Em Garner - Contaminated

Mrs. Wentling draws back, but not far enough to satisfy me. She clutches at the front of her coat, which is missing some buttons. Her hands are chapped and look sore, like she’s washed them too much in this cold weather. She smells a little sour, too.

“She can’t live here!”

“Yes, she can. She’s my mother. She’s neutralized, she has a collar, and I have all the papers.” I know I’m repeating myself, but she doesn’t seem to get it, and honestly, I’m so tired and wound up and anxious about everything that’s happened, I can’t really be sure I’m not just thinking the words instead of saying them out loud.

Mrs. Wentling looks at me with a grimace. “She ought to be taken care of!”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. Take care of her. Which I can’t do unless you get out!”

My parents hadn’t raised me to be disrespectful to adults, but the world’s changed and I’ve changed, too. I don’t care if I’m hurting Mrs. Wentling’s feelings, or even if my tone makes her think I’m a bad kid. I don’t feel like a kid anymore, and she’s sure not acting like a grown-up.

“I’m going to complain to someone.” She hisses the last word, still staring at my mom, who hasn’t even turned around.

“C’mon, Mama, let me show your room. I decorated it and cleaned it up special.” Opal makes a face at Mrs. Wentling and leads Mom into the second bedroom.

Mrs. Wentling stares at me. I stare back. I’m not going to let her intimidate me.

“She’s dangerous! She could kill someone! That’s what they do!”

I try to speak extra clearly and slowly so Mrs. Wentling can understand. “She’s got her collar on.”

Mrs. Wentling flinches at that. “Collar?”

“Don’t you watch the news? They neutralize them with special collars now. They’re not dangerous. They don’t kill anyone. They can’t, actually.”

I think of Mercy Mode, and a shiver rakes its claws down my back. Mrs. Wentling doesn’t look convinced. I’m not surprised. Her truth is what she believes. She’s not interested in any other kind.

“I saw that on the news. But I don’t believe it works!”

“It’s been proven to work. The government’s tested them. And it’s not illegal for me to have her here. I have the papers. They’re trying to get all of the victims out of the labs and back to their homes.”

“Victims?” Her mouth twists. “I guess you would call them that.”

I shoot a glance toward the bedroom, where I can hear Opal talking to Mom, though Mom’s not answering. “You don’t think they’re victims?”

“They… they’re… all crazy.”

“Yeah, because of something some foron put in their drinks. Not because of anything they could help. Do you really think anyone who got Contaminated would’ve chosen what happened to them? Do you think if they’d known the risks, they’d have kept drinking it?”

“People know smoking causes cancer,” Mrs. Wentling says, with a self-righteous sniff. “They still smoke.”

“Because nothing tastes as good as being skinny feels.” I could still hear the commercial. Their spokesperson had been an A-list movie actress, well known for her charitable work with children around the world. She’d been reading stories to children in a public-school kindergarten when the disease hit her. I’d turned the channel before I could hear the rest of the story, but I’m sure it was bad. “I still don’t think you can compare the chance of getting cancer from smoking to losing your mind and becoming homicidal from drinking diet water.”

“They kill people,” she repeats.

I’m sick of the conversation. Sick of the day, the month, the past year and a half. Sick of everything, and I want to curl up under a blanket with my stuffed toys the way I did when I was little and cry myself to sleep, but I can’t. “The president—”

“Vice president!”

“He became the president when the president was killed,” I tell her.

“Well,” she says, with another sniff. “I didn’t vote for him.”

“He’s still the president of the United States, and he’s signed a whole bunch of laws about the Contamination, the Renewal, the Return Initiative, all of that stuff. If the president thinks it’s okay for my mom to come back home, I think you should, too.”

“The president hasn’t seen what I’ve seen,” Mrs. Wentling says in a shaky voice.

I feel a second’s burst of pity for her. “I don’t have any idea what you’ve seen, but since the president’s wife and two teenage daughters were all Contaminated and shot to death right in front of him, I’m pretty sure he’s seen some bad stuff.”

She shakes her head. “I’m still complaining. There should be places for them. Not normal places. Not just any old places where normal people live! They’re dangerous! It’s unsanitary!”

“What do you think is going to happen?” I ask her wearily. “Do you think she’s going to bite the deliveryman and crap all over the yard?”

“She might! She just might! Oh, heavens, oh, mercy, she could do that!” Mrs. Wentling clutches the throat of her coat around her thick neck. “Oh!”

“I’ll tell you what. I promise to make sure my mom doesn’t do that if you promise to keep your stupid little dog from doing it, okay?” I lean in. She backs up. “Because I know Petey’s done both before.”

“You! I! You are a rude, insufferable…” Mrs. Wentling shakes her finger in my face.

I bite at it. My teeth snap down on air. I have no intention of actually putting my mouth on her nasty, dirty finger, but she cries out and jumps away. Her eyes go wild. She stumbles back, hits the doorway with her shoulder, screams. She’s almost cowering.

That second’s pity I felt earlier is totally gone. “Just go home.”

“You… are you…?”

“I’m not Contaminated! No! Just go away!” I can’t hold back the shout. “Go home! Leave us alone!”

I push her out the door with my words and slam it behind her. I lock all the bolts. I’m breathing fast and hard, and for a second or two I feel like I’m going to faint. I sink to the floor and bring my knees up to my chest, where I press my face against them. I breathe in and out, counting slowly to ten.

“Velvet?” Opal says from the bedroom doorway. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I scrub at my face and look at her. “What’s Mom doing?”

Opal’s face twists a little. “Nothing. She’s not doing anything.”

“Why don’t we help her get ready for bed? I bet she’s tired. We all are. And you have school tomorrow.”

“I don’t wanna go to school tomorrow! Can’t I stay home?”

“Not unless you’re sick.”

She coughs and puts the back of her hand to her forehead. Drama queen. “I think I have a fever.”

This gets me to my feet, and I laugh. “Yeah, right. Listen, you can’t stay home tomorrow.”

“But… you get to stay home.”

I haven’t told her I decided to quit school. “Yeah, well, I’m older. I can’t go to school, and work, and take care of you and Mama, too.”

Opal studies me with her brows furrowed. “You’re not going back to school anymore?”

“Not for now. Later, maybe. Besides, I’m almost done.”

She frowns. “Not fair! Not fair! You quit? Why do you get to quit and I still have to go?”

“Because,” I say, “you just do.”

She doesn’t look satisfied by the answer. “I could quit, too. I could help you take care of Mama.”

“No, Opal. You know Mama wouldn’t like that, anyway.”

She sighs, defeated. “Fine. But it’s not fair.”

“C’mon. We have to get ready for bed.”

In the bedroom, my mom’s sitting on the bed. Her wrists are still bound, and she’s placed her hands in her lap primly. Her hair falls forward, over her face, because her head’s drooping.