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.
December 27
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.
December 31
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 resolved to take a moment every day for the rest of my life to appreciate what I have.
Happy New Year, world!
January 1
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.
January 3
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.
January 5
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.
January 6
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.
January 7
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.
January 8
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.
Chapter Nineteen
January 10
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 fo
und 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."