"I'll leave them behind," I said. "Tell Jon they'll be behind the oak tree and he should get them right after I leave. But don't tell Mom unless she asks. Let her think I'm coming back, okay?"
"You don't have to do this," Matt said.
"I know," I said, and kissed him good-bye. "And I love you and Jonny and Mom more than I ever knew. Now let me go in and say good-bye while I still have the nerve."
So I did. Mom was so weak I don't think she really understood what was going on. She just told me to get back before dark, and I said I would.
Jon looked like he had a thousand questions but Matt wouldn't let him start. I kissed him and Mom and told them to leave a light on for me, like that had any meaning. I rammed a pen and one of the blue books into my coat pocket. Then I went to the front door, picked up Dad's shoes, skis and poles, and walked to the road. When I got to the oak tree, I carefully placed everything where no one from the road could see them. Then I started the walk to town.
I wanted desperately to turn around, see the house, say good-bye, but I didn't let myself. I was scared that if I allowed myself that moment of weakness, I would race back in, and what good would that do any of us? Did I really need to be alive on my birthday? Did I even want to be, if Mom died between now and then?
So I kept my eyes straight ahead and began the journey. For the first mile footing wasn't too bad, since Jon and I had skied there and compacted the snow. Sure I fell a few times, where the snow was icelike, but I managed. I told myself the rest of the trip wouldn't be too bad, and there was hope I could get to town, maybe even find a letter from Dad, and get home again.
I liked telling myself that.
But the next 2 miles were brutal. I don't think anyone had walked on it since Christmas. I found I couldn't walk after a while, so I sat on the snow and pushed myself forward, half rowing, half sledding. It took all my strength to go a few feet, and the harder I worked, the more I yearned to give up and let myself die then and there.
But I pictured the pizza parlor and Dad telling me they weren't in Heaven. If there was a letter, I wanted to know. Death could wait a few more hours.
I felt a lot better when I got to a spot where I could walk upright again. I was soaking wet by that point, and freezing cold, but being on my own two feet gave me a sense of dignity and purpose. It made me feel human again and that gave me some strength back.
One of the scariest things was seeing how very few houses had smoke coming out of their chimneys. It wasn't like I could go to any of them and say, Rescue me, feed me, feed my family, because all they'd do was throw me out. We would have done the same if anyone came to our door.
But to see so many houses with no signs of life. Some people I knew had simply left while that was still possible. But others must have died from the flu or the cold or the hunger.
We were all still alive, Mom and Matt and Jonny and me. And I'd left a record. People would know I had lived. That counted for a lot.
The closer I got to town, the easier it was to walk. But the closer I got to town, the fewer signs of life I saw. It made sense. The people there lived closer together, so they shoveled their snow at least in the beginning. But they were also less likely to have woodstoves and more likely to have frozen to death. The closer they lived, the faster the flu would have spread. Our isolation had saved us, given us weeks, maybe even months more life.
By the time I got near enough to see the post office, I was starting to feel like I could make it back home. I knew that was madness, that the road was uphill and I had no strength left for that part where I wouldn't be able to walk. It's one thing to push yourself downhill, but pushing yourself uphill would be impossible. My heart would give out and I'd die a couple of miles from home.
But I didn't care. I'd made it to town and that was all I planned for. I'd go to the post office and find word from Dad that he and Lisa and baby Rachel were alive and well. Then it wouldn't matter where I died or how. Jonny would live and so would Rachel and that was what counted.
It was eerie standing on the main street of town, seeing no one, hearing no one, smelling nothing but the stench of death. I saw the carcasses of dogs and cats, pets people had left behind that couldn't survive in the cold without food. I bent down and clawed at one to see if there was any meat left, but what little clung to the skeleton was too frozen to pry off. I threw it back down onto the snow-covered street, and felt relieved I didn't see any human bodies.
Then I got to the post office and saw it was dead, too.
I felt such despair. It was probable the post office had never reopened since that last day Matt had worked there. Any fantasy I'd had that the reason I'd left the sunroom was to find a letter from Dad floated out of me.
I'd gone to town to die. There was no point going home, forcing the others to watch that happen.
I sank onto the ground. What was the point? Why should I even try to get back to the house? The kindest thing I could do would be to stay where I was and let the coldness kill me. Mrs. Nesbitt had known how to die. Couldn't I learn that from her?
But then I saw a glimpse of yellow. My world has been nothing but shades of gray for so long that the yellow almost hurt my eyes.
But something was yellow. I remembered yellow as the color of sun. I'd seen the sun last July. It hurt to look straight at it, and it hurt to look at this new burst of yellow.
It wasn't the sun. I laughed at myself for thinking it might be. It was a sheet of paper dancing in the crosswinds down the street.
But it was yellow. I had to have it.
I forced myself to stand up and chase the sheet of paper. It taunted me with its dance, but I outwitted it and with all my remaining strength, put my foot over it and pinned it to the sidewalk. I bent down and felt the world swirling around me as I picked it up and stood straight. Just holding it made me excited. There were words. This was a message. Someone sometime had said something and now I would know what it was.
CITY HALL OPEN FRIDAYS 2–4 PM
There was no date, no way of knowing when it had been posted or why. But the words told me where to go. I had nothing to lose. Any dreams I might have had died with the post office. If City Hall were closed, also, it made no difference.
So I began the walk to City Hall. It was only a couple of blocks away from the post office. I looked at my watch and saw I had half an hour before it would close, assuming it was even open.
But when I got there, the door was unlocked and I could hear voices.
"Hello?" I said, proud of myself that I remembered the word.
"Come on in," a man said. He opened an office door and waved me in.
"Hi," I said, like this was the most normal thing in the world. "I'm Miranda Evans. I live on Howell Bridge Road."
"Sure," he said. "Come in. I'm Mayor Ford and this is Tom Danworth. Pleased to meet you."
"You too," I said, trying to believe that this wasn't a dream.
"Come here to sign up for your food?" Mayor Ford asked.
"Food?" I said. "I can get food?" It had to be a dream.
"See?" Mr. Danworth said. "That's why we're not getting many takers. Nobody knows."
"Lot of death up Howell Bridge way," Mayor Ford said. "No reason to go out there. How many in your family, Miranda?"
"Four," I said. "My mom and brothers had the flu but they all lived. Can I get food for them, too?"
"We'll need a witness they're still alive," the mayor said. "But everyone's entitled to one bag of food a week. That's what we've been told and that's what we're doing."
"Program's been going on for four weeks now," Mr. Danworth said. "So this young lady is entitled to at least four bags."
If it was a dream, I didn't want to wake up.
"Tell you what," the mayor said. "Wait until four when we officially close and Tom here will take you home on the snowmobile. You and your four bags, that is. And he'll check out your story and if what you say is true, then next Monday we'll send someone out to your home with food for the rest of yo
ur folk. Monday's delivery day. How does that sound?"
"I don't believe it," I said. "Real food?"
The mayor laughed. "Well, not gourmet," he said. "Not like we used to get at McDonald's. But canned goods and some boxed stuff. Nobody's been complaining."
I didn't know what to say. I just walked over to him and hugged him.
"Skin and bones," he said to Mr. Danworth. "Guess she got here just in time."
We waited around for the next 15 minutes but no one showed up. Finally the mayor told Mr. Danworth to get the 4 bags from the storage room and take them to the snowmobile.
I longed to go through the bags, see what kind of wonders were inside them, but I knew that would only slow things down. Besides, what did it matter? It was food. 4 bags of food. For a whole week, we wouldn't be hungry.
What had taken me 3 hours was a 20-minute trip in the snowmobile. It felt like flying watching the houses whiz by.
Mr. Danworth drove the snowmobile right to the sun-room door. The noise had obviously startled everybody, because they were all standing by the door when I knocked.
"Well, I guess you were telling the truth," Mr. Danworth said. "I definitely see three people here and they all look mighty hungry."
"I'll help you bring in the bags," I said. It was incredibly important to me to do that, to be the one bringing in the food that was going to save us.
"Fair enough," he said. "But let me help."
He ended up carrying in 3 bags to my one, but it didn't matter. Then he gave Mom a piece of paper to sign saying there were 4 of us in need of food.
"We'll be back on Monday," he said. "I can't guarantee you'll get all twelve bags you're entitled to, but we should manage seven, three for this week and four for next. After that you can count on four bags a week, at least until you hear otherwise."
Mom was sobbing. Matt managed to shake Mr. Danworth's hand and thank him. Jon was too busy poring through the bags and holding things up for all of us to see.
"You take care," Mr. Danworth said. "The worst is over. You made it this far, you'll make it all the way."
"Can we have supper tonight?" Jon asked after Mr. Danworth left. "Please, Mom. Just this once?"
Mom wiped away her tears, took a deep breath, and smiled. "Tonight we eat," she said. "And tomorrow and Sunday we'll eat."
We had sardines and mushrooms and rice for supper. For dessert (dessert!) we had dried fruit.
The electricity came on for the second time today while we were eating.
This may be a fool's paradise, but it's paradise nonetheless.
March 18
The electricity came on while we were feasting on chickpeas, lentils, and carrots.
"Come on," Mom said. "Let's try a laundry."
And we did. It was kind of a challenge because we don't have running water, so we had to pour water into the machine for the wash and rinse cycles. But even so it was still much easier than doing it by hand. We washed all our sheets and the electricity stayed on for most of the clothes-dryer time.
We celebrated by washing our hair. We took turns shampooing everyone else. Mom's insisted we sponge bathe daily, but shampoos are a real treat.
Then tonight the electricity came back on. Only for 10 minutes or so, but we didn't care. We made supper in the microwave.
Supper in the microwave. The most beautiful words I've ever written.
March 19
We still have three bags of food in the pantry, but I can tell Mom's nervous about tomorrow. It's like the electricity. It comes and goes but you can't count on it.
Still, even if the food's that way, we can make sure Jon's strong and well fed and that will give Mom peace.
March 20
My birthday.
I'm 17 and I'm alive and we have food.
Mr. Danworth himself showed up this morning with 10 bags of food.
"We know you're owed more, but this'll have to do," he said. "See you next Monday with your regular four bags."
There was so much and it was all so wonderful. Powdered milk. Cranberry juice. Three cans of tuna fish. Well, I could write it all down, but it doesn't matter. It was food and it will get us through for weeks and there'll be more food to come.
Because it was my birthday, Mom let me decide what we were going to have. I found a box of macaroni and cheese. It was as close to pizza as I could get.
There's still so much we don't know. We can only hope Dad and Lisa and baby Rachel are alive. Grandma, too. Sammi and Dan and all the other people we knew who left here. The flu was all over the U.S., probably all over the world. We were lucky to survive that; most people weren't.
The electricity comes and goes, so we don't know when we'll be able to depend on it. We have firewood for a while yet, and Matt is getting stronger (he walked up 10 stairs today and only Mom's insistence kept him from climbing them all). There's plenty of snow outside, so we're okay for water. The sky is still gray, though, and even though the temperature's been above zero for a week now, 20 degrees still feels balmy.
But today isn't a day to worry about the future. Whatever will happen will happen. Today is a day to celebrate. Tomorrow there will be more daylight than night. Tomorrow I'll wake up and find my mother and my brothers by my side. All still alive. All still loving me.
A while ago Jonny asked me why I was still keeping a journal, who I was writing it for. I've asked myself that a lot, especially in the really bad times.
Sometimes I've thought I'm keeping it for people 200 years from now, so they can see what our lives were like.
Sometimes I've thought I'm keeping it for that day when people no longer exist but butterflies can read.
But today, when I am 17 and warm and well fed, I'm keeping this journal for myself so I can always remember life as we knew it, life as we know it, for a time when I am no longer in the sunroom.
More by Susan Beth Pfeffer:
The Dead and the Gone
This World We Live In
Blood Wounds
Please enjoy this sample chapter of the sequel, The Dead and the Gone.
Chapter 1
Wednesday, May 18
At the moment when life as he had known it changed forever, Alex Morales was behind the counter at Joey's Pizza, slicing a spinach pesto pie into eight roughly equal pieces.
"I ordered an antipasto, also."
"It's right here, sir," Alex said. "And your order of garlic knots."
"Thanks," the man said. "Wait a second. Aren't you Carlos, Luis's kid?"
Alex grinned. "Carlos is my older brother," he said. "I'm Alex."
"That's right," the man said. "Look, could you tell your dad there's a problem with the plumbing in twelve B?"
"My father's away for a few days," Alex said. "He's in Puerto Rico for my grandmother's funeral. But he should be back on Saturday. I'll tell him as soon as he gets home."
"Don't worry about it," the man said. "It's waited this long. I'm sorry to hear about your grandmother."
"Thank you," Alex said.
"So where is your brother these days?" the man asked.
"He's in the Marines," Alex said. "He's stationed at Twentynine Palms, in California."
"Good for him," the man said. "Give him my regards. Greg Dunlap, apartment twelve B."
"I'll do that," Alex said. "And I'll be sure to tell my father about your plumbing."
Mr. Dunlap smiled. "You in school?" he asked.
Alex nodded. "I go to St. Vincent de Paul Academy," he said.
"Good school," Mr. Dunlap said. "Bob, my partner, went there and he says it's the best school in the city. You know where you want to go to college?"
Alex knew exactly where he wanted to go, and where he'd be happy to go, and where he would be satisfied to go. "Georgetown's my first choice," he said. "But it depends on the financial package. And if they accept me, of course."
Mr. Dunlap nodded. "I'll tell Bob Luis's kid goes to Vincent de Paul," he said. "You two can swap stories someday."
"Great,"
Alex said. "Your bill comes to $32.77."
Mr. Dunlap handed him two twenties. "Keep the change," he said. "Put it toward your college fund. And be sure to give Carlos my regards. Luis must be very proud of both his sons."
"Thank you," Alex said, passing the pizza, the antipasto, and the bag of garlic knots to Mr. Dunlap. "I'll remember to tell my father about the plumbing as soon as he gets back."
"No hurry," Mr. Dunlap said.
Alex knew they always said, "No hurry," when they meant "Get it done right now." But a seven-dollar tip guaranteed that Alex would tell Papi about the plumbing problems in 12B the minute he returned from Nana's funeral.
"The cable's out," Joey grumbled from the kitchen. "Yankees have the bases loaded in the top of the sixth and the cable dies on me."
"It's May," Alex said. "What difference does it make?"
"I have a bet on that game," Joey said.
Alex knew better than to point out the game was still going on even if the cable was out. Instead he turned his attention to the next customer, filling her order for two slices of pepperoni pizza and a large Coke.
He didn't get away until ten, later than he usually worked, but the pizza parlor was short staffed, and since Joey was cranky without his ball game to watch, Alex didn't think it a good idea just to leave. It was a muggy, overcast night, with the feeling of thunderstorms in the air, but as long as it wasn't raining, Alex enjoyed the walk. He concentrated on Georgetown and his chances of getting in.
Being junior class vice president would help, but he had no chance at senior class president. Chris Flynn was sure to win again. Alex had the presidency of the debate squad locked up. But would he or Chris be named editor of the school paper? Alex was weighing the odds between them when his thoughts were interrupted by a man and woman walking out of the Olde Amsterdam Tavern.
"Come on, honey," the man said. "You might as well. We could be dead by tomorrow."
Alex grinned. That sounded like something Carlos would say.
But as Alex raced across Broadway, fire engines and ambulances screamed down the avenue with no concern for traffic lights, and he began to wonder what was going on. Turning onto Eighty-eighth Street, he saw clusters of people standing in front of their apartment buildings. There was no laughter, though, no fighting. Some of the people pointed to the sky, but when Alex looked upward, all he saw was cloud cover. One well-dressed woman stood by herself weeping. Then, as Alex walked down the short flight of outdoor steps to his family's basement apartment, the electricity went out. Shaking his head, he unlocked the outside door. Once in the darkened hallway, he knocked on the apartment door.