A New Day

A New Day

For Maddy

When we realised the Ark was slowly sinking, that there was a hole in the hull the size of a pinprick, the first thing I thought of was little baby with no name. Little baby, snotty nosed and crying all the time. How could we let the Ark sink without giving little baby a name? The floor of the Ark was more wet than damp and the polyester grey blankets that were stored in the hull were now useless and sopping.

Flor and I found the hole while on shift, on the 103rd day of New Day. We talked in hushed, careful voices like the hole was a small animal shivering in the corner and we were coaxing it out.

Ok fuck, I whispered.

Don’t, Flor hissed. We weren’t allowed to swear on the Ark. It wasn’t good, in the ethical sense of the word. And we were all trying so desperately to be good.

I took my shirt off and tore a chunk of fabric from the sleeve. Flor glanced at the scabby red pock marks on my bare stomach and quickly looked away. The hole was plugged, the leaking clogged, at least until the cheap fabric became heavy with water and gave way, but we had the sense that the sinking of the Ark was inevitable.

We looked at each other, the room suddenly thick with a dread that was only bearable in this moment, and would become unbearable the minute we rose to the deck and had to look the other passengers in the eye and say, without actually saying it, that the Ark was sinking. It was only a matter of time before someone else realised it too. The thought of that, that the burden of knowing something so horrible and unknowable would soon spread, made my stomach twinge.

But over the next few days nobody noticed our carefully rearranged expressions, our shared looks across the Ark’s long, cavernous dining hall. Or if they did, they weren’t about to say anything. One of the ladies from mandatory Vinyasa noticed that I was fudging my downward-facing dog and gave me a weird look. I was sure she was going to chastise me for it, but when our session ended, she walked right past me and out the door, not even stopping to align her Chakras.

I can’t bare it, said Flor one morning after assembly. She looked at me gravely, as if the weight of our secret would drown her before the Ark sunk. We had a rare moment alone in the fourth wing elevator on our way to pick up little baby from whoever was on night shift. My ears were still ringing with the words of Non-denominational Pastor Sim, who was on sermon that morning and had a knack of making assemblies feel much longer than the allotted 1.5 hours.

Be good, said Pastor Sim to the Ark. Be good, be good, be good said the whole room back to him. Our words circled like a mechanical bird until they lost their meaning and became just a feeling, sharp like a knife in your side; a stand-in for a whole thread of other meanings that led from it, each more sinister than the last. I wasn’t even the type to drink the cool-aid, but since there was no going anywhere, since the damn water levels were still rising last time I checked, I filled up my lungs and let the words be good fill out with all the oxygen I had in me.

Flor was particularly tetchy with me that day, often wrenching little baby from her breast and holding him out to me impatiently. Our shift had just begun, but my nipples already ached with little baby’s intense suckling. Sleep, suckle, sleep, suckle. The immediacy of his needs kept us from having conversations about the hole while we were on shift together. When we were off, we barely spoke at all. The dining hall was always a zoo and mere whispers travelled like wildfire in the women’s quarters.

I heard a rumour that one of the night-shifters is using baby formula, I said once we were down in the hull, alone.

That’s ridiculous, Flor said dismissively. There’s no formula on the Ark.

I wouldn’t risk using it if there was, I said. Flor was silent for a while.

I want to tell people, she said suddenly.

OK, I said, wanting to get ahead of whatever fire was coming. Flor glared at me.

You’re not taking this seriously.

I hitched little baby up onto my hip, his little legs dangling in empty space. He seemed happy and was softy gurgling.

I don’t see why it matters, I said finally. Isn’t it better to let everyone think we’re gonna make it.

You would say that, Flor shot back. I saw her glance down at where my shirt had ridden up, exposing a small, red-raw rash on my midriff, in the rough outline of a heart-shaped locket. Then she looked at me and her eyes widened, her hand flung up to her open mouth.

I’m so sorry, she gasped.

You’re a jerk, I said. I might have scurvy, but I’m not a heartless bitch.

Flor held her arms out to take little baby from me. Sorry, she said again. We fell silent for a while.

You know, I said, if there was a way, I’d take little baby and get off the Ark with you. Start a new life.

And go where? asked Flor. There’s nowhere to go.

I shrugged. It didn’t matter. I just wanted to imagine another world, the possibility of a new beginning.

Flor and I went back to the hole in the hull every day that week, and every time we were overcome in a fresh wave with the horror of it. Strangely, the worst part was not the knowledge that we would all likely die soon, but the undeniable proof that all the hope and well-meaning intentions expended on the Ark and New Day would be wasted. Even the best laid plans of mice and men go awry.

Flor never said a word to anyone. The hull of the Ark became full with seawater and would soon make its way to the living quarters. And then people would have their New Day taken from them.

I want to have a naming ceremony for little baby, I said to Flor when the water was up to our thighs.

Like a christening?

I nodded.

I took little baby and submerged him in the salty water. He was buoyant, so I pushed him down between my legs. When I lifted him, he came up heavier than before and sodden. His eyes were red and he began to cry loudly. I handed him to Flor and she clutched him close to her. She smoothed his hair down and kissed the top of his wet head.

What’s his name? asked Flor, and I smiled.