Page 63 of Poster Girl

“Mom, Sonya’s here,” Trudie says, and it’s like Sonya is a friend Trudie brought home from school; it’s like she’s young and welcome.

Eugenia Ward straightens, eyes wide, the oven door still open at her feet. Her oven mitts are shaped like lobster claws. She stares at Sonya. She’s pretty, eyes big and warm, her hair a neat, curly bob pinned behind one ear.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh. Hello, Ms. Kantor.”

“I’m sorry to disrupt your afternoon,” Sonya says, and all at once, Eugenia Ward remembers herself. She takes off her oven mitts and closes the oven door. She turns the oven off. Her fingernails are neatly trimmed.

“We’ve been wondering when you would show up,” Trudie says. She’s unloading groceries: grapes and apples, a bag of flour, a carton of milk. Sonya used to look into this kitchen—a different color then, she thinks—and feel the disparity between her home’s gleaming white counters and the Wards’ cracked Formica. Now she feels that disparity again, but from the other angle. The abundance of food here, of space, so unlike Sonya’s bare cupboards in the Aperture. Even the extra weight around Mrs. Ward’s middle looks like a luxury to her now. A sign of comfort and stability, to be soft.

“Trudie, don’t be rude,” Eugenia says. “I’m sure Ms. Kantor has been hard at work.”

Trudie rolls her eyes.

“I just... didn’t want to bother you until I had to,” Sonya says. It’s technically the truth, though perhaps not in the sense that Eugenia receives it, like a courtesy and not for Sonya’s own comfort. Sonya’s throat feels tight and dry. She clasps her hands in front of her.

“Oh! Please, sit,” Eugenia says, gesturing to one of the high stools pushed under the kitchen island. “Can I get you anything? Orange juice? Water?”

Sonya can’t help the way she brightens at the thought of a glass of orange juice. Eugenia smiles a little, and opens the refrigerator. Stuck to it with magnets are images of the Wards with Trudie, of a dog that Sonya sees curled up in the hallway, its tail next to its nose. A dog cost three thousand DesCoin, Sonya recalls. A big purchase for a family like the Wards, not favored by the Delegation, not working important jobs.

Eugenia puts the glass of juice down in front of Sonya as she eases herself onto the stool, still wearing her coat.

“You’re hurt?” Eugenia says.

“It’s nothing.”

“You look just like the posters,” Eugenia says, and in her mouth, it sounds like a compliment. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“Most people don’t seem to think that’s a good thing,” Sonya says, and she sips the juice. She is shocked, for a moment, by howsweetit is. It feels grainy. Her teeth ache.

“But you were so beautiful,” Eugenia says. “I mean, you are. And you were just a girl. No older than Trudie.”

Trudie folds the paper bag and shoves it under the sink. “Old enough to refuse to be on a propaganda poster.”

“Trudie!” Eugenia says, and Trudie walks out of the kitchen, popping a grape into her mouth on her way out. Sonya can hear it crack between her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Eugenia says.

“It’s all right,” Sonya says. “You’re very kind, thank you.” She sips the orange juice again. “I came here to ask you about Grace, Mrs. Ward.”

The soft smile disappears from Eugenia’s lips, but she nods. “I assumed as much.”

Sonya clears her throat. “I know that because Grace was three years old when she was discovered...” She pauses. She begins again. “When she wastaken from you,” she says. There’s no sense in using euphemisms with this woman, who has aged a lifetime in the last decade, her forehead creased and the skin under her eyes, dark as a bruise.

“Which means,” Sonya presses on. “Which means she had a black market Insight, likely provided by someone who worked in a Delegation morgue.”

Eugenia flinches a little.

“I don’t need to know the details of that... exchange,” Sonya says. “But my best chance of finding Grace is if I know the name of the person that her Insight was actually registered to. The... dead person.”

Eugenia smooths the front of her floral apron down. She licks her lips.

“I don’t feel proud of that,” Eugenia says, and her voice wobbles. She’s crying, Sonya realizes. She sits up straighter.

“I’m not...” Sonya shakes her head. “I’m not in a position to judge anyone, Mrs. Ward.”

“It’s not what I did to keep my daughter that I’m not proud of,” Eugenia says, and something like sharpness comes into her voice as she lifts her eyes to Sonya’s again. “Why do you need to know?”

“I’m afraid I can’t explain,” Sonya says. “This investigation has taken me to some unexpected places. Places you probably don’t want to know about.”

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