Last Survivors 01 - Life as We Knew It

  She got up and we hugged. She never once asked how I was doing or how Mom and Matt and Jonny were. She came, she told me her news, and she left.

  I know I'll never see her again. I hate her for leaving and I feel sorry for her for leaving the way she is and for a change the ache in my stomach isn't from hunger. Or at least not from hunger alone.

  July 22

  The best day in ages.

  It started with finding Horton at the kitchen door. He was scratching and yowling and demanding to be let in immediately.

  We all heard him. It was just after sunrise, or what passes for sunrise these days, and we raced out of our bedrooms and ran downstairs. Matt got there first, but I was right behind him, and Mom was less than a foot away.

  Matt opened the door, and Horton strolled in like the past week hadn't happened. He rubbed his head against our ankles and then walked over to his food bowl. Fortunately there was still some dry food in it, which he ate in two gulps.

  Mom opened up a can of food for him and poured him some fresh water. We all watched as he ate. Then, just because he's a cat, and cats love to drive people crazy, he used the litter.

  "He couldn't do that outside?" Mom asked, but she was laughing when she said it. We were all laughing. I think Horton was laughing right along with us.

  He curled up on Jonny's bed and slept for the next six hours. When I came back in from my kindling hunt, he was still asleep on the bed. I petted him and scratched his ears and told him how much we loved him. I guess he agreed because I could

  hear him purring.

  Then Mom went to the post office to pick up our mail and there were five letters from Jonny waiting for her. The last one was dated Monday. He's fine, camp is fine, he's eating okay, playing baseball is fun, etc. I don't think any of the letters was more than a paragraph long and they all said pretty much the same thing, but it didn't matter. We heard from Jonny. Mom could stop worrying.

  We celebrated at supper tonight. Mom declared this National Good News Day. She brought Mrs. Nesbitt over and we feasted. Mom warmed up a can of chicken and served it with noodles and mixed vegetables. We even had dessert: canned peaches. Mrs. Nesbitt donated a jar of apple juice.

  It's been getting chillier and chillier and after supper we went into the sunroom and built a fire in the woodstove. Not a big roaring fire, but enough to take the chill off. Mom lit a couple of candles and we had the oil lamp going and the woodstove cast off a glow.

  We spent the evening sipping our apple juice (I think Mom was pretending it was wine) and telling stories. Mrs. Nesbitt told us about what things were like during the Depression and World War Two and what was different now and what was the

  same. Mr. Nesbitt was on a submarine during the war and she told us things he had told her about what life was like there.

  Horton sat on all our laps. He hopped from one lap to another until he finally settled on Matt's. I guess Matt is as close to Jonny as Horton could find.

  I feel so much better about things. After a day like today, I feel like we will make it through, that if we love each other and work hard enough, we'll survive whatever might happen next.

  July 25

  I dreamed that Becky was working in a candy store. I saw her and she told me to come in and take as much candy as I wanted. There were counters filled with different kinds of chocolates, and after the most wonderful, agonizing indecision, I asked for a piece of rocky road fudge. I even ate a bite or two before I woke up, and I swear my mouth tasted of chocolate until I realized it was a dream.

  I couldn't hear anyone moving around, so I stayed in bed and fantasized about chocolate. I thought about chocolate cake and Oreo cookies and chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream and hot-fudge sundaes and hot chocolate. Hershey bars and Nestle Crunch and Peppermint Patties. German chocolate cake (which I don't even like). Black Forest cake. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Chocolate milk. Chocolate shakes. Soft vanilla ice cream cones chocolate dipped.

  Now the closest I get to chocolate is in my dreams.

  July 27

  "Could we have a moment?" Mom asked me, which I figured meant something was happening that I wouldn't like. Mom and I have been getting along great all week and I didn't see how I could have done anything too awful without knowing it. So I guessed it was just more end-of-the-world stuff.

  We went into the sunroom, which probably should be renamed the gray room.

  "There's been a change in plans," Mom said. "I got a letter from your father, and it affects you."

  "Is he okay?" I asked. "Is it Grandma?"

  "Your father is fine," Mom said. "And Lisa is well. He doesn't know how Grandma is; he hasn't heard from her in a while. Miranda, I know you've been looking forward to your month in Springfield, but that's not going to happen this year."

  "Why not?" I asked, trying to sound mature and civilized about it. What I wanted to do was scream and pout and throw a temper tantrum.

  Mom sighed. "You know how things are," she said. "Anyway, Lisa is desperate to see her parents, to be with them when the baby is born. And your father is equally worried about Grandma. So they're planning to close the place in Springfield, pick up Jonny at camp, and visit for a couple of days before they take off. You'll get to see your father, but you won't have an extended visit. Sweetie, I'm really sorry."

  I know she is. I know she loves me and she's worked really hard to make sure Matt and Jonny and I all see Dad and talk to him and feel like he's still our father.

  But I also know that if Jonny and I were in Springfield for August, that would stretch our food supplies out a lot longer, like 60 suppers' worth, not to mention breakfasts and lunches. Sometimes I wonder if when Mom looks at me, she sees me or she sees a can of carrots.

  I know I've been crazy thinking about Springfield as some kind of pre-moon heaven. Conditions there must be about the same as they are here. Dad has some sense of how things are going here, and if there was plenty of everything in Springfield, at the very least he'd tell Matt and Jonny and me to move in with him. Lisa might not like it, but I bet he'd tell Mom to come, also.

  I understand how scared Lisa must be, being pregnant with the world in the condition it's in. I'd want to be near Mom if I were pregnant.

  Of course if I were pregnant Mom would kill me.

  Speaking of not being pregnant. I haven't seen Dan in weeks, not since I stopped going to Miller's Pond. I know it's impossible to call since the phones aren't working anymore and it's tricky to drop in for a visit, but he does know where I live, and I don't see why he's ignoring me. Even Peter shows up occasionally, if only to tell us a dozen new ways people are dying.

  I wonder how far Sammi's gotten and how Dad and Lisa plan to get gas along the way. Maybe things really are better down south or west. Maybe we should be leaving, too. I don't see what good staying here is doing.

  Matt came in this evening from his day of tree chopping and he showed off his biceps. It was sad, really. His biceps were impressive, but he's gotten so thin. It looked like all his muscle tone was in his upper arms. He said that actually his legs got a good workout with all the chopping as well, and except for being hungry, he's never felt stronger in his life.

  I'm glad one of us is feeling strong, because it sure isn't me.

  Maybe Dad'll bring us food from Springfield.

  Maybe there really is a Santa Claus.

  July 29

  Jonny, Dad, and Lisa are due sometime tomorrow. Mom says she wrote to Jonny's camp to let them know Dad would be picking him up. She can only hope the camp got the letter.

  Life was easier when you could count on the telephone working.

  At supper tonight, Mom said she didn't know how long Dad and Lisa would be staying here, but she thought a week, maybe less.

  "I don't want him driving all the way to Las Vegas worrying about us," she declared. "So for as long as he and Lisa are here, we're going to be eating three meals a day."

  "Mom," Matt said. "Is that realistic?"

  "We'll manage,"
Mom said. "We've managed so far."

  Half of me, okay more like 3/4, loves the idea of 3 meals a day. Even with what passes for meals around here, that's pretty exciting. I'm used to being hungry now, and it really isn't that bad, but still. Not being hungry sounds fabulous.

  But there's that mean little part of me that's wondering if Mom's changing the rules because she doesn't know what to do about Jonny. We (except for Mom) were on 3 meals a day, at least officially, when he left.

  Sometimes at night when I have trouble falling asleep, I think about the future (which only makes it harder for me to fall asleep, but I do it anyway, like probing a cavity with your tongue). Not the immediate future, which is bad enough, but the 6-months-from-now future, or the year-from-now future, if we're still alive.

  Mom must be trying to work out the future as well. Maybe she thinks we'd be better off if Matt moved on, like lots of people are doing, or if I found some guy to protect me, the way Sammi did. Then whatever food she has would be for Jonny until he's old enough to take care of himself. But I know Mom loves Matt and me too much to sacrifice us. And Jonny needs food now to keep growing and stay strong.

  Which is a real problem for Mom. One that I think she's decided not to deal with until after Dad and Lisa are gone.

  July 30

  Jonny and Dad and Lisa are here.

  They got here this evening, and it's been wonderful.

  Jonny looks good. He says they fed them pretty well, even though the farm was hard work and cut into baseball time.

  Dad's lost a few pounds, but he's always been thin and it's not like he looks gaunt. Just thinner. Definitely older, though, than when I saw him in April. His hair is a lot grayer and his face is way more lined.

  Lisa looks okay. You can tell she's pregnant, but she isn't big yet. I don't know if she should be looking more pregnant than she is. But her face is still round and her skin tone is great. My guess is Dad's seeing to it that she's eating properly, even if that means he's eating less than normal.

  I could see Dad checking all of us out, just like we were checking out him and Lisa. I wish I weighed more (never thought I'd say that!), because I could see he was worried. And he has enough to worry about. I guess he had seen that Jonny looked pretty much the same and hoped Mom and Matt and I would, too.

  Not that Dad said anything except how great we all looked and how wonderful it was to see us and how much fun they'd had driving Jonny home and hearing all about baseball camp.

  But even though it was wonderful seeing that Dad really is okay, because you have to worry when you don't see someone for a long time, the best part was all the stuff he brought us.

  He and Lisa came in a minivan and it was loaded top to bottom. Dad had labeled all the boxes, and he left at least half of them in the van (which we hid in the garage—you don't leave stuff out anymore). Even so it took us 10 or 15 minutes to unload the boxes just for us.

  It really was like Christmas. Dad brought us cases of canned food: chicken noodle soup and vegetables and fruit and tuna fish. I actually lost count of how many cases, but I'd guess at least 30, with each case holding two dozen cans. Boxes of pasta and powdered milk and mashed potatoes. Jars of meat sauce and applesauce. Cases of bottled water and a half dozen jugs of distilled water.

  "Where did it all come from?" Matt asked. Mom was crying too hard to talk.

  "The college," Dad said. "It's not opening in the fall and the dorm kitchens had all this food. Lots of the staff had already gone, so those of us who were still there divvied up what was there. I'm taking a lot with us, for the road, and for Lisa's parents and Mom, just in case they need it."

  But that wasn't all, although it certainly could have been. They gave us four blankets and batteries and a box of matches and sheets and towels and washcloths and toothpaste. Perfumed soap for me. Kerosene. Insect repellent and sunscreen (we all laughed at that). Tracksuits for all of us, which of course were baggy but still wearable. And two working power saws and a two-handled saw.

  "I figured while I was here, I'd help with the firewood," Dad said.

  Oh, and a battery-run lamp, which we agreed made the sunroom look bright and cheerful.

  Mom calmed down enough to go into her room and pull out the boxes of stuff we'd bought for Lisa's baby. All those cheap clothes she'd been so excited to find.

  So help me, Lisa burst into tears when she saw what Mom had gotten. She kept hugging Mom and me, thanking us for thinking of her and the baby. Dad started crying, too, and the only things that kept me from crying right along with them was my thinking how totally weird this all was and Jonny rolling his eyes and Matt looking so embarrassed, which made me want to laugh instead of cry.

  Lisa unfolded every single piece of clothing, and we ooohed and aaahed like it was a baby shower. Well, Matt and Jonny skipped the ooohing and aaahing and unpacked some of the food instead.

  I have to admit the little overalls really were cute.

  We stayed up until past 10, and then Mom, who's sleeping in the sunroom so Dad and Lisa can have her bedroom, shooed us out.

  I'm staying up late because I feel rich with batteries. It's fun to be extravagant. I know it won't last, that even those mountains of food Dad brought us aren't going to last forever.

  But for tonight, I can make believe.

  July 31

  Dad says however much wood we think we're going to need, we're actually going to need a whole lot more, and the most important thing he can do while he's here is chop. He also said we can't store the wood outside, even right by the side of the house.

  "It'll be gone by October," he said. "Nothing's going to be safe."

  Mom thought about it, and decided the best place to store the firewood was the dining room, since we never eat in there anymore (not that we ate there all that often before).

  So after breakfast this morning, which we all ate, we moved the furniture out of the dining room and into the living room. All the breakables had to be moved first, and it was tricky because we couldn't wrap things up in newspaper like we would have if there still were newspapers. But we didn't break anything. Then came the furniture: the breakfront and the sideboard and the table and chairs. Even Lisa carried chairs out, although Dad watched over her like she was one of the breakables.

  "The living room looks like a used-furniture store," Jonny said.

  "Like an antiques shop," Mom corrected him. 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.