“I’m aware of that,” Callie says. “That’s why you’re going to have to figure out where they are. And you can’t take too long. Three months is coming up fast. ”
“I have the code to get into President Lattimer’s house,” I tell them. “Bishop gave it to me. ” My father beams at me and I flush with pride. “I can use that to get in and search for the code to the gun room and safe. ”
“Once we have the codes, we’ll be close to putting the final phase into action,” my father says. He stops walking, and Callie and I do the same.
The street is very quiet. In the distance, I hear children’s laughter. I scuff the toe of my shoe against the sidewalk. “You mean the phase where we start killing people?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Callie give my father a look, her eyebrows slightly raised. But when she speaks, it’s to me. “You’ve known all along what’s involved, Ivy. No revolutions are won without sacrifices. ”
I take a step toward her. “Thanks for patronizing me, Callie. You’ve made everything so much clearer. ”
Callie jerks her head back like I slapped her. But before she can respond, my father puts a finger under my chin and turns my face until I’m looking into his brown eyes. The same eyes he passed on to Callie. Eyes so dark you can never figure out exactly what’s happening behind them.
“Yes, Ivy, the phase where we start killing people,” he says. “The same way they killed your mother. The same way they showed her no mercy. ”
The familiar anger swirls in my gut, so automatic now at the mention of my mother’s name I wonder if I even really feel it anymore or if it’s just a reflex. “President Lattimer told me he knew her,” I say. “Is that true?”
My father pauses, shrugs. “Probably. They grew up on the same side of town, so I’m sure their paths crossed at some point. ”
“But he made it sound like—”
“Does it matter?” my father asks. “It doesn’t change anything. The facts are still the facts. And you know what needs to be done. ” His voice is gentle but firm. “Not everyone who dies in a war is guilty. Sometimes they’re just on the wrong side. ” He gives my chin a little chuck as he moves his hand away. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say. And the hell of it is, I do understand. They are both right. But it’s easy to talk about what’s right when the sacrifices for a cause are abstract…a president’s son, a distant stranger, a symbol. It used to be easy for me, too. But now I know the color of Bishop’s eyes in the sunlight, the way his hair stands up in the morning before he showers, the warmth of his palm on my back.
My father smiles. “Find the codes, Ivy,” he says. It’s not a request.
Callie squeezes my hand. “We’re counting on you. ”
I bite back a swell of disappointment that Bishop isn’t sprawled on the couch when I get home, his long legs resting on the coffee table, or out in the kitchen whipping up something for dinner. Already, I’m not sure how to define what we are to each other. Certainly not husband and wife, although that may be true on paper, and not exactly friends, either. But whatever it is, whatever we are, it will only make it harder in the end, because I am incapable of faking a relationship with him in order to make it through. For better or worse, my feelings for Bishop are real, whether they’re anger or frustration or something else entirely. I’m different from Callie. I can’t base my whole life on a lie, even if it’s only temporary. So it’s better if Bishop sleeps out here, with the safety of a wall between us.
I leave my messenger bag on the end of the couch and go into the bedroom. My neck and left shoulder have been sore since climbing the cliff at the river, and I rub the muscles with my right hand as I walk. Once in the bedroom, I kick off my shoes and one goes flying under the bed, disappearing beneath the bed skirt. I bend down and reach for it, my hand finding something hard instead of my shoe. Frowning, I get down on my hands and knees and lift up the bed skirt to peer under the bed. I pull out my shoe and toss it aside. Next to where it landed is a large photo album. I slide it out. Its cover is glossy red leather with gold leaf scrolling up the side.
I shift to sitting, my back leaning against the bed, and balance the heavy album across my legs. When I open it, the pages stick together slightly, making a faint ripping sound as I pull them apart. The first pages are dedicated to newspaper articles about the beginning of the war, the newsprint yellow with age. It’s all information I learned from my father—how the bombs fell first on the east coast of the United States, then the west, how we retaliated, how more bombs were dropped, both here and on our allies, the ever-escalating futility of war, like the world’s most deadly game of chicken. But the articles end before the war did, simply because the destruction was too vast. There was no one left to report on the damage. Everyone was too busy trying to survive it. And most of them didn’t. Those who did were then cast into nuclear winter and their ranks further culled by disease and exposure. It’s a miracle anyone survived, really.
After the articles, there are old photographs stuck to the pages, descriptions written below them in faded ink. Some I know from pictures I’ve seen in books, Mount Rushmore, the Grand Canyon. Others I’ve never seen before, the sequoias in California, the Northern Lights, the Great Barrier Reef. I run my fingers over the images, trying to imagine a world large enough to encompass endless treasures.
“So,” Bishop’s voice says from the doorway, “find something interesting?”
I jump, the album sliding off my lap onto the floor. “Oh my God,” I breathe. “You scared me!” I glance from him to the album. There’s no way to hide what I was doing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
But he only smiles, walks in to the room, and lowers himself to the floor next to me. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. ”
He reaches over me and pulls the album back onto my lap. “It was my grandfather’s. He started it after the war so we wouldn’t forget the way the world used to be. I’ve added to it over the years. ”
I flip to the next page, which is covered with pictures and ragged-edged postcards, all with images of the ocean. The next page is the same. And the one after that. I look up at Bishop, who keeps his eyes on the album. “You want to go beyond the fence,” I say quietly. “Don’t you?”
He nods. “I want to see the ocean. ”
I pause, remembering the conversation we had on the couch the night we both couldn’t sleep. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? What you gave up when you married me. ” It’s not even really a question, I already know the answer from the look on his face.
“Hey,” he says, “it’s okay. Maybe in a few years I can convince you to take a very long hike with me. ”
“But…” I trace the edge of a shoreline with my fingertip. “The bombs hit the coasts hardest. Would it be safe? Even now?”
Bishop shrugs. “Maybe not. Probably not. ” His face tightens. “But I don’t think we’re doing ourselves any favors staying isolated this way. Who knows what’s out there? We may find other people. Whole societies like ours. And even if we don’t, I’d get to hear the waves on the shore. ” He gives me a sad smile. “That would probably be enough to make it worth it. ”
I stare at him, this landlocked boy who dreams of water. It might have been an easily attained dream before the war. But now, when our knowledge of the world is limited to this small parcel of earth, when safety can be counted in square miles, yearning for the ocean seems like a form of bravery most people will never come close to attaining. It feels like reaching for the stars.