Until... | Book 1 | Until The Sun Goes Down

by Hamill, Ike

  My uncle would have insisted that we fix the glass immediately. He was big on setting things right before he went to bed. Sometimes we stayed up until after midnight hanging a door or patching the siding. When I was a kid, staying up late felt like a precious treat.

  At the moment, I just want to half-ass this repair enough so I can take a nap. Just being out in the daylight has tapped my strength.

  In the hospital, when I first recovered the ability to communicate, I kept asking what happened to my hand. I guess I thought that if they couldn’t give me a reasonable answer that they would have to give me my hand back. The different doctors all said the same thing.

  “The infection was beyond treatment.”

  That’s when I always asked the obvious follow up question, “What infection?”

  Usually, the doctor would blink rapidly instead of answering. There was a lot of talk about biopsies and antibiotics. We were going to, “Watch and wait.”

  I guess that whatever they were watching for never came because I never heard much more about it.

  Another part of me thinks that maybe the staff simply gave up. Maybe they decided that having me out of the hospital, away from the other patients, was a better strategy. At some point, when the fire is out of control, the fire department just stands back and makes sure that the flames don’t spread to the neighbors.

  With the windows plugged up with cardboard, I go out and sit on the stairs. The truck is gone—hauled away. There’s still a scorched black section of ditch as a reminder. I don’t last long on the stairs. Even though the sun is on the other side of the house, it’s too bright out.

  I go back inside.

  Instead of heading through the living room and climbing the stairs to my room, I take a left. My pickled jar of urine is still in the pantry. After I toss that in the dooryard, I close the door to the shed and push shut the door to the kitchen.

  The darkness is almost perfect.

  PART FIVE:

  Rebirth

  Growth

  (Night is better.)

  Night is better.

  When I wake up, it’s completely dark. My wrist both aches and itches, so I take off the bandage, intending to change it. It feels so much better when it’s naked, that I just decide to leave it that way. The kitchen remains a disaster. I pull out the fridge as much as I can and I start to clean between it and the wall. In the beginning, I’m using tongs to move the larger items to the trash. By the end, I’m barehanding rotted food to the garbage can.

  When I try to wash my hand, I remember that I don’t have running water.

  Everything seems hopeless again. I want to go back to the pantry and hide from reality.

  This time, I force myself to face my problems.

  With my hand on the doorknob, looking out into the night, I realize something that should have struck me earlier—I don’t have power.

  I mean, I knew that before. They haven’t strung up the new power lines. I have no power or water until they do, that’s why the cops told me not to stay in the house.

  I turn back to the refrigerator. The whole time I was cleaning, it never once occurred to me that the lights weren’t on. I didn’t use a flashlight or anything, and it never bothered me. I suppose I was too distracted by trying to navigate the task with only one hand.

  That’s the only explanation I can come up with as I walk across the dooryard, around the barn, and head down to the path to the old well. The grass is tall. Despite the heat, everything grows fast in the summer in Maine. The plants know that they have a short window to establish themselves before winter.

  I stop on the way and pick some berries. They’re disappointing—crunchy and tasteless—until I find one juicy berry that makes it all worthwhile.

  Uncle Walt maintained one summer well out near the pasture. It has a hand pump and the water that comes out is clear and sweet. I have to prime the pump with a scoop of disgusting water that has been sitting in the bucket, growing algae.

  Once the water is flowing, I work the pump with my forearm and let the water spill over my dirty hand. I have to really take care of this hand now. It’s the last one I have.

  I laugh out loud at that and then I sigh.

  I sit down in the grass and look up at the stars.

  Will there ever be a time when things return to normal?

  Am I ever going to get to a time when I can look back and make sense of this summer?

  I got swept into an insane current and tried to ride it out. I suppose that I should feel lucky. With everything that happened to me, I just as easily could have died. Wasn’t that the plan though? At some point, I think I decided that death would be better and I stalked death through that long night, trying to hunt it down. I offered it my throat and it wouldn’t bite. All I lost was my hand.

  When I spot another berry, I snatch it.

  Halfway to my mouth, I inspect the thing. I want to make sure it’s one of the good ones.

  I blink at it for several seconds until I get a good look.

  Scrambling backwards across the grass, I pitch the thing away from me. It wasn’t a berry. It was a tick and I was about to put it in my mouth. The thought of that makes my stomach twist and lurch.

  I push to my feet and head back towards the house.

  If I had been thinking clearly, I would have brought a bucket or pitcher in order to take water back to the house. There will be plenty of time later, I suppose. I don’t have anything else to do.

  Rounding the corner of the barn, I see their lights coming down the road. We’re on a collision course. The car that’s coming to visit is going to reach my uncle’s dooryard at the same time that I will. For a moment, I entertain the idea of running. I’m not expecting anyone, and I can’t imagine that the visitor is bringing good news.

  Then again, this is my house. I nearly died defending it. Why would I hide from company?

  I straighten up and walk towards the kitchen door, raising my arm to shield my eyes from the headlights. When they get closer, I recognize the shape of the vehicle. It’s the cops.

  They stop just over the culvert. The driver turns off the engine and switches off the headlights. The house is still bathed in the amber glow of the parking lights.

  I keep walking until I get to the side porch stairs. I stop and sit. I don’t want to appear to be confrontational. In the hospital, I learned that cops are like caged dogs. They respond to aggression with aggression.

  “Can I help you?”

  I recognize her voice when she speaks. She’s the one who first interviewed me after my amputation. She took advantage of my condition that time. I was still on really strong drugs.

  “Didn’t we talk about you getting a hotel room?” she asks.

  “I will,” I say. I’ve already slipped up. Why would I volunteer to do that? “I haven’t finished cleaning up. It’s going to be a long process.”

  “You need your rest,” she says. “After what you’ve been through, you need to take it easy for a while.”

  “Your concern is very kind,” I say.

  The person driving is leaning against the hood of the police car. The woman is still approaching.

  I wish I knew my rights. Can I order them to vacate my property? I guess that would be a bad idea. The last thing I need is a combative relationship with the police.

  “You’re right on the line,” she says.

  “Pardon?”

  I look down, wondering what line she’s talking about.

  “With a slightly different interpretation of the evidence out here, you could have been considered a suicide risk.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. She would be easy to take care of, I’m pretty sure of that. Her partner is too far away though. I shake my head, dismissing that weird thought. I’ve never been a violent person.

  “Are you threatening to have me committed?”

  “That’s a hard thing to do,” she says. “It’s not so hard to hold you for a couple of days though. I actually argued to let you
go on your way. In my opinion, you were still confused from heatstroke and infection. I thought that once you got back on your feet, you would be perfectly reasonable.”

  “Is there something unreasonable about wanting to clean up the house before I go find a hotel?”

  She pauses, looking between me and the broken windows. I’m glad that I put up the cardboard. It gives her evidence that I’ve been working to fix up the house.

  Her voice is softer when she speaks again.

  “Please don’t wear yourself out,” she says. I can’t tell if her kind tone is just an act. “I can see that you’re tough, but don’t underestimate what your body has been through.”

  I take a breath, count to three, and then let it out.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m just afraid that I would toss and turn all night with the house in disarray, you know?”

  She smiles and nods.

  “When do you get your power back?”

  “Who knows. CMP is on their own schedule, as usual. They’re probably charging me double for the electricity that I don’t use.”

  That’s something that Uncle Walt used to say. Mom would ask him why he didn’t get a generator, and Uncle Walt would claim that Central Maine Power charges people double for every watt they don’t provide.

  She laughs. Nobody around here trusts CMP.

  “You mind if we come and check in on you again in the future?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Just yell if you don’t see me. I could be out back or down in the cellar.”

  She is backing towards the car and waving.

  She says something very quietly to her partner when she gets to the car. They’re too far away from me for me to hear them, but I do anyway.

  She says, “He’s nuts, but I don’t think he’s dangerous.”

  They get in their car and drive away.

  I watch until they’re over the hill and then I listen to the engine until they’re past Mr. Engel’s house. I’m curious as to whether they will stop there and check on his empty house.

  They don’t.

  (I have a visitor.)

  I have a visitor.

  The knocking wakes me and I sit up fast. There’s a towel at the bottom of the door to block out the light. I move it aside and see that it’s not too bright. The sun must be going down. I would have woken up pretty soon anyway.

  I stand up in the pantry, smooth my hair with my hand and wipe my face. When I walk out of here, I want to look presentable, like I haven’t been sleeping in the pantry all day.

  It’s probably the cops again.

  When I open the door and emerge, I don’t recognize the face on the other side of the kitchen door.

  She spots me just as I’m deciding to slink back into the shadows of the pantry.

  I wave with my nub and then slip it behind my back in embarrassment. In the hospital, one of the occupational therapists told me about proprioception. Maybe I’m remembering this wrong. He told me that I would likely still feel like I had a hand for quite some time. For a while, I shouldn’t be surprised if I reach for things or try to wave with a hand that isn’t there. It’s still embarrassing.

  The woman on the other side of the door doesn’t seem to notice. She squints at me through the glass in the upper half of the door and I open it up, trying to smile.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” she says. “I’m Amber.”

  For several seconds, the name doesn’t help me at all. I simply stare at her with a dumb smile plastered on my face.

  It comes back to me in a burst.

  “Amber! Mr. Engel’s… I guess I never knew your relation to Mr. Engel. You’re too young to be his niece?”

  She blushes and looks down. The rush of blood to her face makes her almost glow.

  “Yes, grand niece, I guess. My mother was his youngest niece.”

  I nod and we stand there awkwardly for a moment.

  “Sorry. Come in, I say.”

  I’m holding the door with my good hand so I gesture with my nub again.

  “Oh, thank you,” she says. She moves through the doorway carefully, like she’s entering a cave and doesn’t want to disturb any of the roosting bats.

  When I turn and look at the kitchen through fresh eyes, I understand. The kitchen is dark and still smells of rotted food, despite my efforts to clean it up. There are large pieces of broken glass stacked on the counter. I’m not sure how to dispose of them without the shards poking through the trash bags.

  “There was an accident,” I say. I gesture towards a chair and take one for myself. “The truck exploded and broke the windows. It took down the power pole as well.”

  She nods. “I saw the power trucks today. Looks like they nearly have your house connected again.”

  I lean back to look through the window. She’s right. The line is back up to the pole, and there’s a brand new transformer installed there. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have the electricity back. I’m not sure I still want it. The house seems just fine without it.

  “I didn’t think you were coming to town,” I say.

  “I figured I better check on the house,” she says. “I had some time off and I realized that I hadn’t seen the place in so long that I didn’t even really remember what it was like, you know?”

  I nod. I never had that problem with Uncle Walt’s house. I knew this house better than any house my mother rented. Sometimes I would wake up in my bed in Virginia and expect to set my feet down on the wide floors of this house. It was always a shock to find out I wasn’t at Uncle Walt’s.

  “Plus, I wanted to get a head start on figuring out what was in the house before my cousin gets there. Evan has sticky fingers,” she says. She blushes again. “We’re going to have a kind of lottery for everyone to pick the mementos that we want to keep. Everything else will get sold or donated, I suppose. Personally, I don’t have any real attachment to his things, so I guess I will remove myself.”

  “That’s kind,” I say.

  She starts to push back from the table.

  “I didn’t mean to come steal your time. I want to thank you for checking in on my uncle. I’m so glad that he didn’t die alone, and that’s because you were so thoughtful.”

  She looks at her hands and I can tell she’s barely keeping in her emotions.

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  I reach out with my nub before I remember that there are no fingers there to comfort her with.

  She glances and catches sight of it. I see her eyes go wide.

  “The accident,” I say. “I lost it in the accident.”

  It looks like a question has risen to her lips but she’s too polite to ask it.

  A silence grows between us. She opens her mouth to fill it.

  “I don’t know how you cope with the quiet out here. I was only in that house a few hours before I felt like I had lost touch with reality, you know? Maybe it’s because my uncle’s house is like a time capsule. Everything in the house is from 1960, it seems.”

  “Earlier than that,” I say.

  We laugh.

  “And there’s nobody around.”

  Her shoulders come together as a shiver passes through her.

  “I used to come up a lot,” I say. “Mom didn’t know what to do with me in the summers anyway, so she sent me up to stay with my uncle. It’s a slower pace, but you would be surprised. Even coming from the city, it doesn’t take more than a day or two to settle into the rhythm. It’s all about just looking around and seeing the world for how it is instead of what we expect it to be.”

  We fall silent again.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I realize that my eyes are filling up. I wipe them away with my good hand.

  “Can I…” she starts to say. A painful look crosses her face and then she puts it away. “I should go.”

  “No,” I say. “You were going to ask me something, right? Ask it.”

  I feel really close to Amber. Maybe it’s because we shared Mr. Eng
el. Maybe it’s because we had almost completely different experiences with our uncles. Well, it was my uncle and her great uncle, but it’s the same thing. Whatever the reason, I feel like Amber and I have a lot in common. I want her to ask whatever is on her mind.

  “Please tell me to mind my own business if this is an impolite question,” she says.

  “Go ahead.”

  “You said you lost your hand in an accident.”

  “Yeah,” I say. My nub is under the table, but it itches like it knows that it’s the object of our conversation. “The same accident that burned up the truck and knocked out the power.”

  This is a slight exaggeration, but it simplifies the story.

  “So… Is it…”

  It’s clearly terrifying for her to ask the question. Her curiosity compels her forward.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Is it growing back?”

  I laugh. It feels good—all that happy air bursting from my chest. Of all the things I though she was going to ask me, this question never crossed my mind.

  “No,” I say when I catch my breath. “Of course not. It was so infected that they had to amputate it. Funny story—I never even got a clear picture on what the infection was. I mean, I know they had me on antibiotics through the IV. I’m still on pills now.”

  Actually, I had stopped taking the pills, despite the doctor’s dire warnings to finish them.

  “I’m so sorry for being nosey,” she says.

  “No problem,” I say with a big smile. “I haven’t gotten used to it, but I shouldn’t be self-conscious, you know? It’s just funny that…”

  She cuts me off with, “I guess I saw a shadow or something. There isn’t much light.”

  “No,” I say. “Not until CMP gets their stuff together.”

  I don’t mention that I have no intention of going back to electric light. After the last couple of days of communing with the darkness, I’ve come to enjoy it. Electric light would feel like a giant step backwards.

  To set her mind at ease, I pull out my nub from under the table. I don’t know if this happens to everyone, but I’m really embarrassed about my amputation. It’s like some deep vulnerability that I desperately don’t want the world to know about. I like Amber, and it feels like I can trust her, so I raise the nub over the table, into the last of the dying light in the kitchen.