In the After

settling well or it’s the stress. After I finish, I push the tray onto the floor and lie in bed, clutching my stomach. Despite the pain, I fall into an uneasy, pill-induced sleep .
    When I wake, I don’t know if it’s been hours or days. I can’t help but wonder: Where did it all go wrong? I struggle to think back to when I saw my mother for the first time in years .
    • • •
    “Amy?” My mother looked at me, unbelieving, her hand covering her mouth. She walked forward slowly. “Is that you?”
    I nodded. I’d already begun to cry. Not the silent tears that I’d developed in the After, but loud, blubbering sobs. Baby held tightly on to my waist. I could tell she was agitated.
    My mother crossed the room and instantly I was in her arms. It was strange yet comforting. She smelled the same as I remembered: fresh and flowery. I bawled onto her shoulder. She rubbed my back, and I got lost in the feeling.
    Eventually I could breathe again. I raised my head and wiped my nose. My mother gazed at me, beaming. Tears had stained her face.
    She touched my head and studied my newly cut hair. “You always did want a Mohawk,” she said. I managed a laugh.
    “Baby cut it.” It was strange to finally talk, to say Baby’s name out loud. I’d only ever signed it. As soon as I said it, though, I noticed she was no longer clutching my waist. I turned to find her crouching on the floor against the wall, her hands covering her ears. I went to her quickly, bent down, and touched her arm.
    “Are you okay?” I asked. Then I realized she wouldn’t understand what I was saying and signed it instead.
    She looked at me like I was a stranger. Yes. You talked loud , she accused.
    I did Before. You know that .
    It just scared me .
    I’m sorry . I smoothed down her hair. We’re safe here. I promise . I was sure.
    Did the princess tell you that?
    Princess? I turned and looked at my mother with a smile. She’s not exactly a princess. She’s my mom .
    Baby stared at me, astounded. She was as amazed as I was to see my mother in front of us, alive. I took Baby’s hand and helped her stand up.
    My mother placed her arm around my shoulder. “I have so much to tell you. Let’s go, you and . . .”
    “Baby,” I offered.
    “You and Baby can come with me. I’ll show you where you’re going to live.”
    “Mom, where are we?” I felt like at any moment I would wake up and discover it had all been a dream.
    “You’re in New Hope, the largest postapocalyptic community of survivors in the Northern Hemisphere.”
    I smiled at the words: hope, survivors, community . Baby and I followed my mother back down the corridor and into the light of day. We were home.

    We saw very little of New Hope that day. We were poked and prodded by doctors, since my mother insisted on a complete medical evaluation. She stayed by my side the entire time, fawning over me. It felt so good, almost unreal, having my mother back. I’d always hoped she was alive, but after so many years, the hope had seemed more like fantasy. My mother rubbed my back and played with my hair. She whispered how much she’d missed me as tears welled up in her eyes.
    I was in a hospital room for several hours while they took my blood and conducted a full physical. My shoulder turned out to be sprained, and I was warned to be careful with it for a while. Then came all the medicine. I explained shots to Baby and how they were a good thing, despite the pain.
    “Richard,” my mother told the boy from earlier. “Do a complete workup on the child.”
    “Yes, of course.” He took Baby’s hand to lead her to another room.
    “Wait,” I said tentatively, the word not as forceful as I had hoped with my newly found voice. “I want to stay with her,” I insisted.
    The boy smiled. “Sure. I can examine her in here, if it makes you more comfortable,” he offered. Grateful, I gave him a faint smile back. Baby looked around uncertainly.
    “It’s okay,” he told her kindly.
    “She doesn’t understand you. We never spoke out loud at home. She’ll have to learn. . . .” I paused, thinking of Amber whispering to Baby secretly. “I’m not sure if she remembers any English. . . . It’s been a long time and she was only a toddler when I found her.”
    My mother took charge of Baby and helped her onto a hospital bed. “A lot of the children we find don’t talk at first,” my mother told me. “They’ve learned to be quiet to survive and have a hard time adjusting.