Alice in Zombieland

“Since today’s my birthday, shouldn’t you be doing something for me?” I asked, hoping to tease her into forgetting about her first ballet performance and the princess role she liked to say she “had been born to perform.”

She fisted her hands on her hips, all innocence and indignation and, well, my favorite thing in the entire world. “Hello! Letting you do this for me is my gift to you.”

I tried not to grin. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, because I know you want to watch me so badly you’re practically foaming at the mouth.”

Brat. But like I could really argue with her logic. I did want to watch her.

I remember the night Emma was born. A wild mix of fear and elation had seared the memory into my mind. Just like my parents had done with me, they had opted to use a midwife who made house calls so that, when the big moment arrived, Mom wouldn’t have to leave home.

But even that plan had failed.

The sun had already set by the time her contractions started and my dad had refused to open the door to the midwife, too afraid a monster would follow her in.

So, Dad had delivered Emma while my mom nearly screamed us all to death. I had hidden under my covers, crying and shaking because I’d been so afraid.

When everything had finally quieted, I’d snuck into their bedroom to make sure everyone had survived. Dad bustled about while Mom lounged on the bed. Tentative steps had taken me to the edge, and, to be honest, I’d gasped in horror. Baby Emma had not been attractive. She’d been red and wrinkly, with the most hideous dark hair on her ears. (I’m happy to say the hair has since been shed.) Mom had been all smiles as she waved me over to hold my “new best friend.”

I’d settled beside her, pillows fluffing behind me, and she’d placed the wiggly bundle in my arms. Eyes so beautiful only God Himself could have created them had peered up at me, rosy lips puckering and tiny fists waving.

“What should we name her?” Mom had asked.

When short, chubby fingers had wrapped around one of mine, skin soft and warm, I’d decided that hair on the ears wasn’t such a terrible thing, after all. “Lily,” I’d replied. “We should name her Lily.” I had a book all about flowers, and the lilies were my favorites.

My mom’s soft chuckle had washed over me. “I like that. How about Emmaline Lily Bell, since Nana’s real name is Emmaline and it’d be nice to honor my mother the way we honored your dad’s when you were born. We can call our little miracle Emma for short, and the three of us will share a wonderful secret. You’re my Alice Rose and she’s my Emma Lily, and together the two of you are my perfect bouquet.”

I hadn’t needed time to think about that. “Okay. Deal!”

Emma had gurgled, and I’d taken that as approval.

“Alice Rose,” Emma said now. “You’re lost in your head again, when I’ve never needed you more.”

“All right, fine,” I said on a sigh. I just couldn’t deny her. Never had, never would. “I’m not talking to Dad, though. I’m talking to Mom and making her talk to him.”

The first sparkle of hope ignited. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

A brilliant smile bloomed, and her bouncing started up again. “Please, Alice. You gotta talk to her now. I don’t want to be late, and if Dad agrees we’ll need to leave soon so I can warm up on stage with the other girls. Please. Nooow.”

I sat up and placed the daisies around her neck. “You know the likelihood of success is pretty low, right?”

A cardinal rule in the Bell household: you did not leave the house if you couldn’t return before dark. Here, Dad had worked up “reinforcements” against the monsters, ensuring none of them could get in. After dark, well, you stayed put. Anyone out in the big bad world was without any type of protection and considered open season.

My father’s paranoia and delusion had caused me to miss numerous school activities and countless sporting events. I’d never even been on a date. Yes, I could have gone on a weekend lunch date and other craptasticly lame things like that, but honestly? I had no desire for a boyfriend. I never wanted to have to explain that my dad was certifiable, or that he sometimes locked us in the “special” basement he’d built as added protection from a boogeyman that did not exist. Yeah, just peachy.

Em threw her arms around me. “You can do it, I know you can. You can do anything!”

Her faith in me … so humbling. “I’ll do my best.”

“Your best is—Oh, ick!” Face scrunched with horror, she jumped as far away from me as she could get. “You’re all gross and wet, and you made me all gross and wet.”

Laughing, I lunged for her. She squealed and darted off. I’d run the hose over myself about half an hour ago, hoping to cool down. Not that I’d tell her. The fun of sibling torture, and all that.

“Stay out here, okay?” Mom would say something that would hurt her feelings, and I’d say something to make her feel bad for asking me to do this, and she’d cry. I hated when she cried.

“Sure, sure,” she said, palms up in a gesture of innocence.

Like I was buying that hasty assurance. She planned to follow me and listen, no question. Girl was devious like that. “Promise me.”

“I can’t believe you’d doubt me.” A delicate hand fluttered over her heart. “That hurts, Alice. That really hurts.”

“First, major congrats. Your acting has improved tremendously,” I said with a round of applause. “Second, say the words or I’ll return to working on a tan I’ll never achieve.”

Grinning, she rose on her toes, stretched out her arms and slowly spun on one leg. The sun chose that moment to toss out an amber ray, creating the perfect spotlight for her perfect pirouette. “Okay, okay. I promise. Happy now?”

“Sublimely.” She might be devious, but she never broke a promise.

“Watch me pretend I know what that means.”

“It means—oh, never mind.” I was stalling, and I knew it. “I’m going.”

With all the enthusiasm of a firing squad candidate, I stood and turned toward our house, a two-story my dad had built in the prime of his construction days, with brown brick on the bottom and brown-and-white-striped wood on the top. Kind of boxy, amazingly average and absolutely, one hundred percent forgettable. But then, that’s what he’d been going for, he’d said.

My flip-flops clapped against the ground, creating a mantra inside my head. Don’t. Fail. Don’t. Fail. Finally I stood at the glass doors that led to our kitchen and spotted my mom, bustling from the sink to the stove and back again. I watched her, a bit sick to my stomach.

Don’t be a wuss. You can do this.

I pushed my way inside. Garlic, butter and tomato paste scented the air. “Hey,” I said, and hoped I hadn’t cringed.

Mom glanced up from the steaming strainer of noodles and smiled. “Hey, baby. Coming in for good, or just taking a break?”

“Break.” The forced incarceration at night drove me to spend as much time as possible outside during daylight hours, whether I burned to lobster-red or not.

“Well, your timing’s great. The spaghetti’s almost done.”

“Yeah, okay, good.” During the summer months, we ate dinner at five sharp. Winter, we switched it up to four. That way, no matter the season, we could be in our rooms and safe before sunset.

The walls were reinforced with some kind of steel, and the doors and locks were impenetrable. And yes, those things made our futuristic dungeon known as “the basement” overkill, but you try reasoning with a crazy person.

Just do it. Just say it. “So, um, yeah.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “Today’s my birthday.”

Her jaw dropped, her cheeks bleaching of color. “Oh … baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean … I should have remembered … I even made myself notes. Happy birthday,” she finished lamely. She looked around, as if hoping a present would somehow appear via the force of her will. “I feel terrible.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll do something to make this up to you, I swear.”