Jon began the long trudge back to the front door. Once he was out of hearing range, Mom turned to Matt and said, "How bad is it really?"
"Well, we're certainly isolated," Matt said. "I saw Dad's old pair of cross-country skis in the garage once. The shoes that go with them, too. They'll give us some mobility. Bikes will be useless. Forget driving. I hope you don't mind my saying this, but it's a relief Mrs. Nesbitt is gone."
"I thought the same thing," Mom said. "Do you think the roads will be cleared at any point?"
Matt shook his head. "There aren't enough people left to shovel the roads out, and there isn't enough gas for the snow-plows. Maybe the townspeople will clear the main streets out, but that's going to be it. We're on our own."
"I'm thinking about the hospital," Mom said.
"I've been thinking about that, too," Matt said. "We can't get there. Peter can't get to us. And I don't think the snow is going to melt before April or May. And there's the risk of more snow."
"I like Peter," I said. "But it's not the end of the world if we don't see him for a few weeks. Or even a few months."
"That's not it," Matt said. "What if one of us needs a doctor or the hospital? What happens then?"
"We'll just be careful," Mom said. "So we won't need a doctor. Now come on, let's see how much of this snow we can remove by hand before Jonny discovers all we've been doing is talking."
The snow got inside all our gloves, and our pant legs grew wet, too. We were relieved when Jon returned with the pots and pans. We each took one and used it as a minishovel. The pans speeded the process, but it still took a long time before the garage doors looked like they could be opened.
Then Mom realized the key to the padlock was in the house so we had to wait until Matt went back, got the key, and returned. Even when he did, it wasn't that easy to get the garage doors opened. But we cleared some more and we all pulled together and much to our relief the door finally opened.
There were two shovels right by the door. There was also a 20-pound bag of rock salt, which claimed it would melt ice in below-zero temperatures.
"If it doesn't," Mom said, "we can always demand a refund."
This struck all of us as so funny we couldn't stop laughing until the coughing took over.
"Two shovels," Matt said. "One for me and one for Jon. Let's get started."
"No," Mom said. "I want us all to go to the house first and eat something. And we should take some aspirin."
"We'll be fine," Matt said. "You don't have to worry."
"Worrying is what I do," Mom said. "Occupational hazard of motherhood. Now everybody back to the house for food and aspirin."
"What's the aspirin for?" I whispered to Matt as we made our way to the front door.
"Our hearts," Matt said. "I guess Mom thinks we have the hearts of sixty-year-olds."
"I heard that," Mom said. "I just don't want you taking any more chances than you have to. Besides, you'll be aching all over by the time you're finished. You might as well start on the aspirin now."
Mom was certainly right about the aching all over. Just shoveling the snow out with a pot made my shoulders and upper back hurt. And I loved the idea of lunch (which turned out to be soup and spinach—I guess Popeye did his share of snow shoveling).
Once we'd eaten, Matt and Jonny went to work, first clearing out the sunroom door, then creating walkways from the house to the garage and from the front door to the road. Then they got the ladder and cleared off all the snow from the sunroom roof. It took them a long time, but they seemed to enjoy it.
"While they're shoveling, let's do some laundry," Mom said to me. "I'll boil down the snow and you do the washing."
"Women's work," I muttered, but the truth is much as I don't care for washing Jon's underwear, I sure don't want him washing mine.
If I thought my back hurt from the shoveling, it was nothing compared to how I felt after doing all the laundry. On the one hand it was exciting actually having water to wash clothes with. We had done a little with Mrs. Nesbitt's water, but we haven't since then and that was about a month ago.
But laundry is hard, hard work. For starters, snow melts down into not very much water, so Mom was constantly having to refill the pot on the woodstove. And of course the water was gray toned, which makes it harder to believe that the clothes are actually clean. Then I'd overcompensate with laundry detergent, and it would take forever to rinse it out. The water was really hot from the woodstove and the kitchen really cold, since it has no heat, and my poor body didn't know what to feel. My hands and face got steamy hot and my feet and legs stayed ice cold. Then once each sink load was washed and rinsed, I had to squeeze all the clothes dry, which took even more energy than the washing and rinsing. All this for clothes that are permanently dingy.
Mom strung up a clothesline in the sunroom because if we hang wet clothes in any of the other rooms they'll freeze. So now the sunroom has the smell of wet laundry to go along with everything else. At least the clothesline is nowhere near the mattresses. I don't want clothes dripping on my face while I'm sleeping.
Matt and Jonny did the roof clearing and while they were at it, they cleared the snow off the skylights, so whatever light is out there we now get.
I'm too tired to be scared. I wonder how I'll feel in the morning.
December 5
Mom told us to get back to our schoolwork.
"Snow day," Jonny said.
Mom didn't argue.
I almost wish she had.
December 7
We've been cooped up in the sunroom for almost a week now. I thought it was bad before, but this is ridiculous. At least before Matt and Jonny could go out and chop wood all day long. Now they're stuck inside, too.
Sometimes one of us invents an errand to take us away from the others. I'm still in charge of bedpans and chamber pots so I have to walk about 50 feet from the house for that lovely job. Jon cleans out Horton's litter so he has to go outside at least once a day (besides, he and Matt use the outdoors as a bathroom, poor guys). Matt brings in snow for our water needs. Only Mom never leaves the house.
But we'll all suddenly remember something we have to get from our bedrooms or the pantry, and no matter how cold the rest of the house is, it feels like heaven just to get by yourself for a few minutes.
Tomorrow is Friday so Matt went out with the cross-country skis to see if he could make it into town. Much to Mom's great relief, he came back and said he couldn't. He never really liked cross-country skiing and the snow is very light and powdery and he doesn't have the skill and probably not the strength to manage 4 miles.
On the one hand I'm kind of glad to know there's something Matt refuses to try. On the other hand, much as I love him, it might have been nice not having him around for a few hours.
If it's only December, what are we going to be like by February?
December 10
Jon was making himself a can of green peas for lunch when all of a sudden he turned to us and said, "How come none of you eat lunch?"
It's funny. We haven't in ages, but Jon was always outside with Matt and I guess he figured Matt ate a big breakfast or something. He didn't know what Mom or I were doing. But now that we're breathing the same air constantly, Jon finally noticed.
"Not hungry," Matt said. "When I'm hungry, I eat."
"Same here," I said with a big false smile on my face.
"We all eat when we need to," Mom said. "Don't let what we do stop you, Jonny."
"No," Jon said. "If you're all just eating one meal a day, then that's what I should do, too."
We all said, "No!" Jonny looked absolutely horrified and ran out of the room.
I remember a few months ago how angry I was that we weren't eating as much as Jonny, how unfair that seemed. But now I feel like Mom was right. It is a possibility only one of us is going to make it. We have fuel and we have water, but who knows how long our food will last. Mom's so thin it's scary and Matt certainly isn't as strong as he used to be and I kno
w I'm not. I'm not saying Jon is, but I can see how he might have the best chance of making it through the winter or spring or whatever.
Probably if only one of us really is going to survive, Matt would be the best choice, since he's old enough to take care of himself. But Matt would never let that happen.
I don't want to live two weeks longer or three or four if it means none of us survive. So I guess if it comes to it, I'll stop eating altogether to make sure Jon has food.
Matt started to go upstairs to talk to Jon, but Mom said no, she'd do it. Her limp was pretty bad, and I worried about her getting up the stairs, but she insisted on going.
"This is awful," I said to Matt, just in case he hadn't noticed.
"It could be worse," he said. "We may look back on this as the good time."
And he's right. I still remember when Mom sprained her ankle the first time and we played poker and really enjoyed ourselves. If you'd told me three months before then that I'd have called that a good time, I would have laughed out loud.
I eat every single day. Two months from now, maybe even one month from now, I might eat only every other day.
We're all alive. We're all healthy.
These are the good times.
December 11
I went outside to do chamber pot duty and Jon followed me out with kitty litter brigade. I was turning to go back in when he grabbed hold of my arm.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
I knew it had to be important. If Jon talks to anybody it's Matt.
"Okay," I said, even though it was 12 degrees below zero and I really wanted to get back in.
"Mom said I should keep eating lunch," he said. "She said she needs to know one of us is going to stay strong, in case the rest of us need him."
"Yeah," I said. "She's told me that, too. And you're the one we need to stay strong."
"Is that okay?" he asked. "Don't you mind?"
I shrugged.
"I don't know if I can be the strong one," Jon said. "Matt practically had to drag me into Mrs. Nesbitt's."
"But you went," I said. "You did what you had to. That's what we've all been doing. We do what we have to. You're a lot more mature than you used to be, Jon. I have so much respect for you, the way you handled your birthday. And I'll tell you something else. When we went for Matt, I fell and my oil lamp went out, and all I could think was, Jon will get me. Jon's stronger than I am and it'll be okay. So to some extent it's already happening."
"But what if you die?" he cried. "What if you all die?"
I wanted to tell him that was never going to happen, that we'd be fine, that the sun was going to be shining tomorrow and the roads would be plowed and the supermarkets would be open, full of fresh fruits and vegetables and meat.
"If we all die, you'll leave," I said. "Because you'll be strong enough to. And maybe someplace in America or Mexico or somewhere things are better and you'll manage to get there. And then Mom's life and Matt's and mine won't have been a waste. Or maybe the moon's going to crash into the earth and we'll all die anyway. I don't know, Jonny. Nobody knows. Just eat your damn lunch and don't feel guilty."
I'm sure the queen of pep talks. Jon turned around and went in. I stayed outside awhile longer and kicked the snow for lack of a better target.
December 13
"I think we've been doing this meal thing backward," Matt said this morning. For one gleeful moment I thought he meant he and Mom and I should be eating two meals a day and Jon only one, but of course that wasn't it.
"None of us eats breakfast," he said. "We're hungry all day. We eat supper and stay up a little while and then we go to sleep. The only time we're not hungry is when we're sleeping. What good does that do us?"
"So should we have our big meal at breakfast?" Mom asked, which was pretty funny since our big meal is our only meal.
"Breakfast or lunch," Matt said. "Maybe brunch like Miranda used to do. I think I'd rather be hungry at night than all day long."
"What about me?" Jon asked.
"You'd eat something at suppertime," Matt said.
I had to admit it made sense. Especially if Jon ate his second meal when we'd already eaten. There've been a couple of days when I've wanted to take his pot of whatever he was eating and pour it over his head. I'd probably feel less jealous if I wasn't as hungry.
"Let's try it," Mom said. "I liked supper because that was the time of day we were together. But now we're together all day long, so that doesn't matter anymore. Let's try eating at eleven and see if we like it."
So we did. And now it's 4 in the afternoon (or so Matt tells me) and I don't feel particularly hungry. And doing the laundry is easier too since I'm not hungry.
Life just improved.
December 16
"Are you still keeping your journal?" Jon asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I just don't have an actual journal anymore. I use notebooks. But that's what I'm writing. Why?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just wondered why. I mean who are you writing things for?"
"Well, not for you," I said, remembering how Mrs. Nesbitt had burned all her letters before she died. "So don't get any ideas."
Jon shook his head. "I don't want to read about any of this stuff," he said. "Do you reread it?"
"No," I said. "I just write it and forget about it."
"Okay," he said. "Well, don't worry that I'll read it. I got enough problems."
"We all do," I said.
It's funny how sorry I feel for Jon these days. I'm 2½ years older than him and I feel like I got those extra 2½ years to go to school and swim and have friends and he got cheated out of them. And maybe he'll live 2½ years longer than me, or 20 years, or 50, but he'll still never have those 2½ years of normal life.
Every day when I go to sleep I think what a jerk I was to have felt sorry for myself the day before. My Wednesdays are worse than my Tuesdays, my Tuesdays way worse than my Tuesday of a week before. Which means every tomorrow is going to be worse than every today. Why feel sorry for myself today when tomorrow's bound to be worse?
It's a hell of a philosophy, but it's all I've got.
December 19
Lisa's baby was due about now. I've decided she had it and it was a girl. I've named her Rachel.
Somehow that makes me feel better. Of course I have no idea if she's had the baby and if she has, whether it's a boy or a girl or if it's a girl what her name is. Technically speaking, I don't know if Lisa is still alive, or if Dad is, but I really prefer to think they are. I've decided they made it to Colorado, and Dad got Grandma out of Las Vegas and they're all living together: Lisa and Lisa's folks and Dad and Grandma and baby Rachel. When the weather improves, somehow he'll come back for us and we'll all move to Colorado and I'll get to be baby Rachel's godmother, just like I was supposed to be.
Sometimes Colorado becomes like Springfield used to be for me, this fabulous place with food and clean clothes and water and air. I even imagine that I'll run into Dan there. After I've cleaned up, naturally, and eaten enough so that I don't look like a walking corpse. Also my hair has grown out. I look great and I bump into him and we get married.
Sometimes I speed things up and Rachel's our flower girl.
I bet Mom and Matt and Jon all have fantasies of their own, but I don't want to know what they are. They're not in mine, after all, so I'm probably not in theirs. We spend enough time together. We don't need to hang out in each other's fantasies.
I hope Dad and Lisa are okay. I wonder if I'll ever meet Rachel.
December 21
Mom put her foot down (her good one) and we're back to doing schoolwork. At least it gives us something to do besides laundry and playing poker.
Right now I'm reading about the American Revolution.
The soldiers had a tough time of it at Valley Forge.
My heart bleeds for them.
WINTER
EIGHTEEN
December 24
Christmas Eve. And the most wonderful thing happe
ned.
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.