Life as We Knew It

  Either way, the living room is pretty much unusable now, but we haven't been spending much time in there anyway.

  Once the furniture was moved, Dad and Matt went out to cut down trees.

  Jonny and I carried the logs we already had into the dining room. Mom covered the dining room floor with sheets so it wouldn't get permanently scarred. After we finished bringing the firewood in, Jonny went out to help Dad and Matt. I went into the woods and collected more kindling. I think I crossed onto Mrs. Nesbitt's property, but I know she won't mind if I take some of her kindling. She really ought to move in with us. I don't know how she's going to make it through the winter otherwise.

  I'm so used to skipping brunch that I did without thinking about it, which is pretty funny. The first time in ages when we don't have to worry about food, and I skipped a meal anyway.

  Supper was a disappointment, just tuna fish and canned string beans. Somehow I'd imagined a feast.

  Mom and Lisa actually giggled when they saw my reaction. "We're going to have a real dinner party on Tuesday," Mom said. "Just hold on."

  A real dinner party. I wish we'd saved the dining room until then.

  But even if the food wasn't so exciting, supper tonight was actually fun. It was great having Jonny back, and it was his first chance to tell us about what camp had been like. A lot of the kids hadn't shown, which meant more food for the ones who were there, but fewer guys to play ball with. And the farm work was hard, especially in the beginning, but after the sky had been gray for a while, the animals began feeling the difference and the chickens didn't lay as many eggs and milk production went down.

  Only we didn't want to talk about that, so we switched topics real fast. Dad told jokes, and it was so funny watching Mom and Lisa's eyes roll.

  But I think the best thing that happened today was that Horton finally forgave Jonny for leaving him. Horton's been ignoring Jonny since he got home. He's been sitting on Matt's lap, on my lap, on Mom's lap, once even on Dad's lap. And since Lisa doesn't want to have a thing to do with him, Horton's been flinging himself at her.

  We've all been laughing about it, except maybe Lisa, and maybe Jonny, and maybe me, since I keep remembering how hysterical I was at the thought of having to tell Jonny his precious Horton was gone forever.

  But tonight after supper, we sat around in the sunroom, with our lovely battery light shining, and Mom crocheting while Lisa watched, and Dad, Matt, Jonny, and me playing Monopoly, which was irresistible to Horton, who had to knock pieces around. Once he'd established the floor was his turf and he was allowing us to use it out of his great benevolence, he checked us all out, and then curled up right next to Jonny and demanded to get his head scratched.

  Which Jonny did. Horton purred like a kitten, and for a glorious moment, all felt right with the world.

  August 1

  It turns out Mom's definition of a dinner party is us, Dad and Lisa, Mrs. Nesbitt and Peter. I think it's a little weird for Mom to invite Peter, but then again it's weird having Lisa staying here, so why not.

  Mom asked me to bike over to Mrs. Nesbitt's to let her know, and then to Peter's office to invite him. Jonny's been chopping wood from the trees Dad and Matt have been cutting down, so I was the one most available.

  Mrs. Nesbitt's been huffy about Dad ever since the divorce, but when I invited her, she practically glowed with excitement. "I'm not getting out very much these days," she confided, which struck both of us as so funny, we laughed until we cried.

  I biked into town, inhaling dank ashy air, and went first to Peter's office, only there was a sign on his door saying he'd closed his office and could be found from now on at the hospital.

  It wasn't surprising that Peter's closed his office, but it was another one of those things that make me realize how different the world's become. The past couple of days have been so great, I'd been forgetting what's really going on. Even the gray, which I thought I'd never get used to, is just part of life now.

  Things are different when you know where your next meal is coming from.

  I went to the hospital, which was incredibly busy. I was stopped in the lobby and asked who I wanted to see. I said Peter and it was personal.

  The hospital still has electricity and it was weird seeing a building all lit up. It was like a fairyland, or at least like a theme park. HospitalLand! It made me think of the amusement park dream I had a while ago.

  Of course things were different at the hospital. The gift shop was closed and so was the coffee shop. I guess it's a no-frills hospital, but even so, it seemed magical.

  The security guard (armed, I noticed) paged Peter and finally I was told to go to the third floor east wing. "Elevators are only for the sick, the elderly, and the handicapped," the guard said. I took the hint and used the stairs.

  Peter looked exhausted, but otherwise okay. I told him Dad and Lisa were with us, and that Jonny had gotten home safely, and that we were having a dinner party tomorrow night and Mom wanted him to come.

  If Peter felt weird about it, it sure didn't show. He grinned almost as big as Mrs. Nesbitt and said he'd be delighted. "I haven't left here in almost a week," he said. "I'm due an evening out."

  It's funny. I sort of dread Peter's visits. He always brings us something, even if it's just a can of spinach. But it feels like all he knows how to talk about are illness and death.

  But he looked so happy at the invitation that it made me feel good to know he'd be coming tomorrow for a real meal and a nice night out, even if it was with his kind-of girlfriend, her kids, her ex-husband and his pregnant wife, and, of course, Mrs. Nesbitt.

  As I was walking down the hallway to the staircase, I ran into Dan. I was so startled to see him, I gasped. He looked just as shocked.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked him before he had the chance to ask me the same thing.

  "My mother's here," he said. "West Nile. She's going to be okay. But it's been a rough couple of weeks."

  I felt awful when I thought about how angry I'd been at him.

  Dan took my arm. "There's something I want to tell you," he said. "Where are you going?"

  "Just to the stairs," I said. "I mean, back home."

  "I'll walk you outside," he said, and he removed his arm, which made me sad. Somehow I thought that his arm would slide down to my hand and we'd walk together like we used to. But instead we walked like two different people, each with important stuff on our minds.

  We went outside to the bike rack, where my bike chain was double locked. "Miranda," Dan said, and then he stopped.

  "It's okay," I said. "Just tell me."

  "I'm going to be leaving soon," he said. "Next Monday probably. I would have gone sooner, but I wanted to make sure Mom was going to be okay before I did."

  I thought of Sammi and Dad and Lisa and wondered how many more people would be leaving my life. "Do you know where?" I asked.

  Dan shook his head. "First we thought we'd all be going," he said. "Mom and Dad and me. To California, because that's where my sister lives. Only we saw her name on one of the lists. That's how you find out. Nobody notifies you. You just see the name. Dad took it okay. He didn't go crazy or anything. But Mom was hysterical and she kept not believing it, so I said if I could figure out a way I would go."

  I wanted to tell him how sorry I was. I wanted to kiss him and hold him and comfort him. Instead I just stood there and listened.

  "Dad said that was a mistake and we had to keep on living, and Mom was so beside herself it didn't really matter," he continued. "You don't know what it's like. I'm glad you don't, Miranda. I'm glad this hasn't really touched you yet. I hope it never does. And then it was summer and I couldn't really figure out what I was supposed to be doing. So I swam. And I thought about loving you, but it didn't seem fair to you or me. Because Dad decided I should leave. It was his idea, and he told me first, before he told Mom, because he knew she'd get hysterical. He swapped his car for a motorcycle and he taught me how to ride it.

  "I didn't wa
nt to go. I didn't want to leave my folks, or you. But Dad insisted and I would have gone weeks ago except Mom got sick. Dad and I both worried if I left while she was sick she might not make it. But now she's recovering, and I need to get going while the weather is still okay. Dad says the first frost should be in a couple of weeks."

  "In August?" I said.

  Dan nodded. "Dad says we'll be lucky if we go without a heavy frost before September. Has your family thought about leaving?"

  "My father and stepmother are," I said. "They're staying with us for a few days and then they're going west."

  "Maybe I'll see them on the road," Dan said. "Miranda, I wish things could have been different. I want you to know I liked you a lot before all this. I was getting up my nerve to invite you to the prom."

  I thought about how much that invitation would have meant to me. "I would have said yes," I said. "Maybe we'll still get to go to a prom someday."

  "If I'm here, it's a date," he said. "I'll try to write, but I don't know if letters are going to get through. Miranda, I'll never forget you. No matter what happens, I'll remember you and Miller's Pond. That was the only good thing that's happened."

  We kissed. It's funny how much that kiss meant. I may never kiss another boy again, not the same way I kissed Dan.

  "I have to get back in," Dan said. "Mom'll be wondering."

  "Good luck," I said. "I hope wherever you end up, things are better."

  We kissed again, but it was a quick good-bye kiss. Dan walked back into the hospital while I stood there and watched.

  I know Dan thinks I'm lucky, that I've been "untouched" by everything that's happened. And I know I'm self-pitying to think otherwise. But sometimes I wonder if the big cannonball horror of knowing someone you love has died is all that much worse than the everyday attrition of life.

  Except I know it is. Because Dan lost his sister and I've lost no one, not to death at least, not that I know. And Dan has the same attrition that I have, only his mother's been close to dying, also.

  Honestly, I know how lucky I am.

  But my heart feels like breaking because he didn't ask me to the prom in May. I could always have had that. And now I never will and I don't think I'll ever have anything nearly as wonderful to dream about.

  August 2

  What a feast!

  Mom and Lisa baked bread (using the last of the yeast). Of course we couldn't have a regular mixed salad (It's amazing the things one misses. Who would have thought I'd be nostalgic for iceberg lettuce?), but Mom took a can of string beans and a can of kidney beans and tossed them with olive oil and vinegar and declared it a two-bean salad. Our main course was spaghetti with meat sauce. Sure, the meat came out of a jar but I don't remember the last time I had any kind of beef, except in my dreams. For a vegetable, we had mushrooms.

  Peter brought two bottles of wine, one white and one red, since he didn't know what we'd be having for dinner. Mom let Jonny and me have a glass of wine, because, hey, the world is coming to an end so why not.

  Mrs. Nesbitt made dessert. She baked meringue shells from powdered egg whites and filled them with chocolate pudding.

  We ate in the sunroom. We set up the metal folding table and covered it with a pretty tablecloth and carried in the dining room chairs from the living room. Mom lit candles and we had a fire going in the woodstove.

  Mom used to pride herself on her cooking. She was always trying out recipes. The way the world used to be, Mom would never have served jarred meat sauce or canned mushrooms. But she was so proud and excited by dinner tonight. And we made an equal fuss over Mrs. Nesbitt's dessert.

  Maybe it was the smell of fresh baked bread or maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was something as basic as having enough food, but we all had a great time. I'd wondered what it would be like having Peter and Dad together, but they handled things the way Mom and Lisa do, like they were old friends and having dinner together was the most normal thing in the world.

  We all talked. We all joked. We all enjoyed ourselves.

  After dinner, Matt and I cleared off the table. Nobody wanted the evening to end, so we kept sitting around the table.

  I don't remember what we were talking about, but it couldn't have been anything too serious because we didn't talk seriously all evening long (even Peter kept his dead stuff to himself), when Jonny asked, "Are we all going to die?"

  "Come on," Mom said. "My cooking isn't that bad."

  "No, I mean it," Jonny said. "Are we going to die?"

  Mom and Dad exchanged looks.

  "Not in the immediate future," Matt said. "We have food and fuel. We'll be okay."

  "But what happens when the food runs out?" Jonny asked.

  "Excuse me," Lisa said. "I don't like to discuss this." She got up and left the room.

  Dad looked torn. Finally he got up and went after her.

  So we were back to us, the us I've gotten used to the past couple of months.

  "Jon, you're entitled to an honest answer," Peter said. "But we don't know what's going to happen. Maybe the government will get more food to us. There have to be supplies somewhere. All we can do is go day to day and hope for the best."

  "I won't survive all this, I know," Mrs. Nesbitt said. "But I'm an old woman, Jonny. You're a young boy, and a strong healthy one."

  "But what if things get worse?" I asked. I still don't know why, but maybe it was because Jonny'd just been told he'd live and nobody was bothering to tell me that. "What if the volcanoes aren't the last bad thing to happen? What if the earth survives but humans don't? That could happen, couldn't it? And not a million years from now, either. That could happen now or next year or five years from now. What happens then?"

  "When I was a kid, I was fascinated by dinosaurs," Peter said. "The way kids are. I read everything I could about them, learned all the Latin names, could recognize one just from a skeleton. I couldn't get over how those amazing animals could just disappear. But of course they didn't disappear. They evolved into birds. Life may not continue the way we know it today, but it will continue. Life endures. I'll always believe that."

  "Insects survive everything," Matt said. "They'll survive this, too."

  "Great," I said. "Cockroaches are going to evolve? Mosquitoes are going to be the size of eagles?"

  "Maybe butterflies will grow," Matt said. "Picture butterflies with foot-long wingspans, Miranda. Picture the world blazing with the color of butterflies."

  "My money is on the mosquitoes," Mrs. Nesbitt said, and we were so startled by her cynicism that we burst into laughter. We laughed so loud Horton woke up with a start and leaped off Jonny's lap, which made us laugh even louder.

  Dad came back down then, but Lisa never did.

  August 3

  Dad and Matt worked all day. When Dad came in for supper, he told us he and Lisa would be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.

  I knew I shouldn't be surprised, but it still hurt to hear it.

  Lisa pretty much stuck to bed today. Mom went in there a couple of times to make sure she was okay but it didn't seem to make a difference.

  "She's worried about her parents," Mom said to me. "And of course she's worried about the baby. She wants to be settled in as soon as possible, and the longer they wait, the harder it may be to travel."

  I wonder if Lisa would be in such a hurry to go if Jonny hadn't asked about the world ending.

  Dad made tuna fish sandwiches for himself and Lisa and took hers up to their room. For a long time I thought he might stay there and then leave early tomorrow morning and I wouldn't have a chance to see him again.

  But after an hour or so, he joined us in the sunroom. "How about sitting on the porch with me, Miranda?" he said.

  "Sure," I said, and the two of us walked out together.

  "I haven't had much of a chance to talk with you," Dad said after we sat down on the porch swing. "I've spent a lot of time with Matt and Jonny, but not much with you."

  "That's okay," I said. "Cutting the wood was the import
ant thing."

  "You and your brothers are the important thing," Dad said. "Miranda, I want you to know how proud of you I am."

  "Proud of me?" I asked. "Why?"

  "For a million reasons," Dad said. "For being smart and funny and beautiful. For finding swimming when skating didn't work out. For all the things you're doing to make your mother's life easier. For not complaining when you have so much to complain about. For being a daughter any father would be proud of. I knew asking you to be the baby's godmother was the right thing, and the past few days I've realized just how right it is. I'm so glad I'm your father. I love you so much."

  "I love you, too," I said. "And the baby is going to be all right. Everything will be; I just know it."

  "I know it, too," Dad said, and we hugged. We sat there quietly for a while, because we both knew anything we said would spoil the mood.

  Then Dad got up and went back to Lisa. I sat on the porch a little while longer, and thought about babies and butterflies and what the rest of my life was going to be like. When I thought every thought I possibly could think, I went back inside and listened for a while to the silence.

  August 4

  Dad and Lisa left at 6 this morning.

  We all got up when they did and we had breakfast together. Mom found a jar of strawberry jam and used the last of the bread. We had canned peaches and powdered orange drink mix. Dad and Mom had coffee. Lisa had tea.

  Dad hugged all of us and kissed us all good-bye. It took all my willpower not to cling to him. We all know we may never see each other again.

  Dad promised he'd write every chance he got, and he'd make sure to let us know how Grandma is.

  When they got in the car, Lisa did the driving. I think that's because Dad was crying so hard, he knew he couldn't drive.

  NINE

  August 6

  I woke up this morning thinking, I'll never see Sammi again. I'll never see Dan again.

  I am so scared I'll never see Dad again.