Ellie jumps up and heads back to the house as Cara crouches down next to me and pulls out something green. I watch her add it to my pile of weeds.
“That was a tomato,” I say.
“Oops.” She gives up on weeding and just sits on the edge of the raised bed. “How long are you planning to stay?”
I shrug and my eyes drift over to the mound again.
“You aren’t required to, you know.” Her voice is soft, low. Did the others send her out here to have this little intervention?
“Are they getting annoyed that we overstayed our welcome?”
“No. Amy asked me how long you were staying, but more than anything, I think she’s concerned about you. She’s heard more ‘Oh-This-One-Time-Andrew’ stories thanIeven know. I think she’s worried you feel obligated to stay. Henri didn’t expect you to hang around here to look after everyone.”
Of course Cara would know my own reasons for staying better than I ever could myself.
“It’s not just them.”
“I know you want to see Andrew again, so why are you still here? Kristy and Ellie will be fine—they walked across more than half thecountry to get here. Amy carried her daughter up here with us; the two of them will be fine.I’llbe fine. And since the weather has gotten better, I think Niki is less willing to make excuses to stay, but I know she won’t leave without you.”
I’m not sure how to explain it to her, but it’s like I’m lost and don’t know what to do. I thought going to Fort Caroline would change things because I was taking action. Instead of waiting for them to find us, I went to them. But we don’t have to worry about them anymore. And Andrew got Amy home and Henri got to spend her last days with what was left of her family.
I want that.
We survived the superflu, and there are still thousands or millions of ways we could die now that there’s no infrastructure of society to maintain us. But I don’t want to worry about that anymore. I want to spend the time I have, however long that might be, with the people I love.
I’ve stayed here because I know there are people I love here. I stop weeding, and the pit in my stomach that’s been slowly expanding like a sinkhole finally reaches its full width and threatens to swallow everything.
“Because if I get to the cabin, and he’s not there—”
“He is. He’s there and he’s been waiting for you.”
“What if he’s not waiting forme?”
“He is. And if you don’t move your ass, he’s going to be pissed.”
I laugh and pull another weed. “And if he’s already pissed?”
“You just have to go, Jamie. If you want me to go with you, I will—”
“No, no. Stay here, I understand.” Although I do want her to comewith us. Because I’m going to miss her. And I’m only now realizing how much. “I’m going to give you the address. I get it, what you have to do. But if you go to Easton and... I dunno, if it ends up not feeling like home again—you always have a home with us.”
She reaches out and wraps her arms around my neck. I hug her tightly and try not to cry. She lets me go and sits back down on the edge of the raised bed, but I see her wipe away a silent tear quickly before she asks, “So answer my question: How long are you planning on staying?”
“We’ll leave tomorrow.”
Cara nods. “I’ll let Kristy and Amy know.”
The next day, the four women are at the front gate to see us off. Newt is already out of the gate, sniffing around and peeing on things one last time. I think Ellie is sadder to see him go than she is me or Niki. They each give us a hug goodbye. Cara kisses me on the cheek.
“Remember what I said. You always have a home with us.”
She nods. And I really do think I’ll see her again. Maybe not for a few years, but I know it’s not the last time we’ll see each other. So instead of goodbye, I tell her, “I’ll see you around.”
Cara’s mapped out the route for us, but it’s familiar. It’s the same route Andrew and I took into Bethesda—only I asked her to make sure to avoid the roads with tunnels.
There’s something about starting this journey home in the spring that feels almost right. Life returning. As if Henri planned it this way, to have me stay until the grass began to turn green and the buds on the trees started to sprout. For the cold winter months to be a distantmemory instead of a constant, stony presence.
It fills me with hope. Something I haven’t had in a while.
