Last Survivors 01 - Life as We Knew It

by Susan Beth Pfeffer

  January 17

  Everybody was crabby and demanding. Get me this. Bring me that. I'm hot. I'm cold. It's too bright. It's too dark. Why did you do that? Why didn't you do that?

  I swear I hate them all.

  January 19

  I can see how much better everyone is. I'm worried most about Matt. He was never as sick as Mom or Jonny, but he's still very weak.

  I worry that when he helped me pull Mom and Jonny out of the sunroom he might have strained his heart.

  Mom and Jonny both walked a few steps today.

  January 21

  I'm feeding everybody three meals a day. It's probably suicidal, but it's just so wonderful to see them eat.

  Mom says tomorrow she's going to be strong enough to do the cooking.

  Jon asked for his baseball cards and he stayed up all afternoon organizing them. Matt asked me to bring him a murder mystery and he spent the day reading it.

  This evening Matt told me not to worry about the fire. He'd make sure to keep it going during the night. I should just get a good night's sleep.

  I'm going to take him up on that.

  January 23

  I guess I slept for two straight days. I feel real groggy and hungry.

  Mom's making me a cup of tea. Matt and Jon are playing chess.

  Even Horton is sleeping on my mattress.

  I think we're going to be okay.

  January 26

  I climbed onto the roof today and cleared the snow off. It's been on my list of things to do since that awful night, but I wanted to make sure someone would be strong enough to rescue me if I got into trouble.

  Jon's getting stronger faster than Mom or Matt. By this afternoon, I figured I could take my chances. It was hard work, and I can't imagine how much harder it must have been after the blizzard when there was so much more snow.

  I'm actually doing everybody's work these days: snow removal and all the laundry, etc. But tomorrow Jon'll start doing the dishes. He's eager to do stuff, but we all agree it's better for him to take things slow and make sure he recovers fully. Mom wasn't crazy about his being outside all the time I did the roof cleaning, but I worked as fast as I could and Jon doesn't seem any the worse for it.

  I'm more tired than I used to be, but I think that'll pass. The important thing is I didn't get sick and we all think if I didn't then, I'm not going to now. Me and Maggie and Linda. I hope they had as good luck with their families as I did with mine.

  January 27

  I was in the kitchen doing laundry when Mom joined me. "You shouldn't be here," I said. "Go back to the sunroom."

  "I will in a minute," she said. "But this seemed like a good time to talk."

  There was a time when that tone would have meant I was in trouble. Now it just means she wants some private conversation. I smiled at her and kept scrubbing.

  "I want you to know how proud I am of you," she said. "There aren't words to say how grateful I am. We would have died without you and we all know that. We owe you our lives."

  "You would have done the same for me," I said, staring at the dirty underwear. I knew if I looked at Mom I'd start crying, and I didn't want to do that because I worry if I start crying I'll never stop.

  "You're a very special girl," Mom said. "No, you're a very special woman, Miranda. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," I said. "Is that it? Because if it is, you really should go back to the sunroom."

  "There is one other thing," she said. "I'm confused about something. Those first few days—well, everything is hazy in my mind. Was Peter here? I think I remember you going to get him, but I don't remember seeing him. Did you get to see him? Did he know we were sick? I know it's close to impossible to get from here to the hospital, so I don't even know if you made it. But did you try? I'm sorry. I'm just trying to put all this together and make sense of it."

  This time I looked away from the laundry. I dried my hands off and turned to face Mom. "I made it to the hospital," I said. "That first day. Matt was too sick to go, so I went. Basically I was told what I already knew, that you all had the flu and you should be kept warm and given aspirin and made comfortable until you got better. So I came back and did all that."

  "Did you see Peter?" Mom asked.

  "No," I said. "I spoke to two women there, nurses I think."

  1 turned away from her and willed myself to be brave. "Mom, Peter's dead," I said. "The nurses told me. The flu decimated everyone at the hospital, patients and staff. You got sick on Tuesday and he'd died the weekend before. I don't know for sure, but I think a lot of people in town died. Maybe people all over the country. It was that kind of flu. We were incredibly lucky you all pulled through. Well, not completely because of luck. You've seen to it we've had food and water and shelter and heat. Even Matt making us move into the sunroom when we still had heating oil probably saved your lives because when we needed the oil, we still had some."

  Mom stood there stone-faced.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I haven't wanted to tell you. The nurses said he worked to the end. He was a hero."

  "I wish we didn't need so damn many heroes," Mom said, and went back to the sunroom.

  Me too.

  January 30

  Matt remains weak, which is really annoying him. Mom keeps telling him that people recuperate at different speeds and he should just not rush things.

  But I think he's never going to be 100% again.

  Jon's regained most of his strength and he's impatient to be doing things, but Mom's keeping him on a limited schedule. Except for that one day when I cleared off the roof, he's stayed in the sunroom. Since he can wash the dishes in the old basin we found in the cellar, he doesn't even have to leave the sunroom to do that.

  Mom isn't as strong as I'd like her to be, but I know she's also sad about Peter. After I told her, she had me tell Matt and Jonny, too, so now everybody knows, but of course it's Mom who feels it the worst.

  Now that it's been a couple of weeks since the fevers broke, I figure I can do some stuff on my own. This afternoon I took the skis and went back to the road to practice.

  It was glorious being alone and outside and doing something other than nursing and housework. And since my trek to the hospital, I've been thinking how I really should get better on the skis. I don't know when Matt will be strong enough to go any distance, and one of us needs to be able to get around. That leaves Jon and me, and I have a head start.

  This is my time. I've earned it.

  February 2

  Mom must be getting better. She asked if I'd forgotten about schoolwork.

  "It hasn't been my highest priority," I said.

  "Well, we need to change that," she said. "For all of us. Jonny, there's no reason why you can't go back to algebra. Matt can help you. And I'm going to forget all my French if I don't start working on it. We don't want our brains to rot away."

  "Mom," I said, "I'm doing all the housework and I'm skiing. What more do you want from me?"

  "I don't want back talk from you, I can tell you that," she said. "Now open up that history textbook and get to work "

  It's a good thing I didn't burn it. Or maybe it's not such a good thing!

  February 4

  Matt needed something from his bedroom.

  It's hard for Mom to get upstairs since she fell the second time, so I go to her room if she needs something from there. Jon only started going upstairs last weekend. Up till then, I got whatever he needed, and of course I've been doing the same for Matt.

  "Do you think you're ready?" Mom asked him.

  "Sure," Matt said. "I wouldn't do it if I weren't."

  Mom exchanged glances with me, but when I started to get up to go with him, she shook her head ever so slightly.

  Matt made his way out of the sunroom, through the kitchen, down the hallway to the staircase. I don't think any of us breathed as we heard his lumbering steps on the staircase.

  Then the sounds stopped.

  "Go," Mom said to me.

  I ra
n to the staircase. Matt was standing 4 steps up.

  "I can't do it," he said. "Damn it to hell. I can't get up the stairs."

  "Then stop trying," I said. "Just come down and try some other time."

  "What if there isn't another time?" he said. "What if I'm a useless invalid for the rest of my life?"

  "You may be an invalid, but you'll never be useless," I said. "Matt, has it occurred to you that the reason you're so weak is because you pulled Mom and Jonny out of the sunroom that night? That maybe you sacrificed your health to save their lives and that's something you should be proud of? They wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you. You have no idea how much you give to us every single day. You think I liked nursing all of you? I hated it. But I'd think of how you do things, without complaining. You just do what has to be done, and I tried to be like you. So walk down those stairs and get back to bed and if you stay exactly the way you are now, you'll still be the strongest person I've ever known."

  "It takes one to know one," he said.

  "Great," I said. "We're both the bestest people ever. Now tell me what you want upstairs and go to the sunroom before Mom gets hysterical."

  So he did. I watched to make sure he made it down the stairs, then I ran upstairs and got what he needed in the first place.

  It's going to kill us if Matt doesn't get stronger. But he doesn't need to know that.

  February 7

  Mom's birthday.

  Christmas, when Mom had shared her candy with us, I ate 2 of the 4 pieces I took, and saved the other 2.

  So Mom's birthday present was 2 pieces of candy. Jon let her beat him in chess. And Matt walked to and from the staircase 3 times. She said it was the best birthday she'd ever had.

  Chapter Twenty

  February 9

  Jon's strong enough to demand time on the skis and I've run out of excuses to keep him from using them.

  Every morning I go out and ski by myself for an hour or so. It keeps my mind off food, and that's good, too.

  Then after lunch I go out with Jon and watch while he skis. Mom won't let him be outside alone yet. He doesn't last more than 15—20 minutes, so it's really not that bad.

  Matt walks to and from the staircase 3 times every morning and 4 times after lunch. I think he's going to try climbing the stairs next week, just a couple at first, and then build up, however long it takes.

  Mom isn't ready to do laundry, but she's making our lunches again. Somehow everything tastes better if Mom's the one who prepares it.

  At my insistence (and I love that I actually won an argument) we kept the plywood off the one window. Most of the snow is gone from the skylights, so there's a little more natural light in the sunroom. I don't think the air quality is much better, but I can tell the days are getting longer.

  There's a lot of stuff to worry about, but I've given myself a holiday. I can always worry next week instead.

  February 12

  I came home from my morning ski and found Mom frying something in the skillet.

  It smelled wonderful. We haven't had any fresh vegetables in so long, and there's no point frying canned spinach or string beans. We were practically jumping with excitement by the time Mom served lunch. I couldn't figure out what we were eating. The texture was kind of like an onion, but the taste was a little bitter.

  "What is it?" we all asked.

  "Tulip bulbs," Mom said. "I pulled them out of the ground last summer before the ground froze. I've been saving them for a nice treat."

  We all stopped chewing. It was almost as though Mom had sauted Gorton.

  "Come on," Mom said. "We won't be the first people to eat tulip bulbs."

  It was a comforting thought. That and hunger pushed us through lunch.

  February 14

  Valentine's Day.

  I wonder where Dan is.

  Wherever he is, he's probably not thinking of me.

  February 15

  Matt walked up 6 steps. We all pretended like this was no big deal.

  February 18

  I stayed in this morning. I said it was because the book I was reading was so interesting, but of course that was a lie.

  We had lunch and then Jon and I went out while he did his skiing. I thought he'd never get tired, but after a half hour or so he was ready to go back in. I think by next week Mom'll let him go out on his own.

  We went back to the house together. I ran in, got the skates, took the skis and the shoes and the poles from Jon, and said I'd be home in a couple of hours.

  And then I did what no other athlete has done before. I won 2 Olympic gold medals in 2 different sports in the same afternoon.

  First I won the cross-country ski race. I went from home to Miller's Pond and won by so much I couldn't even see my competitors.

  But that was just a warm-up. When I got to the pond, I skated my legendary gold medal-winning long program. I could hear the thousands of people in the stands cheering my every move. My crossovers, my Mohawks, my spiral, my spins. My breathtaking single toe loop. My Ina Bauer. The brilliantly choreographed, seemingly spontaneous footwork sequence.

  The ice was showered with flowers and teddy bears. The TV commentators said they were honored to be in the arena to see such a performance. I wiped away a tear or two in the kiss and cry. Every one of my competitors came up to me and congratulated me on the skate of the century. I stood proudly on the podium as the American flag went up. I smiled and sang along to "The Star Spangled Banner."

  America's darling. The greatest athlete in American history. And a shoo-in for 8 gold medals in swimming at the next Summer Olympics.

  "Did you have a good time?" Mom asked when I got back from the pond.

  "The best," I told her.

  February 20

  "Jonny, why haven't you eaten any supper?" Mom asked him this evening.

  "I'm not hungry," he said.

  That's the third day in a row he hasn't been hungry at suppertime.

  I guess he went into the pantry when none of us were looking. I guess he knows now what the rest of us figured out already.

  I wonder if he's noticed that Mom's hardly eating anything.

  February 22

  We were all asleep when suddenly noises woke us up. Noises and light.

  I think we all woke up disoriented. The only noise we ever hear is each other and the wind. And light comes only from the woodstove, candles, oil lamps, and flashlights.

  This was a different kind of noise, a different kind of light.

  Matt figured it out first. "It's electricity," he said. "We have electricity."

  We leaped off our mattresses and ran through the house. The overhead light was on in the kitchen. A long-forgotten radio was broadcasting static in the living room. The clock radio was flashing the time in my bedroom.

  Mom had the good sense to look at her watch. It was 2:05 AM.

  By 2:09 the electricity was off.

  But we all can't help thinking if it came on once, it'll come on again.

  February 24

  "You know," Mom said at lunch today. "That little burst of electricity got me thinking."

  "Me too," I said. "About washing machines and dryers."

  "Computers," Jon said. "DVD players."

  "Refrigerators," Matt said. "Electric heaters."

  "Yes, all of that," Mom said. "But what I was really thinking about was radio."

  "All we got was static," Matt pointed out.

  "But if we have electricity, maybe other places have it, too, and radio stations are broadcasting again," Mom said. "And we don't need electricity to find that out. We should turn on a radio and see if we can get any stations."

  For a moment I wanted to tell Mom not to try, that the whole world had probably died from the flu and we were the last ones left on earth. I think that sometimes.

  But then I realized someone had to have done something to give us those four glorious minutes of electricity.

  The thought of our not being alone was thrilling. I ran into the liv
ing room and got the radio.

  Mom's fingers actually trembled as she turned it on and tried to get a station. But all we got was static.

  "We'll try again tonight," she said. "After sundown."

  And we did. We waited all day for the sky to go from gray to black.

  When it finally did, Mom turned the radio on again. At first all we heard was static. But then we heard a man's voice.

  "In Cleveland, Harvey Aaron," the man said. "Joshua Aaron. Sharon Aaron. Ibin Abraham. Doris Abrams. Michael Abrams. John Ackroyd. Mary Ackroyd. Helen Atchinson. Robert Atchinson ..."

  "It's a list of the dead," Matt said. "He's reading the names of the dead."

  "But that means people are alive," Mom said. "Someone has to be reporting who died. Someone has to be listening."

  She played with the dial some more.

  "In other news today, the president said the country has turned the corner. Better times are predicted for the weeks to come with life being back to normal by May."

  "The idiot's still alive!" Mom cried. "And he's still an idiot!"

  We burst out laughing.

  We listened to that station for a while, until we figured out it was broadcasting from Washington. Then Mom found a third station, out of Chicago. It was broadcasting news, also. Most of the news was bad, the way it had been last summer. Earthquakes, floods, volcanoes, the litany of natural disasters. There were a few things added to the list, though: Flu epidemics and cholera. Famine. Droughts. Ice storms.

  But it was still news. There was life going on.

  We aren't alone.

  February 25

  Matt figured if the radio stations were back on, maybe we had phone service and just didn't know it. So he picked up the phone, but it was still dead.

  The only person who might be trying to reach us is Dad. Other than that, it doesn't matter.

  February 26

  Electricity again.

  This time at 1 in the afternoon, and it lasted for 10 minutes.