Christmas Eve. And the most wonderful thing happened.
The day was just like any other. We’ll have a big meal tomorrow. (And of course, though Mom and Matt and Jonny don’t know it, they’re all getting presents. I am so excited at the thought of giving them things.) No laundry, though. We draped the clothesline with tinsel and hung ornaments on it. Matt called it a horizontal Christmas tree.
Okay. That means today wasn’t just like any other.
We sat around this evening and started talking about Christmases past. At first you could see Mom didn’t know if that was a good idea. But she didn’t stop us and we all had stories to tell and we were laughing and feeling great.
And then in the distance, we could hear singing. Actual caroling.
We put on our coats and gloves and boots and went outside. Sure enough, there were a handful of people singing carols down the road.
We immediately joined them. Thanks to the path Matt and Jon had shoveled we didn’t have too much trouble getting to road level. (There were some icy patches and I wasn’t crazy about Mom coming along, but there was no stopping her.)
The road itself is still covered with 3 feet of snow. Nobody’s been traveling on it, so we created our own paths.
It was thrilling to be outside, to be singing, to be with people again.
I recognized the Mortensens from about half a mile down. The other people I didn’t know at all. But our road is funny. Even in good times we didn’t socialize with most of our neighbors. Mom says when she was growing up she did, but so many of the old families have moved out and new people have moved in and neighborliness has changed. Now being a good neighbor means minding your own business.
As we trudged and sang (loud and off-key), another family joined us. We ended up with 20 people acting the way people used to. Or at least the way they used to in the movies. I don’t think we’ve ever had carolers before.
Finally it got too cold even for the most dedicated among us. We finished with “Silent Night.” Mom cried and she wasn’t alone.
We hugged each other and said we should see more of each other, but I doubt that we will. We don’t want anyone else to know how much food we have or firewood. And they don’t want us to know, either.
Still it was a wonderful Christmas Eve. And tomorrow is going to be even better.
Absolutely the best Christmas ever.
We woke up in great moods and we talked all morning about how much fun it had been to go caroling the night before. We don’t even like the Mortensens, but seeing them last night, knowing they were still around and healthy was incredibly reassuring.
“We made a joyful noise,” Mom said. “It’s good to remember what joy feels like.”
And lunch. What a feast. First we had beef broth with oyster crackers. Our main course was linguini with red clam sauce and string beans on the side. Mom even pulled out the bottle of wine Peter had brought ages ago, so we had wine with our dinner.
For dessert, Mom served the lime Jell-O I’d gotten at the free-food handout last summer. I don’t know when she made it, but somehow she’d slipped it past us, and it was an incredible surprise.
So much food. So much laughing. It was great.
Then we all kind of hemmed and hawed and harrumphed and excused ourselves. I went up to my bedroom to get every body’s presents, and much to my surprise, Mom and Matt and Jon also went upstairs to their rooms.
When we met back in the sunroom, we were all carrying presents. Only Mom’s were wrapped with real gift wrap, I’d used magazine pages for my presents and Matt and Jon used grocery bag brown paper.
But we were all surprised. So many presents.
It turned out there were two presents for each of us and one for Horton.
Horton opened his first. It was a brand-new catnip mouse.
“I got it at the pet supply store,” Jon said. “I didn’t tell anybody because I figured I was just supposed to be buying food and litter. And then I figured at least Horton should get a present for Christmas so I held on to it.”
It was actually a present for all of us. Horton immediately fell in love with the mouse and licked it and jumped on it and acted like a kitten. I thought about how scared I’d been when he’d run away. But he knew what family was, too, and he came back and we were all together, the way we were meant to be.
Mom told us to open our presents from her next. “They’re nothing special,” she said. “Peter got them for me from the hospital gift shop before it closed.”
“That makes them more special,” I said and I meant it. “I wish Peter could be here with us.”
Mom nodded. “Well, open them already,” she said. “Just don’t count on their being anything fancy.”
My fingers trembled when I carefully removed the gift wrap. It was a brand-new diary, a really pretty one with a pink cover and a tiny little lock and key.
“Oh, Mom,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
Jon’s present was a handheld battery-run baseball game.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “Batteries are included.”
Jon’s grin was so bright he could have lit up the whole room. “This is great, Mom,” he said. “Something for me to do.”
Matt’s present was a shaving kit. “I figured you were due some new razor blades,” Mom said.
“Thanks, Mom,” Matt said. “I’ve been feeling a little scraggly.”
I insisted Mom open my present next. She unwrapped it, and when she saw it was a box of actual chocolates, her jaw dropped.
“They’re probably a little stale,” I said.
“Who cares!” Mom cried. “They’re chocolates. Oh, Miranda! Of course we’ll share. I can’t eat the whole box by myself.” She stopped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it came out!”
I burst out laughing. Jon kept asking what the joke was but that only made me (and Mom) laugh louder.
So I told Jonny to open his present from me next. He ripped into the paper and then flung the top off the shoe box. “I don’t believe this!” he shouted. “Matt, look at these cards. Look at them. There are hundreds. And they’re old. They’re from the ’50s and ’60s. Look, Mickey Mantle. And Yogi. And Willie Mays. I’ve never seen a collection like this before.”
“I’m glad you like them,” I said, relieved he didn’t ask where they came from. “Matt, you go next.”
Matt opened my present to him. “What?” he said at first. “I mean, this is really nice, Miranda, but I don’t think I understand.”
“Oh,” I said. “I know the pictures are all colored. But the pencils were in great shape and I thought you could draw on the back of the pictures. You used to draw really well and I thought maybe you’d like to do it again.”
His face lit up. “That’s a great idea,” he said. “You keep your journal and I’ll draw pictures of all of us. Thanks, Miranda. I’m going to love these pencils.”
If I’d known he was going to draw us, I’d have looked for gray pencils. But he seemed excited and that made me happy. “Open our present next,” Jonny said so I cheerfully did. It was a watch.
“How did you know I needed one?” I asked. “You keep asking what the time is,” Matt said. “It wasn’t too hard to guess.”
I almost asked where the watch came from, but then I really looked at it and saw it had been Mrs. Nesbitt’s. It was an old-fashioned watch, the kind you have to wind every day. Her husband had given it to her and I knew how much she cherished it.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s a beautiful gift. I love it. And now I’ll stop pestering you.”
“I guess this present is the last one,” Mom said. “But honestly this whole day has been such a gift. I don’t need any more presents.”
“Open it,” Matt said, and we all laughed.
“All right,” Mom said. She took off the grocery bag paper and fell silent. “Oh, Matt,” she said. “Jonny. Wherever did you find this?”
“What is it?” I asked.
Mom showed me what she was holding. It was an old black-and-white photograph of a young couple holding a baby. It was even in a frame.
“Are those your parents?” I asked.
Mom nodded and I could tell it was all she could do to keep from crying.
“And that’s Mom in the picture,” Jon said. “She’s the baby.”
“Oh, Mom, let me see,” I said, and she handed it over to me. “It’s beautiful.”
“Where did you find it?” Mom asked.
“In a box at Mrs. Nesbitt’s,” Matt said. “I saw it was old photographs and I brought it back here. She labeled all the pictures on the back. It was Jon’s idea to go back and find a picture frame it would fit in. I didn’t remember ever seeing the picture before, so I thought maybe you didn’t have it.”
“I didn’t,” Mom said, taking it back from me. “It’s summertime and we’re on the back porch. How funny. We’re in the exact same place, only now it’s been enclosed. I must be about six months old. I guess we were visiting my grandparents. Mr. Nesbitt probably took the picture. I think I can make out his shadow.”
“Do you like it?” Jon asked. “It isn’t like it cost anything.”
“I love it,” Mom said. “I have so few memories of my parents and so little to remember them by. This picture—well, it takes me back to a different time. I will cherish it always. Thank you.”
“I think I’ll start sketching,” Matt said. “I’ll do some preliminary sketches before using my pencils.” He grabbed some of the paper bag, pulled out the black pencil, and began drawing.
Then Mom did something that made me even happier. She opened up her box of chocolate and read the diagram very carefully. Then she took the top off the box and placed 12 of the chocolates in it and passed it over to us. “You can all share this,” she said. “The rest is mine.”
I loved that I was going to get to eat some chocolate but that Mom respected the fact it was my gift to her and not to all of us.
The Christmas after Mom and Dad split up, they both went crazy buying us presents. Matt, Jonny, and I were showered with gifts at home and at Dad’s apartment. I thought that was great. I was all in favor of my love being paid for with presents.
This year all I got was a diary and a secondhand watch.
Okay, I know this is corny, but this really is what Christmas is all about.
No Christmas vacation for us. I’m back at history, Jon at algebra, Matt at philosophy, and Mom at French. We share what we learn, so I’m getting a refresher course in algebra and keeping up with my extremely minimal French skills. And we get into some really heated discussions about philosophy and history.
Also Mom decided that while Texas Hold ’Em has its good points, it isn’t enough. She dragged out our Scrabble and chess sets, and now we play them, too. We play Scrabble together (so far Mom’s on a winning streak), and anytime two of us are in the mood, we play chess.
Mom got it in her head that even though none of us can sing, we should do a Sound of Music thing and sing together. If Julie Andrews ever heard us, she’d probably jump into the first available volcano. But we don’t care. We bellow show tunes and Beatles songs and Christmas carols at the top of our lungs and call it harmony.
Mom’s threatening to make us darling little matching outfits out of the drapes.
Winning all those Scrabble games is definitely going to her head.
Tomorrow I’m going to start using my new diary. It has a three-year calendar in it, so I’ll know what the date is. For some reason that makes me very happy.
Matt has been sketching every chance he gets. He even goes outside and sketches our desolate winter landscape.
When he was outside this afternoon, I decided the time had come to decorate the sunroom. Jon and I put nails in the plywood windows and hung up the paintings that Mrs. Nesbitt had left to him and Matt.
Then I asked Mom where Matt’s sketch of me skating was. It took her a while even to remember it and then a while longer to figure out where it must be (back of the shelf in her closet). I put on my coat and gloves and went upstairs and found it. I also took a photograph of us kids, one of those Sears studio things that Mom had hanging in her bedroom, and brought it down as well.
The sunroom always used to be my favorite room in the house, even more than my bedroom. But lately with the plywood, and four mattresses on the floor, and a clothesline that almost always has wet clothes hanging from it, and the smell of cooked canned food, and most of the furniture pushed out into the kitchen, and everything else in the room shoved to one side or another—well, it’s not going to win any decorating awards.
When Matt came in and saw we’d hung all the pictures up, he burst out laughing. Then he saw the picture he’d drawn and looked it over carefully.
“That’s really bad,” he said.
“It is not!” Mom and I both said, and cracked up.
We outvoted him so it’s staying up. Now I look at it and I don’t see some idealized version of me. I see a skater, any skater, at a moment of perfect beauty.
I see the past the way I like to think it was.
“I wonder if they’re dropping the ball at Times Square tonight,” Jon said. “It’s already New Year’s in a lot of places on earth.”
I wondered, and I think we all did, if this would be our last New Year’s.
Do people ever realize how precious life is? I know I never did before. There was always time. There was always a future.
Maybe because I don’t know anymore if there is a future, I’m grateful for the good things that have happened to me this year.
I never knew I could love as deeply as I do. I never knew I could be so willing to sacrifice things for other people. I never knew how wonderful a taste of pineapple juice could be, or the warmth of a woodstove, or the sound of Horton purring, or the feel of clean clothes against freshly scrubbed skin.
It wouldn’t be New Year’s without a resolution. I’ve re solved to take a moment every day for the rest of my life to appreciate what I have.
Happy New Year, world!
Matt informed us that he had made a New Year’s resolution.
“You know something,” Mom said. “This is the first year I didn’t. I’m always resolving to lose weight and spend more time with you kids, and this year I actually lived up to those resolutions. I am now officially retired.”
“That’s fine, Mom,” Matt said. “But I’ve resolved to master cross-country skiing. Jon and Miranda should learn with me. We can take turns with the skis. It’ll get us outside and give us some exercise. How about it?”
Standing around in below-zero weather with the wind howling and falling into snowbanks didn’t sound like all that much fun. But Matt gave me one of those looks and I realized this wasn’t about fun and games. It was about being able to escape from here if one of us needed to.
“Great idea,” I said. “And while we’re talking great ideas, I have one of my own.”
“Yes?” Matt drawled, skepticism practically oozing out of him.
“I think I should do Mom’s and my laundry, and you and Jon should do your own,” I said.
“No!” Jonny yelped. I guess he has some idea of what hard work doing the laundry is. “Mom?” he whined.
“It makes sense to me,” Mom said.
“Then Miranda should do the dishes,” Jon said.
“Okay,” I said. “If we take turns with the dishes. I’m not going to do them all the time.”
“Fair’s fair,” Matt said. “We rotate the dishes, and Jon and I do our own laundry. At least until we can start chopping wood again. Now let’s go skiing.”
I put on four extra pairs of socks so Dad’s boots would stay on my feet and out we went. We ski about as well as we sing, and I spent entirely too much time in snowdrifts on the road. But it got Jon out of his whiny mood, and by the time we finished we could all manage a little.
“We’ll do some more tomorrow,” Matt said. “It’s good for us and it’s good for Mom to have some quiet time.”
“Do you think I could ski to the pond?” I asked. “I’d love to do some more skating.”
“I don’t see why not,” Matt said.
It felt great to expand my world again. The idea of not being stuck in the sunroom cheered me up almost as much as seeing the sun would have.
New Year. New hopes.
That’s the way it should be.
We’re definitely getting better with the skiing. Since it’s one pair for the three of us, we don’t travel great distances. Mostly we ski back and forth, but each time we increase our distance if only by a few feet.
I can’t wait until I’m good enough at it to go back to the pond. I know Matt has us working at it in case there’s an emergency and we need to get help, but I’ve set my goal as getting to the pond for some skating.
Even Jon’s gotten into it. Matt pointed out to him that cross-country skiing is good aerobic exercise and he should think of it as wind sprints, which he’ll need to do when the baseball season starts.
In a funny way the same thing is true for Matt. He was a miler back in college, and the skiing is helping him stay in shape. I’m not sure the air quality is so great for us, but at least our hearts are getting a workout.
We ski after lunch. It would be too hard in the morning on empty stomachs. There’s a part of me that wonders if it’s a good idea for us to be burning off calories, but I guess if I starve to death at least I’ll have good muscle tone.
And it gets us out of the sunroom.
Something very weird happened this afternoon.
We’d done our skiing and were sitting around the sunroom doing schoolwork when we heard someone knocking at the front door. Smoke comes out of our chimney all the time so there’s obviously people living here. But no one ever comes by.
“Maybe it’s Peter,” Mom said.
Matt helped her up off her mattress. We all went to the front door to see who it was.
Jon recognized him first. “It’s Mr. Mortensen,” he said.
“I need help,” Mr. Mortensen said. He looked so desperate, it was frightening. “My wife. She’s sick. I don’t know what it is. Do you have anything, any medicine? Please. Anything.”
“No, we don’t,” Mom said.
Mr. Mortensen grabbed her hand. “Please,” he said. “I’m begging you. I’m not asking for food or wood. Just medicine. You must have something. Please. She’s burning with fever. I don’t know what to do.”
“Jonny, get the aspirin,” Mom said. “That’s all we have. I’m sorry. We’ll give you some aspirin. That should lower her fever.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“How long has she been sick?” Mom asked.
“Just since this morning,” he said. “Last night she was fine. But she’s delirious. I don’t like leaving her alone, but I don’t know what else to do.”
Jon came back and handed over some aspirin to Mr. Mortensen. I thought he was going to cry, and I felt relieved when he left. We went back into the sunroom.
“Mom,” Jon said. “Is Mrs. Mortensen going to be all right?”
“I hope so,” Mom said. “Remember, Peter told us there’d be illness. But she could just have a cold. None of us is at full strength. It could be one of those twenty-four-hour things.”
“Maybe he just wanted some aspirin for a headache,” Matt said. “Mrs. Mortensen could be out right now building a snow fort and he just used her as an excuse.”
Mom smiled. “That’s probably wishful thinking,” she said. “But I’m sure she’ll be all right. Now it seems to me we’re all behind on our schoolwork. Miranda, tell me what you’ve been learning in history.”
So I did. And as the day went along I thought less and less about Mrs. Mortensen.
But now she’s all I can think about.
I know this is silly but when we woke up this morning I was relieved that we were still alive and well.
When Matt suggested we do our daily skiing, I leaped up. I skied farther than I have before. I made it practically to the Mortensen house, but when I realized where I was, I turned around and set a record for how fast I made it back to Matt and Jon.
When we got home, I was relieved to see Mom perfectly okay. Matt and Jon and I didn’t say anything about it, but we’d all worked harder on our skiing than we had before.
And Mom didn’t say anything about how we’d stayed out too long.
It snowed last night. Our skylights are covered again and the sunroom is back to total darkness.
Matt says it wasn’t snowing when he and Jon went out last night for their bathroom break. I guess it must have started right after that because by this morning there were already 4 or 5 inches of fresh (well, gray fresh) snow on the ground.
It was still snowing after lunch and Mom said we should stay in. Instead of skiing, we did our going-to-the front-door-and-looking-to-see-what-it-looks-like-outside routine.
The snow stopped sometime this evening, so it was nothing like the blizzard last month. Matt figures we got 8 to 10 inches, not enough to bother cleaning the roof.
“The heat from the woodstove will melt the snow off the skylights,” he said. “We should expect snow in January. Fresh snow means more water and that’ll come in handy later on.”
All of which sounds perfectly fine, but the more snow on the ground, the harder it is to get out of here. I’m not that good at cross-country skiing, especially since Dad’s boots are way too big for my feet.
There’s nothing I can do about it so there’s no point complaining. But I miss the extra light in the sunroom.
Skiing was a lot harder on the extra 8 inches of snow. We all fell over and over. Of course Jonny and Matt were extra tired from having to shovel the walkways and a path to the road. I did their laundry for them.
We’re all on edge. I guess it’s the snow. There were flurries again today, maybe an inch more.
I know it didn’t snow for almost a month and Matt’s right. It snows in January. But if it snows 8 inches every couple of weeks in January and February and it doesn’t melt for months, then how much snow are we going to end up with?
We still have tons of firewood, but what if they can’t cut any more?
What if our food supply runs out?
I know I’m doing this to myself. We’ve made it through so far. There’s no reason to think we won’t survive some more snow. But I have that scared feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It’s dumb. I know it’s dumb. But I wish Peter would walk through the door, or Dad and Lisa and baby Rachel. I wish Dan was here. I wish I had a postcard from Sammi making fun of me for being stuck in boring Pennsylvania.
I wish the snow was off the skylights.
I wish it was still Christmas.
They’re sick.
It started with Mom. She tried to get off her mattress this morning and couldn’t. “Something’s the matter,” she said. “Don’t let anyone come near me.”
Matt and I went over to the side of the room and whispered so Mom wouldn’t hear us. “We can’t move her out,” he said. “She’d freeze in the kitchen. We’ll just have to take our chances.”
But then Jonny screamed. It was the most horrifying sound I’ve ever heard. We ran over to him and saw he was delirious, crazed with fever.
“Aspirin,” I said, and I ran to the pantry to get the bottle. Matt put a pot of water on the stove to make tea.
Mom was close to unconscious when the tea was ready, but we lifted her head up and forced the tea and aspirin down her throat. I was afraid she would choke on it, but after we saw her swallow, we put her head back down. She was shivering terribly, so I took one of the blankets off my mattress and draped it around her.
Jon was harder. His arms were swinging around so wildly that he hit me in the jaw and knocked me over. Matt got behind him and held his arms down while I pushed the aspirin into his mouth and poured the tea down his throat. Then I ran to the bathroom and got the rubbing alcohol. Matt turned him over and pinned him down while I gave him a back rub. He was burning with fever and kept tossing off his blankets.
“We need help,” I said. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”
Matt nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. “You stay here and look after them.” But as he got up he began to sway. For one awful moment I thought he was going to grab onto the woodstove to keep from falling, but he came to his senses and sank onto Jon’s mattress instead.
“I can do it,” he said and he crawled from Jon’s mattress to his own. “Don’t worry.”
I didn’t know if he meant he could make it to his own mattress or to get help, but it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere. I handed him a couple of aspirin and poured another mug of tea.
“I need you to stay here,” I said when he gestured that he could get up. “Mom and Jon are helpless. You have to make sure the fire doesn’t go out and Jon stays covered. Can you do that? I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”
“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Go. Peter will know what to do.”
I kissed his forehead. He was hot, but nowhere near as bad as Mom or Jon. I put a couple of pieces of wood in the stove, and put on my coat, boots, scarf, and gloves. The skis were in the front hallway, so I got them, then closed the front door behind me.
The weather wasn’t bad, but I’d forgotten to put on the extra socks I need for Dad’s boots to fit, and I fell a dozen times as I made my way to the hospital. I fell into snow on top of snow, so I never bruised myself, but of course I got soaking wet.
It didn’t matter. Each time I fell I got back up and started again. No one else was going to rescue us. It was all up to me.
I don’t know how long it took me to reach the hospital. I remember thinking I should have eaten something before I’d left, so it was probably close to noon when I got there. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting help.
Unlike the last time I’d gone there, the outside of the hospital was completely deserted. No guards to prevent me from entering. I had a moment of pure terror that I’d find no one inside, but I pushed the front door open and could hear sounds in the distance.
The lobby was empty so I followed the voices. I’d never heard a hospital so quiet before. There weren’t any lights on, and I wondered if their generator had finally stopped working.
If the hospital wasn’t functional, what chance did any of us have?
Eventually I found the source of the noise. It was two women—nurses, I assumed—sitting in an empty room. I charged in there, relieved to see them, terrified of what they were going to say.
“I need Dr. Elliott,” I said. “Peter Elliott. Where is he?”
“Elliott,” one of the women said, and she scratched the back of her neck. “He died on Saturday, didn’t he, Maggie?”
“No, I think it was Friday,” Maggie replied. “Remember, Friday we lost ten people and we thought that was the worst of it. Then Saturday we lost seventeen. But I think he was on Friday.”
“I’m pretty sure it was Saturday,” the first woman said. “Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s dead. Just about everyone is.”
It took me a moment to realize they were saying Peter was dead. Peter who had done all he could to protect us and care for us had died.
“Peter Elliott,” I said. “Dr. Elliott. That Peter Elliott.”
“Dead just like everyone else,” Maggie said, and she kind of laughed. “I guess we’ll be next.”
“Nah,” the first woman said. “If we’re not dead yet, nothing’s going to kill us.”
“Flu,” Maggie said. “Past couple of weeks. It’s flying through town. People kept coming here, like we could do something, and all the staff came down with it, except for Linda here and me and a couple of others. We’d go home except we’re scared of what we’d find and besides we’d just make our families sick. Funny, isn’t it? We’ve survived so much and it’s the flu that’s going to kill us all off.”
“My family has it,” I said. “Don’t you have any kind of medicine? There must be something.”
Linda shook her head. “It’s the flu, hon,” she said. “It just runs its course. Only thing is no one has any strength left to fight it off.”
“It’s a bad strain,” Maggie said. “Like in 1918. The kind that would kill you anyway.”
“But my family,” I said. “What should I do for them?”
“Make them comfortable,” Maggie said. “And don’t bring them here when they die. We’re not taking any more bodies.”
“I gave them aspirin,” I said. “And an alcohol rub. Was that the right thing to do?”
“Honey, listen to us,” Maggie said. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe your family’s stronger. Aspirin won’t hurt. Alcohol rubs won’t hurt. Pray if it’ll make you feel better. But whatever’s going to happen is going to happen. And it’ll happen fast.”
“You can try fluids,” Linda said. “If you have any food, try to make them eat. They’ll need all the strength they can get.”
Maggie shook her head. “Save the food for yourself, hon,” she said. “You look healthy enough. Maybe you’re like us and you’re resistant to this strain. Your folks would want you to live. Take care of yourself. Your family’s going to live or die no matter what you do.”
“No!” I said. “No. I don’t believe you. There has to be something.”
“There were how many people here last week?” Maggie asked. “A hundred, maybe more. We lost half of them the first day. Go home and be with your folks. Give them whatever comfort you can.”
“Sorry,” Linda said. “I know it’s a tough break. Sorry to tell you about Dr. Elliott. He was a nice man. He worked until the end, then he just collapsed and died. We’ve lost a lot of staff that way, working until their last breath. But maybe your family will make it through. Some people do.”
There was no point staying. I thanked them and started the journey home.
The wind had picked up and was blowing against me for much of the walk. I stumbled as much as I skied, and it was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears. Peter was dead. For all I knew Mom and Jon were, also. Matt might die, too.
I remembered how Jon had asked me what he would do if he were the only one of us to survive and how flippant I’d been. And now I was facing the same thing.
Yesterday everything was fine. By tonight I could be completely alone.
I told myself over and over again that I wouldn’t let that happen. We were strong. We ate, we had heat, and shelter. We’d been lucky so far. We’d stay lucky. We’d stay alive.
The sky was darkening when I finally made it home, but it looked like a snow sky, and I was sure it was still daytime. It took all the courage I had to open the door. But when I got to the sunroom I saw things were pretty much as I’d left them. Mom was so quiet I had to kneel by her side to make sure she was still breathing, but she was. Jonny was delirious, but he was covered and not flailing around so much. Matt was lying on his mattress, but his eyes were open, and he turned around when he saw I’d come in.
“Peter,” he said.
I shook my head. “We’re on our own,” I said. “It’s just the flu. We’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” he said, and closed his eyes. For the most horrible moment of my life, I thought he’d died, that he had stayed alive until I got back and then felt he could die. But he’d just fallen asleep. His breathing was shallow, but he was definitely alive.
I put some wood in the stove and collapsed onto my mattress. That’s where I am now. I don’t even know why I’m writing this down, except that I feel fine and maybe tomorrow I’ll be dead. And if that happens, and someone should find my journal, I want them to know what happened.
We are a family. We love each other. We’ve been scared together and brave together. If this is how it ends, so be it.
Only, please, don’t let me be the last one to die.
We’ve made it through the night.
Mom and Jonny don’t seem any better. It was harder getting the aspirin down Mom’s throat. She coughed a lot and threw the pills back up, so I dissolved them in tea.
Jonny alternates between delirium and stupor. I don’t know which is scarier.
Matt is the least sick of the three, and I really think he’ll survive. He sleeps most of the day, but when he’s awake he’s Matt.
I gave all of them aspirin and cold remedies every 4 hours and sponge bathed them and gave them alcohol rubs. It’s hard keeping the blankets on Jonny.
I heated beef broth and spoon-fed all of them. I had to hold up Mom’s and Jonny’s heads when I did. Matt was able to stay awake long enough to take a few swallows on his own.
That’s got to be a good sign.
When I went out this morning to clean the bedpan, I discovered it was snowing again. It probably started right after I got in yesterday. It was obviously dying down by this morning, but we probably got another 6 inches. Not that it matters.
I don’t have a fever. I’m tired from staying up and it’s hard to remember to eat, but I’m definitely not sick. Maybe I’m crazy, but I keep thinking if Mom and Jonny and Matt have made it this long, they’re not going to die. Linda and Maggie made it sound like everyone at the hospital died the day they got sick.
Mom’s moaning. I think I’d better check on her.
No change.
Matt’s a little weaker. Jon’s a little quieter. It’s getting harder for Mom to swallow.
There was an ice storm last night. The tree branches are all covered in gray-tinged ice.
Horton woke me up. He was yowling. I didn’t even realize I was asleep. I remember putting logs in the woodstove and lying down for a few minutes, and I must have fallen asleep.
Horton was yowling and I was coughing. Gut-wrenching coughing.
Then I realized the room was filled with smoke and we were all coughing.
I thought, The house can’t be on fire because that would just be too funny. I managed to turn my flashlight on, like I needed it to see if the house was on fire, but I didn’t see any flames.
I moved the flashlight around and saw the smoke was pouring out of the woodstove. It had backfired and was filling the room with smoke.
Smoke inhalation can kill you.
My first thought was to get the hell out of there, run outside, and breathe some real air. But everyone else was coughing, which meant they were all still alive and I had to get them out of there.
Mom and Jonny were far too weak to get up on their own. I didn’t dare take them outside. The kitchen floor was going to have to do.
I took my blankets and grabbed one off of Matt’s bed, waking him up in the process. I was half blind from the smoke, but I managed to get the blankets onto the kitchen floor. It took every ounce of courage I had to go back into the sunroom, but I did. Thank goodness Matt had enough strength left to help me pull Jonny first and then Mom into the kitchen. I told Matt to stay there, and I ran back in and got everyone’s pillows and blankets. Matt helped get them in place. He was gasping so badly I was afraid he’d have a heart attack, but he waved me off.
Next I went to the thermostat to turn on the furnace, but I didn’t hear anything go on. I remembered that Dad and Matt had jerry-rigged a battery cell to the furnace, and I would have to go to the cellar to turn it on. I went back to the kitchen where Mom, Matt, and Jonny were all still racked with coughing, and I opened the cellar door. At least the air was clear down there, but the temperature was probably close to zero and I regretted not having put my shoes on. I held on to the flashlight, and with it I raced to the furnace, took a moment to figure out what to do, and pulled the right switch. The furnace turned on almost immediately. We still had oil. I went back upstairs as fast as I could and put the thermostat at 65 degrees.
Horton had followed everyone into the kitchen so I didn’t have to worry about him. I went to the bathroom and found the cough medicine with codeine that we’d taken from Mrs. Nesbitt’s medicine cabinet. I gave Matt his first and his cough subsided enough that he was able to help me give the medicine to Jonny and Mom. I was afraid to take it myself in case the codeine put me to sleep. Instead I grabbed a washcloth and threw it into a water pot. Once it was thoroughly wet, I covered my mouth with it and went back into the sunroom.
Panic overwhelmed me. The room was filled with smoke and breathing was close to impossible. I couldn’t think what to do next. We were all going to die and it would be all my fault. I got really mad then and that pushed me into action. The first thing I did was open the back door to air the room out. There was one piece of good luck: The wind was blowing in the right direction.
I stayed outside long enough to get some air back into my lungs. Good thing I’ve been sleeping with my coat on, but even so I couldn’t manage more than a minute since I didn’t have any shoes on. Still that was enough air to get me back into the sunroom.
I tried opening the skylights but there was too much snow on top of them. I cursed myself for not having gotten on the ladder to clear them off when the snow had started, but it was too late now. I pulled the plywood off one of the windows opposite the door and opened the window. The crosswind worked and I started to see the smoke lessening.
I knew what I had to do next and that was get rid of the piece of wood that had caused the backfire. I went to the door, took a few deep breaths, then came back in and opened the woodstove.
The smoke was overwhelming. I raced back outside and grabbed a handful of snow to rub against my burning eyes. I swallowed some of the snow. Mom’ll kill me, I thought, drinking unboiled snow.
The thought made me laugh, and that got me coughing again. I laughed and cried and coughed and choked. But in spite of it all, I was damned if I was going to die and I was double damned if I was going to leave Matt and Jon and Mom like that. So I went back into the sunroom. The smoke was still incredibly thick and I thought I’d cough my lungs up. I crawled over to the stove and put on the mitts. I reached in and pulled out the smoking log.
Even through the mitt, I could tell the log was wet. Hot and wet and steaming and smoking. I juggled it between the mitts, crawled to the door, and threw it out.
The log shouldn’t have been wet. We hadn’t had that problem with any of the wood Matt and Jonny have cut up until now. I realized the stove had to be wet. Snow or ice must have fallen through the chimney and made the entire stove damp. I had to make sure the stove was dry or else the same thing would happen again. And that meant I had to get another fire going just to dry out the stove, and that meant more smoke. My whole body began to shake. It was stupid, but I kept thinking how unfair it was. Why did I have to be the one? Why couldn’t I be sick and Matt take care of me? Or Jon? He’s the one who gets to eat. Why did he have to get sick? He should be healthy. He should be the one choking to death and I should be in the nice warm kitchen, all drugged with codeine.
Well, it was useless to dream. I looked around the sunroom to see what I could burn. A log wouldn’t do. It would just get wet and start the whole business over again. I needed to burn lots and lots of paper.
My first thought was the textbooks, but I knew Mom would kill me. If we all got well and she found we couldn’t keep studying, she would kill me. But I felt like if I had to go through all this, I should be rewarded by burning a textbook.
I left the sunroom and made my way through the kitchen. Everyone was still coughing, but not the way they had been. Matt looked feverish, but he waved me away when I tried to hover.
“I’m okay,” he whispered.
I didn’t have much choice but to believe him. I went upstairs and got a couple of the textbooks I’d taken home my one day at school. While I was up there, I changed into dry clothes and put on shoes. Just doing that helped.
I went back to the kitchen and freshened the washcloth. Then I crawled back into the sunroom. The smoke had lessened but once I reopened the woodstove, it poured out again.
I tore page after page from the textbook. With a shaking hand I lit a match and threw the burning paper into the stove. The smoke grew stronger and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to bear it. But I shoved as many pieces of paper as I could in there, and when I was sure the fire would last at least a minute, I let myself go to the back door and gulp in some air. Then I went back, tore more sheets out, and burned them.
I don’t know how long I burned paper, but I know I killed one and a half textbooks. If the school wants them back, they can just sue me.
Finally the stove stopped smoking. I tore some more textbook then piled on some of my kindling. When the fire was going good and strong, I put a couple of logs in and everything was fine.
I took a pot and filled it with snow and put it on the top of the stove to get some moisture back in the room. I waited about half an hour and then I closed the window. I waited another half hour after that, watching the fire and making sure it was burning clean before I closed the door.
I wanted more than anything to curl up on the kitchen floor and go to sleep. But I didn’t dare leave the woodstove untended. So I stayed awake and only left the sunroom to go into the kitchen a couple of times to check on Mom and Matt and ]onny.
The window I took the plywood off of has an eastern exposure. I can see the sky lightening, so I guess it’s dawn. It really isn’t January 13 anymore.
I’m going to leave everyone in the kitchen for the time being. I’ll give them their aspirin and let them go back to sleep. It’s taken hours for the house to get from below freezing to 65 degrees and they might as well enjoy it. Besides, the sunroom still stinks of smoke, and I really should open the window and the door and air things out. We’ll be sleeping on smoky mattresses for weeks to come.
Because if this didn’t kill us, nothing will. It’s January 14 and I can see the dawn and we’re all going to survive.
We’re all still alive.
I’m scared to leave everyone in the kitchen and I’m scared to move them back. What scares me most is I don’t think Matt has the strength to help me get them into the sunroom.
I’m just going to hope we have enough heating oil to make it through the night.
I stink of smoke and it hurts to breathe.
After I gave Mom her morning aspirin, I bent over her and kissed her forehead. It was just like Sleeping Beauty. Mom opened her eyes, stared straight at me, and said, “Not until you finish your homework.”
I burst out laughing.
“Don’t laugh at me, young lady,” Mom said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, trying with all my strength not to.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll make supper now.” She struggled to get up.
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense,” she said, but she fell back asleep. Her breathing was steady and I could tell her fever had broken.
She woke up a few hours later and seemed puzzled to be in the kitchen. “Is everyone all right?” she asked.
“We’re fine,” I told her.
She looked over and saw Jon and Matt sleeping on the floor. “What are we doing here?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
“There was a problem with the woodstove,” I said. “So I turned the furnace on and you’ve been sleeping in here.”
“You look terrible,” she said. “Are you eating properly?”
“No,” I said.
Mom nodded. “Well, none of us are,” she said, and went back to sleep.
When she woke up this evening she was just about normal.
She managed to sit up, and she asked how each of us was doing. I gave her the rundown.
“How long have we been sick?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve lost track. A few days.”
“And you took care of us all that time?” she asked. “By yourself?”
“Matt helped,” I said. I wanted to collapse by her side and weep and have her hold me and comfort me.
None of which, of course, could I do. “The real problem was the woodstove, but that’s okay now. Maybe tomorrow you’ll move back to the sunroom.”
“When did you eat last?” she asked.
“I haven’t been hungry,” I said. “I’m okay.”
“You need to eat,” she said. “We can’t have you getting sick. Get yourself a can of mixed vegetables and eat all of it.”
“Mom,” I said.
“That’s an order,” she said.
So I did. And when I finished the can of vegetables I realized I was famished. I went back to the pantry and made myself a can of carrots and ate all of that. I probably haven’t eaten in a couple of days, so I guess I’m entitled.
Then I realized Mom was well enough to eat, so I heated up a can of soup and gave her some. Matt woke up and he ate along with her.
“I’m worried about Jonny,” Mom said when she finished her soup. “Do you think you should get Peter and have him check him out?”
“I’ve already been to the hospital,” I said. “I went the first day you all got sick. It’s the flu and the only thing we can do is wait it out.”
“I’d still feel better if Peter could see him,” Mom said. “I know you’ve been doing everything you can, but Peter’s a doctor.”
“It’s too late for me to go anyplace today,” I said. “Let’s see how Jonny is tomorrow, okay? Now go back to sleep.”
Thank goodness, Mom did. With everything that’s happened, I haven’t even thought how to tell her Peter died.
Jonny woke me this morning. I was sleeping in the doorway, head in the sunroom, feet in the kitchen.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
He was weak but he was Jonny.
“I’ll get you some soup,” I said. I got up, went to the pantry, pulled out a can of soup, and heated it on the woodstove.
He was able to sit up and eat most of it. While he was eating, Mom and Matt both woke up. I heated more soup for them and soon they were all sitting up, eating, and even talking.
“Shouldn’t we move back to the sunroom?” Mom asked.
“Later,” I said. “Let me change the sheets on your mattresses first.”
I went upstairs and got fresh sheets. I would have liked to flip all the mattresses over, but I didn’t have the strength, so I told myself it wouldn’t matter.
Once I got the clean sheets on the mattresses, I helped everyone get up. First Matt, then Mom, and finally Jonny. They all collapsed onto their mattresses. The walk from the kitchen to the sunroom took a lot out of them.
But after they’d napped, they woke up and I could see the difference in all of them. I heated up some vegetables and they all ate.
I gave everyone sponge baths, and then I took all their dirty sheets and pillowcases and spent the afternoon washing them.
Since the house was still warm, I hung them all up in the kitchen and the living room. When the laundry felt damp, I turned the heat off. I probably shouldn’t have kept it on as long as I did, but it was so luxurious doing the wash in a warm kitchen. Mom didn’t ask about Peter.
Everybody was crabby and demanding. Get me this. Bring me that. I’m hot. I’m cold. It’s too bright. It’s too dark. Why did you do that? Why didn’t you do that?
I swear I hate them all.
I can see how much better everyone is. I’m worried most about Matt. He was never as sick as Mom or Jonny, but he’s still very weak.
I worry that when he helped me pull Mom and Jonny out of the sunroom he might have strained his heart.
Mom and Jonny both walked a few steps today.
I’m feeding everybody three meals a day. It’s probably suicidal, but it’s just so wonderful to see them eat.
Mom says tomorrow she’s going to be strong enough to do the cooking.
Jon asked for his baseball cards and he stayed up all afternoon organizing them. Matt asked me to bring him a murder mystery and he spent the day reading it.
This evening Matt told me not to worry about the fire. He’d make sure to keep it going during the night. I should just get a good night’s sleep.
I’m going to take him up on that.
I guess I slept for two straight days. I feel real groggy and hungry.
Mom’s making me a cup of tea. Matt and Jon are playing chess.
Even Horton is sleeping on my mattress.
I think we’re going to be okay.
I climbed onto the roof today and cleared the snow off. It’s been on my list of things to do since that awful night, but I wanted to make sure someone would be strong enough to rescue me if I got into trouble.
Jon’s getting stronger faster than Mom or Matt. By this afternoon, I figured I could take my chances. It was hard work, and I can’t imagine how much harder it must have been after the blizzard when there was so much more snow.
I’m actually doing everybody’s work these days: snow removal and all the laundry, etc. But tomorrow Jon’ll start doing the dishes. He’s eager to do stuff, but we all agree it’s better for him to take things slow and make sure he recovers fully. Mom wasn’t crazy about his being outside all the time I did the roof cleaning, but I worked as fast as I could and Jon doesn’t seem any the worse for it.
I’m more tired than I used to be, but I think that’ll pass. The important thing is I didn’t get sick and we all think if I didn’t then, I’m not going to now. Me and Maggie and Linda. I hope they had as good luck with their families as I did with mine.
I was in the kitchen doing laundry when Mom joined me. “You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “Go back to the sunroom.”
“I will in a minute,” she said. “But this seemed like a good time to talk.”
There was a time when that tone would have meant I was in trouble. Now it just means she wants some private conversation. I smiled at her and kept scrubbing.
“I want you to know how proud I am of you,” she said. “There aren’t words to say how grateful I am. We would have died without you and we all know that. We owe you our lives.”
“You would have done the same for me,” I said, staring at the dirty underwear. I knew if I looked at Mom I’d start crying, and I didn’t want to do that because I worry if I start crying I’ll never stop.
“You’re a very special girl,” Mom said. “No, you’re a very special woman, Miranda. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Is that it? Because if it is, you really should go back to the sunroom.”
“There is one other thing,” she said. “I’m confused about something. Those first few days—well, everything is hazy in my mind. Was Peter here? I think I remember you going to get him, but I don’t remember seeing him. Did you get to see him? Did he know we were sick? I know it’s close to impossible to get from here to the hospital, so I don’t even know if you made it. But did you try? I’m sorry. I’m just trying to put all this together and make sense of it.”
This time I looked away from the laundry. I dried my hands off and turned to face Mom. “I made it to the hospital,” I said. “That first day. Matt was too sick to go, so I went. Basically I was told what I already knew, that you all had the flu and you should be kept warm and given aspirin and made comfortable until you got better. So I came back and did all that.”
“Did you see Peter?” Mom asked.
“No,” I said. “I spoke to two women there, nurses I think.”
1 turned away from her and willed myself to be brave. “Mom, Peter’s dead,” I said. “The nurses told me. The flu decimated everyone at the hospital, patients and staff. You got sick on Tuesday and he’d died the weekend before. I don’t know for sure, but I think a lot of people in town died. Maybe people all over the country. It was that kind of flu. We were incredibly lucky you all pulled through. Well, not completely because of luck. You’ve seen to it we’ve had food and water and shelter and heat. Even Matt making us move into the sunroom when we still had heating oil probably saved your lives because when we needed the oil, we still had some.”
Mom stood there stone-faced.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t wanted to tell you. The nurses said he worked to the end. He was a hero.”
“I wish we didn’t need so damn many heroes,” Mom said, and went back to the sunroom.
Me too.
Matt remains weak, which is really annoying him. Mom keeps telling him that people recuperate at different speeds and he should just not rush things.
But I think he’s never going to be 100% again.
Jon’s regained most of his strength and he’s impatient to be doing things, but Mom’s keeping him on a limited schedule. Except for that one day when I cleared off the roof, he’s stayed in the sunroom. Since he can wash the dishes in the old basin we found in the cellar, he doesn’t even have to leave the sunroom to do that.
Mom isn’t as strong as I’d like her to be, but I know she’s also sad about Peter. After I told her, she had me tell Matt and Jonny, too, so now everybody knows, but of course it’s Mom who feels it the worst.
Now that it’s been a couple of weeks since the fevers broke, I figure I can do some stuff on my own. This afternoon I took the skis and went back to the road to practice.
It was glorious being alone and outside and doing something other than nursing and housework. And since my trek to the hospital, I’ve been thinking how I really should get better on the skis. I don’t know when Matt will be strong enough to go any distance, and one of us needs to be able to get around. That leaves Jon and me, and I have a head start.
This is my time. I’ve earned it.
Mom must be getting better. She asked if I’d forgotten about schoolwork.
“It hasn’t been my highest priority,” I said.
“Well, we need to change that,” she said. “For all of us. Jonny, there’s no reason why you can’t go back to algebra. Matt can help you. And I’m going to forget all my French if I don’t start working on it. We don’t want our brains to rot away.”
“Mom,” I said, “I’m doing all the housework and I’m skiing. What more do you want from me?”
“I don’t want back talk from you, I can tell you that,” she said. “Now open up that history textbook and get to work.”
It’s a good thing I didn’t burn it. Or maybe it’s not such a good thing!
Matt needed something from his bedroom.
It’s hard for Mom to get upstairs since she fell the second time, so I go to her room if she needs something from there. Jon only started going upstairs last weekend. Up till then, I got whatever he needed, and of course I’ve been doing the same for Matt.
“Do you think you’re ready?” Mom asked him.
“Sure,” Matt said. “I wouldn’t do it if I weren’t.”
Mom exchanged glances with me, but when I started to get up to go with him, she shook her head ever so slightly.
Matt made his way out of the sunroom, through the kitchen, down the hallway to the staircase. I don’t think any of us breathed as we heard his lumbering steps on the staircase.
Then the sounds stopped.
“Go,” Mom said to me.
I ran to the staircase. Matt was standing 4 steps up.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “Damn it to hell. I can’t get up the stairs.”
“Then stop trying,” I said. “Just come down and try some other time.”
“What if there isn’t another time?” he said. “What if I’m a useless invalid for the rest of my life?”
“You may be an invalid, but you’ll never be useless,” I said. “Matt, has it occurred to you that the reason you’re so weak is because you pulled Mom and Jonny out of the sunroom that night? That maybe you sacrificed your health to save their lives and that’s something you should be proud of? They wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you. You have no idea how much you give to us every single day. You think I liked nursing all of you? I hated it. But I’d think of how you do things, without complaining. You just do what has to be done, and I tried to be like you. So walk down those stairs and get back to bed and if you stay exactly the way you are now, you’ll still be the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
“It takes one to know one,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “We’re both the bestest people ever. Now tell me what you want upstairs and go to the sunroom before Mom gets hysterical.”
So he did. I watched to make sure he made it down the stairs, then I ran upstairs and got what he needed in the first place.
It’s going to kill us if Matt doesn’t get stronger. But he doesn’t need to know that.
Mom’s birthday.
Christmas, when Mom had shared her candy with us, I ate 2 of the 4 pieces I took, and saved the other 2.
So Mom’s birthday present was 2 pieces of candy. Jon let her beat him in chess. And Matt walked to and from the staircase 3 times. She said it was the best birthday she’d ever had.
Jon’s strong enough to demand time on the skis and I’ve run out of excuses to keep him from using them.
Every morning I go out and ski by myself for an hour or so. It keeps my mind off food, and that’s good, too.
Then after lunch I go out with Jon and watch while he skis. Mom won’t let him be outside alone yet. He doesn’t last more than 15–20 minutes, so it’s really not that bad.
Matt walks to and from the staircase 3 times every morning and 4 times after lunch. I think he’s going to try climbing the stairs next week, just a couple at first, and then build up, however long it takes.
Mom isn’t ready to do laundry, but she’s making our lunches again. Somehow everything tastes better if Mom’s the one who prepares it.
At my insistence (and I love that I actually won an argument) we kept the plywood off the one window. Most of the snow is gone from the skylights, so there’s a little more natural light in the sunroom. I don’t think the air quality is much better, but I can tell the days are getting longer.
There’s a lot of stuff to worry about, but I’ve given myself a holiday. I can always worry next week instead.
I came home from my morning ski and found Mom frying something in the skillet.
It smelled wonderful. We haven’t had any fresh vegetables in so long, and there’s no point frying canned spinach or string beans. We were practically jumping with excitement by the time Mom served lunch. I couldn’t figure out what we were eating. The texture was kind of like an onion, but the taste was a little bitter.
“What is it?” we all asked.
“Tulip bulbs,” Mom said. “I pulled them out of the ground last summer before the ground froze. I’ve been saving them for a nice treat.”
We all stopped chewing. It was almost as though Mom had sauted Gorton.
“Come on,” Mom said. “We won’t be the first people to eat tulip bulbs.”
It was a comforting thought. That and hunger pushed us through lunch.
Valentine’s Day.
I wonder where Dan is.
Wherever he is, he’s probably not thinking of me.
Matt walked up 6 steps.
We all pretended like this was no big deal.
I stayed in this morning. I said it was because the book I was reading was so interesting, but of course that was a lie.
We had lunch and then Jon and I went out while he did his skiing. I thought he’d never get tired, but after a half hour or so he was ready to go back in. I think by next week Mom’ll let him go out on his own.
We went back to the house together. I ran in, got the skates, took the skis and the shoes and the poles from Jon, and said I’d be home in a couple of hours.
And then I did what no other athlete has done before. I won 2 Olympic gold medals in 2 different sports in the same afternoon.
First I won the cross-country ski race. I went from home to Miller’s Pond and won by so much I couldn’t even see my competitors.
But that was just a warm-up. When I got to the pond, I skated my legendary gold medal-winning long program. I could hear the thousands of people in the stands cheering my every move. My crossovers, my Mohawks, my spiral, my spins. My breathtaking single toe loop. My Ina Bauer. The brilliantly choreographed, seemingly spontaneous footwork sequence.
The ice was showered with flowers and teddy bears. The TV commentators said they were honored to be in the arena to see such a performance. I wiped away a tear or two in the kiss and cry. Every one of my competitors came up to me and congratulated me on the skate of the century. I stood proudly on the podium as the American flag went up. I smiled and sang along to “The Star Spangled Banner.”
America’s darling. The greatest athlete in American history. And a shoo-in for 8 gold medals in swimming at the next Summer Olympics.
“Did you have a good time?” Mom asked when I got back from the pond.
“The best,” I told her.
“Jonny, why haven’t you eaten any supper?” Mom asked him this evening.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
That’s the third day in a row he hasn’t been hungry at suppertime.
I guess he went into the pantry when none of us were looking. I guess he knows now what the rest of us
figured out already.
I wonder if he’s noticed that Mom’s hardly eating anything.
We were all asleep when suddenly noises woke us up. Noises and light.
I think we all woke up disoriented. The only noise we ever hear is each other and the wind. And light comes only from the woodstove, candles, oil lamps, and flashlights.
This was a different kind of noise, a different kind of light.
Matt figured it out first. “It’s electricity,” he said. “We have electricity.”
We leaped off our mattresses and ran through the house. The overhead light was on in the kitchen. A longforgotten radio was broadcasting static in the living room. The clock radio was flashing the time in my bedroom.
Mom had the good sense to look at her watch. It was 2:05 AM.
By 2:09 the electricity was off.
But we all can’t help thinking if it came on once, it’ll come on again.
“You know,” Mom said at lunch today. “That little burst of electricity got me thinking.”
“Me too,” I said. “About washing machines and dryers.”
“Computers,” Jon said. “DVD players.”
“Refrigerators,” Matt said. “Electric heaters.”
“Yes, all of that,” Mom said. “But what I was really thinking about was radio.”
“All we got was static,” Matt pointed out.
“But if we have electricity, maybe other places have it, too, and radio stations are broadcasting again,” Mom
said. “And we don’t need electricity to find that out. We should turn on a radio and see if we can get any
stations.”
For a moment I wanted to tell Mom not to try, that the whole world had probably died from the flu and we
were the last ones left on earth. I think that sometimes.
But then I realized someone had to have done something to give us those four glorious minutes of electricity.
The thought of our not being alone was thrilling. I ran into the living room and got the radio.
Mom’s fingers actually trembled as she turned it on and tried to get a station. But all we got was static.
“We’ll try again tonight,” she said. “After sundown.”
And we did. We waited all day for the sky to go from gray to black.
When it finally did, Mom turned the radio on again. At first all we heard was static. But then we heard a man’s voice.
“In Cleveland, Harvey Aaron,” the man said. “Joshua Aaron. Sharon Aaron. Ibin Abraham. Doris Abrams. Michael Abrams. John Ackroyd. Mary Ackroyd. Helen Atchinson. Robert Atchinson…”
“It’s a list of the dead,” Matt said. “He’s reading the names of the dead.”
“But that means people are alive,” Mom said. “Someone has to be reporting who died. Someone has to be listening.”
She played with the dial some more.
“In other news today, the president said the country has turned the corner. Better times are predicted for the weeks to come with life being back to normal by May.”
“The idiot’s still alive!” Mom cried. “And he’s still an idiot!”
We burst out laughing.
We listened to that station for a while, until we figured out it was broadcasting from Washington. Then Mom found a third station, out of Chicago. It was broadcasting news, also. Most of the news was bad, the way it had been last summer. Earthquakes, floods, volcanoes, the litany of natural disasters. There were a few things added to the list, though: Flu epidemics and cholera. Famine. Droughts. Ice storms.
But it was still news. There was life going on.
We aren’t alone.
Matt figured if the radio stations were back on, maybe we had phone service and just didn’t know it. So he picked up the phone, but it was still dead.
The only person who might be trying to reach us is Dad. Other than that, it doesn’t matter.
Electricity again.
This time at 1 in the afternoon, and it lasted for 10 minutes.
Jon was outside skiing so he missed it.
“We’re going to start a laundry next time,” Mom said. “Whatever gets done gets done.”
It’s so glorious to think there could be a next time.
12 minutes of electricity at 9:15 tonight. Mom changed her mind about the laundry. “We’ll give it a try in daytime,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
6 minutes of electricity at 4:45 AM.
Big deal.
I know I should be excited because we’ve had electricity 3 days in a row, but we need food more than we need electricity. A lot more.
Unless electricity can make us some canned vegetables and soup and tuna fish, I don’t know what good it’s going to do us.
I wonder who’ll read our names on the radio after we’ve died of starvation.
No electricity for the past 2 days.
We were better off without any electricity. Why did they have to give us the taste of it just to take it away? Mom listens to the radio for half an hour every evening. I don’t know why. She goes from station to station (we’re up to 6 now) and all they broadcast is bad news.
No, that’s not true. They broadcast bad news and the president saying things are looking up. I don’t know which is worse.
It scares me a little that Mom is willing to burn up batteries just to listen to the radio. I think it’s her way of accepting that there’s no point in the batteries outliving us.
Matt had been up to 10 stairs and I was sure by the end of this week he’d be climbing the whole staircase. But today he only did 6 stairs. I know because I tiptoed behind him and peeked through the living room door. Mom knew that’s what I was doing and she didn’t tell me not to. Jon was outside, but even he’s down to 20 minutes skiing.
I don’t think Matt knows I was spying on him. I got back to the sunroom before he did and I was real quiet. Mom hardly spoke all afternoon. Matt got back on his mattress and slept for 2 hours. Not even Jon walking back in woke him.
Sometimes I think about everything I went through when they were all sick and it makes me so angry. How dare they die now?
It snowed all day. At least we could watch it through the window in the sunroom.
I don’t think we got more than 4 or 5 inches, and Matt pointed out it was good to have fresh snow for drinking water.
Mom’s told me not to bother washing the sheets for a while. I guess I should be glad, since the sheets are my least favorite things to wash (they’re just so big). She says it’s because if we get electricity back for good, it’ll be so much easier to wash the sheets that way, but I think it’s because she’s worried I burn up too much energy washing things that bulky.
I finally figured I should know the worst and I checked out the pantry.
I wish I hadn’t.
Jon was outside and Matt was sleeping this afternoon. Mom gestured to me and we went into the living room.
“I hate to ask this of you,” she said. “But do you think you could skip lunch a couple of times a week?”
Mom’s been eating every other day for a couple of weeks now. So she was asking less of me than what she’s doing herself.
“Okay,” I said. What was I supposed to say?
“I want Matt and Jonny to still eat every day,” she said. “Can you live with that?”
I burst out laughing.
Even Mom grinned. “Bad choice of words,” she said. “I apologize.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I even kissed her to prove I meant it.
I think Mom figures Jon still has the best chance of surviving. And I think she can’t bear the idea of seeing Matt die.
Neither can I. Better Mom should go first, then me, then Matt. Matt will see to it Jon makes it through.
This is so stupid. I started looking at this diary and all its empty pages. I was so excited when Mom gave it to me at Christmas. I even worried I’d finish it up by April and have to go back to the blue books.
So many empty pages.
Electricity again. This time for 16 minutes around 3 this afternoon.
I don’t know what that means.
Mom fainted this afternoon. I don’t think she’s eaten in 3 days.
I made some soup and forced her to eat it. I’m not ready for her to die yet.
I did another inventory of the pantry. There’s so little in there, it didn’t take much time for me to check. There’s maybe 2 weeks worth of food if only Jon and Matt eat. With Mom and me eating occasionally, we’ll run out of food in 10 days. If after we die Matt stops eating, then Jon gets another few days, which could give him enough time and strength to get out of here. Matt can tell him who to go to so he can barter any leftover firewood for food.
I wonder what Jon will do with Horton.
The four of us shared a can of tomato soup for lunch. Then Mom insisted Matt and Jon share the last can of mixed vegetables.
It might be easier for Mom and me if we stopped eating altogether. We only had a couple of sips of soup anyway, just enough to remind me what food tastes like.
My birthday’s next week. If I’m still alive, I hope Mom will be, too.
Nearly an hour of electricity this morning.
I stupidly looked at myself in a mirror when the lights were on.
For a moment, I actually didn’t recognize myself. Then I remembered what I look like.
Not that it matters. Who cares what a corpse looks like.
I dreamed last night that I went into a pizza parlor. Sitting there were Dad, Lisa, and a little girl who I knew right away was Rachel.
I slid into the booth. The smells—tomato sauce, garlic, cheeses—were overwhelming.
“Is this Heaven?” I asked.
“No,” Dad said. “It’s a pizza parlor.”
I think the dream gave me an idea. But it’s hard to tell what’s an idea and what’s nonsense when you can’t even tell the difference between Heaven and a pizza parlor.
By the time I fell asleep last night, I knew what I was going to have to do today. The only question was would I have the strength.
But when I woke up, I saw Mom struggle to get off her mattress, as though she needed to be up and around to do things for us. And that made up my mind for me.
After Matt and Jon rose and we all pretended like today was just another day, no harder than any we’ve been through, I made my announcement.
“I’m going into town,” I said.
They stared at me like I was truly crazy. They were probably right.
“I’m going to the post office,” I said. “I want to see if there’s any word from Dad.”
“What difference does it make?” Jon asked. “You think he sent us food?”
“I want to know if Lisa had her baby,” I said. “I need to know that. I need to know that life is continuing. I’m going to town and find out.”
“Miranda, can we talk?” Matt asked. I nodded, since I knew someone was going to question me about this and it might as well be him. We left the others in the sunroom and went to the living room to talk privately.
“Do you really think you have the strength to make to town and back?” he asked.
I wanted to say, No, of course I don’t and we both know it and that’s one reason why I’m going. I wanted to say, Stop me, because if I’m going to die, I want to die at home. I wanted to say, How could you have let this happen to me? as though it was Matt’s fault and he could have saved us somehow. None of which I said.
“I know it’s crazy,” I said instead. “But I really need to know if Lisa had the baby. I feel like it’s okay for me to die if she did. And maybe the post office is open and maybe there is a letter. How much longer can I last anyway? A week? Two? I’m willing to lose a few days for peace of mind. You understand that, don’t you?”
“But if you can, you will come back,” he said after a long pause.
“I hope I can,” I said. “I’d rather be here. But if I can’t, that’s okay, too.”
“What about Mom?” he asked.
“I’ve thought about that,” I said. “I think this is actually better for her. If I don’t come back, she can always have hope that I’m okay. I don’t want her to see me die and I don’t know that I can outlive her. This is really best, Matt. I thought about it a lot, and this is the best.”
Matt looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But what about the skis? Jon’s going to need them after we’re gone.”
Well, that was it, wasn’t it? I was leaving home to give Jonny just a little better chance. We were starving ourselves to give
Jonny just a little better chance. If I really wanted him to have that chance, then I’d better accept that this casual stroll to town was meant to kill me. In which case, I didn’t need the skis.
“I’ll leave them behind,” I said. “Tell Jon they’ll be behind the oak tree and he should get them right after I leave. But don’t tell Mom unless she asks. Let her think I’m coming back, okay?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Matt said.
“I know,” I said, and kissed him good-bye. “And I love you and Jonny and Mom more than I ever knew. Now let me go in and say good-bye while I still have the nerve.”
So I did. Mom was so weak I don’t think she really understood what was going on. She just told me to get back before dark, and I said I would.
Jon looked like he had a thousand questions but Matt wouldn’t let him start. I kissed him and Mom and told them to leave a light on for me, like that had any meaning. I rammed a pen and one of the blue books into my coat pocket. Then I went to the front door, picked up Dad’s shoes, skis and poles, and walked to the road. When I got to the oak tree, I carefully placed everything where no one from the road could see them. Then I started the walk to town.
I wanted desperately to turn around, see the house, say good-bye, but I didn’t let myself. I was scared that if I allowed myself that moment of weakness, I would race back in, and what good would that do any of us? Did I really need to be alive on my birthday? Did I even want to be, if Mom died between now and then?
So I kept my eyes straight ahead and began the journey. For the first mile footing wasn’t too bad, since Jon and I had skied there and compacted the snow. Sure I fell a few times, where the snow was icelike, but I managed. I told myself the rest of the trip wouldn’t be too bad, and there was hope I could get to town, maybe even find a letter from Dad, and get home again.
I liked telling myself that.
But the next 2 miles were brutal. I don’t think anyone had walked on it since Christmas. I found I couldn’t walk after a while, so I sat on the snow and pushed myself forward, half rowing, half sledding. It took all my strength to go a few feet, and the harder I worked, the more I yearned to give up and let myself die then and there.
But I pictured the pizza parlor and Dad telling me they weren’t in Heaven. If there was a letter, I wanted to know. Death could wait a few more hours.
I felt a lot better when I got to a spot where I could walk upright again. I was soaking wet by that point, and freezing cold, but being on my own two feet gave me a sense of dignity and purpose. It made me feel human again and that gave me some strength back.
One of the scariest things was seeing how very few houses had smoke coming out of their chimneys. It wasn’t like I could go to any of them and say, Rescue me, feed me, feed my family, because all they’d do was throw me out. We would have done the same if anyone came to our door.
But to see so many houses with no signs of life. Some people I knew had simply left while that was still possible. But others must have died from the flu or the cold or the hunger.
We were all still alive, Mom and Matt and Jonny and me. And I’d left a record. People would know I had lived. That counted for a lot.
The closer I got to town, the easier it was to walk. But the closer I got to town, the fewer signs of life I saw. It made sense. The people there lived closer together, so they shoveled their snow at least in the beginning. But they were also less likely to have woodstoves and more likely to have frozen to death. The closer they lived, the faster the flu would have spread. Our isolation had saved us, given us weeks, maybe even months more life.
By the time I got near enough to see the post office, I was starting to feel like I could make it back home. I knew that was madness, that the road was uphill and I had no strength left for that part where I wouldn’t be able to walk. It’s one thing to push yourself downhill, but pushing yourself uphill would be impossible. My heart would give out and I’d die a couple of miles from home.
But I didn’t care. I’d made it to town and that was all I planned for. I’d go to the post office and find word from Dad that he and Lisa and baby Rachel were alive and well. Then it wouldn’t matter where I died or how. Jonny would live and so would Rachel and that was what counted.
It was eerie standing on the main street of town, seeing no one, hearing no one, smelling nothing but the stench of death. I saw the carcasses of dogs and cats, pets people had left behind that couldn’t survive in the cold without food. I bent down and clawed at one to see if there was any meat left, but what little clung to the skeleton was too frozen to pry off. I threw it back down onto the snow-covered street, and felt relieved I didn’t see any human bodies.
Then I got to the post office and saw it was dead, too.
I felt such despair. It was probable the post office had never reopened since that last day Matt had worked there. Any fantasy I’d had that the reason I’d left the sunroom was to find a letter from Dad floated out of me.
I’d gone to town to die. There was no point going home, forcing the others to watch that happen. I sank onto the ground. What was the point? Why should I even try to get back to the house? The kindest thing I could do would be to stay where I was and let the coldness kill me. Mrs. Nesbitt had known how to die. Couldn’t I learn that from her?
But then I saw a glimpse of yellow. My world has been nothing but shades of gray for so long that the yellow almost hurt my eyes.
But something was yellow. I remembered yellow as the color of sun. I’d seen the sun last July. It hurt to look straight at it, and it hurt to look at this new burst of yellow.
It wasn’t the sun. I laughed at myself for thinking it might be. It was a sheet of paper dancing in the crosswinds down the street.
But it was yellow. I had to have it.
I forced myself to stand up and chase the sheet of paper. It taunted me with its dance, but I outwitted it and with all my remaining strength, put my foot over it and pinned it to the sidewalk. I bent down and felt the world swirling around me as I picked it up and stood straight. Just holding it made me excited. There were words. This was a message. Someone sometime had said something and now I would know what it was.
CITY HALL OPEN FRIDAYS 2-4 PM
There was no date, no way of knowing when it had been posted or why. But the words told me where to go. I had nothing to lose. Any dreams I might have had died with the post office. If City Hall were closed, also, it made no difference.
So I began the walk to City Hall. It was only a couple of blocks away from the post office. I looked at my watch and saw I had half an hour before it would close, assuming it was even open.
But when I got there, the door was unlocked and I could hear voices.
“Hello?” I said, proud of myself that I remembered the word.
“Come on in,” a man said. He opened an office door and waved me in.
“Hi,” I said, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m Miranda Evans. I live on Howell Bridge Road.”
“Sure,” he said. “Come in. I’m Mayor Ford and this is Tom Danworth. Pleased to meet you.”
“You too,” I said, trying to believe that this wasn’t a dream.
“Come here to sign up for your food?” Mayor Ford asked.
“Food?” I said. “I can get food?” It had to be a dream.
“See?” Mr. Danworth said. “That’s why we’re not getting many takers. Nobody knows.”
“Lot of death up Howell Bridge way,” Mayor Ford said. “No reason to go out there. How many in your family, Miranda?”
“Four,” I said. “My mom and brothers had the flu but they all lived. Can I get food for them, too?”
“We’ll need a witness they’re still alive,” the mayor said. “But everyone’s entitled to one bag of food a week. That’s what we’ve been told and that’s what we’re doing.”
“Program’s been going on for four weeks now,” Mr. Danworth said. “So this young lady is entitled to at least four bags.”
If it was a dream, I didn’t want to wake up.
“Tell you what,” the mayor said. “Wait until four when we officially close and Tom here will take you home on the snowmobile. You and your four bags, that is. And he’ll check out your story and if what you say is true, then next Monday we’ll send someone out to your home with food for the rest of your folk. Monday’s delivery day. How does that sound?”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Real food?”
The mayor laughed. “Well, not gourmet,” he said. “Not like we used to get at McDonald’s. But canned goods and some boxed stuff. Nobody’s been complaining.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just walked over to him and hugged him.
“Skin and bones,” he said to Mr. Danworth. “Guess she got here Just in time.”
We waited around for the next 15 minutes but no one showed up. Finally the mayor told Mr. Danworth to get the 4 bags from the storage room and take them to the snowmobile.
I longed to go through the bags, see what kind of wonders were inside them, but I knew that would only slow things down. Besides, what did it matter? It was food. 4 bags of food. For a whole week, we wouldn’t be hungry.
What had taken me 3 hours was a 20-minute trip in the snowmobile. It felt like flying watching the houses whiz by.
Mr. Danworth drove the snowmobile right to the sun-room door. The noise had obviously startled everybody, because they were all standing by the door when I knocked.
“Well, I guess you were telling the truth,” Mr. Danworth said. “I definitely see three people here and they all look mighty hungry.”
“I’ll help you bring in the bags,” I said. It was incredibly important to me to do that, to be the one bringing in the food that was going to save us.
“Fair enough,” he said. “But let me help.”
He ended up carrying in 3 bags to my one, but it didn’t matter. Then he gave Mom a piece of paper to sign saying there were 4 of us in need of food.
“We’ll be back on Monday,” he said. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get all twelve bags you’re entitled to, but we should manage seven, three for this week and four for next. After that you can count on four bags a week, at least until you hear otherwise.”
Mom was sobbing. Matt managed to shake Mr. Danworth’s hand and thank him. Jon was too busy poring through the bags and holding things up for all of us to see.
“You take care,” Mr. Danworth said. “The worst is over. You made it this far, you’ll make it all the way.”
“Can we have supper tonight?” Jon asked after Mr. Danworth left. “Please, Mom. Just this once?”
Mom wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and smiled. “Tonight we eat,” she said. “And tomorrow and Sunday we’ll eat.”
We had sardines and mushrooms and rice for supper. For dessert (dessert!) we had dried fruit.
The electricity came on for the second time today while we were eating.
This may be a fool’s paradise, but it’s paradise nonetheless.
The electricity came on while we were feasting on chickpeas, lentils, and carrots.
“Come on,” Mom said. “Let’s try a laundry.”
And we did. It was kind of a challenge because we don’t have running water, so we had to pour water into the machine for the wash and rinse cycles. But even so it was still much easier than doing it by hand. We washed all our sheets and the electricity stayed on for most of the clothes-dryer time.
We celebrated by washing our hair. We took turns shampooing everyone else. Mom’s insisted we sponge bathe daily, but shampoos are a real treat.
Then tonight the electricity came back on. Only for 10 minutes or so, but we didn’t care. We made supper in the microwave.
Supper in the microwave. The most beautiful words I’ve ever written.
We still have three bags of food in the pantry, but I can tell Mom’s nervous about tomorrow. It’s like the electricity. It comes and goes but you can’t count on it.
Still, even if the food’s that way, we can make sure Jon’s strong and well fed and that will give Mom peace.
My birthday.
I’m 17 and I’m alive and we have food.
Mr. Danworth himself showed up this morning with 10 bags of food.
“We know you’re owed more, but this’ll have to do,” he said. “See you next Monday with your regular four bags.”
There was so much and it was all so wonderful. Powdered milk. Cranberry juice. Three cans of tuna fish. Well, I could write it all down, but it doesn’t matter. It was food and it will get us through for weeks and there’ll be more food to come.
Because it was my birthday, Mom let me decide what we were going to have. I found a box of macaroni and cheese. It was as close to pizza as I could get.
There’s still so much we don’t know. We can only hope Dad and Lisa and baby Rachel are alive. Grandma, too. Sammi and Dan and all the other people we knew who left here. The flu was all over the U.S., probably all over the world. We were lucky to survive that; most people weren’t.
The electricity comes and goes, so we don’t know when we’ll be able to depend on it. We have firewood for a while yet, and Matt is getting stronger (he walked up 10 stairs today and only Mom’s insistence kept him from climbing them all). There’s plenty of snow outside, so we’re okay for water. The sky is still gray, though, and even though the temperature’s been above zero for a week now, 20 degrees still feels balmy.
But today isn’t a day to worry about the future. Whatever will happen will happen. Today is a day to celebrate. Tomorrow there will be more daylight than night. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and find my mother and my brothers by my side. All still alive. All still loving me.
A while ago Jonny asked me why I was still keeping a journal, who I was writing it for. I’ve asked myself that a lot, especially in the really bad times.
Sometimes I’ve thought I’m keeping it for people 200 years from now, so they can see what our lives were like.
Sometimes I’ve thought I’m keeping it for that day when people no longer exist but butterflies can read.
But today, when I am 17 and warm and well fed, I’m keeping this journal for myself so I can always remember life as we knew it, life as we know it, for a time when I am no longer in the sunroom.