for years, oftentimes appearing in the news to thank the Alliance for his or her “rescue” from the wilds of the Outside. The individual would bless the ones who saved him or her and affirm that the Outside was a horror—a wild place to be protected from. Eventually, as inAnnika’s case, they would be tattooed and released to live in the ghetto with the donors.
Annika, as with many of those released and most likely because she was so young when she was rescued, had a damaged memory of her previous life. She told Joan stories, usually at bedtime. Sometimes spontaneously she would regale them with an anecdote. Neither Joan nor her father knew what might have initiated the sudden memory recall. The tales were always disjointed, never connected to a larger story. Joan wasn’t sure whether her mother narrated something that happened to her or whether she recounted fairy tales from her childhood. Annika didn’t know, either.
Frank, the donor Annika tried to hide, had been a popular man in the ghetto. The story of the arrest spread rapidly through the ghetto. Everyone hailed Joan as a hero because she risked her life to help hide Frank and somehow escaped arrest.
Joan rolled over in the bed.
Some hero
, she thought. It made her sick to her stomach every time someone mentioned it. Unable to return to sleep, she walked into the kitchen for a glass of water.
She noticed her father on the balcony. She went out, and he motioned for her to join him on the chair. He slid over, and she squeezed in beside him. Putting his arm around her, he stroked her hair and forehead, as she laid her head on his chest. He held a drink in his other hand.
“Can’t sleep, honey?”
“Nightmare.”
She knew he suffered through them, too.
“Did I hear the landline phone ring earlier?” Joan queried, as she snuggled in closer to him.
Staffan paused a moment before answering her, “Oh, yeah. Jack called.” Another pause. “He wanted to make sure yougot the message about tomorrow. You didn’t tell me you were going in for medical tests.”
Joan rolled her eyes, “I’m going in for medical tests tomorrow, Dad. No big deal.” Then after a moment, “Why didn’t he call my wrist phone?”
Staffan interrupted her, changing the subject, “Stars are beautiful tonight.”
She looked up.
“Moon, too,” he gestured to the east of the sky.
Joan thought back to something Duncan told her about the moon. Last week at the Center, she was resting after running the hurdles, and he joined her on the grass. She had commented about how the moon shone, even though it was daytime. Duncan said, “You know, when I was a kid, my dad would go away on business a lot—to the Outside. This was before we had picture phones; in fact, most places didn’t even have any phone service at all. He told my mom that all we had to do was look at the moon at night, and he would look at it, too. It would be as if we were together because we’d be looking at the same thing at the same time. So before bed my mom would take us kids out to look at the moon each night, and we’d imagine our dad looking at it, too. It made us feel closer to him.” Joan wondered if Duncan gazed at the moon now.
Her father interrupted her thoughts, “Do you remember that song your mother used to sing you? About the drinking cup?”
“‘The Drinking Gourd?’” Joan corrected him. “Of course. She learned it from Zenobia, didn’t she? Mom was always getting the words wrong.”
The memory brought a smile to Joan’s face.
“Well, your mom didn’t grow up with it. My mother used to sing it to me, too.”
“Isn’t it an old nursery rhyme song?”
“Yes.”
“Dad, can you sing it to me?”
“Your mother had the voice, not me.” Joan didn’t say anything. “But I’ll try,” he said, giving her a kiss on her forehead.
“The white riverbank makes a very good road
The dead trees show you the way
To the right, to the right, travel on and
Follow the drinking
Annika, as with many of those released and most likely because she was so young when she was rescued, had a damaged memory of her previous life. She told Joan stories, usually at bedtime. Sometimes spontaneously she would regale them with an anecdote. Neither Joan nor her father knew what might have initiated the sudden memory recall. The tales were always disjointed, never connected to a larger story. Joan wasn’t sure whether her mother narrated something that happened to her or whether she recounted fairy tales from her childhood. Annika didn’t know, either.
Frank, the donor Annika tried to hide, had been a popular man in the ghetto. The story of the arrest spread rapidly through the ghetto. Everyone hailed Joan as a hero because she risked her life to help hide Frank and somehow escaped arrest.
Joan rolled over in the bed.
Some hero
, she thought. It made her sick to her stomach every time someone mentioned it. Unable to return to sleep, she walked into the kitchen for a glass of water.
She noticed her father on the balcony. She went out, and he motioned for her to join him on the chair. He slid over, and she squeezed in beside him. Putting his arm around her, he stroked her hair and forehead, as she laid her head on his chest. He held a drink in his other hand.
“Can’t sleep, honey?”
“Nightmare.”
She knew he suffered through them, too.
“Did I hear the landline phone ring earlier?” Joan queried, as she snuggled in closer to him.
Staffan paused a moment before answering her, “Oh, yeah. Jack called.” Another pause. “He wanted to make sure yougot the message about tomorrow. You didn’t tell me you were going in for medical tests.”
Joan rolled her eyes, “I’m going in for medical tests tomorrow, Dad. No big deal.” Then after a moment, “Why didn’t he call my wrist phone?”
Staffan interrupted her, changing the subject, “Stars are beautiful tonight.”
She looked up.
“Moon, too,” he gestured to the east of the sky.
Joan thought back to something Duncan told her about the moon. Last week at the Center, she was resting after running the hurdles, and he joined her on the grass. She had commented about how the moon shone, even though it was daytime. Duncan said, “You know, when I was a kid, my dad would go away on business a lot—to the Outside. This was before we had picture phones; in fact, most places didn’t even have any phone service at all. He told my mom that all we had to do was look at the moon at night, and he would look at it, too. It would be as if we were together because we’d be looking at the same thing at the same time. So before bed my mom would take us kids out to look at the moon each night, and we’d imagine our dad looking at it, too. It made us feel closer to him.” Joan wondered if Duncan gazed at the moon now.
Her father interrupted her thoughts, “Do you remember that song your mother used to sing you? About the drinking cup?”
“‘The Drinking Gourd?’” Joan corrected him. “Of course. She learned it from Zenobia, didn’t she? Mom was always getting the words wrong.”
The memory brought a smile to Joan’s face.
“Well, your mom didn’t grow up with it. My mother used to sing it to me, too.”
“Isn’t it an old nursery rhyme song?”
“Yes.”
“Dad, can you sing it to me?”
“Your mother had the voice, not me.” Joan didn’t say anything. “But I’ll try,” he said, giving her a kiss on her forehead.
“The white riverbank makes a very good road
The dead trees show you the way
To the right, to the right, travel on and
Follow the drinking
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