Page 50 of Strange Lights

She leaves soon after that. Zara takes her loss harder than I do. I retell Nanny’s stories on a loop in my head until thinking about them doesn’t leave a lump in my throat. I’m twelve, nearly thirteen, and I consider myself a teenager already. Nannies have come and gone for years, and I’m too old for them, anyway. Zara cries for days, her first loss.

22

Teenagers & Toddlers

I’m thirteen the first time I try to run away. When the moon is full, the sky splashed with stars and a swath of Milky Way, with more than enough light to see by this far from civilization, I make a run for it. I don’t make it far even though I think I’m clever about it. I sneak into my mother’s room, a few floors above my underground quarters, the last exit she’d expect me to take. She finds me within minutes. My mother watches me struggle, dangling from her balcony on tied-together bedsheets like I saw in a TV show. I have a backpack filled with water bottles and energy bars and hundreds of dollars that I’ve stolen from her over the last three years. Nothing else, because I don’t give a shit about anything material, and I’ve read enough survival books over the years to know that sentimentality gets you killed. I thought about taking Zara. But she needs so many things, more than I can carry, so I was ruthless in my weight cutting.

I pant, clinging to the too-short makeshift escape rope. Eventually, I carefully shrug off the backpack, unable to bear its weight. All I can think about after the backpack bursts open far below is the sounds my bones might make when they break on the desert ground. I didn’t think to do the math. My mother’s balcony is too high, the sheets are too short, and my plans are too half-baked.

Mother stands on the balcony above me, holding Zara. Zara sucks her thumb and watches me passively while Mother taunts me.

“It’s harder than you think to hold on. Are you strong enough to climb up?”

Hold on, hold on, a little voice in my head encourages.

Zara is smart, young as she is, and knows as well as I do that she can do nothing but stay silent and survive. I hope I only imagine the hurt I see in her eyes, as if she knew I tried to leave her behind.

It takes me ages to find the strength to climb the rope. I fall asleep on the balcony, too exhausted to make my way back to my room. Mother locks the balcony door, and I spend the day in the summer heat, huddled under the shade of my makeshift tent from the repurposed escape rope. Occasionally, I thirstily peer over the railing to watch the rapidly shrinking wet spot the burst water bottles left on the ground below.

I apologize to Zara the next day, though I don’t think she really understands how I betrayed her. I vow to take Zara along when I leave.

I spend the next four years meticulously planning my escape, and on my seventeenth birthday, Mother ruins my second set of escape plans, and I pick my second sister.

Déjà vu as I walk the hallway in my mask. The betrayal isn’t sharp, rather a dull ache, an old wound. She had to work harder to hide it from me this time. The room with the row of bassinets is in a different wing of the base, one I didn’t even realize existed.

I was going to wait until my eighteenth birthday to leave, but in the end, that was too long. Seventeen was close enough to pass for an adult, a mere smudge of ink on false ID papers. I pass the time beforehand by finding small comforts and purpose in being a big sister. But I never stop wanting to leave. I live with one foot in a fantasy world above ground, far away from Nevada. Zara is old enough to come with me, I reason. I haven’t told her of my plans, but she knows to follow my orders without question. I’ll explain once we’re far away and the danger of her letting slip my plans is irrelevant. She’s too old and I’m too young to pretend she’s my child, and we don’t even look alike. Mother will search for a pair of sisters. We’ll cut our hair, dress like boys, and we’ll be cousins if anyone asks.

But those dreams die as I cross the threshold into the secret nursery with Zara, hesitant and confused at my side. I should have known, should have sensed something big was happening. Adele’s experiments lately have ramped up. I’ve been too preoccupied with thoughts of escape to wonder why I’ve had to surreptitiously tether her so often lately. No one sees the tears streaming under my mask as I watch Zara, her eyes wide and frantic as Mother asks that same strange question.

“Can you sense any of them?”

I don’t know how Mother knew, but she must have. She’s always a step ahead of me. I can travel with a seven-year-old, but I cannot travel with a seven-year-old and an infant.

“Can you feel anyone?” Mother asks through gritted teeth. It’s obvious she doesn’t expect Zara to pass this test.

Zara opens her mouth to answer, but I cut her off, holding up my hand. “No,” I snap. I mean it in every sense of the word.

No, Zara, don’t answer.

No, I don’t sense anyone or anything.

No, no, no.

No, I won’t play along with your stupid, undefined test again.

But of course I will. I have no choice.

Swaggering up to the bassinets, I push Zara back. “Don’t depend on her for something so important,” I scoff. “She can confirm my choice if you really want, but it’s up to me.” I’m bluffing. I still have no idea what she wants. Not a freaking clue. I’ve watched Zara, practically made a study of her, trying to understand what my mother is looking for in her, but I don’t. Zara is magical but ordinary. There’s no reason for my mother to want more babies when she’s barely invested in the two children she already has.

Hurt flickers in Zara’s eyes at my words to Mother, but I can’t do more than hope she realizes I’m saving her. Maybe it isn’t about picking the right baby. Maybe it’s about proving we can make a ruthless choice. Maybe it’s about making us complicit in her callousness. Or could it be that it’s as simple as a reminder that our mother holds all the power? Either way, I can make this sacrifice in Zara’s place.

Mother stares me down. She’s wearing her mask this time, too, a pure black thing with no embellishments, so I don’t know what she’s thinking.

I walk from one crib to the next, peering down at the three babies.

I flip on the bright overhead lighting, rip the white-noise cord from the wall. One baby wails loudly with the light; I don’t bother getting within five feet of that crib. One baby sleeps peacefully, a pacifier half drooping from his mouth. But he wakes with a cry when I take it away from him.

The third baby turns her gaze on me with a scowl when I pluck the pacifier from her mouth. She’s awake and alert but doesn’t make a peep. Flails one hand wildly like she’s intent on taking it back from me. She is already fighting back, despite her helplessness. Bright green streaks through the watery blue of her eyes, and a light peach fuzz layer of red hair covers her scalp.