Exposed

*An excerpt from Generation Theta: The First of the New World by Amber Calore

After the Apocalypse of 2140, radiation-associated cancer became the most common cause of death among the remainder of the human population. My family was not immune to it. The infections and diseases that had resulted from the bombs were, as my father put it, worse than just dying when they had hit. I would have to take his word for it. He had been alive then. I had not.

My parents didn’t speak often of how they’d survived. I knew only the bare minimum: they, just like everybody else, had made it to one of the few sufficiently protected underground bunkers before the bombs had struck. I knew my mother had wanted to stay back, believing it was unfair to leave so many others to die, and her cousin Cal had managed to drag her into one against her will, and I knew my father’s place in the bunker had been a result of my grandfather’s position in the Canadian government. That was all. Their generation had begun to shape the New World, and it would be up to mine, the first to be born after the Apocalypse, to solidify its future. The undertaking was large, and I couldn’t say I had much faith in myself or my peers to succeed.

Mom had been sick for a long time before she and Dad finally told us—my brother, Anthony, and I. My body had gone numb, and even as Anthony had thrown his chair back and stormed off to somewhere or other, I couldn’t move. This happened all the time now, but I still couldn’t believe it was happening to us. My maternal grandmother had died from cancer too, long before the bombs dropped, which meant it was plausible Mom was predisposed to it anyway. Logically speaking, I shouldn’t have been shocked. But when does pathos ever give way to logos?

Dad had tried to shout after Anthony as he left, but Mom had only put a hand on his arm and shook her head. Now was not the time.

Instead, she turned her attention to me. Her eyes were sad, a deep brown that reminded me of espresso beans, a rarity in our age of meager means. “Alex,” she had said to my father without looking at him, “would you give us a moment, please?”

He had hesitated, but he didn’t argue. He stood, kissed her forehead, and made for the door, ruffling my hair as he left. Alone at the table with my mother, I couldn’t help but feel oddly exposed. As if this was the first time she and I had ever sat face to face.

She reached her hand across the table, and I took it, allowing her to hold it tightly within her own. “Mi’ja,” she began, her voice soft and low, “I’m going to die.”

“I know.” I swallowed shakily past the lump in my throat. “I know, Mami. I know.” I was as calm as I could be when static was rushing through my ears and my blood was settling in my feet, my heart beating senselessly and my breathing ragged.

“And you’re going to be okay.” She said it with such certainty I was sure I’d heard her wrong.

“No—”

“Amber.” She shook her head and squeezed my hand tighter. “You are going to be okay. You’re going to grieve and you’re going to do it in your own way. You might cry or scream. You might feel everything or nothing. You might never want to move again, or you might want to run as far away as you can. You might do none of that. And that’s okay. And you are going to be okay.”

The static had gone away, and now all I could hear was my mother’s steady breathing in the silence of the small room. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you, mi’ja. And you remind me of myself.” Mom grinned slightly, though I could have imagined it. It was a look I had never seen on her face before. A look like she knew something nobody else could. Like she could tell the future. “You don’t think you are, but you’re strong. In every way one could be. Use it to your advantage.”

“Mami,” I began but she was already getting to her feet. She smiled down at me, and this time it was unmistakable.

“Now, as much as I would love to make your father and brother do it, they aren’t here. So—” she tossed me a fresh dish rag— “¿Ayudarme?”

I scoffed but got to my feet. There were only two things I could do then. Trust that my mother was right—I would be okay—and spend as much time with her as I possibly could before it was gone.