“You’ll be in it,” he said.
“Not the same thing. It’s better on TV.”
Jack ate some Cheerios and nodded. Everything was more fun on TV. Real life didn’t have commentary, and it didn’t have playback. Watching a storm beat standing in one while you waited for the school bus to splash water on you. It beat the smells of sixty soaking-wet kids on a crowded bus, and bumper-to-bumper traffic waiting for your driveway.
As if in response to that thought, there was a muffled honk from outside.
“Bus,” said Jack.
“Crap,” said Jill. She stood up. “Text me. Let me know what’s happening.”
“Sure.”
Jill began flouncing out of the room, but then she stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. She looked from him to the TV screen and back again. She wore a funny half smile.
“What—?” he asked.
Jill studied him without answering long enough for the bus driver to get pissed and really lay on the horn.
“I mean it,” she said. “Text me.”
“I already said I would.”
Jill chewed her lip, then turned and headed out of the house and up the winding drive to the road where the big yellow bus waited.
Jack wondered what that was all about.
3
Mom came into his room in the middle of the morning, carrying a tray with two hot corn muffins smeared with butter and honey and a big glass of water.
“You hungry?” she asked, setting the tray down on the bed between them.
“Sure,” said Jack, though he wasn’t. His appetite was better than it had been all summer, and even though he was done with chemo for a while, he only liked to nibble. The Cheerios were perfect, and it was their crunch more than anything that he liked.
But he took a plate with one of the muffins, sniffed, pasted a smile on his mouth, and took a small bite. Jack knew from experience that Mom needed to see him eat. It was more important to her to make sure that he was eating than it was to see him eat much. He thought he understood that. Appetite was a sign of health, or remission. Cancer patients in the full burn of the disease didn’t have much of an appetite. Jack knew that very well.
As he chewed, Mom tore open a couple of packs of vitamin C powder and poured them into his water glass.
“Tropical mix,” she announced, but Jack had already smelled it. It wasn’t as good as the tangerine, but it was okay. He accepted the glass, waited for the fizz to settle down, and then took a sip to wash down the corn muffin.
Thunder rumbled again and rattled the windows.
“It’s getting closer,” said Jack. When his mother didn’t comment, he asked, “Will Jilly be okay?”
Before Mom could reply, the first fat raindrops splatted on the glass. She picked up the remote to raise the volume. The regular weatherman was no longer giving the updates. Instead it was the anchorman, the guy from Pittsburgh with all the teeth and the plastic-looking hair.
“Mom—?” Jack asked again.
“Shh, let me listen.”
The newsman said, “Officials are urging residents to prepare for a powerful storm that slammed eastern Ohio yesterday, tore along the northern edge of West Virginia, and is currently grinding its way along the Maryland-Pennsylvania border.”
There was a quick cutaway to a scientist-looking guy that Jack had seen a dozen times this morning. Dr. Gustus, a professor from some university. “The storm is unusually intense for this time of year, spinning up into what is clearly a high-precipitation supercell, which is an especially dangerous type of storm. Since the storm’s mesocyclone is wrapped with heavy rains, it can hide a tornado from view until the funnel touches down. These supercells are also known for their tendency to produce more frequent cloud-to-ground and intracloud lightning than the other types of storms. The system weakened briefly overnight, following computer models of similar storms in this region. However, what we are seeing now is an unfortunate combination of elements that could result in a major upgrade of this weather pattern.”
The professor gave a bunch more technical information that Jack was pretty sure no one really understood, and then the image cut back to the reporter with the plastic hair, who contrived to look grave and concerned. “This storm will produce flooding rains, high winds, downed trees—on houses, cars, power lines—and widespread power outages. Make sure you have plenty of candles and flashlights with fresh batteries because, folks, you’re going to need ’em.” He actually smiled when he said that.
Jack suddenly shivered.
Mom noticed it and wrapped her arm around his bony shoulders. “Hey, now . . . don’t worry. We’ll be safe here.”
He made an agreeing noise but did not bother to correct her. He wasn’t frightened of the storm’s power. He was hoping it would become one of those Category 5 things like they showed on Syfy. Or a bigger one. Big enough to tear the house to sticks and let the waters of the river sweep him away from pain and sickness. Being killed in a super storm was so delightful that it made him shiver and raised goose bumps all along his arms. Lasting through the rain and wind so that he was back to where—and what—he was . . . that was far more frightening. Being suddenly dead was better than dying.
On the other hand . . .
“What about Jill?”
“She’ll be fine,” said Mom, though her tone was less than convincing.
“Mom . . . ?”
Mom was a thin, pretty woman whose black hair had started going gray around the time of the first diagnosis. Now it was more gray than black, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Jill looked a little like Mom and would probably grow up to look a lot like her. Jack looked like her too, right down to the dark circles under the eyes that looked out at him every morning from the bathroom mirror.
“Mom,” Jack said tentatively, “Jill is going to be all right, isn’t she?”
“She’s in school. If it gets bad, they’ll bus the kids home.”
“Shouldn’t someone go get her?”
Mom looked at the open bedroom door. “Your dad and Uncle Roger are in town, buying the pipes for the new irrigation system. They’ll see how bad it is, and if they have to, they’ll get her.” She smiled, and Jack thought that it was every bit as false as the smile he’d given her a minute ago. “Jill will be fine. Don’t stress yourself out about it. You know it’s not good for you.”
“Okay,” he said, resisting the urge to shake his head. He loved his mom, but she really didn’t understand him at all.
“You should get some rest,” she said. “After you finish your muffin, why not take a little nap?”
Jeez-us, he thought. She was always saying stuff like that. Take a nap, get some rest. I’m going to be dead for a long time. Let me be awake as much as I can for now.
“Sure,” he said. “Maybe in a bit.”
Mom smiled brightly, as if they had sealed a deal. She kissed him on the head and went out of his room, closing the door three-quarters of the way. She never closed it all the way, so Jack got up and did that for himself.
Jack nibbled another micro-bite of the muffin, sighed, and set it down. He broke it up on the plate so it looked like he’d really savaged it. Then he drank the vitamin water, set the glass down, and stretched out on his stomach to watch the news.
Rain drummed on the roof like nervous fingertips, and the wind was whistling through the trees. The storm was coming for sure. No way it was going to veer.
Jack lay there in the blue glow of the TV and the brown shadows of his thoughts. He’d been dying for so long that he could barely remember what living felt like. Only Jill’s smile sometimes brought those memories back. Running together down the long lanes of cultivated crops. Waging war with broken ears of corn, and trying to juggle fist-size pumpkins. Jill was never any good at juggling, and she laughed so hard when Jack managed to get three pumpkins going that he started laughing too and dropped the gourds right on his head.
He sighed, and it almost hitched into a sob.
He wanted to laugh again. Not careful laughs, like now, but real gut-busters like he used to. He wanted to run. God, how he wanted to run. That was something he hadn’t been able to do for over a year now. Not since the last surgery. And never again. Best he could manage was a hobbling half run like Gran used to when the Millers’ dog got into her herb garden.
Jack closed his eyes and thought about the storm. About a flood.
He really wanted Jill to come home. He loved his sister, and maybe today he’d open up and tell her what really went on in his head. Would she like that? Would she want to know?
Those were tricky questions, and he didn’t have answers to them.
Nor did he have an answer to why he wanted Jill home and wanted the flood at the same time. That was stupid. That was selfish.
“I’m dying,” he whispered to the shadows.
Dying people were supposed to get what they wanted, weren’t they? Trips to Disney, a letter from a celebrity. All that Make-A-Wish stuff. He wanted to see his sister and then let the storm take him away. Without hurting her, of course. Or Mom, or Dad, or Uncle Roger.
He sighed again.
Wishes were stupid. They never came true.
4
Jack was drowsing when he heard his mother cry out.
A single, strident “No!”
Jack scrambled out of bed and opened his door a careful inch to try to catch the conversation Mom was having on the phone. She was in the big room down the hall, the one she and Dad used as the farm office.
“Is she okay? God, Steve, tell me she’s okay!”
Those words froze Jack to the spot.
He mouthed the name.
“Jill . . .”
“Oh my God,” cried Mom, “does she need to go to the hospital? What? How can the hospital be closed? Steve . . . how can the damn hospital be—”
Mom stopped to listen, but Jack could see her body change, stiffening with fear and tension. She had the phone to her ear and her other hand at her throat.
“Oh God, Steve. What happened? Who did this? Oh, come on, Steve, that’s ridiculous. . . . Steve . . .”
Jack could hear Dad’s voice but not his words. He was yelling. Almost screaming.
“Did you call the police?” Mom demanded. She listened for an answer, and whatever it was, it was clear to Jack that it shocked her. She staggered backward and sat down hard on a wooden chair. “Shooting? Who was shooting?”
More yelling, none of it clear.
Shooting? Jack stared at Mom as if he was peering into a different world from anything he knew. He tried to put the things he’d heard into some shape that made sense, but no picture formed.
“Jesus Christ!” shrieked Mom. “Steve . . . forget about, forget about everything. Just get my baby home. Get yourself home. I have a first aid kit here and . . . oh yes, God, Steve . . . I love you, too. Hurry!”
She lowered the phone and stared at it as if the device had done her some unspeakable harm. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t seem to be looking at anything.
“Mom . . . ?” Jack said softly, stepping out into the hall. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
As soon as she looked up, Mom’s eyes filled with tears. She cried out his name, and he rushed to her as she flew to him. Mom was always so careful with him, holding him as if he had bird bones that would snap with the slightest pressure, but right then she clutched him to her chest with all her strength. He could feel her trembling, could feel the heat of her panic through the cotton of her dress.
“It’s Jilly,” said Mom, and her voice broke into sobs. “There was a fight at the school. Someone bit her.”
“Bit—?” asked Jack, not sure he’d really heard that.
Lightning flashed outside and thunder exploded overhead.
5
Mom ran around for a couple of minutes, grabbing first aid stuff. There was always a lot of it on a farm, and Jack knew how to dress a wound and treat for shock. Then she fetched candles and matches, flashlights and a Coleman lantern. Big storms always knocked out the power in town, and Mom was always ready.
The storm kept getting bigger, rattling the old bones of the house, making the window glass chatter like teeth.
“What’s taking them so damn long?” Mom said, and she said it every couple of minutes.
Jack turned on the big TV in the living room.
“Mom!” he called. “They have it on the news.”
She came running into the room with an armful of clean towels and stopped in the middle of the floor to watch. What they saw did not make much sense. The picture showed the Stebbins Little School, which was both the elementary school and the town’s evacuation shelter. It was on high ground, and it had been built during an era when Americans worried about nuclear bombs and Russian air raids. Stuff Jack barely even knew about.
In front of the school was the guest parking lot, which was also where the buses picked up and dropped off the kids. Usually there were lines of yellow buses standing in neat rows, or moving like a slow train as they pulled to the front, loaded or unloaded, then moved forward to catch up with the previous bus. There was nothing neat and orderly about the big yellow vehicles now.
The heavy downpour made everything vague and fuzzy, but Jack could nevertheless see that the buses stood in haphazard lines in the parking lot and in the street. Cars were slotted in everywhere to create a total gridlock. One of the buses lay on its side.
Two were burning.
All around, inside and out, were people. Running, staggering, lying sprawled, fighting.
Not even the thunder and the rain could drown out the sounds of screams.
And gunfire.
“Mom . . . ?” asked Jack. “What’s happening?”
But Mom had nothing to stay. The bundle of towels fell softly to the floor by her feet.
She ran to the table by the couch, snatched up the phone, and called 911. Jack stood so close that he could hear the rings.
Seven. Eight. On the ninth ring there was a clicking sound and then a thump, as if someone had picked up the phone and dropped it.
Mom said, “Hello—?” Jack pressed close to hear.
The sounds from the other end were confused, and Jack tried to make sense of them. The scuff of a shoe? A soft, heavy bump as if someone had banged into a desk with their thighs. And a sound like someone makes when they’re asleep. Low and without any meaning.
“Flower,” called Mom. Flower was the secretary and dispatcher at the police station. She’d gone to high school with Mom. “Flower—are you there? Can you hear me?”
If there was a response, Jack couldn’t hear it.
“Flower—come on, girl, I need some help. There was some kind of problem at the school, and Steve’s bringing Jilly back with a bad bite. He tried to take her to the hospital, but it was closed and there were barricades set up. We need an ambulance. . . .”
Flower finally replied.
It wasn’t words, just a long, deep, aching moan that came crawling down the phone lines. Mom jerked the handset away from her ear, staring at it with horror and fear. Jack heard that sound, and it chilled him to the bones.
Not because it was so alien and unnatural . . . but because he recognized it. He knew that sound. He absolutely knew it.
He’d heard Toby make it a couple of times during those last days, when the cancer was so bad that they had to keep Toby down in a dark pool of drugs. Painkillers didn’t really work at that level. The pain was everywhere. It was the whole universe, because every single particle of your body knows that it’s being consumed. The cancer is winning, it’s devouring you, and you get to a point where it’s so big and you’re so small that you can’t even yell at it anymore. You can’t curse at it or shout at it or tell it that you won’t let it win. It already has won, and you know it. In those moments, those last crumbling moments, all you can do—all you can say—is throw noise at it. It’s not meaningless, even though it sounds like that. When Jack first heard those sounds co
ming out of Toby, he thought that it was just noise, just a grunt or a moan. But those sounds do have meaning. So much meaning. Too much meaning. They’re filled with all the need in the world.
The need to live, even though the dark is everywhere, inside and out.
The need to survive, even though you know you can’t.
The need to have just another hour, just another minute, but your clock is broken and all the time has leaked out.
The need to not be devoured.
Even though you already are.
The need.
Need.
That moan, the one Jack heard at Toby’s bedside and the one he heard now over the phone line from Flower, was just that. Need.
It was the sound Jack sometimes made in his dreams. Practicing for when it would be the only sound he could make.
Mom said, “Flower . . . ?”
But this time her voice was small. Little-kid small.
There were no more sounds from the other end, and Mom replaced the handset as carefully as if it was something that could wake up and bite her.
She suddenly seemed to notice Jack standing there, and she hoisted up as fake a smile as Jack had ever seen.
“It’ll be okay,” she said. “It’s the storm causing trouble with the phone lines.”
The lie was silly and weak, but they both accepted it because there was nothing else they could do.
Then Jack saw the headlights, turning off River Road onto their driveway.
“They’re here!” he cried, and rushed for the door, but Mom pushed past him, jerked the door open, and ran out onto the porch.
“Stay back,” she yelled as he began to follow.
Jack stopped in the doorway. Rain slashed at Mom as she stood on the top step, silhouetted by the headlights as Dad’s big Dodge Durango splashed through the water that completely covered the road. His brights were on, and Jack had to shield his eyes behind his hands. The pickup raced all the way up the half-mile drive and slewed sideways to a stop that sent muddy rainwater onto the porch, slapping wet across Mom’s legs. She didn’t care; she was already running down the steps toward the car.