Mom said that was very mature of Jonny, and she had to admit she didn't have anything for his birthday, but that didn't mean it wasn't going to be a special day. Which I guess means an extra vegetable at supper, or maybe some canned fruit salad for dessert.
Or maybe we'll drink that other bottle of wine Peter brought and all get drunk.
It kind of annoys me that Jonny's making these big grown-up gestures and I'm not. I can't exactly say don't worry about my birthday, since it's in March, and I think we'll have lots of other stuff to worry about between now and then.
I'm back to two meals a day, but that's not exactly a big grown-up gesture around here.
Also, even though none of us is saying it, we're all worried because there's been no word from Dad. The mail is so weird, letters can take weeks to arrive, and probably a lot of mail doesn't make it through at all. There's no reason to think we'd have heard anything by now, but it's scary to think of him and Lisa driving into the void.
Mom listens to the radio every morning, and I'm pretty sure if the rest of the United States had evaporated or something, she'd mention it. So Dad and Lisa are probably safe wherever they are.
Still, we'd all like to hear.
August 15
I asked Mom if things were better than they had been. Had all the bad stuff, the floods and the earthquakes and the volcanoes, stopped?
She said no, that once the moon's gravitational pull had changed, things could never go back to where they'd been.
But things aren't any worse, I said.
Mom obviously didn't feel like answering that.
How much worse can they get? I asked.
Mom explained that there were volcanoes erupting in all kinds of unexpected places like Montreal. It seems there's a volcano there that never erupted because the earth's crust had been too thick, but now that the moon's pull is so much stronger, the lava was able to break through the crust. The volcanoes cause fires and the earthquakes cause fires and the tsunamis get bigger and bigger so there's less and less coastline and people are fleeing places with volcanoes and earthquakes and floods so things are getting worse even in the stable places.
And, of course, there are epidemics.
Once Mom got started, there was no stopping her. We've already had three nights with frost, but New England and the upper Midwest have already had weeks of killing frost. All the crops there have died.
Oh, and there was an earthquake right by a nuclear power plant, and it exploded or something. I think that was California.
"Now do you see how lucky we are?" she demanded. "I never said we weren't!" I yelled, because I hadn't. Or at least I hadn't today. All I did was ask if things were getting better, which isn't exactly the same as saying I wish we had electricity and hot chocolate and television and a prom with an actual date to look forward to.
All of which I think about every morning when I wake up and every night before I fall asleep.
"Don't use that tone with me!" Mom shouted. "What tone?" I shouted right back. "You're the one who's using a tone! How come you can yell at me and I have to just take it?"
We really went at it. Which we haven't done in weeks, not since that whole horrible business with Horton. How ungrateful I am. How I just sit around and do nothing. How self-pitying I am.
"You're damn right I'm self-pitying," I shouted right back at her. "Why shouldn't I be? It's bad enough my life is like this and I have no idea if I'm going to survive. I'm stuck with a mother who doesn't love me. I should have gone with Dad and Lisa. He loves me even if you don't!"
"Go," Mom said. "Just get out. I don't want to look at you."
I was so stunned it took me a moment to run out of the house. But once I did, I had no idea where to go or what to do. I got on my bike and let my legs tell me where to go. And much to my surprise (although I guess not to my legs' surprise), I ended up at Megan's.
Megan's mom looked about ten years older than she had when I saw her last month. But she smiled when she saw me, like it was the most normal thing for me to be popping in for a visit. At least she didn't remind me of Becky's mom anymore.
"Megan's in her room," she said. "She'll be glad to see you."
I went up to Megan's room. For a moment I wondered what the hell I was doing there. But I knocked on her door and told her it was me and went on in.
Megan was lying on her bed reading the Bible. It was scary seeing how thin she'd gotten. But she didn't look crazy or anything and these days you take what you can get.
"Miranda!" she squealed, and for a moment she was my Megan. "I'm so happy you're here. Sit down. Tell me everything."
So I did. Every single thing. Mom and the fights and Jonny and Matt and Dad and Lisa and Horton. And how Dan was going to ask me to the prom only now he's gone. I must have talked nonstop for half an hour, with Megan interrupting me only to ask a question or make some kind of sympathetic noise.
"Boy," she said when I finally finished. "Your life is terrible."
I didn't know whether to burst into tears or laughter. Laughter won.
"I'm having one of those 'Except for that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?' moments," I said.
"Everyone is," Megan said.
"Even you?" I asked.
Megan nodded. "I know what I need to do," she said. "And I'm doing it as best I can. But even though I know it's God's will and I can't question, I want to know Mom's soul is saved and Dad's and yours and everyone else's I've ever loved. I pray and I pray but I don't think it's making any difference. We're all in hell, Miranda. God knows what's best for us, but it's still hell."
"Does Reverend Marshall think that way?" I asked. I was pretty shocked to hear Megan talk like that.
"He says God is punishing us for our sins," she said. "We're all sinners. I know how sinful I am. I covet things, Miranda. Food. I covet food so much sometimes. And I have lustful thoughts. Don't look so shocked. I'm sixteen. You think I never had a lustful thought?"
"Who for?" I asked.
Megan laughed. "Tim Jenkins," she said. "And James Belle. And Mr. Martin."
"We all had crushes on Mr. Martin," I said. "Half the girls at Howell High are going to hell if having a crush on Mr. Martin is a sin. But Tim Jenkins? I didn't think he was your type. He's kind of wild, Megan."
"I know," she said. "I used to think if he loved me, I could get him to reform. But that wasn't how I lusted after him, if you know what I mean. I didn't lust after him just so I could save his soul."
"And Reverend Marshall thinks all the horrible stuff has happened because you lusted after Tim Jenkins?" I asked.
"That's kind of simplistic," Megan said. "My point was that I'm as much a sinner as anybody else and I've hardly had a chance to do anything. I might have lustful thoughts, but Sammi's actually done something with hers, and if God is angry with me, then He's angry at her, too, and pretty much everybody else on earth. We really have made a giant mess of things."
"Speak for yourself," I grumbled, and we both laughed.
"I can't believe the moon came crashing in because I want to go to the prom with Dan," I said. "What's the point of God making us human if He doesn't want us to act like we're human?"
"To see if we can rise above our natures," Megan said. "Eve got Adam to eat the apple, and that was the end of the Garden of Eden."
"It all comes back to food, doesn't it," I said, and we laughed again.
I can't tell you how it felt to be laughing with Megan. I know she's crazy to be flinging herself into death, when so many people are dying you practically have to take a number and wait your turn. And she looked like a talking skeleton. But she was still Megan. For the first time since all this happened, I felt like I'd gotten something back.
"I think I'll go home," I said. "I don't have anyplace else to go."
Megan nodded. "Miranda," she said, and she took one of those long pauses I've come to expect from people. "Miranda, I don't know if we're ever going to see each other again."
"Of course we
will," I said. "Or are you and your mother planning on leaving?"
"I think she'll go after I die," Megan said. "But we're staying until then."
"In that case, I'm sure I'll see you again," I said.
Megan shook her head. "Don't come back," she said. "I have to show God I'm truly repentant and I can't do that if you make me think about Tim Jenkins and food and how awful things are now. I don't want to be angry at God and seeing you makes me feel that way, just a little bit. So I can't see you again. I have to sacrifice our friendship, because I don't have much left I can sacrifice to prove to God how much I love Him."
"I hate your God," I said.
"Find your own then," she said. "Go, Miranda, please. And if you ever hear from Sammi, tell her I prayed for every day, just like I pray for you."
"I will," I said. "Good-bye, Megan."
And then the worst thing happened. She'd been propped up on her bed for the whole time I'd been there. But when I got ready to go, she struggled to get off the bed, and I could see she barely had the strength to stand. She had to support herself as we hugged and kissed, and then she fell back onto the bed.
"I'm fine," she said. "Go, Miranda. I love you."
"I love you, too," I said and I ran away from her, away from her house, without even saying good-bye to her mother. I got back on my bike and rode straight home. I probably burned off three days' worth of calories, I rode so fast.
I put the bike in the garage and raced into the house. Mom was sitting in the kitchen sobbing.
"Mom!" I cried, and I flung myself into her arms.
She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe. "Oh, Miranda, Miranda," she kept crying. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I'm sorry, too," I said and I was. Not for anything I'd said earlier. I was sorry because I make Mom worry and there's nothing I can do to keep her from worrying.
I love her so much. In a world where there's so little good, she's good. Sometimes I forget that or resent it. But she is good and she loves me and every thought she has is to protect Matt and Jonny and me.
If God's looking for sacrifices, all He has to do is look at Mom.
August 18
Jonny's birthday.
Matt took the afternoon off and we played baseball. We took turns, catching, pitching, fielding, and hitting.
Mom hit a ball so long it took Matt five minutes to find it.
Then we went to Mrs. Nesbitt's for dinner. I have to admit that was a nice change, eating around someone else's kitchen table.
She made quite the meal for us. We started with fruit salad and then we had tuna noodle casserole and peas. For dessert she'd made oatmeal raisin cookies that Jonny's always loved. I could tell Mom was concerned because all that good oatmeal was going to cookies, but she had two anyway. The rest of us pigged out—I know I ate at least four cookies, which probably guarantees me a first-class ticket to hell for gluttony.
But Mrs. Nesbitt beamed while we were eating. She must have been planning those cookies for weeks now, and she pulled off the surprise.
Jonny said he wanted to make a speech. So we cheered him on. He actually stood up, and I guess he'd been working on what he wanted to say, because it was pretty close to perfect.
He said he knew times were tough now and we didn't know if the future was going to get any better, but the important thing was we had each other and as long as we stuck together, we could make it through. He even said he loved us.
Mom was crying, but they were happy tears. I know, because I shed a few myself.
It's funny. I remember my birthday so vividly, the fights Mom and I had because I wanted a big boy/girl party and Mom wanted something simpler and easier. I yelled, "Trust!" at her and she yelled, "Temptation!" right back at me. We started fighting over it the day after her birthday and I don't think we stopped until the day before mine. Four weeks of fighting over what kind of party I could have.
In the end it was perfectly fine, boys and girls, pizza, cake, no beer, and a certain amount of unsupervised making out.
It's hard to believe I was ever that young.
I guess Jonny never will be.
Chapter Ten
August 22
Mom went to the post office today (still no word from Dad), and at supper she told us that there was a notice for a big meeting for all concerned at the high school on Friday. Announcements about the school year.
Usually by this point in August there's a shift in weather to remind you that the good times are about to end. A little chill in the evening. The days aren't quite as long. Just a sense that in a couple of weeks it's going to be schooltime again.
But lately all the days have been the same: cool and gray and dry. Sometimes it's muggy, but it never rains. And the sun doesn't shine, so it's hard to tell if the days are getting any shorter.
I hadn't been thinking about school. But now that I am, I realized I'm looking forward to it. It won't be school like I remember. It'll probably be worse than it was in June, and that was pretty bad. But at least it'll be something to do. People to see. And I may not like tests and homework (Who does?), but at least you can pretend it's for a purpose. School is all about what's going to happen: a test on Friday, report cards at the end of the month, graduation in two years.
A lot of people laughed at that.
"What about food?" another parent yelled. "My kids are hungry. I've been counting on school lunches."
"We can't supply lunches," Aaron's father said. "Give your children a large, nourishing breakfast, and feed them again when they get home from school."
"You want to tell us where that large nourishing breakfast is going to come from?" a woman yelled.
Aaron's father ignored her and all the other people who were starting to make noise. "Naturally, the schools don't have electricity," he said. "We ask every parent to give their child a flashlight to take to school. We'll try to make the best use of natural light, but as we all know, lately that's been hard to come by. We're going to start with a nine AM to two PM school day, but we'll probably change that as the days get shorter." "What about heat?" someone yelled. I have to give Aaron's father credit. I'd have been running out of there by then, but he just took it.
"The schools are heated by natural gas," he said. "I spoke to a vice president of the company last week. He was unable to assure me that there'd be any natural gas going through the pipelines much past September."
"Wait a second," a man yelled. "Is that just for the schools or for everybody?"
"Everybody," Aaron's father said. "Believe me, I questioned him carefully about that. The man I spoke to said the best-case estimate right now is for the gas supplies to end by early October."
"Even for the hospital?" someone asked. "They have electricity. Will they have heat, too?"
"I can't speak for the hospital," Aaron's father said. "Perhaps they have some electrical heating system. The schools don't. We're dependent on natural gas, and we need to assume that we won't have any by October."
"So you want my kids to walk ten miles to starve and freeze at school!" a woman yelled. "Is that what you're telling us?"
Aaron's father just plowed on. "In case there's any uncertainty about this, there'll be no after-school activities," he said. "And many of the high school classes can no longer be offered. We're going to try to divide the teachers as evenly as possible between the two schools, and we think there'll be enough teachers, but no one should assume that a certain teacher or subject will be available. No more science labs or gym. We're fortunate that Mrs. Underhill, the school nurse, is still working with us. She'll divide her days between the two schools. She's requested that if a child complains of any discomfort, that child not be sent to school. We have no way of contacting parents if a child needs to be sent home. And naturally, we're concerned that an infected child could make classmates sick as well."
"How do we know Mrs. Underhill is going to stay on?" a man shouted. "Or any of the teachers? What if they decide to get the hell out of here?"
&nb
sp; "That might happen," Aaron's father said. "None of us can be certain what next month is going to be like, or the month after that or after that. We're trying to do the best we can, and it's our opinion that even a little bit of school is better than none. If you think your children would be better off being homeschooled, simply go to one of the two schools and sign up for the grade-appropriate textbooks." He stood there for a long brave moment and then said, "Any other questions?"
It turned out there were, lots of them, but they mostly had to do with natural gas. I guess this was the first people had heard that the supply was going to run out.
It wasn't until I got home that I realized we use natural gas for the stove and the water heater.
I asked Mom about that and she said we'd cook our food and heat our water on the woodstove, so we'd be okay. She says she doesn't know what people who don't have woodstoves are going to do, but she guesses they'll move out, try down south or something. Although she heard on the radio this morning that North Carolina has already had a frost, so she isn't sure things are going to be much better anyplace else.
No one's crops are doing well because there's been no sunlight anywhere for over a month. Or rain, for that matter. So we're all going to freeze and starve no matter where we live.
She didn't exactly put it that way. Actually she said we'd be fine because we had heat and food and each other.
She also told Jonny and me to think about school. If we want to give it a try, that's fine by her. If we want to stay home, she and Matt would teach us and that would also be fine. We shouldn't worry if one of us wanted school and the other wanted to stay home. We should each decide what we wanted for ourselves, and she would go along with the decision.
I think I'm going to give school a try. It's going to be so weird, school without Megan and Sammi and Dan and most of the other kids I know. But if I'm not used to weird by now, I don't know when I will be.
August 27
Mom says we're about equidistant from Maple Hill and the high school, and she doesn't think anyone will care which school we pick. But if we do decide to go to school, she'd prefer it if Jonny and I went to the same one.