Em Garner - Contaminated

“It’s okay. It’s not important. Hi, Mom.” I’ll check at home. Right now I’m looking her over.

You can’t see the electrodes, or the scars from where they put them in, unless you’re looking in the right spots. The collar, on the other hand, is impossible to miss.

My mom says nothing. She’s looking at me, but not like she sees me. More like she’s staring at nothing. Just like that little boy. Tyler, I think. He has a name.

“Are you ready, hon? You have everything you need at home?”

I heft the tote bag. “I think so. Yeah.”

“Fine. Then you’re ready to go.”

I hold out the coat I brought for my mom to wear, and the gloves. They’ll cover up the restraints, which Leslie shows me how to slip on to my mom’s thin wrists. She doesn’t even wince when we pull them tight, bringing her hands together so close, she can’t possibly use them for anything.

At the door, Jean stops me. “Are you sure? This is a huge, huge responsibility. And nobody says you have to take her. You’re not required.”

“She’s my mom.” It’s the only answer I can give.

Jean nods. She hugs me before I can stop her, and I’m surprised but I don’t pull away. Beside us, my mom stands quietly, looking off into the distance. Jean lets me go and holds my face for a second or two in her hands while she looks into my eyes.

“You be safe now. You take care.”

“I will.”

Outside, it’s getting dark and colder. February in Pennsylvania can get pretty frigid, and the cold seems worse after the two boiling summers we’ve had in a row. My mom walks a step behind me, kicking my heels, until I step to one side and link my arm through hers.

“Schlemiel, schlemazel,” I say, but of course she doesn’t answer me with the line from one of her favorite childhood shows, the one she had all the DVDs of. No “Hasenpfeffer Incorporated.” No nothing but the sound of her breathing and her boots crunching on the salt someone was smart enough to put down on the sidewalk.

We wait at the bus stop. The bus is late. We’re the only ones waiting. I don’t talk. I guess there’s nothing to say.

The bus pulls up to the stop, and I press my mom forward. Deke, the bus driver who’s seen me a thousand times, frowns and gets out of his seat.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. You can’t bring that on here.”

“What?” My mom’s up one step but I’m halfway in and out of the door. The heat from the bus is blasting my front, but my back’s still freezing. “What do you mean?

The tote?”

“No. It. That.” He jerks a thumb at my mom’s face. She doesn’t even flinch.

“This is my mother.” I push her forward. She goes another step. Deke doesn’t get out of the way, and when I step up, it’s too crowded for comfort there in the stairwell.

“No. That’s a Connie. You can’t bring it on the bus.

Take it off.”

“She’s neutralized, she’s got a collar—”

“I said no!” Deke’s face turns ugly. “Get it off my bus! I decide who rides the bus! And it’s not getting on!”

Then he pushes her, which pushes me. I’m too surprised to push back. I fall out of the bus. My mom steps back, one of her boots landing on my hand. The tote bag goes sprawling, dumping the contents into the dirty snow.

“Off the bus!” Deke shouts. I can’t believe it, but he comes out and pushes her back again. He looks down at me. “Don’t you ever try to bring that on the bus again, you hear me?”

Then he gets back on the bus, closes the door, and drives away, leaving us on the street in the dark and the cold.

I’D TOLD OPAL I WAS BRINGING HOME OUR mom, so I don’t have the heart to scold her when she flings open the door before I’ve even had a chance to knock more than twice. She’s through the doorway before I can stop her. Her sudden hug knocks Mom back a step, but she doesn’t fall.

“Mama!” Opal squeezes her, face buried against Mom’s belly. “Mama, I missed you so bad!” Our mom doesn’t hug her back.

Opal looks up at her, the bright smile fading. “Mama?”

“She’s tired, Opal. Let’s let her get inside, okay?”

Slowly, slowly, Opal lets her go. Mom stares down at her without expression. Not even curiosity. Her lips are wet and slightly parted.

Opal was there when Craig slammed himself repeatedly into the glass door. She’s seen the news reports, though after the first few, I made sure she didn’t watch them anymore, since they gave her nightmares. She still has them sometimes. I wouldn’t tell anyone, but so do I. Opal’s seen things and she’s not a stupid little kid, even if I used to like to tease her that she was. She’s seen the Connies doing what they do. Still, I don’t think she knew what to expect when I brought Mom home.

“C’mon, Opal. Move it.” I push her forward into the apartment and take my mom by her wrist, still bound one to the other with the special restraints they gave me at the kennel. “C’mon, Mom.”

As usual, the door across the landing flies open. Mrs. Wentling looks out. She’s bundled up like she’s going out, but she doesn’t leave the doorway, just hovers in it like some big, nosy bird looking for a worm.

“You! Velvet Ellis. What are you doing there? Who’s that with you? You know you’re not supposed to have—”

I turn. “I live here. I’m allowed to have guests, if I want, if that’s what you were going to say. But this isn’t a guest, anyway. It’s my mother.”

My mom hasn’t moved throughout any of this, not even to look toward the sound of Mrs. Wentling’s voice. Her lack of curiosity is disappointing but also comforting. Connies are attracted to loud sounds, particularly shouting voices and things like breaking glass. The sounds of anger and violence. Scientists might know why, but I don’t.

“Your mother? But I thought your mother was dead!”

“I never said my mother was dead. C’mon, Mom, go on in.” I tug her gently, and she follows me over the threshold.

“Anna Jenkins from across the way said your mother was dead,” Mrs. Wentling calls after me.

“Opal, help Mom.” I don’t even give Mrs. Wentling the courtesy of a glance as I move my mom into the center of the room.

She’s probably tired. I know I’m exhausted. I’m just thinking about getting everyone settled into bed, knowing I probably won’t be able to sleep, when the door I’d started closing behind me bumps open. It catches the back of my heel and I turn, surprised. I’ve never seen Mrs. Wentling move at any pace faster than a turtle, but here she is, in my doorway and blocking the door.

“You! You stop what you’re doing right now!”

“We’re not even being loud,” I tell her with a bite in my voice. “You’re the one who’s yelling.”

From her apartment’s still-open door, her yappy dog barks. I give it a pointed look that Mrs. Wentling ignores. She presses forward, looking past me. Her tongue is caught tight between her teeth, her brow furrowed. Maybe once she was pretty and young. Now she’s red-faced and totally unpleasant, a toad in a dress. And she’s pushing me.

I push back, just a little. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing, that’s the question. Your mother?

What is your mother doing here?”

“I brought her home.”

Opal’s staring at both of us with big eyes. I notice she’s taken Mom’s hand, linking their fingers tight together, even though it must be hard to do that with my mom’s hands restrained. Mrs. Wentling notices, too.

“She’s one of… them.” Her voice drops. Her face twists in disgust. “You brought one of them here? You can’t do that! I’m sure you can’t do it!”

“She lives here. I have the paperwork,” I tell her. “And she’s not a them ; she’s my mother! Now get out of here so we can all go to bed.”