Alone

by Megan E. Freeman

  from family and

  luxuries of civilization.

  Together we can overcome and

  together we will. Together we do.

  I close the book

  curl up on my side

  and sleep the sweet

  peaceful sleep

  of fantasy.

  Teenager

  September 28.

  I wake up early.

  I know it’s my birthday because

  I’ve been marking the days

  on Mom’s calendar.

  126 days since evacuation.

  Jennifer and I had planned a big

  shopping trip for the perfect

  teenager outfit.

  I nudge the sleeping dog.

  George opens one eye

  blinks at me, lets out a loud

  sigh and closes it again.

  I don’t need his help.

  I pull out Mom’s evening gowns

  and hold them up.

  Dark blue with

  rhinestones scattered

  across one shoulder and

  down the back.

  I slip it over my head.

  Slide into a pair of Mom’s

  fancy strappy heels.

  Too high and

  too pinched.

  Flip-flops are better.

  My feet don’t show.

  I shake my hair out

  of its braid.

  Pin it to the top of my head

  in a glamorous updo.

  I dig through Mom’s vanity.

  Rhinestone choker.

  Fancy cocktail ring.

  Old-fashioned, sparkly

  clip-on earrings.

  I put on eye shadow

  and blush.

  Line my lips

  the way Emma

  taught me.

  I’m a movie star.

  I stand in front of

  the full-length mirror

  and strike a

  Katharine Hepburn

  pose.

  George cocks his head.

  He sees the improvement

  over my usual

  post-evacuation fashion.

  No dystopian

  lack of style

  today.

  Today

  I’m a teenage

  goddess.

  Sometimes I act younger

  than I am, but

  I don’t care.

  There’s nobody

  here to see.

  As the only human

  resident of

  Millerville, Colorado

  I can do

  whatever I please

  on my

  birthday.

  Visitor

  George sniffs around

  doing his business

  and I promenade

  my finery through

  the backyard.

  Dry, brittle tufts

  of grass catch the

  tulle underskirt

  and make it

  difficult to glide.

  Mom and Paul

  would die

  if they could see

  the state of the yard

  but what can I do

  without water

  for sprinklers?

  Is Mom recognizing the date?

  Trevor turned one already.

  Are the twins ten yet?

  George growls.

  Ten feet away

  in the middle of

  the backyard

  is a coyote.

  George barks.

  The coyote stares back.

  George rushes it.

  The coyote hesitates

  for a split second

  before bounding

  over the fence

  and disappearing

  into the tall grass.

  George barks and barks.

  Sniffs all around where

  the coyote was.

  I run up on the deck.

  Look in the direction

  the coyote ran.

  Can’t see

  any sign of it.

  George keeps sniffing

  and barking.

  Pacing back and forth

  in front of the fence

  where the coyote

  jumped.

  I call him to me.

  Tell him what a good dog he is.

  Hug him.

  The coyote was thin

  and thin means hungry.

  What would he have done

  without George here?

  What will he do next time?

  I joke about the coyote

  bringing a birthday-gram.

  A singing coyote-gram.

  I try to laugh

  but my hands shake

  and my knees won’t

  hold me up.

  I sit on the top step.

  George stands next to me

  on high alert.

  I nuzzle my face

  into his warm side.

  Such a good, good boy.

  Magical Thinking

  Upstairs.

  Take off gown.

  Pull bits of dead grass and

  pine needles out of hem.

  Hang gown on padded velvet hanger.

  Return to closet.

  Replace jewelry.

  Rebraid hair.

  Pour water on cloth.

  Wash face.

  Now bathing consists of heating

  lake water on the camp stove.

  Using a soapy washcloth to scrub

  off what grime I can.

  Hair is a different disaster.

  Most of the time I just keep it up.

  Out of the way.

  Mom and Dad must realize it’s my birthday.

  They must be thinking of me.

  They could be thinking of me this very second.

  What if

  right now

  at this exact moment

  we are all thinking

  of one another

  at the

  exact

  same

  time?

  We could trigger some kind of magical energy in the universe.

  The power of our three hearts

  missing one another at the same time

  would be enough to break

  this hellish spell.

  I make a wish.

  Kneel on floor.

  Press folded hands to forehead.

  Squeeze eyes shut.

  I remember world religions from school.

  Imagine Jesus and Buddha and Muhammad

  sitting somewhere listening together

  to people’s prayers from around the world.

  I clasp my hands harder.

  Concentrate.

  Please please please

  please please please.

  Let my parents find me.

  Let my parents come home.

  Let my parents find me.

  Let my parents come home.

  Let my parents find me.

  Please please please

  please please please.

  A warm tongue licks my cheek.

  Eyes open onto George’s big black and brown face.

  He raises one tawny eyebrow. Cocks his head.

  I close my eyes one last time.

  Please please please

  please please please.

  Amen.

  Rite of Passage

  A queer calm comes over me.

  It’s clear that

  for whatever reason

  my parents

  are not able to

  come back.

  I am on my own.

  To survive until help arrives,

  I must rely entirely on myself.

  This birthday is not about

  evening gowns

  dressing up

  playacting.

  It’s time to stop fooling around

  with childish games and

  superficial nonsense.

  Start
acting like an adult

  whose life is at stake.

  Childhood is over.

  Scissors.

  Braid.

  (inhale)

  Cut.

  Chop

  until short spikes

  bristle all over

  my head.

  I coil the long braid in my hand.

  It feels alive.

  I wrap the braid in

  my mother’s silk scarf.

  Tuck it into the vanity.

  Under the mirror.

  Out of sight.

  I look down at the dog.

  Time to get serious.

  Change of Strategy

  I’ve stayed close to home

  all this time, certain someone

  was coming to find me.

  Not wanting to miss them

  when they came.

  Now staying alive is top priority

  even if it means going beyond

  the neighborhood.

  There’s no telling when my parents might return.

  There’s no telling when my parents might return.

  There’s no telling when my parents might return.

  If I say it a lot maybe I’ll start to understand it.

  The days are cooling off.

  Getting shorter.

  I need to think about the immediate future.

  On hikes, Dad always harped on how fast

  the weather changed in Colorado.

  How we needed to be prepared.

  With no electricity and no furnace

  I need to plan for what could be a cold, lonely winter.

  It always snows before Halloween.

  There’s no time to waste.

  Hunter-Gatherer

  On patrol with George.

  Our eyes are open for the coyote.

  Nothing.

  Abandoned cars sit

  in the supermarket parking lot

  like islands in the middle

  of an asphalt ocean.

  People pushing carts of groceries

  will emerge from the gaping

  doors at any moment.

  Inside, skylights provide dim illumination.

  Smells of rotting food, urine, feces.

  Impossible to breathe.

  George’s nose twitches.

  Fur on the back of his neck stands at attention.

  Hair rises on my own arms.

  A toppled display of cookies and cakes.

  Plastic boxes chewed open, contents eaten.

  Overturned candy racks.

  Half-eaten wrappers.

  The dogs have been here.

  Eyes straight ahead.

  Hands on cart.

  Navigate around dog mess.

  Try not to breathe.

  Five jumbo jugs of bottled water.

  Three cases of canned dog food.

  Dog treats.

  Chew toys.

  Canned fruits.

  Canned vegetables.

  Canned chili.

  Canned spaghetti.

  I don’t bother leaving a note.

  I have stopped thinking in terms of imposing

  on other people’s property.

  I think only of survival.

  Ant (not Grasshopper)

  It takes

  forever

  to get home

  pushing

  the big heavy

  shopping cart

  and

  stopping

  to rest

  along

  the way

  but

  by visiting

  the store

  every day

  for a week

  I am able

  to restock

  the pantry

  with

  plenty of food

  for me

  and George

  as well as

  drag in enough

  water

  juice

  and

  energy drinks

  to last through

  several

  blizzards.

  I unpack the last load of supplies

  and park the empty shopping cart

  around the east side of Mom’s garage.

  I exhale.

  Exhausted

  from

  winning

  a race

  I didn’t

  even

  know

  I was

  running.

  Heat

  I’ve made a critical mistake.

  No wood-burning fireplaces on Lake Drive.

  The houses are designed

  with modern, gas-operated ones

  that turn on and off

  with the flick of an electric switch.

  Useless.

  They don’t even have chimneys.

  No fire, no heat.

  No heat, no way

  we will survive

  a Colorado winter.

  We Have to Move

  Dad’s house has

  an old-fashioned woodstove

  in the living room.

  We often use it

  in winter to help

  heat the downstairs.

  But Dad’s place

  is in Old Town,

  twice as far

  as the trek

  from Mom’s neighborhood

  to the supermarket.

  The shortest route involves

  walking around the lake

  on gravel trails that

  will not be easy

  pushing a shopping cart

  full of supplies

  over and over again.

  Without heat, we’ll freeze.

  Without food, we’ll starve.

  It’s already getting colder every night.

  Time is running out.

  We have to move.

  Plan B

  Thirty yards down the lake path

  toward Dad’s house

  the full shopping cart

  bogs down in the gravel

  and won’t roll.

  Rocking makes it worse.

  Rocks jam the wheels.

  Riding back and forth

  with the bike trailer

  would be faster, even though

  it can only haul a fraction

  of what’s in the cart.

  Back to Lake Drive.

  Mom’s minivan looks at me

  from the driveway.

  Do I dare?

  What if

  I can’t

  even manage

  to back it

  out onto

  the street,

  let alone

  make it

  all the way

  to Dad’s house

  and back?

  WhatifIgetintrouble

  fordrivingunderage?

  I had better dare or there

  will be more serious consequences

  than illegally crashing

  an abandoned car

  in an abandoned town.

  I shut George in the house

  and take the keys.

  Driver’s Ed

  I unlock the driver’s door

  grab my bike helmet

  and climb in.

  Safety first.

  I buckle my seat belt across my lap

  and click my helmet strap under my chin.

  I turn the key.

  Surprise and hallelujah!

  The engine starts.

  The gas gauge points to

  a third of a tank.

  I grip the steering wheel.

  Try to slide the gear shifter into reverse.

  It won’t move.

  I try again.

  It stays put.

  Surely it isn’t supposed to take this much force.

  There must be a trick.

  Think.

  Why would it stay in park?

  What’s the advantage of that?

  Safety first!

  I press my foot
on the brake pedal and try again.

  The gear shifts easily into reverse.

  I whoop a victory whoop.

  I ease my foot off the brake

  and the car begins rolling backward

  down the driveway.

  I turn the wheel and overcompensate

  so the rear end of the car backs up

  on the front lawn.

  Pushing down hard on the brakes

  throws me backward in my seat

  and the car stops abruptly.

  I sit for a minute, choking on

  my heart in my throat.

  At least it’s facing the right direction now.

  I keep my foot pressed on the brake

  slide the gearshift into drive

  and inch down the street.

  I circle the block four times before

  I feel confident enough to risk

  George’s life too.

  I pull back into the driveway

  and start loading up the van.

  Define Home, Anyway

  I used to change houses

  every Monday

  (homecoming

  cominghome)

  routinely reunited

  with one parent

  routinely separated

  from the other

  a member of the

  Divorce Nomad Club

  making the weekly switch

  according to the

  custodial agreement.

  This is different.

  Mom’s new, modern

  neighborhood

  three-car garage

  (cold)

  Dad’s one-hundred-year-old

  farmhouse

  heirloom rosebushes

  (warm)

  Empty houses aren’t home.

  Woodstove

  I’ve seen Dad light fires many times

  but I didn’t pay close attention.

  I’ve never done it myself.

  The last thing I need is

  to burn the house down.

  I’ve got to do research.

  Before Evacuation

  I had my computer.

  So now…? Think.

  Before Google.

  Before Wikipedia.

  Before Internet.

  “Come on, George.

  We’re going to the library.”

  Millerville Public Library

  Front entrance is locked.

  I try every other door

  but no luck.

  In the back by the loading dock

  I find a basement entrance

  next to a tall, thin window.

  I choose a heavy rock

  from the landscaping

  and heave it.

  The sound of shattering glass

  shocks the silent town

  and I jump

  forgetting for a moment

  there’s no one to chastise me.

  No reason to feel guilty.

  I reach through pieces

  of jagged glass and

  unlock the door.

  Inside

  we make our way

  through dim light up to

  the main floor and