Pucker by Melanie Gideon Page A

see?” she says.
    I sigh. “See what?”
    â€œThat space, between my parents. That’s for me.”
    â€œI don’t see any space.” Her parents are crammed up against each other, their shoulders and thighs touching, bathing in the sunlight while their daughter is sitting alone in the dark.
    â€œNo, there’s a space,” she says, her voice breaking. “Mama told me so. They left room for me.”
    She begins to cry.
    Rose looks over at me and scowls. Do something, she mouths. I shrug. I don’t want to get involved. But Emma’s weeping gets annoyingly loud.
    â€œLemme see.” I take the picture and pretend to study it. “Oh yeah, now I see.”
    â€œYou do not!” Emma shouts, grabbing it back. “You lie and you suck!”
    â€œGive it here,” says Michael. He takes the picture and shows it to Rose.
    â€œOh yes, dear. I see. They’ve made a space for you, all right. There on the cushion, under the warm sun,” Rose murmurs.
    â€œI’m sorry, Emma,” I say after a few minutes.
    She glares at me. “You must be really scared.”
    I look out of the back of the wagon. It’s raining so hard it could be night. I see lanterns up ahead. A herd of cows suddenly materializes; then, just as quickly, they vanish into the fog.
    â€œPeople get mean when they get scared,” she says.
    â€œI’m not scared,” I say softly.
    â€œYes you are,” she replies.

TWENTY-THREE
    W HEN I GET MY FIRST glimpse of the Ministry—that enormous stone bulwark, far taller than any other building in the city—something inside me begins to throb. Suddenly breathing through my nose is not an option. I open my mouth like a dog and pant as quietly and unobtrusively as I can. Michael watches me guardedly, one arm slung protectively around Emma. I have failed to impress him this morning.
    What I’m experiencing is nostalgia. It pierces through me, and while the initial thrust of memory is like a tiny knife stabbing into my side, something that has been dammed up is finally free.
    I have forgotten nothing. Somewhere inside me I have stored every detail. The wagon lumbers down the city streets and I know that to the left of me is the cobbler’s shop and to the right of me is the blacksmith. The sounds of Isaura are a long-forgotten sound track that now crackles into life: the hollow whoosh of the bellows, the dull thud of a mallet hitting wood, the flapping of clothes strung up on a line.
    My past is a giant who has been asleep for a thousand years. Now see his limbs twitch. Now see his stone face turn to flesh.
    My smugness begins to melt away. Yes, I buy my shoes at the mall and we get our oil changed at Jiffy Lube and Isaura’s insistence on hardship masquerading as purity annoys me. But as I continue to look out on the city streets, I can’t help but remember all the good things: the community feasts, the long tables overflowing with food, sticking out my hand to get my future read, knowing that I was safe, that nothing would ever happen to me that I wouldn’t be forewarned about.
    The wagon jerks to a stop.
    â€œThomas?” says Rose.
    I feel like an overcooked hot dog.
    â€œThomas,” Rose repeats. “Nobody can leave until you do.”
    Nigel comes around the back of the wagon. “We don’t have all day,” he says.
    I nod but don’t move.
    â€œOh, for Christ’s sake,” says Michael, pushing me aside. “Get out.”
    Â 
    Luckily for me, we don’t have to travel far inside the Ministry. If we did, I think I might drown in my memories. Nigel leads us down the main corridor and tells us to sit down and wait. He raps twice on a closed door and a muffled voice says to bring Rose in first. He carries her in.
    No more than twenty minutes pass before she’s done. The door creaks open eerily. No sign of the Maker, but we see Rose, still sitting in her chair. She turns to