took Lila by the hand as she stepped gingerly over the railing and lowered herself into the steaming water. Once she was immersed, the woman’s expression softened, tension departing her face. Sinking down to her chin, she took a long, happy breath, moving her hands like paddles to shift the water to and fro across her body. She leaned back to wet her hair, then shimmied up, bracing her back against the side of the tub. Freed of gravity, the woman’s breasts floated over her chest in a pantomime of restored youth.

“I do love the bath,” she murmured.

Sara took her place on the stool beside the tub. “Hair first?”

“Mmmmmm.” Lila’s eyes were closed. “Please.”

Sara began. As with everything, there was a certain way Lila liked it done. First the crown of her head, Sara’s hands vigorously massaging, then moving downward to smooth the long strands of hair between her fingers. The soap, then a rinse, then the same order of events repeated with the scented oil. Sometimes she had Sara do this more than once.

“It snowed last night,” Sara ventured.

“Hmmmm.” Lila’s face was relaxed, her eyes still closed. “Well, that’s Denver for you. If you don’t like the weather, just wait a minute, it will change. That’s something my father always said.”

Lila’s father’s sayings, duly noted as such, were a prominent feature of their conversations. Sara used a pitcher dipped in bathwater to pour the soap away from Lila’s forehead and began to work in the oil.

“So I suppose everything will be closed,” Lila continued. “I really wanted to get to the market. We’re practically out of everything.” Never mind that, as far as Sara was aware, Lila never set foot from the apartment. “You know what I’d like, Dani? A long, lovely lunch. Someplace special. With good linens and china and flowers on the table.”

Sara had learned to go along. “That sounds nice.”

Lila gave a protracted sigh of memory, sinking deeper into the bath. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I had a long, lovely lunch.”

A few minutes passed, Sara working the oil into the woman’s scalp. “I think Eva would enjoy some time outside.” It felt like a monstrous lie to say this name, but sometimes it was unavoidable.

“Yes, I suppose she would,” Lila said noncommittally.

“I was wondering, are there any other children she can play with?”

“Other children?”

“Yes, someone her own age. I thought it would be good for her to have some friends.”

Lila frowned uncomfortably. Sara wondered if she’d pressed too far. “Well,” she said, with a tone of concession, “there’s that neighbor girl, little what’s-her-name. With the dark hair. But I hardly ever see her. Most of the families around here keep to themselves. Bunch of sticks-in-the-mud, if you ask me.” Then: “But you’re a good friend to her, aren’t you, Dani?”

A friend. What stinging irony. “I try to be.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Lila smiled drowsily. “There’s something different about you, I can tell. I think it’s wonderful for Eva, having a friend like you.”

“So I can take her outside,” Sara said.

“In a minute.” Lila closed her eyes again. “I was hoping you could read to me. I do so love to be read to in the bath.”

By the time they escaped, it was nearly noon. Sara bundled Eva in a coat and mittens and rubber galoshes and a woolen cap, pulling it down over the little girl’s ears. For herself she had only the robe, and nothing for her feet but her ratty sneakers and wool socks, but she hardly cared. Cold feet, so what? They took the stairs to the courtyard and emerged into a world so remade it felt like an entirely new place. The air had a sharp, fresh smell, and the sun was rebounding off the snow with eye-searing intensity. After so many days in the enforced gloom of the apartment, Sara had to pause at the threshold to give her vision a moment to adjust. But Kate had no such difficulty. With a snap of energy she released Sara’s hand and bolted from the doorway, propelling herself across the courtyard. By the time Sara had slogged toward her—she might have erred about the sneakers; they were going to be a problem—the child was scooping handfuls of downy snow into her mouth.

“It tastes… cold.” Her face beamed with happiness. “Try some.”

Sara did as instructed. “Yum,” she said.

She showed the girl how to build a snowman. Her mind was full of sweet nostalgia; it was as if she were a Little again, playing in the courtyard of the Sanctuary. But this was different; Sara was the mother now. Time had turned its inexorable circle. How wonderful to feel her daughter’s infectious happiness, to experience the sense of wonder that passed between them. For the time being, all pain was banished from Sara’s mind. They could have been anywhere. The two of them.

Sara thought of Amy, too, the first time in years she had done this. Amy, who had never been a little girl, or so it seemed, but somehow always was; Amy, the Girl from Nowhere, in whose person time was not a circle but a thing stopped and held, a century cupped in the hand. Sara felt a sudden, unexpected sadness for her. She had always wondered why Amy had destroyed the vials of virus that night at the Farmstead, casting them into the flames. Sara had hated them, not just what they represented but the very fact of their existence, but she had also known what they were: a hope of salvation, the one weapon powerful enough to use against the Twelve. ( The Twelve , she thought; how long had it been since that name had crossed her mind as well?) Sara had never known quite what to think of Amy’s decision; now she had her answer. Amy had known that the life those vials had denied her was the only true human reality. In Sara’s daughter, this triumphantly alive little person that Sara’s body had made, lay the answer to the greatest mystery of all—the mystery of death, and what came after. How obvious it was. Death was nothing, because there was no death. By the simple fact of Kate’s existence, Sara was joined to something eternal. To have a child was to receive the gift of true immortality—not time stopped, as it had stopped in Amy, but time continuing and everlasting.

“Let’s make snow angels,” she said.

Kate had never done this. They lay down side by side, their bodies enveloped in whiteness and the tips of their fingers just touching. Above them the sun and sky looked down in witness. They moved their limbs back and forth and rose to inspect the imprints. Sara explained what angels were: they’re us.

“That’s funny,” said Kate, smiling.

The serving girl, Jenny, would be bringing lunch; their time in the snow was at an end. Sara imagined the rest of the day: Lila lost in fantasy, leaving the two of them alone; wet clothing drying on racks by the fire, Sara and her daughter snuggled on the sofa and the sweet exchange of heat where their bodies touched and the hours of stories she would read— Peter Rabbit and Squirrel Nutkin and James and the Giant Peach— before the two of them drifted together into a sleep of intertwining dreams. Never had she been so happy.

They were walking back to the entrance when Sara glanced up to the window and saw that the drapes were pulled aside. Lila was watching them, her eyes concealed behind dark glasses. How long had she stood there?

“What’s she doing?” Kate asked.

Sara summoned a smile to her face. “I think she was just enjoying watching us.” But inside she felt a spark of fear.

“Why do I have to call her Mummy?”

Sara stopped in her tracks. “What did you say?”

For a moment the girl was silent. Melted snow was dripping off the branches.