Last Survivors 01 - Life as We Knew It

by Susan Beth Pfeffer

  I rolled my eyes. I bring in kindling and visit Mrs. Nesbitt and wash our clothes and clean Horton's litter. I mean, that's my life. Sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Nesbitt with neither of us saying a word is the high point of my day.

  "All right," Mom said. "You don't have to say anything."

  "Who, me?" Jon and I said simultaneously, which really was pretty funny.

  "This isn't fun for any of us," Mom said. "Matt, I'm glad you'll be working at the post office. Jonny, Miranda, do whatever you want. I'm past caring."

  There's a part of me that almost wishes she meant it. But most of me is scared that maybe she really did mean it.

  October 24

  The temperature was 17 this morning, which practically constitutes a heat wave nowadays. If you looked up at the sky hard enough you could almost make out the sun.

  "Indian summer," Mom said when the thermometer reached 29. "No, I mean it. I bet if the ash weren't so thick this would be Indian summer."

  We keep the thermostat at 50 degrees, so it's always cold. I figured I might never see 29 degrees again.

  "I'm going skating," I said. "The pond's been frozen for a month by now. Mom, are your skates still in your closet?"

  "I suppose so," she said. "Be careful, Miranda. Don't take any chances with the ice breaking."

  "I won't," I said, but I was so excited I hardly cared what she said. Mom's shoe size and mine are close enough that I knew her skates would fit me fairly well. I went upstairs and found her skates in no time. I'd forgotten how beautiful ice skates are.

  I haven't been to Miller's Pond since I stopped swimming. I spend a lot of time in the woods around our house, but this was the longest I'd walked in them in months. The path was covered with dead leaves, but I didn't have any trouble following it.

  The strangest thing about the walk was how quiet things were. I'm really used to quiet by now. No TV, no computer, no cars, no noise. But this was the first time I noticed how the woods were quiet, too. No birds. No insects. No squirrels rustling around. No animals scurrying away at the sound of me crunching the leaves. I guess all the animals have left town. I hope Kansas lets them in.

  I could see from a distance that there was someone already skating. I had a rush of excitement. For one totally ridiculous moment I thought it was Dan.

  But as I got closer, I could see, whoever he was, he actually knew how to skate. I stood still for a few moments, and watched as the skater landed double axels.

  For a second I thought I should just go away. But I was too excited. I practically ran the rest of the way to the pond to see if I could be right, if it really could be Brandon Erlich.

  It was. "You're alive," I said as he bowed to my applause.

  "I may be, but my quad sure isn't," he said.

  "We thought you were dead," I said. "I mean your fans did. You were training in California. We didn't hear anything about you."

  "I was touring," he said. "We were safe and sound in Indianapolis. It took a long time to get word to my parents and it took even longer to get back here. But I've been here for a few months now. Do you skate, too?"

  I looked down self-consciously at Mom's skates. "I used to," I said. "I used to take lessons with Mrs. Daley."

  "Really?" he said. "She was my first coach."

  "I know," I said. "Sometimes she'd tell us how you were doing. We all rooted so hard for you. I bet you'd have medaled at the Olympics."

  Brandon grinned. "My mom still thinks that's going to happen," he said. "Like suddenly everything's going to be okay by February. Were you any good? Did you compete?"

  "A little bit," I said. "On the intermediate level. I had most of my doubles and I was working on a triple toe when I broke my ankle. Not even from skating. Just one of those dumb accidents. I took up swimming after that."

  "Swimming," Brandon said. "That's a lost art form. Put on your skates. Let's see how you do."

  "They're my mother's," I said. "I haven't been on the ice in a long time." It felt funny lacing up the skates while Brandon was watching.

  "Don't try any jumps," he said. "Just do some stroking. Let me see how your edges are."

  So I skated and he skated alongside me. I was wobbly at first, but then I got my feet under me and it felt almost natural being there.

  "Not bad," he said. "I bet Mrs. Daley was sorry when you stopped skating."

  I'd forgotten how glorious it felt to be skating, to glide across the ice. I never wanted to stop. But in just a few minutes it was hard to breathe.

  "The air," Brandon said. "I've been at it for a couple of weeks now and I've been building up resistance. Don't push too hard today. Give your lungs a chance to adjust."

  "Are your parents okay?" I asked after I caught my breath. "My mother knows your mother. You have enough food?"

  "Does anybody?" Brandon asked. "We haven't starved yet, so I guess we're okay." He stroked around the pond to build up speed and did a camel spin. Brandon used to have the most beautiful camel in the world. "Come on," he said. "How was your spiral? Up to Mrs. Daley's standards?"

  "No," I admitted. "My free leg was never high enough for her."

  "Then it's a good thing she isn't watching," he said. "Show me your spiral."

  It was an embarrassment. "Don't ask for my layback," I said. "I'm totally out of shape."

  "Well, you're certainly not overweight," he said. "If you practice enough, you should be fine. We'll hold our own Olympics. You can win the gold and the silver and the bronze."

  He reached out for my hand and we skated together, no sound but the sound of our blades (well, mine mostly) against the ice. I knew he was skating slowly to keep pace with me. I knew I was keeping him from practicing his jumps, his spins, his footwork. I knew the world really must have ended because I was skating with Brandon Erlich, the way I had so often in my fantasies.

  It really was heaven until I started coughing.

  "That's enough for one day," he said. "How about watching me? I miss an audience."

  So I stood by the side of the pond and watched Brandon do footwork and spins.

  After a few minutes, he started coughing, and skated to the edge of the pond. "It's cold standing here," he said. "Colder than the rinks."

  "And darker," I said.

  He nodded. "So you were a fan?" he asked. "Because I was local or did you really like my skating?"

  "Both," I said. "Mrs. Daley was always telling us about you. I love how you skate. Your line. Your extension. You were more than jumps. I really believed you could win at the Olympics."

  "I was a long shot," he said. "But I was aiming for gold."

  "Is Mrs. Daley all right?" I asked. "I haven't seen her since all this happened."

  "She and her husband left here in August," Brandon said. "They have a daughter in Texas."

  "How about all the other skaters?" I asked. "Do you know how they are?"

  He shook his head. "The ones on tour with me were okay when we split up," he said. "They were desperate to get home. I wasn't quite so desperate, but after a while I couldn't figure out any other place to go, so I made it back here. My father cried when he saw me. My mother always cries, but it was the first time I'd ever seen my father cry. I guess that means something."

  "I've stopped crying," I said. "My best friend died and I just got mad."

  "Come on," Brandon said. "Skate."

  So I did. It was a nothing skate, just stroking and a two-footed waltz jump and a ridiculous Ina Bauer. When I finished I didn't feel mad anymore.

  "Come back tomorrow?" he asked. "I'd forgotten how much fun it is to skate with somebody."

  "I'll try," I said, unlacing my skates and putting my shoes back on. "Thank you."

  "Thank you," he said. He went back on the ice and when I left him he was stroking around the pond, beautiful and alone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  October 26

  Mom tripped over her shoes yesterday morning, by the side of her mattress. She fell at a funny angle and hurt her ankle again.


  She wrapped it back up with the Ace bandage and said she wasn't going to baby herself this time; if she limped for the rest of her life, so be it. But she couldn't even manage to stand.

  She told Matt that she'd be fine in the kitchen, that there was no reason to move her back into the sunroom and have the woodstove going just for her, but he insisted. But since the pipes would freeze if we didn't keep the heat on (it was 12 degrees this afternoon; I guess Indian summer was pretty short this year), he and Mom decided the rest of us would keep sleeping where we had been.

  Some of this I'm okay with. I wouldn't have been crazy about doing the laundry with Mom lying on the mattress in the kitchen. It's hard enough to maneuver around when she's in the other room. But at least this way if I step on a mattress, I don't have to worry that I'm stepping on her.

  And I won't have any more housework to do. Mom gave up dusting and sweeping when we moved downstairs. The dining room is a lost cause, and it was too hard for her to get around the mattresses on the living room floor.

  So the only real problem is that it's up to me to make sure the fire doesn't go out in the woodstove. It's the only source of heat in the sunroom so it has to keep burning all night.

  I wake up a lot anyway. I just have to put a log or two on the fire every time I do. I made Mom promise if she woke up cold she'd yell to me to get up, but I don't know if she really will.

  Matt says he wakes up, too, and he'll check on it, which means he'll walk through the kitchen to get there and probably wake me up anyway.

  It would make sense for me to sleep in the sunroom, but the idea of even a little bit of privacy is so thrilling to me, I can't bear to give it up.

  Mom and I have been alternating visiting Mrs. Nesbitt, so I'll just take over her shift. If nothing else, that'll give me an excuse to leave the house. But no more skating. There's no way I could leave Mom to go to the pond and skate. It doesn't matter. I spent a lot of yesterday trying to decide if it all really happened or if I just made it up. Me skating with Brandon Erlich. Us actually talking. Him being so nice.

  I've made up stranger stuff than that.

  He was probably just being nice when he asked me to come back. He probably prefers skating by himself rather than being stuck with some dumb fan-girl klutz.

  Mom was upset that I wouldn't be able to go skating. She told me she'd be fine, but of course I couldn't leave her like that.

  "When you're better, I'll go skating again," I told her. "The pond isn't going to thaw out anytime soon."

  "I'm afraid not," she said. "But I feel so bad for you. You were finally doing something you enjoyed and now I've screwed things up again."

  I thought she was going to cry, but she didn't. I guess none of us is crying anymore.

  October 28

  Peter came by unexpectedly (well, all visits are unexpected these days, so what I mean is he wasn't summoned) and checked out Mom's ankle. He agreed it wasn't broken, but he said this sprain is worse than the last one and Mom needs to stay off her feet for at least two weeks, maybe more.

  He also thought Mom might have broken one of her toes, but he said there's nothing that can be done about it, so why even worry. Which is pretty funny, coming from Peter.

  There doesn't seem much point to sleeping all night, since I have to check the fire regularly, so I'm grabbing naps day and night. I sleep for two to three hours, then wake up and do whatever needs to be done, and then go back to sleep. Actually the smartest time for me to sleep would be in the early evening, when Matt and Jon are home and can tend the fire, but that's the time I most want to be awake. Sometimes I nod off anyway.

  It's driving Mom crazy that she can't do anything, but there's not much any of us can do about that.

  Oh, and I have an exciting new job as well. Mom can't make it to the bathroom and Matt located a bedpan in the attic, and I get to clean it. I keep threatening to put kitty litter in it.

  It's funny. Mom sprained her ankle a few weeks ago, and things were okay. It was a good time. Not that much has changed since then, but it certainly isn't a good time.

  October 29

  I told Mrs. Nesbitt about Peter's visit and what he'd said about Mom. I didn't leave any of it out, including the part where Peter said that even after Mom could walk around the house she wasn't to think about walking outside.

  "I guess you're stuck with me for a while," I said.

  Mrs. Nesbitt surprised me. "Good," she said. "It's better that way."

  I thought it had taken courage to tell Mrs. Nesbitt about Mom's ankle. It took a lot more courage to ask her why it was better that way.

  "I didn't want your mother to find me dead," Mrs. Nesbitt said. "It won't be fun for you, either, but you're younger and I mean less to you."

  "Mrs. Nesbitt!" I said.

  She gave me one of those looks that used to terrify me when I was very little. "This is no time for make-believe," she said. "I could be dead tomorrow. We need to talk honestly. No point beating around the bush."

  "I don't want you to die," I said.

  "I appreciate that," she said. "Now when I do die and you find me, here are the important things. First of all, do whatever you want with my body. Whatever is easiest. Peter dropped by to visit me after he left your house and he told me that a dozen or more people are dying every day around here. I'm no better than any of them, and probably a fair amount worse than some. Peter says the hospital is still taking bodies so if that's what works for you, it'll be fine for me. Never liked the idea of burial anyway, always preferred cremation. My husband's ashes are scattered in the Atlantic somewhere so it's not like our graves would be side by side."

  "All right," I said. "If I find your body, I'll tell Matt and he'll get you to the hospital."

  "Good," she said. "Now after I'm gone, go through the house and take everything you can possibly use. Don't worry about leaving things for my heirs. I haven't heard from my son or his family since May so I have to assume they won't be needing my things. If any of them show up at your doorstep and you still have something of mine, give it to them. But don't worry about it. Go through the whole house, attic to cellar. My car has some gas in it, so you can put all my things in it and drive back to your place. Don't be bashful. I won't be needing anything and the more you have, the better your chances. This is going to be a long and terrible winter and I'd be very angry if I thought you left something behind that could have helped you get through it."

  "Thank you," I said.

  "After I die, wrap me up in a sheet," she said. "Don't waste a blanket on it. And even if someone in my family comes back, I want your mother to have my diamond pendant and you to have my ruby brooch. Those are my gifts for the two of you and don't you forget it. Matt's to have the painting of the sailboats, because he always liked that when he was little, and Jonny should have the landscape in the dining room. I don't know if he likes it or not, but he's entitled to something and that's a good piece. You probably can't use any of my furniture, but you might want to take it for firewood."

  "You have antiques," I said. "We couldn't burn them."

  "Speaking of burning things, I burned all my letters and diaries," she said. "Not that there was a single interesting word in any of them. But I didn't want you to be tempted so they're all gone. I kept the albums, though. Your mother might get a kick going through them, seeing the old pictures of her family. You have all that?"

  I nodded.

  "Good," she said. "Don't tell your mother any of this until after I'm gone. She has enough to worry about. But when I've died, you be sure to tell your mother I loved her like a daughter and all of you like grandchildren. Tell her I'm just as glad she didn't see me at the end and she should never feel guilty that she couldn't come by for one last visit."

  "We love you," I said. "We all love you so much."

  "I should think so," she said. "Now tell me. Have you started your schoolwork yet?"

  Of course I haven't, but I recognized a change of subject and went along with it.


  When I got home I put wood in the stove and curled up for a nap. It was easier sleeping (or pretending to sleep) than trying to make small talk with Mom about Mrs. Nesbitt. I've never really thought about what it would be like to be an old woman. Of course nowadays I'm not sure I'll live long enough to be any kind of a woman.

  But I hope when I get closer to death, however old I might be, that I can face it with courage and good sense the way Mrs. Nesbitt does. I hope that's a lesson I've truly learned.

  November 1

  Matt hovered around the house all morning, which was unusual. He's been even more obsessive about chopping wood ever since Mom moved back into the sunroom. I know it's because we're using up firewood earlier than planned, but it still annoys me just a little. I'd like him to stay indoors occasionally and clean the bedpan.

  Sometime this afternoon I could hear the sound of a car in our driveway. Matt bolted outside and the next thing I knew he, Jon, and a couple of guys I didn't recognize were moving sheets of plywood out of a pickup truck and into the sunroom. Mom watched but she didn't say anything, so I guess she knew about it.

  After the guys left, Matt and Jon spent the rest of the day covering the windows in the sunroom with the plywood. When the house was first built, the sunroom didn't exist— it was just a back porch, and windows in the kitchen and dining room looked out on it. But when the porch was enclosed, the spaces stayed where the kitchen and dining room windows were even though the actual windows were removed. That's where a lot of the light in both rooms comes from, since the sunroom has skylights and three walls of windows (plus the outside door, of course). Matt blocked off the kitchen/sunroom window with the plywood, and put a sheet of plywood in front of the dining room/sunroom window so it can be pushed aside for easier access to the firewood.

  Now the only natural light in the sunroom comes from the skylights. Not that there's been much sunlight lately, but the room is a lot darker.