The gate hung open, barely discernible from the blur of smoke and the mesh of the fence. It was nothing now, barely a barrier, and I walked through, following my mother and Cate. Fiona hesitated for just a moment, the fire at her back, everything else before her. She stood with her head ducked, her sweat-slicked hair curled against her neck. I thought for a moment that she couldn’t step into this future without him. Then she gripped my hand, and we walked out of the compound.
Our heads down, we kept moving. Even here, the smoke was a veil hanging over the compound. I imagined how it would look to anyone watching from a distance: the frosty silver of the desert in the moonlight, and then the explosive spray of heat and noise and chaos. People were crowded at the edges of the gates, some of them walking farther out, most still clustered close, watching the compound burn as if they could still sift through the ashes and find enough there to rebuild their lives. I felt an instinctive pity for them. I remembered the sensation of running into the black woods with my mother, already understanding in my gut that I’d lost something I could never replace. But I knew now how much I gained when I was torn from Bellanger, running into the future with my mother’s hand in mine.
He hadn’t wanted us to run from the flames but we’d run twice now, emerging into a different world each time, remade.
Nobody else approached the four of us. Some of them ignored us, their eyes glassy with the reflected flames, their bodies sagging with defeat and shock. An older woman hugged a younger woman, their pale hair mingling as they leaned into each other. A man stood alone, arms hanging limp. I looked around, searching for Isabelle, and anytime I accidentally made eye contact with a stranger, they’d look away, dropping their eyes. As I led Fiona farther from the heat and the smoke, I realized that a path was clearing for us. They were afraid. Of her; of us. I breathed deeply, letting the dry, sparkling night air reach deep into my lungs.
I scanned the desert for Isabelle, my anxiety growing. Isabelle could’ve run into trouble without us. The fire—the explosion—any strangers who didn’t yet know to fear us—
“Over here.”
Isabelle stood underneath the outcropping of a cliff, the thin moonlight and the wash of firelight just illuminating her. She stepped out, raising one hand in the air. My whole body lit up with relief at seeing her safe. Letting go of Fiona, I hurried toward her.
“What took you so long?” she asked.
“Thank you,” I said, taking both her hands in mine.
She shrugged, though a small smile played at the corners of her lips. She looked past me to my mother, and I glanced back, seeing the way my mother had slowed, her face suddenly stricken. “Hello, Isabelle,” my mother said.
“Hello,” Isabelle said softly. “Mother One.”
Isabelle and my mother together. For a second, time slipped and slid, and I saw that old photograph of Patricia and my mother sitting close together. The two of them resurrected, on the edge of everything, nothing yet decided, all of it possible. Then I blinked and Isabelle was the motherless daughter who carried our mothers’ favorite name. The one who’d lost her mother so that we could find mine. Guilt nudged at my edges. My gaze slipped to Fiona, who tilted her head, eyes shut in the moonlight, as if she were praying. She held her stomach with both hands. Outside of the confines of the compound, she looked so young.
“You did the right thing,” my mother said, following my gaze.
“I hope so,” I whispered.
A roar, a crackle. The fire was devouring everything, a patient beast finally unleashed. I pulled back from my mother and I turned, fascinated. All those times I’d seen footage of the Homestead fire on the news and felt the sharp echo of that long-ago loss. Here it was. Happening right in front of me.
I stood next to Cate, and we threaded our fingers together, palms held close, all that power concentrated between us. We waited together, the five of us: my mother and Isabelle standing close, Fiona clutching her belly. We watched the fire blaze, the hectic flames like a sunset. Like a sunrise. Like the world was remaking itself, right here, just awaiting our arrival.
51
December 1970
Dearest Trish,
You said we weren’t talking enough lately, so here’s a nice old-fashioned letter from me to you. I never ever ever mean to neglect you, please believe me. What I’ve been doing with Joseph has taken up my time, but it’s all for you. For us! For our future daughters. I wake up every morning feeling like I’m holding the entire future inside me.
Your turn will come too. I’ll make sure of it. I care for all the wonderful girls here, but you’re my favorite in all ways, forever. My sweet, serious girl. The first to ever believe in me. Even when you barely knew me, you could see into my soul and you knew what this would mean. Not just for you and me, but for every woman.