The Girl in the Bubble

Two soft feet hit the pavement. A breeze rustles bright golden hair. Wide doe-like dark brown eyes search the skies through long eyelashes. A large door stands behind her. She takes a small step forward and jumps back, for the dark pavement has had sun shining on it all day, and the child doesn’t recognize the sun can burn her tiny feet.

The date is July 16th, 2031. The outbreak had started years before Rosalie had even been born. She’d lost a brother she’d never known to it, before the State of Emergency had even been declared.

Her parents don’t talk about him a lot. They don’t talk a lot about anything.

Today, July 16th, is the first time Rosalie has left the suburban white condo, though it’s not so white anymore. Years of wear and tear with no maintenance have left it more a dusty grey colour.

Vaccinations for every member of the household had been mailed a month ago. She didn’t much like the needle, but she didn’t complain. It hurt, but it didn’t hurt that much. She didn’t understand why her parents had cried when they’d given themselves the vaccines.

Now, they’d waited the recommended period of time, even a little longer, her parents had decided it was time. They stand behind her now, in the doorway. Their masks are on, gloves too, and they seem hesitant.

Rosalie remembers the dainty slippers in her hand. They’re blue, race cars on them. They’re too small for her. She puts them on anyway. Then, she takes a step again, into the sunshine.

She feels its warmth on her rosy pale cheeks. It blinds her when she looks up. She doesn’t care. Her face breaks out into a smile. She looks to the plot of dirt she’s been told was a garden. It was her mother's happy place. Now it is dead and desolate, save for one small weed. It’s green and has three soft-looking leaves. It clings to the sidewalk for support. She crouches and touches one of the leaves. It feels like it should. Soft. Fragile.

Alive.

She looks up to realize that other people who live in the cul-de-sac are on their lawns as well, taking in a world they’ve been deprived of for eleven years. There’s silence except for the leaves rustling.

“It’s over.” Says the elderly man who lives next to Rosalie. He’d lost his wife and daughter to the virus. “It’s finally over.” His voice breaks. The neighbors across from them start clapping. Yelling and whooping. Roslie backs away, scared by what appears to her to be an aggressive gesture. Soon, as everyone joins in, she realizes it’s a good thing. So, underneath the sunshine and the blue sky and clouds, with a backdrop of muted houses, lawns devoid of life, her brother’s shoes and her parents tears, she puts her tiny fragile hands together. Slowly at first, and then faster, she claps. The neighborhood follows suit, and soon the echoes of their claps and cheers are all anyone can hear.