When Matt and I got to school this morning, I saw kids divided into three groups waiting to get in. 4 through 5 were in one group (by far the biggest), 6 through 8 were in a second, and 9 through 12 in a third.
I said good-bye to Matt and went into the third group.
The high school group counted itself and there were 31 of us. I recognized a few faces, but there was no one there I remembered taking any classes with, let alone being friendly with. Our informal survey showed 16 freshman, 7 sophomores, 4 juniors, and 6 seniors.
“I guess we won’t have to worry about class size,” one of the seniors said, which of course turned out to be completely wrong.
Eventually they opened the doors and we went in. The younger kids were told to go to the cafeteria, the middle school kids to the gym, and the high school kids to the music room.
When we got there, there weren’t enough chairs for us, and what chairs there were, were mostly meant for 7-year-olds. So we sat on the floor and waited. And waited. And waited.
Of course I have no idea how long we waited but it felt like forever.
Eventually Mrs. Sanchez walked in. I nearly wept, I was so happy to see a familiar face.
Mrs. Sanchez smiled at us. “Welcome to Maple Hill High School,” she said. “I’m pleased to see each and every one of you.”
A few kids laughed.
“I know how difficult this is for you,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “And I’d like to tell you things are going to get better, but of course I can’t be sure that’s true. All I can do is be honest with you, and trust you to make whatever decisions are right for you.”
“There isn’t going to be high school?” one of the younger kids asked. I couldn’t tell whether that made him happy or sad.
“As you can see, not many of the high school age students have come here,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “We’ve heard that forty-four ninth through twelfth graders are at the high school now. Obviously many families have moved away, and I suppose quite a number have decided to homeschool this year.”
What we all knew but nobody was saying was that quite a number just didn’t care about school anymore. And I guess some may have died. We certainly didn’t say that.
“So we’re it?” a kid asked.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “Not every parent attended the meeting. We certainly hope more students will show up.”
“You should have offered free food,” a girl said, and we all laughed.
“How many high school teachers are here?” the senior girl asked. “How are we going to be divided up?”
Mrs. Sanchez had that uncomfortable look I’ve come to associate with grown-ups. “That is a problem,” she said. “There are four high school teachers at the high school. There’s a chemistry teacher, a Spanish teacher, a math teacher, and a biology teacher. Here we have an English teacher and me. I’m certified to teach history, although I haven’t since I became principal.”
“Wow,” the girl said. “Put all of you together and you practically have a faculty.”
Mrs. Sanchez ignored her sarcasm. “Of course it won’t be school as any of us remember it, but we should be able to cobble some kind of curriculum together,” she said. “But that will only work if we’re all in the same building.”
“So we’re not going to go to school here after all?” one of the younger kids asked.
“We think it makes more sense to put all the high school students in the high school,” Mrs. Sanchez said.
“Of course we’ll be sharing the building with other students, but we’ll have our own space. The idea is to teach two groups of ninth graders, and have the sophomores, juniors, and seniors take classes together. We’ll know better after we’ve done it for a while.”
I thought of the gang, of the two guys with guns. My stomach clenched.
“What if it isn’t safe to get to the high school?” I asked. “I’d have to bike through town to get there and I was told by an armed guard that girls shouldn’t go anyplace without protection.”
I like Mrs. Sanchez and I know it wasn’t fair to put her on the spot like that. It wasn’t even sensible. Not everybody has to go through town to get to the high school. And I had Matt to protect me. But I couldn’t shake the image of those two guys with the guns.
“We all have to decide for ourselves what’s best,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “There are no good answers to this situation. You do have the option of homeschooling. All you have to do is go to the office, tell someone there what courses you’d be taking, and your textbooks will be provided. That’s the best we can do, I’m afraid.”
“This is crazy,” one of the older boys said. “I’ve been working my butt off so I can go to a good college. That’s all I’ve ever heard. Get into a good college. And now you’re telling me there are maybe a half dozen teachers, and I don’t even know what level they teach. Are any of them AP math? AP history? AP physics?”
“What difference does it make?” another boy asked. “It isn’t like there are any colleges left.”
“I know how unfair this all is,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “But we’ll try to do our best for you. And we’ll support any decision you make. If you do decide to go to the high school, please stay here. Anyone else, please go to the office and get your textbooks. I’ll leave you now so you can discuss things freely among yourselves.”
Most of the kids continued sitting. A few left with Mrs. Sanchez.
“How dangerous is town?” a girl asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I heard there were guys with guns.”
“I heard there are girls missing,” one of the younger girls said.
“They could have just left town,” I said. “Lots of people are leaving.”
“Michelle Schmidt is missing,” one of the girls said.
“You’re kidding,” I said. Michelle was in my French class.
“She was walking home from church with her little sister and some guy grabbed her,” the girl said. “That’s what I heard.”
Three more kids got up and left the room.
I don’t know why I didn’t go with them. I knew I wasn’t going to go to high school. But it felt good to be sitting there with kids my own age, at least pretending to go to school. I was with people and not just Mom and Matt and Jonny and Mrs. Nesbitt.
I wanted that feeling to last as long as it could. Because high school had turned into Springfield, just another stupid dream.
“You’d think somebody would do something,” one of the older girls said. “Call the police or the FBI or something.”
“There aren’t any more police,” I said.
“I don’t think there’s any FBI, either,” another girl said. “My mother knows someone who knows someone in Washington and he said the government isn’t there anymore. The president and everybody went to Texas. Texas is supposed to have gas and electricity and plenty of food.”
“Maybe we should all move to Texas,” I said.
Another two or three kids got up and left.
“So this is it?” the senior boy asked. “Are we all planning to go to the high school?”
“I guess so,” one of the other boys said.
“I have to ask my parents,” a girl said. “They didn’t want me to go to the high school, but I don’t think they’re going to want me at home, either.”
“Does anybody else ever wonder what the point is?” a girl asked. “Why are we pretending there’s a future?
We all know there isn’t.”
“We don’t know that,” another girl said. “We don’t know anything.”
“I really think if we pray hard enough, God will protect us,” one of the younger girls said.
“Tell that to Michelle Schmidt,” a boy said.
Suddenly I felt like I was surrounded by death, the way I feel when Peter gives us a new thing to worry about. I really didn’t need to know kids were missing.
So I got up. I felt if I was going to die anyway, I’d rather do it with my family around.
I walked to the office, where I saw a woman looking very frazzled and not at all happy.
“You going to be homeschooled?” she asked. “High school textbooks are over there.”
I went to where she pointed. There were piles of textbooks scattered around in no order.
I realized I should take textbooks for Jonny as well as myself. I started with his, because it made me feel like I was doing something positive and not just running away.
Of course I didn’t know exactly what Jonny was planning to study. At first I thought if I was stuck with French, he should be stuck with French. But then I decided he’d probably prefer Spanish. There are more Spanish-speaking baseball players.
I took both. I took earth science and biology textbooks and two years’ worth of math textbooks and world and American history and four different English textbooks, just for Jonny. I wouldn’t have taken any textbooks home for myself except I knew I’d never get away with that. So I selected a French III book and math and chemistry and an English textbook. I threw in an economics textbook and a psychology textbook because at some point I’d thought maybe I’d take them.
I piled the books up neatly and went back to the main office to see if I was supposed to sign for them or something. The frazzled-looking woman was gone.
Then I did the strangest thing. I saw boxes of school supplies, pens and pencils and blue books and notepads, all just sitting there.
I walked over making sure nobody could see me. I emptied my book bag and filled it with blue books and pads and pens and pencils.
For all I know, I’m the only person in the world keeping a journal of what’s been going on. The journal books I’ve been given over the years are all full, and I’ve been using Mom’s typing paper. I haven’t asked her permission and I’m not sure she’d give it to me if I did. At some point, she might want to start writing again.
I can’t remember the last time I was so excited. It felt like Christmas filling my book bag with supplies.
Better than Christmas, though, because I knew I was stealing and that made it even more exciting. For all I know, taking a blue book is a hanging offense. Assuming there are any cops around to hang you.
I kept wanting to take more. I ended up with another half dozen blue books tucked in under my belt. My clothes are too big for me anyway, so I figured the blue books would help me keep my pants on. I filled my pocketbook with pens and pencils.
Then the frazzled woman came back in. I scurried away from the supply room and went back to my pile of textbooks.
“I’m going to need help carrying these books out,” I said. “I took for my brother and me.”
“What do you expect me to do about it?” the woman snapped.
Actually I didn’t expect her to do anything. I carried the books in four trips to the front door and waited until Matt showed up. We divvied the books between us and biked home.
When we got there, I told Mom what had happened. She asked why I didn’t want to go to the high school.
“I think I’ll do better at home,” I said.
If Mom disagreed, she didn’t have the energy to put up a fight. “I expect you to work hard,” she said.
“School is school no matter where you go.”
I told her I knew that, and went up to my room. Sometimes I feel like my room is the only safe place left. I wonder if Megan feels that way, if that’s why she doesn’t leave hers.
Life sucks.
I wish I had some fudge.
I picked up my textbooks. Either textbooks are a lot heavier than they used to be, or I don’t have as much strength as I did 3 months ago.
There didn’t seem to be much point starting schoolwork on a Friday.
Labor Day. I’ll look over my textbooks tomorrow.
I told Mom I was doing history (she never would have believed me if I said math) and stayed in bed all morning
I finally got out around 11 and went downstairs to get something to eat. It was 23 degrees outside, but there was no heat on in the house and the woodstove wasn’t going. I heated a can of soup and ate that. Then I went back to bed.
That afternoon I heard Mom go up to her bedroom. She’s been taking naps lately, which is something she never did. You’d think she’d be teaching Jonny or something, but I don’t think she cares about his schoolwork any more than she cares about mine. Not that I blame her.
So I’m in bed, wearing my flannel pajamas and my robe and two pairs of socks and there are three blankets and a quilt over me, and I’m trying to decide which is worse, being cold or being hungry. Part of me says the worst thing is being bored and if I did some schoolwork I’d be distracted, but I tell that part of me to shut up.
I got out of bed and something made me go to the pantry. I’ve been choosing not to see how our supplies are holding out, because I don’t want to know. I want to believe everything is just going to work out and food will magically appear. In some ways it already has, and I want to think it always will.
Mom’s let us know she’d prefer us not to go to the pantry. Whatever food is available for us to eat, she leaves in the kitchen cabinets. I guess she doesn’t want us to worry.
Matt and Jonny were outside, working on our wood supply. I told myself I should join them, I should go out to gather more kindling, but the truth is even the woods scare me these days.
The pantry actually kind of reassured me. It looked to me like there were lots of cans of food and boxes of pasta and rice. Horton’s supplies were in one corner, and there seemed to be plenty of canned and boxed food for him and bags of kitty litter. Mom’s a stockpiler under the best of circumstances, so the pantry is always pretty full. She probably had a near-full pantry back in May.
Seeing all those cans and boxes and bags of food made me mad, like why are we starving ourselves when we still have food? When the food runs out, we’ll probably die, so what difference does it make if that’s November or January or March? Why not eat while we can?
That’s when I saw the bag of chocolate chips. I’d forgotten all about them, how I’d thrown them into my shopping cart on Crazy Shopping Day.
I went a little crazy. There was food in the pantry that Mom wasn’t letting us eat and there was chocolate, real chocolate, in the house and Mom was hoarding it because it has no nutritional value and if we’re only eating a little bit every day, we’re better off with spinach.
And they were MY damn chocolate chips.
I ripped open the bag and I poured chocolate chips down my throat. I could hardly taste them, I was swallowing them so fast. I must have devoured a third of the bag before I could calm down enough to savor the taste. Chocolate. It tasted just the way I’d remembered only better. I couldn’t stop eating them. I knew I was making myself sick. My stomach was already protesting but I kept flinging chocolate chips into my mouth. I didn’t want to share the chocolate with anybody. It was mine.
“Miranda!”
It’s funny. Somehow I knew I’d get caught. Maybe because I was prepared, I made the moment as dramatic as possible. I swallowed another mouthful of chips and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I must have seen that in a movie somewhere.
It worked. Mom started screaming. I’m not even sure she was coherent.
I was, though. I screamed right back at her. She was hoarding food. We didn’t have to starve. Why wasn’t she letting us eat three meals a day? What difference did any of it make? I still had the bag of chocolate chips in my hand, and I made some kind of wild gesture because the chips went flying all over the pantry floor.
Mom froze. That was a lot scarier than her hysterics.
I froze too for a moment. Then I started picking the chocolate chips off the floor. I got a handful of them and didn’t know whether I should put them back in the bag. I stood there like an idiot waiting for Mom to become human again.
“Eat them,” she said.
“What?”
“Eat them. You wanted them. Eat them. Pick them up and eat them. They’re yours. Eat them all. I don’t want to see a single chocolate chip on the floor.”
I bent down and started picking up all the chocolate chips from the floor. As I gathered them, I put them in my mouth. Whenever I missed one, Mom pointed it out to me. She actually kicked a couple of them toward me and told me to eat them.
I really felt sick by then.
Finally I got all the chocolate chips off the floor. There was still about a quarter of a bag left.
“Eat them,” Mom said.
“Mom, I don’t think I can,” I said.
“Eat them,” she said.
I thought I’d throw up. But Mom terrified me. I don’t know why. She wasn’t even yelling at that point. It was like talking to an icicle. She stood there absolutely still and watched me eat each and every last chocolate chip. I thought, This isn’t my mom. This is some strange creature that’s taken over her body.
Then I thought it would serve her right if I threw up all over her, but I managed not to.
“Give me the bag,” she said when I’d finally gotten the last chocolate chip down.
I did as she told me.
“Fine,” she said. “That was your food for today and tomorrow. You can join us for supper on Thursday.”
“Mom!” I yelled. “It was just some chocolate chips.”
“I was saving them for Matt’s birthday,” she said. “I’m not going to tell him why he isn’t getting any dessert on his birthday. I don’t expect you to tell him, either. But you’ve eaten enough for four people, so you’re going to skip your next four meals. Maybe then you’ll understand how important food really is.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I hadn’t been thinking about Matt. His birthday is in a couple of weeks, but what are birthdays nowadays? “Can’t you make him something else for his birthday?”
“What you did was wrong,” Mom said. She sounded more Momlike by then, or at least the Mom I’ve gotten to know over the past few months. “I can’t have you or your brothers walking in here and eating whatever you feel like. This food has to last all of us for as long a time as possible. Why can’t you understand that? What if you stroll in here and help yourself to a can of peaches? Or string beans? I know you’re hungry. I’m hungry, too. But the only chance we have is if we’re very, very careful. Maybe things will get better in a couple of months. Maybe it’ll take longer. If we don’t look toward the future, we have nothing to live for and I won’t have that.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll never do it again. I promise.”
Mom nodded. “I know you’re not a bad girl, Miranda,” she said. “I know it was just thoughtlessness on your part. And punishing you doesn’t make me feel any better. But I meant it about the meals. You can eat again Thursday night. It won’t kill you to go without food that long. You have enough calories in you right now to last for a week. Now just go to your room. I really don’t want to deal with you anymore.”
My stomach aches like it used to when I’d pig out on Halloween candy. Only worse, because then I’d have a full stomach. And I wouldn’t hate myself so much.
I hurt Mom. Without even knowing it, I hurt Matt. Jonny, too, since he would have loved a dessert. Mrs. Nesbitt. Maybe even Peter.
I’m a selfish, selfish pig. I don’t deserve to live.
Jonny came into my room this morning.
“Mom said you ate something from the pantry yesterday,” he told me. “And you’re not allowed to eat again until tomorrow night. And if she ever finds out that Matt or I did that we’ll get the exact same punishment.”
For some reason that made me feel better. I get it into my head sometimes that Mom loves me less than Matt or Jonny.
“That’s pretty much what happened,” I said.
Jonny looked kind of excited. “What did you eat?” he asked. “A can of string beans,” I said.
“Is that all?” he asked. “You can’t eat today because of a can of string beans?”
I told him to get the hell out of my room and stay out. And that was the only conversation I had all day.
Mom fried two potatoes from the garden. She also heated up a can of string beans. For dessert we had a can of fruit salad. The prodigal son would have been jealous.
Monday.
I should be doing schoolwork.
Matt’s birthday. He’s 19.
For supper we had artichoke hearts, almost like a salad, and then linguini with white clam sauce. Mrs. Nesbitt brought her home-baked oatmeal raisin cookies, which Matt likes but not nearly as much as he likes chocolate. Thinking about that made me feel sick all over again. I ate one cookie (I knew Mom would be furious if I didn’t), but it tasted like dust.
Megan’s right about my being a sinner. But she’s wrong about hell. You don’t have to wait until you’re dead to get there.
Matt went to the post office today and brought home two letters from Dad.
The first was from a day or two after he left. It said how wonderful it was to see all of us and how he was so proud of us and he knew we’d be okay and we’d see each other again soon.
The second letter was dated August 16. He and Lisa had made it to the Kansas border, but Kansas wasn’t letting anyone in unless they could prove they had parents or children who owned property there. Which of course he and Lisa don’t. The border guards didn’t care that all they wanted to do was drive through Kansas to get to Colorado. He said that they had some options. There were rumors of officials who could be persuaded to look the other way.
“What does that mean?” Jonny asked.
“Bribed,” Matt explained. “Give them what they want and they let you in.”
The problem with that was first you had to find the official, Dad went on, and then you had to have something he wanted. In addition, there were restrictions against letting pregnant women in, and Lisa’s pregnancy was showing.
They could try to get in by a back road, but there were reports of vigilantes keeping strangers out.
They could drive down to Oklahoma and get to Colorado that way. They didn’t have enough gas, and rumors were things were as bad or worse in Oklahoma, but they were still thinking about it. Lisa was determined to get to her parents.
The temperature was about 40 and he and Lisa were staying at a refugee camp. No heat, no food, limited plumbing. They were only allowed one more day there and then they had to get back on the road. If they had to, they could go back to Missouri. Because of the earthquakes there, the state was pretty much unpoliced.
That was pretty much how the letter ended and it scared all of us. Dad never wants us to worry. Three years ago when he lost his job, he made it sound like it was his life’s dream to be out of work. Life is full of unexpected opportunities. When a window closes a door opens.
And of course for him the door did open. He got the job in Springfield, met Lisa, and the next thing we all knew he was married with a baby on the way.
Only now Dad wasn’t talking about windows and doors and unexpected opportunities.
It was the first report we’ve had in a long time about what’s going on outside of Pennsylvania. Travel restrictions. Vigilantes. Refugee camps. And that’s in the part of the country where things are supposed to be better.
“I’m sure we’ll get another letter from him soon,” Mom said. “Saying he and Lisa have made it to her parents and that everything is all right.”
We all knew she was saying that because she had to.
If we never hear from Dad again, we’ll never know what became of him. It’s possible he and Lisa will make it to Colorado, and things there aren’t horrible, and they’ll be okay and the baby will be okay and we’ll never know.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself. Because I don’t want to tell myself anything else.
I went out to get kindling (I’ve been such a baby afraid of the big bad forest) and when I came back, I found Mom sobbing at the kitchen table.
I dropped the bags of kindling and went over and hugged her. Then I asked what had happened.
“Nothing,” she said. “I was thinking about that man. The one the day we bought the groceries, with the baby on the way. The baby should be born by now, and I started thinking about if it is okay, if he and his wife and their other child are okay, and I don’t know. It just got to me.”
“I know,” I said, because I did know. Sometimes it’s safer to cry about people you don’t know than to think about people you really love.
Matt and Jonny were at Mrs. Nesbitt’s this morning getting her house ready for winter (she refuses to move in with us) when I came in for brunch. I’d just taken out the can of peas and carrots when I heard a thud and Mom cry out.
I ran to the living room and there was Mom sprawled out on the floor.
“I tripped,” she said. “I am such an idiot. I tripped.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She shook her head. “My ankle,” she said. “I don’t think I can stand on it.”
“Stay where you are,” I said, like she had a choice. “I’ll get Peter.”
I ran to the garage and got my bike. I’ve never hiked as fast as I did to the hospital.
But when I got there, they wouldn’t let me in, even when I explained there’d been an accident and we were friends with Peter. All the guard would do was take my message.
I stood outside waiting. The house is so cold we all wear extra layers and jackets, but I’d been in such a hurry I hadn’t thought to put on my winter coat or gloves or a scarf I’d worked up a sweat biking so fast and that didn’t help any.
The guard didn’t seem to be in any hurry to take my message to Peter. First he made me write it out, and then he read it, and then he demanded I show him some ID. Which, of course, I didn’t have on me. I begged him to take the message to Peter. He grinned. I could tell he was used to people begging him for things and he liked it.
I felt the same kind of nauseous sick I’d felt from the chocolate chips.
I stood there begging and crying and wanting to kill him So help me, if I could have gotten my hands on his gun I would have shot him and anybody else who tried to keep me from getting help for Mom. The guard stood there and laughed.
Then a second guard came by and asked what was going on. I told him. He didn’t laugh, but he did say there was nothing they could do to help.
“This is a hospital,” he said. “The doctors don’t make house calls.”
The first guard thought that was a riot.
“Just let me get the message to Dr. Elliott,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“We can’t leave our post to bring someone a message,” the second guard said. “Your best bet is to wait here and if someone you know comes out, maybe you can get him to take the message in.”
“Please,” I begged. “Please. My mother is lying alone hurt. Please don’t make me wait here any longer.”
“Sorry, Miss,” the second guard said. “We have our rules, too.”
The first guard just kept grinning.
So I stood there. People left the hospital but none of them was willing to go back and bring Peter my note. They all pretended not to see me, like I was a beggar on the street and they didn’t want to have to give me money or feel guilty because they hadn’t.
I stood for as long as I could, and then I sat down on the frozen ground. The first guard walked over to me and gave me a little nudge with his shoe.
“No loitering,” he said. “Stand or go.”
“Sorry, Miss,” the second guard said. “Rules.”
I kept thinking of Mom, wondering if I should go back home. It was so hard to tell how much time had elapsed. It felt like hours, but I had no way of knowing. Jonny had probably gone back to the house. Mom had given him orders not to eat any of Mrs. Nesbitt’s food, so he probably came home for lunch. At least that’s what I told myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of going home without Peter and I couldn’t bear the thought of Mom all alone on the living room floor. I told myself Jonny had gone home and brought Mom some blankets and helped her off the floor and everything was okay.
I hadn’t eaten since supper the night before and I started feeling woozy. I felt myself kind of floating onto the ground. I don’t think I really lost consciousness because I remember the second guard coming over and lifting me up.
“Don’t do that, Miss,” he said. “It won’t do you any good.” I think I thanked him. I went back to standing and willed myself not to faint, not to cry. I asked more people who came out to help me. No one paid any attention.
The first guard said something about getting something to eat. He sauntered off, like going for a meal was the most normal thing in the world to do. I thought maybe the second guard would take pity on me then and let me in, but he just stood there and refused to look at me.
Then Matt showed up. “Mom’s worried sick,” he said. “What’s going on here?”
“Matt?” the second guard said.
“Mr. James?” Matt said.
“I didn’t realize this was your sister,” the guard said. “Go in. Hurry. I could get in a lot of trouble if Dwayne finds out what I did.”
Matt raced into the hospital.
Dwayne came back while Matt was still in the hospital. “You still here?” he said, but I ignored him.
After a few minutes, Matt and Peter came outside. “We’ll take my car,” Peter said. “I have a bike rack.”
It was all I could do not to burst into tears. At that moment I realized I no longer had the strength to bike home.
The drive took maybe 10 minutes. I was too exhausted and sick and worried to enjoy the sensation of being in a car.
Matt explained that Jonny had gone home around 1, and when he found Mom on the floor, she was more worried about me than about herself. She was pretty sure nothing was broken, but she couldn’t stand and Jonny wasn’t strong enough to help her get up. She sent Jonny to Mrs. Nesbitt’s to get Matt, and he came home and carried Mom to the sunroom and started a fire. Then he biked over to the hospital to find me.
I’d been standing outside for about three hours.
Peter didn’t even try to apologize for the guards. He said there had been incidents and conditions at the hospital were bad enough without people breaking in. I know he might be right, but I didn’t want to hear it. And even though it was crazy of me, it made me mad that Matt could get in because the guard knew him, and I couldn’t because the guard didn’t know me. I told myself to be grateful the guard knew Matt, but the last thing I was feeling was gratitude.
Peter pulled into the driveway and went right into the sun-room. Matt and I unloaded our bikes from the rack.
“You okay?” Matt asked me. “Did the guards give you a hard time?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
But the truth was I longed to take a hot shower and wash the whole experience away. All I could think of was how much pleasure Dwayne had gotten out of my misery. I still would have killed him if I had the chance.
But I didn’t tell Matt any of that. He didn’t need to hear it. We went inside and found Peter examining Mom’s ankle.
“A bad sprain,” he said. “But nothing’s broken. She won’t need a cast.”
He pulled an Ace bandage out of his doctor’s bag and wrapped up her ankle tightly. “Don’t even think about stairs for a week,” he said. “Stay in here. Matt, you and I will bring your mother’s mattress down here. Laura, you can get up to eat and go to the bathroom, but nothing more. Keep your foot propped up when you’re sitting. Put as little weight on it as possible. I don’t suppose you have a cane?”
“There’s one in the attic,” Mom said.
“I’ll get it,” Jonny said. He grabbed a flashlight and flew up the stairs.
While he was gone, Peter pulled out some surgical masks and handed them to us. “Air quality,” he said almost apologetically. “We’re seeing a lot of asthma cases these days. You might want to wear one of these whenever you do anything outside.”
“Thank you,” Mom said. “Matt, wear one when you chop wood. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mom,” Matt said. He quickly put one on. “Mom always wanted me to be a doctor,” he said, and we all pretended to laugh.
Jonny came down with the cane. Peter inspected it and declared it acceptable. Mom wasn’t to walk anywhere without it for the next 10 days. She wasn’t even to think about leaving the house for 2 weeks. He’d try to get over once or twice to check on her in the meantime.
Then he and Matt went upstairs and lugged Mom’s mattress down. I brought her sheets and blankets and pillows. Jonny shoved the furniture around so there’d be room for the mattress. With the woodstove giving off heat and light, the sunroom looked almost cheerful.
“I feel like such a fool,” Mom said. “I’m putting everyone to so much bother. And Peter. I know how busy you are. I can’t thank you enough for coming over.”
“Oh, Laura,” Peter said, and he took her hand. I realized if things had been normal, if none of this insanity had happened, he and Mom would have been going out for the past 4 months, regular, normal going-out. And Mom would have been happy.
Mom asked Peter if he could stay for supper, but Peter said he had to go back to the hospital. They were all on crazy schedules, 16 hours on, 8 hours off, because the staff was no longer at full strength. He really couldn’t take any more time off.
“But I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise. And I want you to promise you’ll stay off that foot and let the ankle heal on its own. There’s no reason for you to limp any longer than necessary.”
“I promise,” Mom said.
Peter bent down and kissed her. Then he left and we could hear the sound of his car. Such a funny sound.
“I’m so sorry,” Mom said to us. “I know this is going to be a terrible bother for all of you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Matt said. “We just want you to follow Peter’s instructions and get better.”
“I’ll take care of suppers,” I said. “Don’t worry about that, Mom.”
“I’m not worrying about anything,” Mom said. “I know you’ll all do whatever has to be done. I just wish I could help you.”
I know I’m going to have to be strong for the next couple of weeks. No more whining. No more picking fights. I’ll have to do whatever Mom asks me and not protest and not complain. I know I can do it.
But for that one moment I felt so weak, so helpless. I felt nothing but fear and despair and the most awful need to be anyplace else. I told myself it was hunger, but I knew that was a lie.
As long as Mom was all right, I could fool myself into thinking we’d all be all right. But even though I knew Mom could have fallen anytime and sprained her ankle anytime, this felt as though it was the beginning of the end.
So while Matt and Jonny were busying themselves getting Mom set up, I slipped upstairs to my bedroom and wrote all this down. All the things I could never tell any of them.
I thought of Dad and how I may never see him again. I thought of Lisa and wondered if she and the baby would be all right, if I’d ever get to know if I had a new sister or brother. I thought of Grandma and wondered if she was still alive.
I cried and I pounded my pillow, pretending it was Dwayne, and when I calmed down I wrote.
And now I’ll go downstairs and make supper and pretend everything is just fine.
Mom was looking lonely in the sunroom this afternoon, so I decided to keep her company. She was sitting on the couch with her foot propped up, and I sat down next to her.
“I want to thank you,” she said. “And tell you how proud I am of you.”
“Of me?” I said.
“The way you raced out of here when I fell,” she said. “I know you’ve been reluctant to go anyplace on your own, but you didn’t hesitate for a moment. And standing there all that time. I’m very grateful and I’m very proud.”
“I wish I could have done more,” I said. “I felt awful leaving you that way. It never occurred to me they wouldn’t let me in.”
Mom reached over and began stroking my hair. “You are so beautiful,” she said. “The past few months have been so awful and you’ve been very brave. I’ve been at fault not telling you that. I’m so proud to be your mother.”
I didn’t know what to say. I thought about all the fights I’d provoked over the past few months.
“We’ll get through,” Mom said. “We have each other and we’ll survive.”
“I know we will,” I said.
Mom sighed. “You know what I miss most?” she asked, and then she laughed. “At least today. It changes every day.”
“No, what?” I asked.
“Clean hair,” she said. “Daily showers and clean hair. My hair is such a mess. I really hate it.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s no worse than mine.”
“Let’s cut it,” she said. “Miranda, get a pair of scissors and cut my hair. Come on, do it right now.”
“You sure?” I asked.
“Positive,” she said. “Hurry.”
I found a pair of scissors and brought it back to her. “I’ve never cut hair before,” I said.
“What do I have to lose?” she asked. “It’s not like I’m going to any fancy parties. Cut it real short. It’ll be easier to keep clean that way.”
I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was doing, but Mom cheered me on and reminded me to cut from the top as well as the sides and back.
When I finished, Mom looked like a plucked chicken. No, worse. She looked like a plucked chicken that hadn’t eaten in months. The cut emphasized her cheekbones and you could see how much weight she’d lost.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t look in a mirror.”
“That bad?” she asked. “Oh, well. It’ll grow out. That’s the great thing about hair. Do you want me to cut yours?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve been thinking of letting my hair grow real long.”
“Cornrows,” she said. “Those little braids. They don’t need shampooing too often. Do you want me to braid your hair like that?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, picturing me with cornrows and Mom with her new punk hairstyle.
Mom stared at me and then she burst out laughing. It was real laughter, too, and before I knew it I was laughing as hard as I had in months.
I think I’d forgotten how much I love Mom. It was good to be reminded.
I went to visit Mrs. Nesbitt this afternoon. Mom used to go almost every day, but she can’t now, so I volunteered.
She had her furnace going and her house was actually warm.
“I don’t know how long the oil is going to last,” she said.
“But then again, I don’t know how long I’m going to last. I figure as long as I don’t know which of us is going to go first, I might as well stay warm.”
“You can move in with us,” I said. “Mom really wants you to.”
“I know she does,” Mrs. Nesbitt said. “And it’s selfish of me to stay here. But I was born in this house and I would prefer to die in it.”
“Maybe you won’t die,” I said. “Mom says we’ll make it through.”
“I believe you will,” Mrs. Nesbitt said. “You’re young and strong and healthy. But I’m an old woman. I’ve lived a lot longer than I ever thought, and now it’s my time for dying.”
Mrs. Nesbitt hasn’t heard from her son and his family since the first tsunamis. There’s no way of knowing if any of them are still alive. I guess Mrs. Nesbitt feels she would have heard from one of them by now if they still were.
We talked about all kinds of stuff. Mrs. Nesbitt always has stories about Mom when she was growing up.
She used to babysit Mom’s mother and I think I like those stories the best. I know Mom loves to hear them, since she was so young when her parents died.
I’ll go back tomorrow. There’s so little I can do, but visiting with her and making sure she’s okay and then reassuring Mom about it is something.
One good thing about Mom’s sprained ankle. She’s forgotten that I should be doing schoolwork. I don’t think she’s been pestering Jonny, either.
What a strange, strange life this is. I wonder what it’ll be like when things get back to normal, if they ever do. Food and showers and sunlight and school. Dates.
Okay. I never had dates. But if I’m going to dream, I might as well dream big!
Peter managed to drop by. He checked Mom’s ankle and agreed it was definitely getting better, but she still shouldn’t put any weight on it.
We left Mom and Peter alone for a while. He probably told her about diseases and accidents and plagues.
He’s entitled. I noticed how much older he’s looking. I should have noticed it last week, but I was so crazed by the time I saw him, I didn’t really see anything. It’s not just that he’s thinner. There’s a sadness in his eyes. He seems weary.
I mentioned that to Matt when we had a chance to be by ourselves.
“Well, he’s dealing with illness all the time,” Matt pointed out. “Most of his patients are probably dying. And he’s alone. He’s divorced and he had two daughters, but they both died.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“Mom told me,” he said.
I guess all the worrying Peter would do for his own family, he’s doing for us.
How am I going to feel when people I love start dying?
Matt and I went to the library today. It’s only open on Mondays now. They don’t know how much longer they’ll stay open.
As we were leaving, I saw Michelle Schmidt. I guess she hasn’t vanished after all.
I wonder how much I hear is true and how much is just made up. Maybe everything is fine with the world and we just don’t know it.
The joke would sure be on us if that’s the case.
It’s funny how much I’m enjoying things these days. I think we all are. We’re so used to worrying we hardly even notice it.
Actually, life is pretty cozy. We have the woodstove going full-time because of Mom, so there’s always a warm spot in the house. We spend our daytimes doing whatever needs to be done. Matt and Jonny are still bringing in firewood (“Better too much than too little” is Matt’s mantra and I can’t argue with him). I’m doing whatever housework there is to be done (the worst is the clothes washing, which has to be done with as little water as possible, all by hand, and very yucky) and visiting Mrs. Nesbitt every afternoon. I go after lunchtime so she won’t try to feed me (although she does, but I always say no, thanks) and I stay for an hour or so. A lot of times we hardly even talk; we just sit at the table and stare out the kitchen window together. Mom says she and Mrs. Nesbitt do the same thing so I shouldn’t worry.
Mom now trusts me to go to the pantry and I get to select our suppers. A can of this and a can of that. There’s less food there than there was when I had my great chocolate chip feast, but as long as we don’t eat too much, we’ll be okay for a while.
Ever since I saw Michelle Schmidt and realized she had never disappeared the way the kids at school thought she had, I feel like things really are better than we’ve been letting ourselves believe. So what if I’m deluding myself? Better to delude myself that things are okay than to delude myself that things are doomed. At least this way I smile.
After supper when we’re all feeling good because we’re not too hungry, we’ve taken to playing poker. I like 7-card stud the best. Jonny and Matt like Texas Hold ’Em, and Mom prefers 5-card draw. So dealer decides.
Matt went into the attic and dug out a box of poker chips. Jonny is the best player, and as of tonight I owe him $328,000 and a utility infielder (we’re high-stakes gamblers).
I think even Peter is feeling better about things. He came over this evening, proclaimed Mom able to walk around again as long as she is careful and avoids stairs, and he didn’t mention a single new way people are dying. We convinced him to stay for supper and I put out an extra can of tuna. This is the first time I can remember when Peter came over and didn’t bring us anything, so either he’s run out of supplies or he’s now officially family. I hope it’s family. Because I owe him $33,000 from a single hand of Omaha Hi.
Horton is on a diet (not of his choosing). Maybe it’s the warmth of the woodstove, or maybe he just hopes we’ll feed him, but he’s very affectionate lately. He keeps Mom company all day and in the evenings he sits on the most available lap or else by the woodstove.
Matt brought down an old portable typewriter because Mom is thinking about writing down some of the stories she knows about her great-grandmother and her family. What life was like in this house before there was electricity and indoor plumbing.
I like thinking about that. It makes me feel connected, like I’m a part of some bigger thing, like family is more important than electricity. The sunroom was just a porch back then, but I can imagine my great-greatgrandmother’s family sitting around in the parlor, with the oil lamps glowing, and the men tired out from chopping wood and the women tired out from doing the laundry.
Actually, Mom says the family had two servants and one of them did all the laundry, but the women were probably tired out anyway.
I wonder if they imagined the future. I bet they never could have guessed what things would be like today.
I turned on the stove to boil water and no flame came out. I ran the hot water in the kitchen and the water stayed cold.
I guess Aaron’s father knew what he was talking about when he said the natural gas would be turned off by October.
Mom says it’s okay. We can heat our food and boil our water on the woodstove. She’s refusing to let us use up the last of our oil for the furnace, but at least we’re not dependent on gas for our heat. A lot of families are worse off than we are.
We’ve all been taking just one shower a week for a while now, but with no hot water I guess no more showers at all. And no hot water is going to make washing clothes that much harder.
I know it shouldn’t bother me but it does. I can see Mom’s upset, too, even though she’s acting like she isn’t. I guess it’s because things have been kind of level for a while, and now they’re worse again. Not big bad worse (at least not for us or Mrs. Nesbitt, who also has a woodstove and oil heat), but worse anyway.
We played poker tonight, but none of us were really into it. Which is probably why for the first time I was the big winner.
Matt, Jonny, and I all went to the library. Mom’s ankle still isn’t strong enough for her to bike.
The library was open, but Mrs. Hotchkiss was the only person working there. She said that this was the last day the library would be open; they just couldn’t keep it open with no heat. There was no limit on how many books we could take. Mrs. Hotchkiss told us to take as many as we possibly could. If the library reopens in the spring, we can always bring them back.
So we loaded up. We had our backpacks and the bikes all have baskets, so we managed a dozen or more books each. We looked for ourselves and for Mom, too. Since we’ve been playing poker, we’ve been reading less, and of course there are plenty of books in the house (including lots of old ones in the attic). But it’s still upsetting to think the library won’t be there.
Mrs. Hotchkiss said she and her husband were going to Georgia. Her husband has a sister there. Jonny asked her how they were going to get there, and she said walk if they had to.
“The temperature’s been below freezing for the past two weeks,” she said. “If it’s this bad in October, none of us will make it through the winter.”
“I think we should go, too,” Jonny said as we were getting on our bikes to go home. “We should go to Kansas and see if we can find Dad.”
“We don’t know where Dad is,” Matt said. “He could be in Colorado. He could be back in Springfield.”
“No,” I said. “He would have stopped off here if they came back east.”
“We still don’t know where he is,” Matt said. “Jon, Mom and I have talked about it a lot, about what we should do. There’s no point in going. We have shelter. We have firewood, so we won’t freeze. It’s not like we’re going to be able to find food anyplace else.”
“We don’t know that,” Jonny said. “Maybe there’s food in Kansas.”
“Dad couldn’t even get into Kansas,” I said.
“Missouri, then,” Jonny said. “Or Oklahoma. I don’t see why we’re staying here just to die.”
“We’re not going to die,” Matt said.
“You don’t know that,” Jonny said. “What if the moon crashes in?”
“Then it won’t matter where we are, we’ll die anyway,” Matt said. “Our chances of survival are best here.
This isn’t just happening to Pennsylvania, Jon. It’s all over the world. We have a roof over our heads. We have heat. We have water. We have food. How long do you think we’d survive biking our way across country?”
“Dad got gas,” Jonny said. “We could get gas.”
“Dad bought black market gas,” Matt said. “He had connections. And at that, his gas ran out.”
“Black market?” I said.
Matt looked at me like I was an infant. “How do you think he got all that food?” he said. “You didn’t really think it was just waking to be taken, did you?”
“Does Mom know?” I asked.
Matt shrugged. “Dad and I talked about it while we were cutting down trees,” he said. “I don’t know what he talked to Mom about. He probably didn’t tell her. Mom’s happier not knowing things. You know that.”
I do, but I didn’t realize Matt knew it also.
“So we’re stuck here?” Jonny asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Matt said. “But things will get better. Maybe not right away but we’ll make it.”
That’s Mom’s answer for everything. Hold on and wait until things get better. It didn’t sound any more believable coming from Matt.
But I know he’s right about our not going. It’s like the world before Columbus. People leave and you never hear from them again. They might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.
We have each other. As long as we have each other, we’ll be all right.
Mom’s writing again. Or at least she’s typing.
“I’d forgotten how hard it is,” she said. “The letter A in particular. My left pinky isn’t really up to it on a manual typewriter.”
It’s been so long since it rained I don’t remember what it sounds like. It’s getting harder to remember sunlight, also. The days are getting shorter, but it doesn’t matter.
The air’s getting worse, too. The longer you stay out the dirtier you are when you come in. Mom’s worried about what all the ash is doing to Matt’s and Jonny’s lungs, even with the face masks, but they still keep chopping firewood for as long as they can every day.
Mom and I scrub the clothes as hard as we can, but even though we’re hanging them indoors, they’re still gray. We wash ourselves every night, and the washcloths are filthy and we can never get them really clean. The towels aren’t much better.
Matt says if the air is getting dirtier it probably means more volcanoes are erupting, but we have no way of knowing. The post office is still open, but less and less mail is coming and it’s all weeks or months old when it finally arrives. Anything could have happened in and we’d have no way of knowing.
One good thing about the extra ash. It’s completely blocked out the moon. Before, especially on windy nights, you could make it out. But now it’s totally gone. I’m glad I don’t have to see it anymore. I can pretend it’s not there and if it isn’t, maybe things will get back to normal.
Okay. I know that’s crazy. But I’m still glad I don’t have to see the moon anymore.
Columbus Day.
In honor of the holiday, I asked Mom to cut my hair really short, the way I’d cut hers. Her hair hasn’t grown out yet but I’ve gotten used to it, and I hate washing my hair now. It never gets clean and it’s so lank and disgusting. I figured short would be better.
So Mom chopped my hair off. When she finished, I looked at myself in the mirror. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
But I didn’t. And Mom kissed me and hugged me and told me I was beautiful with short hair.
“It’s a good thing the bars are closed,” she said. “You could pass for twenty-one.”
I really do love her. At least we’re not fighting anymore.
Matt and Jonny came in and I could see how shocked they were. But Matt said I looked great and asked Mom to cut his hair as well. Mom ended up cutting all our hair.
We threw the hair in the woodstove and watched it sizzle.
It was 2 degrees below zero this morning.
Mom and Matt had a big fight. Matt said we had to start using whatever oil we had. Mom said we should wait until November at least. Matt won the argument. He said our pipes were going to freeze and we might as well use up the well water while we still could.
He and Jonny moved Mom’s mattress out of the sunroom. and into the kitchen. Then they went upstairs and got all the mattresses and one by one carried them downstairs.
I went upstairs, closed off the heat registers, and closed the doors.
“We can go back to using our bedrooms in the spring.”’ Mom said. “This isn’t forever.”
For the time being, Mom and I are sleeping in the kitchen and Matt and Jonny are in the living room. Mom and I are actually better off, since the kitchen gets a little bit of warmth from the woodstove in the sunroom. We also have more space. Matt, Jonny, and I piled the dining room furniture and living room furniture together so there’s room for the two mattresses in there, but they barely have space to move around. When the fuel oil runs out, we’ll all move into the sunroom.
I keep telling myself it isn’t like I’ve been comfortable in my bedroom. It’s freezing in there, so cold sometimes I lie in bed shivering, unable to fall asleep. But it’s been the only space I could call my own. I have my candles, my flashlight, and no one tells me not to use them. I can write or read or just pretend I’m someplace else.
I guess it’s better to be warm.
I want to weep. And I feel like I have no place left where I can.
Matt still goes to the post office every Friday to find out if there’s any news. He came in while Mom and I were washing clothes at the kitchen sink. He gestured to me and I followed him into the pantry.
“I have bad news,” he said. “Megan’s on the dead list.”
That’s what they have now, the dead list. If you find out someone is dead, you write their name on the list. Just the local people, of course, since there’s no way of knowing if anybody in the rest of the world has died.
I guess I didn’t say anything because Matt kept talking. “Her mother is on the list, too.”
“What?” I said. “Why?”
“I’m just telling you what I know,” he said. “They were both on the list. I didn’t see their names last week,
but that doesn’t mean anything. You know how the list is.”
“Megan’s dead,” I said. It’s funny how weird that sounded. Megan’s dead. The world is dying. Megan is dead.
“I asked at the post office, but there were only a couple of guys there and neither one knew anything,” Matt said. “Lots of people are dying. It’s getting harder to keep track.”
“Megan wanted to die,” I said. “But I don’t think her mother did.”
“People aren’t necessarily choosing anymore,” Matt said. “Anyway, I thought you should know.”
I wonder if I cry whether my tears would be gray.
I got up this morning and realized Reverend Marshall would know what happened to Megan and her mother. I told Mom where I was going and she asked if I wanted Matt to come along. I said no, I’d be fine. Actually I didn’t care if I was going to be fine or not. What difference does it make?
It took me a half hour to get to Reverend Marshall’s church, and by the time I got there, I was wheezing. I don’t know how Matt and Jon are managing outdoors. I felt like ice and I was glad to find the church had heat.
There were a few people praying in the church. I haven’t seen anyone other than family since the library closed. It felt strange seeing people, hardly more than skeletons, really. I had to remind myself how to speak, how to ask questions, how to say thank you. But I managed and someone told me Reverend Marshall was in his office. I knocked on his office door and went in
“I’m here about Megan Wayne,” I said. “I was her best friend.”
“Her best friend on earth,” Reverend Marshall said.
I didn’t have the energy to argue theology with him so I just nodded. “She’s dead,” I said, like he wouldn’t know it. “And her mother, too. I thought maybe you could tell me what happened.”
“God took them,” he said. “I pray for their souls.”
“Megan’s soul is just fine,” I said. “Her mother’s, too. How exactly did God take them?”
Reverend Marshall looked at me like I was a mosquito he wanted to swat. “It’s not our place to question God’s decisions,” he said.
“I’m not questioning anyone except you,” I said. “What happened?”
“God chose the moment of Megan’s death,” he said. “What the earthly cause was we’ll never know. Her mother summoned me one morning and we prayed over Megan’s remains. She asked me to bury Megan in their backyard, but the ground was frozen and I knew I couldn’t do it alone. I went back to the church to ask for help and when we returned to the house we found Mrs. Wayne had hung herself.”
“Oh God,” I said.
“I suppose she felt we’d bury the two of them together that way,” Reverend Marshall said. “But of course we couldn’t touch her impure remains. We took Megan to the churchyard, and buried her here, if you want to say good-bye to her.”
I’d said good-bye to Megan a long time ago. And I couldn’t bear to be in that man’s company a moment longer. I said no and turned around to leave. But as soon as I did I realized there was something that was bothering me. I turned back and stared at him.
Reverend Marshall had never been overweight and he wasn’t now. But he hadn’t lost any weight.
“You’re eating,” I said. “Your congregation is starving and you’re eating. Do you make them give you their food?”
“My congregation chooses to bring me food,” he said. “I merely accept what they offer.”
“You’re despicable,” I said, and I don’t know which one of us was more surprised that I even knew the word. “I don’t believe in hell so I’m not going to say I hope you end up there. I hope you’re the last person living on earth. I hope the whole world dies before you and you’re left here healthy and well fed and alone. Then you’ll know what Mrs. Wayne felt. Then you’ll know what impure really is.”
“I’ll pray for you,” he said. “As Megan would have wished me to.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I don’t want any favors from your God.”
I guess people heard me because a couple of men came in and escorted me out. I didn’t put up any resistance. Frankly, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I biked over to Megan’s house. The front door was wide open. The house was so cold I could see my breath.
I was scared I’d find Megan’s mom but her body was gone. The house had been ransacked, but that’s to be expected. Whenever a house is deserted, people come in and take everything that can possibly be used.
I went up to Megan’s bedroom. Her bed was still there so I sat down and thought about what she’d been like when we first became friends. I remembered fights with her and going to the movies and that stupid science project we worked on together in 7th grade. I thought about Becky—how Megan, Sammi, and I would visit her and how we’d laugh, even though Becky was so ill and we were so frightened. I sat on Megan’s bed until I couldn’t bear it anymore.
When I got home, I went straight to the pantry and closed the door. I guess Mom wasn’t worried I’d eat anything because she left me alone in there until she needed to get food out for supper,
It made me sick to eat. But I ate anyway. Starvation was Megan’s way out, not mine.
I’ll live. We’ll live. I will never make Mom face what Mrs, Wayne faced. My existence is the only gift I have left to give her, but it will have to do.
I dreamed about Megan last night.
I was walking into homeroom and I realized it was my 7th-grade homeroom. And there was Megan and she was talking with Becky.
I got very confused. “Is this Heaven?” I asked. I hated 7th grade and the very idea that it was Heaven was upsetting.
Megan laughed. “This is hell,” she said. “Can’t you tell them apart yet?”
I woke up then. It’s funny sharing the kitchen with Mom. I feel like she knows what I’m dreaming, like even my thoughts aren’t private anymore.
But she slept through my dream. I guess she has dreams of her own.
Matt came home from the post office today and said unless they had volunteers they were going to have to close. So he’s volunteered to work there on Fridays.
“Why bother?” Jon asked. “We’re not going to hear from Dad.”
“We don’t know that,” Mom said. “I think working at the post office is a good idea. We all should be doing more than we are. It isn’t good for us to sit around and do nothing. We need to be out, doing things for other people. We need to have a reason to be alive.”
I rolled my eyes. I bring in kindling and visit Mrs. Nesbitt and wash our clothes and clean Horton’s litter. I mean, that’s my life. Sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Nesbitt with neither of us saying a word is the high point of my day.
“All right,” Mom said. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Who, me?” Jon and I said simultaneously, which really was pretty funny.
“This isn’t fun for any of us,” Mom said. “Matt, I’m glad you’ll be working at the post office. Jonny, Miranda, do whatever you want. I’m past caring.”
There’s a part of me that almost wishes she meant it. But most of me is scared that maybe she really did mean it.
The temperature was 17 this morning, which practically constitutes a heat wave nowadays. If you looked up at the sky hard enough you could almost make out the sun.
“Indian summer,” Mom said when the thermometer reached 29. “No, I mean it. I bet if the ash weren’t so thick this would be Indian summer.”
We keep the thermostat at 50 degrees, so it’s always cold. I figured I might never see 29 degrees again.
“I’m going skating,” I said. “The pond’s been frozen for a month by now. Mom, are your skates still in your closet?”
“I suppose so,” she said. “Be careful, Miranda. Don’t take any chances with the ice breaking.”
“I won’t,” I said, but I was so excited I hardly cared what she said. Mom’s shoe size and mine are close enough that I knew her skates would fit me fairly well. I went upstairs and found her skates in no time. I’d forgotten how beautiful ice skates are.
I haven’t been to Miller’s Pond since I stopped swimming. I spend a lot of time in the woods around our house, but this was the longest I’d walked in them in months. The path was covered with dead leaves, but I didn’t have any trouble following it.
The strangest thing about the walk was how quiet things were. I’m really used to quiet by now. No TV, no computer, no cars, no noise. But this was the first time I noticed how the woods were quiet, too. No birds. No insects. No squirrels rustling around. No animals scurrying away at the sound of me crunching the leaves. I guess all the animals have left town. I hope Kansas lets them in.
I could see from a distance that there was someone already skating. I had a rush of excitement. For one totally ridiculous moment I thought it was Dan.
But as I got closer, I could see, whoever he was, he actually knew how to skate. I stood still for a few moments, and watched as the skater landed double axels.
For a second I thought I should just go away. But I was too excited. I practically ran the rest of the way to the pond to see if I could be right, if it really could be Brandon Erlich.
It was. “You’re alive,” I said as he bowed to my applause.
“I may be, but my quad sure isn’t,” he said.
“We thought you were dead,” I said. “I mean your fans did. You were training in California. We didn’t hear anything about you.”
“I was touring,” he said. “We were safe and sound in Indianapolis. It took a long time to get word to my parents and it took even longer to get back here. But I’ve been here for a few months now. Do you skate, too?”
I looked down self-consciously at Mom’s skates. “I used to,” I said. “I used to take lessons with Mrs. Daley.”
“Really?” he said. “She was my first coach.”
“I know,” I said. “Sometimes she’d tell us how you were doing. We all rooted so hard for you. I bet you’d have medaled at the Olympics.”
Brandon grinned. “My mom still thinks that’s going to happen,” he said. “Like suddenly everything’s going to be okay by February. Were you any good? Did you compete?”
“A little bit,” I said. “On the intermediate level. I had most of my doubles and I was working on a triple toe when I broke my ankle. Not even from skating. Just one of those dumb accidents. I took up swimming after that.”
“Swimming,” Brandon said. “That’s a lost art form. Put on your skates. Let’s see how you do.”
“They’re my mother’s,” I said. “I haven’t been on the ice in a long time.” It felt funny lacing up the skates while Brandon was watching.
“Don’t try any jumps,” he said. “Just do some stroking. Let me see how your edges are.”
So I skated and he skated alongside me. I was wobbly at first, but then I got my feet under me and it felt almost natural being there.
“Not bad,” he said. “I bet Mrs. Daley was sorry when you stopped skating.”
I’d forgotten how glorious it felt to be skating, to glide across the ice. I never wanted to stop. But in just a few minutes it was hard to breathe.
“The air,” Brandon said. “I’ve been at it for a couple of weeks now and I’ve been building up resistance. Don’t push too hard today. Give your lungs a chance to adjust.”
“Are your parents okay?” I asked after I caught my breath. “My mother knows your mother. You have enough food?”
“Does anybody?” Brandon asked. “We haven’t starved yet, so I guess we’re okay.” He stroked around the pond to build up speed and did a camel spin. Brandon used to have the most beautiful camel in the world.
“Come on,” he said. “How was your spiral? Up to Mrs. Daley’s standards?”
“No,” I admitted. “My free leg was never high enough for her.”
“Then it’s a good thing she isn’t watching,” he said. “Show me your spiral.”
It was an embarrassment. “Don’t ask for my layback,” I said. “I’m totally out of shape.”
“Well, you’re certainly not overweight,” he said. “If you practice enough, you should be fine. We’ll hold our own Olympics. You can win the gold and the silver and the bronze.”
He reached out for my hand and we skated together, no sound but the sound of our blades (well, mine mostly) against the ice. I knew he was skating slowly to keep pace with me. I knew I was keeping him from practicing his jumps, his spins, his footwork. I knew the world really must have ended because I was skating with Brandon Erlich, the way I had so often in my fantasies.
It really was heaven until I started coughing.
“That’s enough for one day,” he said. “How about watching me? I miss an audience.”
So I stood by the side of the pond and watched Brandon do footwork and spins.
After a few minutes, he started coughing, and skated to the edge of the pond. “It’s cold standing here,” he said. “Colder than the rinks.”
“And darker,” I said.
He nodded. “So you were a fan?” he asked. “Because I was local or did you really like my skating?”
“Both,” I said. “Mrs. Daley was always telling us about you. I love how you skate. Your line. Your extension.
You were more than jumps. I really believed you could win at the Olympics.”
“I was a long shot,” he said. “But I was aiming for gold.”
“Is Mrs. Daley all right?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her since all this happened.”
“She and her husband left here in August,” Brandon said. “They have a daughter in Texas.”
“How about all the other skaters?” I asked. “Do you know how they are?”
He shook his head. “The ones on tour with me were okay when we split up,” he said. “They were desperate to get home. I wasn’t quite so desperate, but after a while I couldn’t figure out any other place to go, so I made it back here. My father cried when he saw me. My mother always cries, but it was the first time I’d ever seen my father cry. I guess that means something.”
“I’ve stopped crying,” I said. “My best friend died and I just got mad.”
“Come on,” Brandon said. “Skate.”
So I did. It was a nothing skate, just stroking and a two-footed waltz jump and a ridiculous Ina Bauer. When I finished I didn’t feel mad anymore.
“Come back tomorrow?” he asked. “I’d forgotten how much fun it is to skate with somebody.”
“I’ll try,” I said, unlacing my skates and putting my shoes back on. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said. He went back on the ice and when I left him he was stroking around the pond, beautiful and alone.
Mom tripped over her shoes yesterday morning, by the side of her mattress. She fell at a funny angle and hurt her ankle again.
She wrapped it back up with the Ace bandage and said she wasn’t going to baby herself this time; if she limped for the rest of her life, so be it. But she couldn’t even manage to stand.
She told Matt that she’d be fine in the kitchen, that there was no reason to move her back into the sunroom and have the woodstove going just for her, but he insisted. But since the pipes would freeze if we didn’t keep the heat on (it was 12 degrees this afternoon; I guess Indian summer was pretty short this year), he and Mom decided the rest of us would keep sleeping where we had been.
Some of this I’m okay with. I wouldn’t have been crazy about doing the laundry with Mom lying on the mattress in the kitchen. It’s hard enough to maneuver around when she’s in the other room. But at least this way if I step on a mattress, I don’t have to worry that I’m stepping on her.
And I won’t have any more housework to do. Mom gave up dusting and sweeping when we moved downstairs. The dining room is a lost cause, and it was too hard for her to get around the mattresses on the living room floor.
So the only real problem is that it’s up to me to make sure the fire doesn’t go out in the woodstove. It’s the only source of heat in the sunroom so it has to keep burning all night.
I wake up a lot anyway. I just have to put a log or two on the fire every time I do. I made Mom promise if she woke up cold she’d yell to me to get up, but I don’t know if she really will.
Matt says he wakes up, too, and he’ll check on it, which means he’ll walk through the kitchen to get there and probably wake me up anyway.
It would make sense for me to sleep in the sunroom, but the idea of even a little bit of privacy is so thrilling to me, I can’t bear to give it up.
Mom and I have been alternating visiting Mrs. Nesbitt, so I’ll just take over her shift. If nothing else, that’ll give me an excuse to leave the house. But no more skating. There’s no way I could leave Mom to go to the pond and skate. It doesn’t matter. I spent a lot of yesterday trying to decide if it all really happened or if I just made it up. Me skating with Brandon Erlich. Us actually talking. Him being so nice.
I’ve made up stranger stuff than that.
He was probably just being nice when he asked me to come back. He probably prefers skating by himself rather than being stuck with some dumb fan-girl klutz.
Mom was upset that I wouldn’t be able to go skating. She told me she’d be fine, but of course I couldn’t leave her like that.
“When you’re better, I’ll go skating again,” I told her. “The pond isn’t going to thaw out anytime soon.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “But I feel so bad for you. You were finally doing something you enjoyed and now I’ve screwed things up again.”
I thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. I guess none of us is crying anymore.
Peter came by unexpectedly (well, all visits are unexpected these days, so what I mean is he wasn’t summoned) and checked out Mom’s ankle. He agreed it wasn’t broken, but he said this sprain is worse than the last one and Mom needs to stay off her feet for at least two weeks, maybe more.
He also thought Mom might have broken one of her toes, but he said there’s nothing that can be done about it, so why even worry. Which is pretty funny, coming from Peter.
There doesn’t seem much point to sleeping all night, since I have to check the fire regularly, so I’m grabbing naps day and night. I sleep for two to three hours, then wake up and do whatever needs to be done, and then go back to sleep. Actually the smartest time for me to sleep would be in the early evening, when Matt and Jon are home and can tend the fire, but that’s the time I most want to be awake. Sometimes I nod off anyway.
It’s driving Mom crazy that she can’t do anything, but there’s not much any of us can do about that.
Oh, and I have an exciting new job as well. Mom can’t make it to the bathroom and Matt located a bedpan in the attic, and I get to clean it. I keep threatening to put kitty litter in it.
It’s funny. Mom sprained her ankle a few weeks ago, and things were okay. It was a good time. Not that much has changed since then, but it certainly isn’t a good time.
I told Mrs. Nesbitt about Peter’s visit and what he’d said about Mom. I didn’t leave any of it out, including the part where Peter said that even after Mom could walk around the house she wasn’t to think about walking outside.
“I guess you’re stuck with me for a while,” I said.
Mrs. Nesbitt surprised me. “Good,” she said. “It’s better that way.”
I thought it had taken courage to tell Mrs. Nesbitt about Mom’s ankle. It took a lot more courage to ask her why it was better that way.
“I didn’t want your mother to find me dead,” Mrs. Nesbitt said. “It won’t be fun for you, either, but you’re younger and I mean less to you.”
“Mrs. Nesbitt!” I said.
She gave me one of those looks that used to terrify me when I was very little. “This is no time for makebelieve,” she said. “I could be dead tomorrow. We need to talk honestly. No point beating around the bush.”
“I don’t want you to die,” I said.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “Now when I do die and you find me, here are the important things. First of all, do whatever you want with my body. Whatever is easiest. Peter dropped by to visit me after he left your house and he told me that a dozen or more people are dying every day around here. I’m no better than any of them, and probably a fair amount worse than some. Peter says the hospital is still taking bodies so if that’s what works for you, it’ll be fine for me. Never liked the idea of burial anyway, always preferred cremation. My husband’s ashes are scattered in the Atlantic somewhere so it’s not like our graves would be side by side.”
“All right,” I said. “If I find your body, I’ll tell Matt and he’ll get you to the hospital.”
“Good,” she said. “Now after I’m gone, go through the house and take everything you can possibly use. Don’t worry about leaving things for my heirs. I haven’t heard from my son or his family since May so I have to assume they won’t be needing my things. If any of them show up at your doorstep and you still have something of mine, give it to them. But don’t worry about it. Go through the whole house, attic to cellar. My car has some gas in it, so you can put all my things in it and drive back to your place. Don’t be bashful. I won’t be needing anything and the more you have, the better your chances. This is going to be a long and terrible winter and I’d be very angry if I thought you left something behind that could have helped you get through it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“After I die, wrap me up in a sheet,” she said. “Don’t waste a blanket on it. And even if someone in my family comes back, I want your mother to have my diamond pendant and you to have my ruby brooch. Those are my gifts for the two of you and don’t you forget it. Matt’s to have the painting of the sailboats, because he always liked that when he was little, and Jonny should have the landscape in the dining room. I don’t know if he likes it or not, but he’s entitled to something and that’s a good piece. You probably can’t use any of my furniture, but you might want to take it for firewood.”
“You have antiques,” I said. “We couldn’t burn them.”
“Speaking of burning things, I burned all my letters and diaries,” she said. “Not that there was a single interesting word in any of them. But I didn’t want you to be tempted so they’re all gone. I kept the albums, though. Your mother might get a kick going through them, seeing the old pictures of her family. You have all that?”
I nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Don’t tell your mother any of this until after I’m gone. She has enough to worry about. But when I’ve died, you be sure to tell your mother I loved her like a daughter and all of you like grandchildren. Tell her I’m just as glad she didn’t see me at the end and she should never feel guilty that she couldn’t come by for one last visit.”
“We love you,” I said. “We all love you so much.”
“I should think so,” she said. “Now tell me. Have you started your schoolwork yet?”
Of course I haven’t, but I recognized a change of subject and went along with it.
When I got home I put wood in the stove and curled up for a nap. It was easier sleeping (or pretending to sleep) than trying to make small talk with Mom about Mrs. Nesbitt. I’ve never really thought about what it would be like to be an old woman. Of course nowadays I’m not sure I’ll live long enough to be any kind of a woman.
But I hope when I get closer to death, however old I might be, that I can face it with courage and good sense the way Mrs. Nesbitt does. I hope that’s a lesson I’ve truly learned.
Matt hovered around the house all morning, which was unusual. He’s been even more obsessive about chopping wood ever since Mom moved back into the sunroom. I know it’s because we’re using up firewood earlier than planned, but it still annoys me just a little. I’d like him to stay indoors occasionally and clean the bedpan.
Sometime this afternoon I could hear the sound of a car in our driveway. Matt bolted outside and the next thing I knew he, Jon, and a couple of guys I didn’t recognize were moving sheets of plywood out of a pickup truck and into the sunroom.
Mom watched but she didn’t say anything, so I guess she knew about it.
After the guys left, Matt and Jon spent the rest of the day covering the windows in the sunroom with the plywood. When the house was first built, the sunroom didn’t exist—it was just a back porch, and windows in the kitchen and dining room looked out on it. But when the porch was enclosed, the spaces stayed where the kitchen and dining room windows were even though the actual windows were removed. That’s where a lot of the light in both rooms comes from, since the sunroom has skylights and three walls of windows (plus the outside door, of course). Matt blocked off the kitchen/sunroom window with the plywood, and put a sheet of plywood in front of the dining room/sunroom window so it can be pushed aside for easier access to the firewood.
Now the only natural light in the sunroom comes from the skylights. Not that there’s been much sunlight lately, but the room is a lot darker.
Then, just in case I wasn’t miserable enough, they blocked off the window over the kitchen sink. So now the only natural light in the kitchen is what comes from the skylights in the sunroom through the kitchen/sunroom door. In other words, just about none.
“Are you blocking off the living room windows, too?” I asked.
“No reason to,” Matt said. “Once we stop using heat, we’ll close off the living room. But we still might use the kitchen.”
I’m so angry I could scream. For starters, I’m sure Matt got the plywood from the gang I saw in town, and I hate that he didn’t tell me he was going to. No discussion. He knew what was best and he just went ahead and did it. (Okay, he talked to Mom about it. But I wasn’t consulted.) And he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be cooped up in this house all day long. The only time I get out is when I visit Mrs. Nesbitt and that’s just a short walk there and back.
I know Matt and Jon have it harder than me. Matt eats so little and he’s doing physical work. When he comes in, he’s exhausted. The other day he fell asleep during supper.
But he didn’t have to cover the kitchen window. Not yet anyway. He could have waited until we ran out of oil. He didn’t care what it would mean to me. He never even asked.
I’d move into Mrs. Nesbitt’s but I can’t leave Mom.
Sometimes I think about how things used to be. I’d never been anyplace, not really. Florida once and Boston and New York City and Washington and Montreal and that was it. I’d dream of Paris, of London, of Tokyo. I wanted to go to South America, to Africa. I always assumed I could someday.
But my world keeps getting smaller and smaller. No school. No pond. No town. No bedroom. Now I don’t even have the view out the windows.
I feel myself shriveling along with my world, getting smaller and harder. I’m turning into a rock, and in some ways that’s good, because rocks last forever.
But if this is how I’m going to last forever, then I don’t want to.
I was in the kitchen washing out Mom’s bedpan when the water stopped running. I turned on the faucets in the downstairs bathroom and nothing came out. I went upstairs and checked that bathroom. Nothing.
I waited until Matt came in before telling him. For a moment he got mad at me.
“You should have told me right away!” he yelled. “If the pipes are frozen I might have been able to do something.”
But I know it’s not because the pipes have frozen. It’s because the well’s run dry. We haven’t had any rain since July. No matter how careful we’ve been with water, it was bound to run out eventually.
Matt and I walked over to the well to check it out. Of course I was right.
When we came in, Jon was sitting with Mom in the sun-room, so we joined them. “How long can we survive without water?” he asked.
“It’s not that bad,” Matt said. “We still have bottled water and soda to drink. No more laundry, I guess. And Miranda’ll just have to share a bedpan with Mom.” He grinned like that was some kind of joke.
“We don’t have that much bottled water,” Jon said. “What if it never rains again?”
“We’ll get some snow before too long,” Matt said. “But in the meantime we can cut some chunks of ice from Miller’s Pond. We’ll boil it and hope for the best.”
“Isn’t there someplace else we could get ice?” I asked. “How about your little friends in the black market?”
“They’re not my little friends and they don’t have any water or ice,” Matt said. “Or if they do, they’re not selling it. If you can think of someplace closer than the pond, great. But that’s the best I can come up with.”
I thought about Brandon skating on the pond. I told myself it had never really happened so it didn’t matter. “Since there’s no water left, there’s no reason to keep the heat on,” Matt continued. “We might as well conserve the oil and move into the sunroom.”
“No!” I shouted. “I won’t!”
“Why not?” Jon asked, and I could tell he was genuinely surprised. “It’s warm in here. Even with the furnace on, it’s cold in the house. Why not move?”
“I spend a lot of time in the kitchen,” I said. “Not just sleeping. And it’s bad enough now. I’ll freeze to death if we turn the heat off. Is that what you want? You want me to freeze to death?”
“You won’t be spending any more time in the kitchen,” Matt said. “Except to get stuff out of the pantry. We don’t cook in there anymore or eat in there and now you won’t be doing any washing in there. If something happens to the firewood and we don’t have any heating oil left, we’ll freeze to death. It’s better to keep some in reserve.”
“What difference does it make?” I said. “We’re never going to make it through the winter. It’s November and already we’re out of water and the temperature is below zero and there’s no way of getting more food.
We’re dying in increments, Matt. You know that. We all know that.”
“Maybe we are,” Mom said, and I was almost startled to hear her speak. She’s been talking a lot less since she hurt her ankle again, and she’s really cut down on her rah-rah speeches. “But as long as we don’t know what the future is going to bring us, we owe it to ourselves to keep living. Things could get better.
Somewhere people are working on solutions to all this. They have to be. It’s what people do. And our solution is to stay alive one day at a time. Everyone dies in increments, Miranda. Every day we’re one day closer to death. But there’s no reason to rush into it. I intend to stay alive as long as I possibly can and I expect the same from you. The only sensible thing to do is for all of us to stay in the sunroom.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “Please, not tonight.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Mom said. “We’ll bring the mattresses in then.”
“It’ll be okay,” Matt said to me. “In some ways, it’ll be better. You won’t be the only one responsible for the fire. We can take turns stoking it. You’ll sleep better.”
“Yeah,” Jon said. “You’ll have it easy, Miranda. You won’t even have any housework to do.”
So tonight is my last night alone. And my world has gotten even smaller.
Mrs. Nesbitt died.
I don’t know when, but she was in bed and I like to think she died in her sleep. Her eyes were closed and she looked peaceful.
I kissed her cheek and covered her face with her top sheet. I sat silently by her side for a while, mostly to see if I was going to cry, but I didn’t and I knew I couldn’t sit there forever, no matter how peaceful it was.
I knew she wanted us to have everything, but I made a point of taking out her diamond pendant and ruby brooch first. Then I went downstairs and took the two paintings off the wall she wanted Matt and Jonny to have. I piled all the things on the kitchen table and tried to decide what to look at next.
What I really wanted to do was go through her kitchen cabinets and see what food she had left, but the very thought of it made me excited and that didn’t seem like the proper way to feel. It made me feel like a cannibal.
So I found a flashlight and started with the attic. I didn’t know what I was going to find there but Mrs. Nesbitt had told me to go from the attic to the cellar and I had no desire to go to the cellar.
The attic was filled with boxes and trunks. It was ice cold in there and I knew I didn’t have the energy to go through every single one of them. So I hopped from box to box.
There were lots of old clothes which I didn’t think would be any help to us. There were also boxes of papers, accounts from Mr. Nesbitt’s business.
I opened a box called Bobby’s Things and found something great in there. Most of the stuff was from school, papers he’d written and the letters he’d gotten from being on the school basketball team. But toward the bottom I found a shoebox filled with old baseball cards.
I thought about how Jon hadn’t gotten a birthday present and I clutched that shoebox. I’d surprise him with it at Christmas. Or before Christmas if I don’t think we’ll make it that long.
I went downstairs then and walked through the bedrooms and looked in the closets. There were clean towels and washcloths that Mrs. Nesbitt must not have used. Clean sheets and blankets and quilts. No matter how warm we might be in the sunroom, extra blankets seemed like a good idea. There were boxes of tissues I knew we could use, and rolls of toilet paper. Aspirin and painkillers. Cold remedies.
I took a clean pillowcase and started putting stuff in there, starting with the baseball cards. I didn’t put any of the blankets in there, but I did throw in some of the towels and washcloths. There really wasn’t any logic to what I put in and what I left out. I’d be sending Matt over to fill the car and he could pick up anything I forgot to take.
Then I allowed myself to go to the kitchen. I opened the cabinets and I saw cans of soup and vegetables and tuna and chicken. All the stuff we’d been eating for months now. There wasn’t enough for us to eat three meals a day. But every can would keep us alive a little bit longer.
I knew, without her ever telling me, that Mrs. Nesbitt had been going hungry so we could have the food. I thanked her silently and kept looking.
In the back of one of the cabinets I found a box of chocolates, unopened, with a Happy Mother’s Day card attached. Mrs. Nesbitt never was one for chocolate. You would have thought her son knew that.
I took the chocolate and put it in the bottom of the pillowcase along with the baseball cards. I couldn’t decide whether to give it to Mom at Christmas or on her birthday.
Then I realized there was a funny noise in back of me. I turned around and saw the kitchen faucet was dripping.
I grabbed a pot and put it under the faucet and turned it on. Actual water poured out.
Mrs. Nesbitt’s well hadn’t run dry. There was only one of her and she hadn’t used up all her water. Her insistence on keeping the heat on had prevented the pipes from freezing.
I grabbed a lot of the cans and an unopened box of raisins and rammed them into the pillowcase. Then I went through the entire house, top to bottom, looking for containers for the water. Everything I found that could possibly hold water, bottles and jugs and canisters and barrels, I dragged into the kitchen. I filled them all just for the joy of hearing running water.
I was tempted to pour myself a glass of water and drink it, but even though the water was probably clean, I knew it should be boiled first. But then I thought to look in Mrs. Nesbitt’s refrigerator. Sure enough, she’d been using it for storage space, and there was an untouched six-pack of bottled water.
I let myself drink one. It was all I could do to keep from gulping it down in three giant swallows. But I sipped it instead, like a fine wine.
It’s funny. All the food there and I wasn’t tempted by any of it. But I couldn’t resist the water.
Then just because I could, I took a washcloth, dampened it with sink water, and washed my face and hands. Soon I took off all my clothes and gave myself a sponge bath. The water was cold and the kitchen wasn’t much warmer, but it was glorious feeling clean again.
I got back into my dirty clothes and slipped the five bottles of drinking water into what I was starting to think of as my Santa bag and realized I couldn’t carry much more. There was no way I could manage to take the paintings, but I did put the two pieces of jewelry in my pants pocket. I heaved the bag over my shoulder and went out the kitchen door.
I’ve been alternating between walking on the road and through the back woods to get to Mrs. Nesbitt’s so I knew no one would think it suspicious if they didn’t see me on the road. I only hoped no one would see me in the woods, since if they saw the Santa bag they’d know right away that I’d been taking things from Mrs. Nesbitt’s house. If anyone got there before Matt, we’d lose the food, the water, everything.
I walked as fast as I could, cursing myself for having filled the pillowcase with so much stuff. It was one of my non-brunch days and I was hungry. The water gurgled in my stomach.
I spotted Matt and Jon chopping away. They’d cut firewood for Mrs. Nesbitt, I remembered. More stuff for them to take from her house.
For a moment I was torn between speaking to them while I was still holding on to the bag or going to the house to drop the bag off and then going to talk to them. But I’d have to tell Mom if she saw me carrying stuff in, and I was just as happy to postpone that. So I positioned myself with the bag behind a tree just in case someone could see me talking to Matt and Jon.
“Mrs. Nesbitt died,” I whispered. “She told me a few days ago to take everything we could use. She still has running water. Her car has a little gas in it.”
“Where is she?” Jonny asked.
“She’s in her bed,” I said. “Peter told her the hospital was taking bodies and she said we should bring her there if that was easiest for us. We had a long talk about things a few days ago.”
“Do I have to do that?” Jonny asked. “Do I have to go in?”
“No,” Matt said. “But you have to help us bring stuff over. There’s a wheelbarrow in her garage. We can fill it with firewood for you to take back here. Miranda, would you mind going back in?”
“No, of course not,” I said.
“Okay, then,” he said. “We’ll strip the house. Do you have any idea how to drive?”
“The gas pedal makes it go and the brake makes it stop,” I said.
Matt grinned. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll drive the van there and we’ll bring all our empty bottles and jugs so we can fill them with water. We’ll load things up and I’ll drive the van back and you’ll drive Mrs. Nesbitt’s car. Then I’ll go back and get Mrs. Nesbitt and take her to the hospital. By the time I get back, the house will be ransacked, but we’ll have gotten everything we can out of there.”
“When you go back for Mrs. Nesbitt, fill the car up again,” I said. “Honestly, she wouldn’t mind.”
“Okay,” Matt said. “Take the bag in and tell Mom. Jon, come with me. Let’s get water containers.”
So we all went back to the house. Mom was sitting on her mattress, staring at the fire. She heard me come in and then she saw the pillowcase.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“It’s Mrs. Nesbitt’s,” I said. “Mom, I’m sorry.”
It took her a moment to realize what I was saying. Then she did and took a deep breath. “Was it peaceful?” she asked. “Could you tell?”
“She died in her sleep,” I said. “Just the way she wanted.”
“Well, that’s the best we can hope for,” Mom said.
When we got to Mrs. Nesbitt’s, Jonny stayed outside and loaded the wheelbarrow with wood. Matt and I went inside. Matt filled all the containers we’d brought with water, and I packed up the blankets and towels and sheets and food and the photo albums and the two paintings.
While we were in the kitchen, Jon raced in. He’d found two barrels in the garage and a couple of plastic recycling bins and a heavy garbage pail.
The garbage pail weighed so much when we filled it with water that it took all three of us to lift it into the van. Jonny and I managed the recycling bins together.
We did everything as quietly as we could, but of course if anyone heard the car motor, they’d know something was up. The rule is family first and Matt said everyone thought of us as Mrs. Nesbitt’s family, so we should be okay, but it was still scary until we got both cars loaded and both engines running.
Then of course I had to drive down the driveway, onto the road, and up our driveway to the sunroom door.
The important thing, I kept telling myself, was not to panic. There were no cars on the road, so I wasn’t going to hit anybody. It was more a question of whether I’d hit a tree. I kept my hands locked on the steering wheel and drove about five miles an hour. The whole trip couldn’t have taken more than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity.
If I was that nervous driving, I knew I wasn’t ready to die.
Jon arrived with the wheelbarrow, which he left in our garage. Then he and Matt and I unloaded the cars. We put everything in the kitchen to be gone through later. I thought Mom was going to cry when she saw all the water.
Matt asked me if I wanted to go back with him and bring Mrs. Nesbitt to the hospital. Before I had a chance to agree, Mom said no.
“Miranda’s done enough,” she said. “Jonny, go with your brother.”
“Mom,” Jonny said.
“You heard me,” Mom said. “You say you want to be treated like an adult. Then behave like one. Miranda’s said her good-byes to Mrs. Nesbitt. Mine, too, I’m sure. It’s your turn to do so and I expect that you will.”
“Okay,” Jonny said. He sounded so young, I wanted to hug him.
“This is going to take a while,” Matt said. “Don’t open the door while we’re gone. You should be fine, but don’t take any chances.”
“We’ll be safe,” Mom said. “Be careful. I love you both.”
After they left, I made Mom drink one of the bottles of water. Then I sat with her and told her about the conversation I’d had with Mrs. Nesbitt. I pulled the pendant out of the Santa bag and handed it to her.
“It was her fiftieth-birthday present,” Mom said. “Her husband gave it to her. There was a big surprise party and I think she was genuinely surprised. Bobby brought Sally home for the party so we all knew it was serious. They got married later that year.”
“She told me to give you her photo albums,” I said. “I bet there are pictures from the party.”
“Oh, I’m sure there are,” Mom said. “Here. Help me with the clasp. I think she’d like to know I’m wearing the pendant.”
I helped Mom on with it. She’s gotten so thin I could see her shoulder blades.
“She gave me this brooch,” I said, showing it to Mom.
“She loved that brooch,” Mom said. “It was her grandmother’s. Cherish it, Miranda. That’s a very special gift.”
Then I went back to work. The bottles and jugs got moved to the kitchen. I put the food in the pantry and then I changed Mom’s sheets. I took a pot, filled it with water, and after it had heated up, I helped Mom shampoo her hair. I hid the baseball cards and the chocolate, and put everything else away.
Matt and Jon got home around suppertime. They had seen Peter and there was no problem with the hospital taking Mrs. Nesbitt. Then we ate tuna and red beans and pineapple chunks. And we toasted the best friend we’ll ever have.
Mom hobbled her way (which she probably shouldn’t have done) into the pantry this afternoon. Matt and Jonny were doing their wood-chopping things.
I left Mom alone in the pantry for a while (I’m losing all sense of time), but then I figured I’d better make sure she hadn’t fallen. So I went into the pantry and found her sitting on the floor weeping. I put my arm around her shoulder and let her cry. After a while she calmed down and then she embraced me.
I helped her up and she leaned on me as we went back to the sunroom.
I have never loved Mom as much as I love her now. I almost feel like some of Mrs. Nesbitt’s love for Mom has seeped into me.
Peter came over this afternoon. Each time I see him, he looks five years older.
He didn’t talk much to us. He just lifted Mom off her mattress, blankets and all, and carried her into the living room.
They stayed there a long time. Matt and Jon came in while they were there, and we all whispered, so Mom wouldn’t be disturbed by the sound of our voices.
When they came back into the sunroom, Peter put Mom down so gently on her mattress, I almost wept.
There was so much love and kindness in that gesture. Peter told us to take care of Mom and make sure she doesn’t try to do too much. We promised we would.
I wonder if Dad was ever that gentle with Mom. I wonder if he’s that gentle now with Lisa.
Veterans Day.
A national holiday.
Matt stayed home from the post office.
I think this is the funniest thing ever.
I went to my bedroom to look for clean(er) socks, and while I was up there, I decided to weigh myself.
I had on a fair number of layers of clothes. Even though we have the woodstove going day and night, the sides of the sunroom don’t get too warm. And of course leaving the sunroom to go to the pantry or the kitchen or upstairs is like hiking to the North Pole. You don’t just stroll there in a bikini.
I had on my underwear and my long Johns (sometimes I remember how upset I was when Mom bought them last spring, and now I thank her over and over, at least in my mind) and jeans and sweatpants and two shirts and a sweatshirt and a winter coat and two pairs of socks and shoes. I didn’t bother with a scarf and I kept my gloves in my pocket because I knew I wasn’t going to be upstairs too long.
For the great weighing-in, I took off my shoes and my coat. According to the scale, my clothes and I weigh 96 pounds.
I don’t think that’s too bad. Nobody starves to death at 96 pounds.
I weighed 118 last spring. My real concern is how much muscle I’ve lost. I was in good shape from all the swimming and now I don’t do anything except carry firewood and shiver.
I’d like to go back to the pond and do some more skating, but I feel guilty leaving Mom alone. When I left her alone to visit Mrs. Nesbitt, I was doing something for someone else. But skating would just be for me, and I can’t justify that.
Matt and Jon are both thin, but they look like they’re pure muscle. Mom looks skinny and sickly. She’s been eating less than the rest of us for a while now, but she also started out weighing more so I don’t think she’s at starvation level, either.
We have food but we’re so careful with it. Who knows when we’ll get any more. Even Peter doesn’t bring us any when he visits.
Thanksgiving is next week. I wonder if we’ll have anything to be thankful for.
Matt came flying home from the post office today. There was a letter from Dad.
The only problem was the letter was sent before the other one. I guess he wrote a letter between the two we’d already gotten.
This one was from Ohio. It didn’t say much, just that he and Lisa were doing well and so far they had enough gas and food and camping out was fun. They met lots of other families who were also going south or west and he’d even run into someone he’d known in college. Lisa threw in a PS to say she could feel the baby move. She was sure it was a boy but Dad was equally sure it was a girl.
It was so strange getting that letter. I couldn’t understand why Matt was so happy. It wasn’t like there was any new news in it, since we know Dad and Lisa made it farther west than that. But Matt said it means mail is still traveling and is totally unpredictable, so a newer letter from Dad could arrive at any time.
Sometimes I feel like I miss Dad and Sammi and Dan more than I miss Megan and Mrs. Nesbitt. They all deserted me but I can’t blame Megan or Mrs. Nesbitt for not writing. I know I can’t blame Dad or Sammi or Dan, either. Or I shouldn’t blame them, which is more accurate.
I have no privacy. But I feel so alone.
It was minus 10 when I went out with the bedpan. I’m pretty sure that was early afternoon.
Matt keeps chopping wood. There’s already too much for the dining room, so he’s started a pile in the living room.
I wonder if we’ll have any trees left by the time winter ends. If it ends.
We still have water but we ration it.
Thanksgiving.
Even Mom didn’t pretend we had anything to be thankful for.
Matt came home today from the post office with two special treats.
One was Peter.
The other was a chicken.
It wasn’t all that much of a chicken, maybe a little bigger than a Cornish hen. But it was dead and plucked and ready for cooking.
I guess Matt knew he’d be getting it, and had arranged for Peter to join us in our Day After Thanksgiving Feast.
There was a moment when I thought about where the chicken had come from and what Matt must have given up for us to have it. But then I decided the hell with it. It was chicken, a real honest-to-goodness-notfrom-a-can chicken. And I’d be a fool to look a gift chicken in the mouth.
No matter what Matt might have given up for the chicken, it would have been worth it for the look in Mom’s eyes when she saw it. She looked happier than she has in weeks.
Since the only way we can cook is on top of the woodstove, we were kind of limited. But we put the chicken in a pot with a can of chicken broth and salt and pepper and rosemary and tarragon. Just the smell of it was heaven. We made rice and string beans, too.
It was wonderful beyond description. I’d forgotten what actual chicken tastes like. I think we each could have eaten the entire chicken, but we shared it very civilly. I had a leg and two bites of thigh.
Peter and Jon broke the wishbone. Jon won, but it didn’t matter since we all have the same wish.
I guess the chicken really revitalized Mom, because today she decided we were all wasting our lives and that had to stop. Of course it’s true, but it’s still pretty funny that Mom felt the need to make a big deal out of it. “Have any of you done a bit of schoolwork all fall?” she asked. “You too, Matt. Have you?”
Well, of course not. We tried to look shamefaced. Bad us for not doing algebra when the world is coming to an end.
“I don’t care what you study,” Mom said. “But you have to study something. Pick one subject and work on that. I want to see open schoolbooks. I want to see some learning going on here.”
“I absolutely refuse to study French,” I said. “I’ll never go to France. I’ll never meet anyone from France. For all we know, there isn’t a France anymore.”
“So don’t study French,” Mom said. “Study history. We may not have a future, but you can’t deny we have a past.”
That was the first time I ever heard Mom say that about the future. It shocked any possible fight out of me.
So I picked history as my subject. Jon picked algebra and Matt said he’d help him with it. Matt admitted he’d been wanting to read some philosophy. And Mom said if I wasn’t going to use my French textbook, she would.
I don’t know how long this burst of studying is going to last, but I understand Mom’s point. The other night I dreamed that I found myself in school for a final and not only hadn’t I been to class and didn’t know anything, but the school was just the way it had been and everybody there was normal looking and I was dressed in layers of clothes and hadn’t washed in days and everyone stared at me like I was a drop-in from hell.
At least now if it’s a history test, I’ll have a fighting chance of knowing some of the answers.
There’s nothing like schoolwork to make a person want to play hooky.
I told Mom I wanted to go for a walk and she said, “Well, why don’t you? You’ve been spending entirely too much time indoors.”
I love her but I could throttle her.
So I layered up and walked over to Mrs. Nesbitt’s house. I don’t know what I was looking for or what I was expecting to find. But the house had been ransacked since the day she’d died. That was to be expected. We’d taken everything we could use, but there was stuff like furniture that we didn’t need and other people had taken for themselves.
It felt funny walking around the empty house. It reminded me of Megan’s house when I’d gone there, like the house itself was dead.
After I’d walked around awhile, I realized what I wanted to do was explore the attic. Maybe that hadn’t been gone through, or at least not as thoroughly
And sure enough, even though all the boxes had been opened and contents pulled out, there was plenty of stuff left in there. And that’s when I knew I was there looking for a Christmas present for Matt. Jon had the baseball cards. Mom had the box of chocolates. But I wanted Matt to have something, too.
Most of what was lying around on the floor was old linens, tablecloths, and stuff like that. There were piles of old clothes, too, nothing anyone could have found usable.
When I’d gone through the attic the first time, it had been crowded with boxes, but everything was neatly packed away. Now it was chaos. Not that it mattered. I looked through piles of things, through boxes that had been gone through but nothing taken out. And finally I found something I could give Matt.
It was a dozen or so different colored pencils from an old color-by-number picture set. The pictures had all been carefully colored in, but their backs were blank, so I decided to take them, too.
Back in high school, Matt had done some drawing. I wasn’t sure he’d even remember it, but I did, because he did a sketch of me in a much better layback position than I’d ever really managed. Mom had loved it and wanted to hang it up, but it embarrassed me because I knew it wasn’t really me and I threw a tantrum until she gave up on the idea. I guess she kept the picture, but I don’t know where she hid it.
At some point Matt’s going to stop chopping firewood and when he does he can take up art again, to go along with his philosophy studies.
I went through the other stuff in the attic, but the pencils were definitely the high point. So I thanked Mrs. Nesbitt and went home. Just to be sneaky, I went in through the front door and took the color-by-number set up to my bedroom before returning to the sunroom.
We may not have a chicken for Christmas dinner, but at least there’ll be presents.
For the third straight day the temperature was above zero this afternoon, so I took Mom’s skates and went to the pond.
There was no one there. (I’m really starting to think that whole Brandon thing was a hallucination.) In a funny way, it was better that I was alone, since I never am at home. Mom can definitely hobble around now, so I don’t have to hover around her all the time, but it’s way too cold in the house to spend much time anyplace but the sunroom.
I skated around the pond, nothing fancy and incredibly slow. I had to be careful, since there were chunks of ice missing. I guess people have been hacking away at it for water, the way we will once Mrs. Nesbitt’s water runs out.
The air is so bad I don’t know how Matt and Jonny manage. I’d skate for a few minutes and then start coughing. I probably didn’t skate for more than 15 minutes total, but I was exhausted by the time I finished, and it took most of my strength to get back home.
Matt, Mom, and I are down to one meal a day, but at least we’re eating 7 days a week. And maybe the temperature really is warming up, and that’ll make things better.
Fridays Matt goes to the post office first thing in the morning. Lately he’s been coming home in the early afternoon. Even though the days are all gray, there’s still a difference between daytime and night and it gets dark very early now.
Mom, Jon, and I were in the sunroom and it must have been before noon because Jon hadn’t gotten anything to eat. We had two oil lamps going because, even in daytime with the fire in the woodstove, we still need two lamps to have enough light to read by.
Jon was the first one to notice. “Does it seem darker to you?” he asked.
He was right. It was darker. First we looked at the oil lamps to see if one of them had gone out. Then we looked at the woodstove.
Mom tilted her head up. “It’s snowing,” she said. “The skylights are covered with snow.”
With the windows covered by plywood, we can’t see what’s going on outside. But since the only change in the weather for months has been the temperature, there hasn’t been much need to see what’s happening.
The kitchen window is covered with plywood, too, and we can’t get to the windows in the dining room, so we all went to the living room to see what was happening.
It must have been snowing for an hour or more. It was coming down at a furious pace.
As soon as we realized it was snowing, we also realized the wind was blowing. “It’s a blizzard,” Jon said.
“We don’t know that,” Mom said. “The snow could stop in a minute.”
I couldn’t wait. I grabbed my coat and ran outside. I would have done the same for rain or sunlight. It was something different and I had to experience it.
Jon and Mom followed me. “The snow looks weird,” Jon said.
“It’s not quite white,” Mom said.
That was it. It wasn’t dark gray, like the piles of plowed snow in March. But it wasn’t pure white, either. Like everything else these days, it was dingy.
“I wish Matt were home,” Mom said, and for a moment I thought she meant that she wished she could share the moment with him, the excitement of snow. But then I realized she was worried about him getting home. The post office is about 4 miles from here, which isn’t that far if you’re biking, but could take a long time to walk, especially in blizzard conditions. “You want me to go get him?” Jon asked. “No,” Mom said. “He’s probably on his way home now. And it’s not like he’ll get lost. I’d just feel better if he were home.”
“One good thing,” I said. “If there’s any kind of accumulation we’ll have a water supply.”
Mom nodded. “Jonny, get the barrels and the garbage cans, and put them outside,” she said. “We can collect snow in them.”
Jon and I took everything that could hold snow and put them by the side of the house. By the time we had the last recycling bin out there, the garbage can already had an inch of snow in it.
Jon was right. It was a blizzard.
We went back in but none of us could concentrate on our books. We kept our coats on and sat in the living room, watching the snow fall and waiting for Matt’s return.
At some point Jon made himself some lunch. While he was in the sunroom I asked Mom if I should go get Matt.
“No!” she said sharply. “I can’t risk losing two of you.”
I felt like she’d punched me. Matt couldn’t possibly be lost. We couldn’t survive without him.
Mom didn’t say anything after that and I knew to keep my mouth shut. Finally she went back to the sunroom and when she did, I went outside and walked toward the road just to see what conditions were like. The wind was so fierce it came close to knocking me over. The snow was falling almost sideways and I couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead.
I barely made it to the road, but when I got there I couldn’t see anything anyway. Matt could have been 20 feet down the road and I wouldn’t have known. Mom was right. I couldn’t possibly have made it to town. I could only hope Matt could make the long walk and that he’d known enough to leave once the snow had begun falling.
I went back in and made up some nonsense about going outside to check on the snow collection system. If Mom suspected differently she didn’t say anything.
We went back and forth between the sunroom and the living room. Mom went out just past the front door and stood there for a few minutes until I made her come in.
I could see how excited Jon was, the way a kid is when it snows. It was killing him to suppress his excitement. It was killing Mom to suppress her fear. And it was killing me to see both of them trying to hide their feelings.
As the day progressed the sky grew darker and the wind stronger.
“I really think I should go find Matt,” Jon said. “I could take one of the oil lamps.”
“Maybe he should, Mom,” I said. At this point Jon is stronger than me and a lot stronger than Mom. He might even be stronger than Matt, just because he’s been eating more. If Matt needed help, Jon was the only one of us who could give it to him.
“No,” Mom said. “For all we know Matt is staying in town with a friend to wait the storm out.”
But I knew Matt wouldn’t do that. He’d come home. Or at least he’d try to. He’d be as worried about us as we were about him.
“Mom, I really think Jon should go out,” I said. “Just a little way down the road but with a lamp. It’s getting so dark Matt could go right past our drive and not realize it.”
I could see how much Mom hated the idea. I decided to try a different approach.
“How about if I go out first?” I said. “And then in a few minutes Jon could take over for me and then I could take over for him. We’d rotate, and that way neither one of us could get into any trouble.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Jon said. “I’ll go first. Send Miranda out in a few minutes.”
“All right, all right,” Mom said. “Fifteen minutes and then I’ll send Miranda out.”
Jon looked really excited and in a funny way I didn’t blame him. Mom made sure he was thoroughly bundled up: coat and gloves and scarves and boots. She told him not to go too far and to hold the lamp as high as he could to give Matt a beacon.
I waited alongside Mom. We didn’t say anything. I didn’t dare and Mom was way too wound up to make small talk. Finally she gestured to me to get ready.
“I hope this isn’t a mistake,” she said.
“We’ll be fine,” I said. “I bet I’ll bring Matt home with me.”
But by the time I reached the driveway I wasn’t even sure I’d make it to where Jon was. It didn’t seem to matter how many layers of clothes I had on, the wind was so fierce it cut right through everything. I especially felt it on my face. I put the scarf over my mouth and nose, but even so my face burned with the cold. The snow and the darkness made it impossible for me to see anything except what the lamp illuminated. I stumbled several times and the wind blew me over twice. The snow seeped through my pants and even my long johns grew cold and wet.
At one point I pulled the scarf away from my mouth so I could gulp air. But I fell into the snow and swallowed a mouthful, which got me coughing. I wanted to give up and go back to the sunroom, to the woodstove. But Jon was out there waiting for me to relieve him. My idea. My big bright idea.
I have no idea how long it took me to get to Jon. He was jumping up and down, the light swinging wildly.
“You stay warmer that way,” he told me.
I nodded and told him to go back to the house. I gestured toward where I remembered the house to be. “Tell Mom I’m fine,” I said, even though we both knew it was a lie.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said.
I watched as he began trudging back. But in a minute or two I couldn’t see him anymore, even though I knew he wasn’t very far away.
As I stood out there I began laughing at myself, at how desperate I’d been to be alone. Now I was as alone as any human being could be, and all I wanted was to be back in the sunroom with Matt and Jonny and Mom and Horton all taking up space.
I knew I’d be okay as long as I stayed put. I wasn’t going to get lost and Mom would see to it I wasn’t out long enough to freeze to death or even to get frostbite. The only one of us in danger was Matt.
But with the wind whipping around and the snow blinding me and my entire body freezing from the cold and the damp, it was hard to feel safe and secure. In addition to everything else, I was hungry. I’m always hungry except right after supper, but I was hungry the way I get right before supper, so I figured it must be around 5.
I realized Jon was right about moving around so I jogged in place. I was doing okay until a gust of wind caught me off guard and I fell into the snow and the oil lamp went out.
It took all my strength, physical and emotional, to keep from hysteria. I told myself I’d be okay, that Jon would find me, that Matt would get home, that the lamp could be relit, that everything was going to be fine.
But for a moment there I felt as though I’d been thrown into a snow globe by some powerful giant, that I was a prisoner and would never be free. I felt as though the world really was coming to an end and even if Matt made it home, we would all die anyway.
There was no point getting off the ground. I sat there, holding on to the useless lamp, waiting for Jonny, waiting for Matt, waiting for the world to finally say, “That’s enough. I quit.”
“Miranda?”
Was it Matt? Was it the wind? Was it a hallucination? I honestly didn’t know.
“Miranda!”
“Matt?” I said, struggling to get up. “Matt, is that really you?”
“What are you doing here?” he asked and the question was so dumb but so reasonable I burst out laughing.
“I’m rescuing you,” I said, gasping, which only made me laugh louder.
“Well, thank you,” Matt said. I think he laughed then, also, but the wind and my madness made it hard for me to tell.
“Come on,” he said, reaching down to pull me up. “Let’s go home.”
We began walking against the wind toward the drive. Matt walked his bike on one side and held on to me on the other. At one point the wind blew me down and I pushed him down and he pushed the bike down. It took us a moment to get back upright and by the time we had, we could see Jon’s oil lamp bobbing in the distance.
There was no point calling out to Jon, but we used the lamp as a guide and slowly made our way toward it. When we reached Jon he hugged Matt so hard I thought he’d drop the lamp and we’d all be there in total darkness. But the lamp stayed lit and we forged our way back to the house.
We went in through the front door and when we did, Matt called out, “We’re home!”
Mom came racing as fast as she could toward us. Of course she hugged Matt first, but then she embraced me like she’d been as afraid for me as she had been for him.
Mom made all of us dry off completely and change all our clothes and then we sat by the woodstove to defrost. All our faces were red, but Matt swore he was okay and not frostbitten.
“I would have gotten home sooner, but I didn’t want to leave my bike,” he said as we sat by the fire. “It was just Henry and me at the post office, and for a while we didn’t realize it was snowing. Finally someone came in and told us it had been snowing for a couple of hours and we’d better get home right away. I would have gone with Henry, but he lives nearly as far from the post office as we do only in a completely different direction so that didn’t make any sense. I was afraid if I left the bike I’d never see it again. You know how things are. Besides I didn’t know if it was going to keep snowing or if it was just a squall. I hoped I’d be able to bike some of the way home, but that was impossible.”
“You’re not going back to the post office,” Mom said. “I won’t have it.”
“We’ll talk about that next Friday,” Matt said. “In the meantime I’m not going anywhere.”
At first I thought Mom was going to put up a fight, but then she just sighed.
“I’m hungry,” Jon said. “Isn’t it suppertime?”
“I’ll make some soup,” Mom said. “I think we could all use some.”
We had soup first and then macaroni with marinara sauce. A two-course meal, proof that this was a specialevent day.
We spent the evening going to the front door and peering out at the snow with a flashlight. I’m going to go back there once I finish writing this and then I’ll go to sleep.
I don’t know if I want it to snow all night long or if I want it to stop. If it snows, that’s more water for us. But there’s something frightening about this storm, even though we are all safe at home.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t do anything about it. It’ll snow it won’t no matter what I want.
I just want this day to be over with.
It snowed all night and it’s snowed all day.
The recycling bins are full of snow so Jon and Matt brought them in and we moved the snow into bottles and jars. Then we put the bins back out.
The garbage can was half full of snow. We figure there’s been close to two feet of snow and it doesn’t look like it’s letting up any,
“We’ll be okay for water now,” I said, just to make sure “The snow will last outside for a long time, so we can just bring it in and boil it when we need water. Right?”
“I don’t see why not,” Matt said. “I don’t think we’ll worry about water for a while. Besides, maybe it will snow again.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Mom said.
“It doesn’t have to be a blizzard,” Matt said. “But a few inches now and again could come in handy.”
“And we’re okay for wood?” I asked. I was in the mood for reassurance.
“We should be fine,” Matt said.
I’ve decided to believe him. It’s not like we can go to the Wood ’n’ Water store if we need any.
Now that I think about it, I’m not sure we can go anywhere. The roads won’t be plowed, and I doubt anyone is going to shovel 4 miles of snow.
It’s a good thing we still like each other.
When we got up this morning we found it had stopped snowing during the night. We couldn’t see anything from the sunroom (which is really dark from the snow covering the skylights), but we went first to the living room and then to the front door and checked things out.
Because of the wind, the snow had drifted around. There were some stretches of land that hardly had any snow at all and other places where the snow was close to 5 feet high. I’ve never seen snow that high and I couldn’t decide whether to be excited or scared.
We went back into the house. Mom took some of last night’s snow and made us hot cocoa. Chocolate with an ashy taste is still better than no chocolate at all.
“Well,” Matt said when we were all warm and cozy. “Are we ready for some problems?”
I would have said no but what good would that have done?
“We need to clear the snow off the roof of the sunroom,” he said.
“Why?” Jon asked.
“Just a precaution,” Matt said. “Snow can be heavy and we don’t know if this is the last of it for the winter.
We don’t want the roof caving in on us.”
“I don’t want you on the roof,” Mom said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It’ll be a lot more dangerous if the roof caves in,” Matt said. “That could kill us. It WILL kill us actually because if we lose the sunroom, we lose the woodstove. I’ll be careful, but it has to get done.”
“You said ‘problems,’” Jon said.
“The ladder is in the garage,” Matt said. “So are the shovels.”
“Let’s see if there’s snow in front of the garage,” Mom said. She went to the sunroom door and tried to open it. But no matter how hard she pushed, the door stayed shut.
“There must be snow against it,” Matt said. “But we can get out through the front door.”
So we did. But instead of being able to look out the sun room door to see how the garage was, we had to walk over to the driveway to get a look.
Just walking a couple of feet was exhausting. You had to lift each leg high to get it onto the snow, like exaggerated giant steps, and then the snow was so soft your leg sank right through it.
“It should be pretty easy to shovel,” Jon said.
“That’s good,” Matt said. “Because we’re going to have a lot to do.”
We made it to the sunroom door. The snow was 4 feet high. No wonder Mom couldn’t open it.
“Well, that’s on our list to shovel,” Matt said. “Now let’s see how the garage is.”
The garage was real bad. The snow had drifted higher than the padlock.
“We need the shovel,” I said. “Are you sure it’s in the garage?”
Matt and Jon both nodded. Mom took a deep breath and then she coughed. “We’ll have to move the snow away by hand,” she said. “The garage doors open out, so we don’t have a choice. I think pots and pans will make the job go faster, and we’ll all work on it. Jon, go to the house and put the pots and pans in a garbage bag and bring them back here. We’ll do what we can by hand until you get here.”
Jon began the long trudge back to the front door. Once he was out of hearing range, Mom turned to Matt and said, “How bad is it really?”
“Well, we’re certainly isolated,” Matt said. “I saw Dad’s old pair of cross-country skis in the garage once. The shoes that go with them, too. They’ll give us some mobility. Bikes will be useless. Forget driving. I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but it’s a relief Mrs. Nesbitt is gone.”
“I thought the same thing,” Mom said. “Do you think the roads will be cleared at any point?”
Matt shook his head. “There aren’t enough people left to shovel the roads out, and there isn’t enough gas for the snow-plows. Maybe the townspeople will clear the main streets out, but that’s going to be it. We’re on our own.”
“I’m thinking about the hospital,” Mom said.
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Matt said. “We can’t get there. Peter can’t get to us. And I don’t think the snow is going to melt before April or May. And there’s the risk of more snow.”
“I like Peter,” I said. “But it’s not the end of the world if we don’t see him for a few weeks. Or even a few months.”
“That’s not it,” Matt said. “What if one of us needs a doctor or the hospital? What happens then?”
“We’ll just be careful,” Mom said. “So we won’t need a doctor. Now come on, let’s see how much of this snow we can remove by hand before Jonny discovers all we’ve been doing is talking.”
The snow got inside all our gloves, and our pant legs grew wet, too. We were relieved when Jon returned with the pots and pans. We each took one and used it as a minishovel. The pans speeded the process, but it still took a long time before the garage doors looked like they could be opened.
Then Mom realized the key to the padlock was in the house so we had to wait until Matt went back, got the key, and returned. Even when he did, it wasn’t that easy to get the garage doors opened. But we cleared some more and we all pulled together and much to our relief the door finally opened.
There were two shovels right by the door. There was also a 20-pound bag of rock salt, which claimed it would melt ice in below-zero temperatures.
“If it doesn’t,” Mom said, “we can always demand a refund.”
This struck all of us as so funny we couldn’t stop laughing until the coughing took over.
“Two shovels,” Matt said. “One for me and one for Jon. Let’s get started.”
“No,” Mom said. “I want us all to go to the house first and eat something. And we should take some aspirin.”
“We’ll be fine,” Matt said. “You don’t have to worry.”
“Worrying is what I do,” Mom said. “Occupational hazard of motherhood. Now everybody back to the house for food and aspirin.”
“What’s the aspirin for?” I whispered to Matt as we made our way to the front door.
“Our hearts,” Matt said. “I guess Mom thinks we have the hearts of sixty-year-olds.”
“I heard that,” Mom said. “I just don’t want you taking any more chances than you have to. Besides, you’ll be aching all over by the time you’re finished. You might as well start on the aspirin now.”
Mom was certainly right about the aching all over. Just shoveling the snow out with a pot made my shoulders and upper back hurt. And I loved the idea of lunch (which turned out to be soup and spinach—I guess Popeye did his share of snow shoveling).
Once we’d eaten, Matt and Jonny went to work, first clearing out the sunroom door, then creating walkways from the house to the garage and from the front door to the road. Then they got the ladder and cleared off all the snow from the sunroom roof. It took them a long time, but they seemed to enjoy it.
“While they’re shoveling, let’s do some laundry,” Mom said to me. “I’ll boil down the snow and you do the washing.”
“Women’s work,” I muttered, but the truth is much as I don’t care for washing Jon’s underwear, I sure don’t want him washing mine.
If I thought my back hurt from the shoveling, it was nothing compared to how I felt after doing all the laundry. On the one hand it was exciting actually having water to wash clothes with. We had done a little with Mrs. Nesbitt’s water, but we haven’t since then and that was about a month ago.
But laundry is hard, hard work. For starters, snow melts down into not very much water, so Mom was constantly having to refill the pot on the woodstove. And of course the water was gray toned, which makes it harder to believe that the clothes are actually clean. Then I’d overcompensate with laundry detergent, and it would take forever to rinse it out. The water was really hot from the woodstove and the kitchen really cold, since it has no heat, and my poor body didn’t know what to feel. My hands and face got steamy hot and my feet and legs stayed ice cold. Then once each sink load was washed and rinsed, I had to squeeze all the clothes dry, which took even more energy than the washing and rinsing. All this for clothes that are permanently dingy.
Mom strung up a clothesline in the sunroom because if we hang wet clothes in any of the other rooms they’ll freeze. So now the sunroom has the smell of wet laundry to go along with everything else. At least the clothesline is nowhere near the mattresses. I don’t want clothes dripping on my face while I’m sleeping.
Matt and Jonny did the roof clearing and while they were at it, they cleared the snow off the skylights, so whatever light is out there we now get.
I’m too tired to be scared. I wonder how I’ll feel in the morning.
Mom told us to get back to our schoolwork.
“Snow day,” Jonny said.
Mom didn’t argue. I almost wish she had.
We’ve been cooped up in the sunroom for almost a week now. I thought it was bad before, but this is ridiculous. At least before Matt and Jonny could go out and chop wood all day long. Now they’re stuck inside, too.
Sometimes one of us invents an errand to take us away from the others. I’m still in charge of bedpans and chamber pots so I have to walk about 50 feet from the house for that lovely job. Jon cleans out Horton’s litter so he has to go outside at least once a day (besides, he and Matt use the outdoors as a bathroom, poor guys). Matt brings in snow for our water needs. Only Mom never leaves the house.
But we’ll all suddenly remember something we have to get from our bedrooms or the pantry, and no matter how cold the rest of the house is, it feels like heaven just to get by yourself for a few minutes.
Tomorrow is Friday so Matt went out with the crosscountry skis to see if he could make it into town. Much to Mom’s great relief, he came back and said he couldn’t. He never really liked cross-country skiing and the snow is very light and powdery and he doesn’t have the skill and probably not the strength to manage 4 miles.
On the one hand I’m kind of glad to know there’s something Matt refuses to try. On the other hand, much as I love him, it might have been nice not having him around for a few hours. If it’s only December, what are we going to be like by February?
Jon was making himself a can of green peas for lunch when all of a sudden he turned to us and said, “How come none of you eat lunch?”
It’s funny. We haven’t in ages, but Jon was always outside with Matt and I guess he figured Matt ate a big breakfast or something. He didn’t know what Mom or I were doing. But now that we’re breathing the same air constantly, Jon finally noticed.
“Not hungry,” Matt said. “When I’m hungry, I eat.”
“Same here,” I said with a big false smile on my face.
“We all eat when we need to,” Mom said. “Don’t let what we do stop you, Jonny.”
“No,” Jon said. “If you’re all just eating one meal a day, then that’s what I should do, too.”
We all said, “No!” Jonny looked absolutely horrified and ran out of the room.
I remember a few months ago how angry I was that we weren’t eating as much as Jonny, how unfair that seemed. But now I feel like Mom was right. It is a possibility only one of us is going to make it. We have fuel and we have water, but who knows how long our food will last. Mom’s so thin it’s scary and Matt certainly isn’t as strong as he used to be and I know I’m not. I’m not saying Jon is, but I can see how he might have the best chance of making it through the winter or spring or whatever.
Probably if only one of us really is going to survive, Matt would be the best choice, since he’s old enough to take care of himself. But Matt would never let that happen.
I don’t want to live two weeks longer or three or four if it means none of us survive. So I guess if it comes to it, I’ll stop eating altogether to make sure Jon has food.
Matt started to go upstairs to talk to Jon, but Mom said no, she’d do it. Her limp was pretty bad, and I worried about her getting up the stairs, but she insisted on going.
“This is awful,” I said to Matt, just in case he hadn’t noticed.
“It could be worse,” he said. “We may look back on this as the good time.”
And he’s right. I still remember when Mom sprained her ankle the first time and we played poker and really enjoyed ourselves. If you’d told me three months before then that I’d have called that a good time, I would have laughed out loud.
I eat every single day. Two months from now, maybe even one month from now, I might eat only every other day.
We’re all alive. We’re all healthy.
These are the good times.
I went outside to do chamber pot duty and Jon followed me out with kitty litter brigade. I was turning to go back in when he grabbed hold of my arm.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
I knew it had to be important. If Jon talks to anybody it’s Matt.
“Okay,” I said, even though it was 12 degrees below zero and I really wanted to get back in.
“Mom said I should keep eating lunch,” he said. “She said she needs to know one of us is going to stay strong, in case the rest of us need him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s told me that, too. And you’re the one we need to stay strong.”
“Is that okay?” he asked. “Don’t you mind?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know if I can be the strong one,” Jon said. “Matt practically had to drag me into Mrs. Nesbitt’s.”
“But you went,” I said. “You did what you had to. That’s what we’ve all been doing. We do what we have to. You’re a lot more mature than you used to be, Jon. I have so much respect for you, the way you handled your birthday. And I’ll tell you something else. When we went for Matt, I fell and my oil lamp went out, and all I could think was, Jon will get me. Jon’s stronger than I am and it’ll be okay. So to some extent it’s already happening.”
“But what if you die?” he cried. “What if you all die?”
I wanted to tell him that was never going to happen, that we’d be fine, that the sun was going to be shining tomorrow and the roads would be plowed and the supermarkets would be open, full of fresh fruits and vegetables and meat.
“If we all die, you’ll leave,” I said. “Because you’ll be strong enough to. And maybe someplace in America or Mexico or somewhere things are better and you’ll manage to get there. And then Mom’s life and Matt’s and mine won’t have been a waste. Or maybe the moon’s going to crash into the earth and we’ll all die anyway. I don’t know, Jonny. Nobody knows. Just eat your damn lunch and don’t feel guilty.”
I’m sure the queen of pep talks. Jon turned around and went in. I stayed outside awhile longer and kicked the snow for lack of a better target.
“I think we’ve been doing this meal thing backward,” Matt said this morning. For one gleeful moment I thought he meant he and Mom and I should be eating two meals a day and Jon only one, but of course that wasn’t it.
“None of us eats breakfast,” he said. “We’re hungry all day. We eat supper and stay up a little while and then we go to sleep. The only time we’re not hungry is when we’re sleeping. What good does that do us?”
“So should we have our big meal at breakfast?” Mom asked, which was pretty funny since our big meal is our only meal.
“Breakfast or lunch,” Matt said. “Maybe brunch like Miranda used to do. I think I’d rather be hungry at night than all day long.”
“What about me?” Jon asked.
“You’d eat something at suppertime,” Matt said.
I had to admit it made sense. Especially if Jon ate his second meal when we’d already eaten. There’ve been a couple of days when I’ve wanted to take his pot of whatever he was eating and pour it over his head. I’d probably feel less jealous if I wasn’t as hungry.
“Let’s try it,” Mom said. “I liked supper because that was the time of day we were together. But now we’re together all day long, so that doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s try eating at eleven and see if we like it.”
So we did. And now it’s 4 in the afternoon (or so Matt tells me) and I don’t feel particularly hungry. And doing the laundry is easier too since I’m not hungry.
Life just improved.
“Are you still keeping your journal?” Jon asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I just don’t have an actual journal anymore. I use notebooks. But that’s what I’m writing. Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just wondered why. I mean who are you writing things for?”
“Well, not for you,” I said, remembering how Mrs. Nesbitt had burned all her letters before she died. “So don’t get any ideas.”
Jon shook his head. “I don’t want to read about any of this stuff,” he said. “Do you reread it?”
“No,” I said. “I just write it and forget about it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Well, don’t worry that I’ll read it. I got enough problems.”
“We all do,” I said.
It’s funny how sorry I feel for Jon these days. I’m 2 1/2 years older than him and I feel like I got those extra 2 1/2 years to go to school and swim and have friends and he got cheated out of them. And maybe he’ll live 2 1/2 years longer than me, or 20 years, or 50, but he’ll still never have those 2 1/2 years of normal life.
Every day when I go to sleep I think what a jerk I was to have felt sorry for myself the day before. My Wednesdays are worse than my Tuesdays, my Tuesdays way worse than my Tuesday of a week before.
Which means every tomorrow is going to be worse than every today. Why feel sorry for myself today when tomorrow’s bound to be worse?
It’s a hell of a philosophy, but it’s all I’ve got.
Lisa’s baby was due about now. I’ve decided she had it and it was a girl. I’ve named her Rachel.
Somehow that makes me feel better. Of course I have no idea if she’s had the baby and if she has, whether it’s a boy or a girl or if it’s a girl what her name is. Technically speaking, I don’t know if Lisa is still alive, or if Dad is, but I really prefer to think they are. I’ve decided they made it to Colorado, and Dad got Grandma out of Las Vegas and they’re all living together: Lisa and Lisa’s folks and Dad and Grandma and baby Rachel. When the weather improves, somehow he’ll come back for us and we’ll all move to Colorado and I’ll get to be baby Rachel’s godmother, just like I was supposed to be.
Sometimes Colorado becomes like Springfield used to be for me, this fabulous place with food and clean clothes and water and air. I even imagine that I’ll run into Dan there. After I’ve cleaned up, naturally, and eaten enough so that I don’t look like a walking corpse. Also my hair has grown out. I look great and I bump into him and we get married.
Sometimes I speed things up and Rachel’s our flower girl.
I bet Mom and Matt and Jon all have fantasies of their own, but I don’t want to know what they are. They’re not in mine, after all, so I’m probably not in theirs. We spend enough time together. We don’t need to hang out in each other’s fantasies.
I hope Dad and Lisa are okay. I wonder if I’ll ever meet Rachel.
Mom put her foot down (her good one) and we’re back to doing schoolwork. At least it gives us something to do besides laundry and playing poker.
Right now I’m reading about the American Revolution.
The soldiers had a tough time of it at Valley Forge.
My heart bleeds for them.