Quaking

by Kathryn Erskine

  He looks at it as if it is some foreign object and does not let go of my skirt. “Maa!”

  I drop the pot on the floor. It has failed. I am starting to shake now. I look at the clock: 11:21. I cannot handle this much longer. How long can it take to pick up some milk?

  The Blob has found my bloody napkin on the floor and is trying to pull it apart. I pick up a fresh napkin and start shredding.

  11:22. Where on earth has she gone for milk?

  The napkin does not occupy the Blob for long and he starts wailing. I pick up several more napkins and continue shredding.

  11:24. Is she finding her own cow?

  The Blob is pounding the floor with the pot, crying.

  11:26. Do not be so picky, Jessica. Any cow will do.

  There is a pile of pink snow on the counter. Along with the bloody pink snow on the floor.

  11:29.You said “a few minutes,” Jessica. It is more than a few minutes.

  The Blob is banging the pot against his head. I grab it away from him. He screams.

  11:30. How could you do this to me, Jessica?

  I cannot take care of other people. They will fall apart if left anywhere near me. Like my mother. I did nothing to help. Nothing.

  The Blob grabs for me. I run out of the kitchen and up the stairs, two at a time. I get to the top landing and hear him scream. I want to go up the last three steps and disappear. Go in my room. Shut my door.

  He screams again.

  I cannot look into his helpless fawn eyes. It is easier to make him stay the Blob if I do not look. I clench my teeth and turn around.

  The Blob is dragging himself up the stairs with his hands, leaning backward as he does, like a tightrope walker who is about to plunge to his death.

  “No! Stay!” I put my hands out like stop signs and shake my head. It is not difficult. I am shaking so hard already.

  He keeps coming. He is on the fourth or fifth step. I try to go down the steps but my legs are shaking too much.“Do not come any farther!”

  His “Maaa—” turns into a scream. His eyes look at me with fear, pain, love, hate.The way my mother looked at my father.

  He tumbles backward and lands with a thud at the bottom, a tiny lifeless form with one of his arms bent behind him in a very unnatural way.

  I am a murderer! I am not just passive death, I am an active murderer! I run down the steps and my legs collapse under me. I am falling, tumbling. Steps and ceiling. Steps and ceiling. I hope I die before I hit the bottom. It will serve me right.

  Instead, I am lying with my face on the floor, looking into his. Are we both alive or both dead? I do not know. His eyes are closed. And then he groans. Dead people do not groan. He is alive.

  I know better than to move him. I am not an idiot. I start to get up to call 911 and I stumble down again because my head is still upside down and I am dizzy. The front door opens and hits my head, which is now in the way.

  “Oh, my gosh!” It is Jessica’s voice. She is kneeling down next to me. “Matt, are you all right? Rory!” She leans over him. “What happened?”

  “I fell.” An obvious and stupid thing to say.

  “I’m calling 911!”

  “I was just going to do that,” I say, trying to get up again.

  But Jessica makes me lie still. She thinks I have a broken neck, apparently. I tell her I am fine but she is refusing to believe me. She only says, “Thank God you’re all right!”

  So I thank Him. But I also ask Him why he bothered.

  Within moments, I hear the siren screeching. I hate ambulances. I hate the way their lights cut into your head. I hate the way their sirens pierce your soul. I hate the way they took my mother away.

  “What happened?”We are in the hospital waiting room and Sam is staring at me. His eyes are not mean or angry. But they are serious.

  So I tell him. About the clock and the moaning and looking for the pot and how that did not work and not knowing what to do. I stop then. Because I do not want to tell him about running up the stairs.Trying to run away. But I know I have to.

  “I—I ran up the stairs and he started climbing the steps after me—”

  I hear his sharp intake of breath so I hurry on.

  “I did not know he was following me, at least not at first, so I ran—”

  “You can’t always run, Matt.”

  He puts his hand on mine and I shiver so convulsively I throw his hand off. But his huge hand comes back and closes around mine and holds it, not tightly, but firmly enough that my shuddering cannot get rid of him. And I look over at the waiting room door.

  “You can’t run and pretend things aren’t there.”

  That is what I always do, Sam. And it works.Well, usually it does. I know he will argue with me, however, so I say the only thing I can think of and it comes out whiny and wailing and there is a catch in my throat and I do not know why. “I did not know what to do.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I understand that,” he says softly, “but running away won’t help.”

  Jessica comes to the door and we both stand up.

  “How is . . . the kid?” I ask. I cannot bring myself to call him the Blob.

  She smiles. “It’s okay. He just had a mild concussion. He’ll be fine.”

  Sam walks over and hugs her.

  My arms are crossed so tightly that my hands hug my shoulders. And I do not know why I want to cry.

  “We’ll be right out,” Jessica says.

  Sam sits down again and tugs on his MIA bracelet.

  I sit down, too. I am too exhausted to stand.

  “Matt?”

  I look over at Sam. Now he is gripping his hands together like he is praying. “You can’t run away from things because then you can’t change them. You give up your chance.” His blue eyes bore into me. “And then it may be too late.”

  Too late for what? And what chance is he talking about? And why does he make running away sound like a bad thing? It is simply the fight-or-flight response. I will not fight. So my option is flight. Like going to Canada. I will be fine on my own. I am used to it. Really, it is easier that way.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It is First Day again. Jessica has a migraine and decides to stay home with the kid. After everything that has happened, I am actually relieved to be going to Meeting where I can sit in silence and everything is quiet and safe.

  As Sam and I walk up the Meeting House steps, we catch up with Phyllis, who smiles at us. “Good morning, Matt. Good morning, Sam.”

  I am surprised to hear my name but Sam does not miss a beat.

  “How are you, Phyllis?” Sam asks, taking her hand.

  She sighs. “I’m all right. I do want to thank Jessica for those lovely Lamingtons.”

  “Oh, Jessica’s not coming today, I’m afraid,” Sam says.

  “Well, will you thank her for me, please?”

  “Of course, Phyllis.”

  Sam helps Phyllis take off her coat and hangs it on one of the pegs in the hallway. As I stand there waiting for him, several people come up to me and say, “Good morning, Matt,” as if I belong here. There is a man with kind eyes behind his glasses and wrinkled face, and Chuck and Laurie, who walk in together and smile as soon as they see me, as if I am their friend whom they have missed seeing all week.

  After an elderly woman clutches my hand and shakily says, “Good morning, Matt, dear,” I finally remember to say good morning back. And I realize I know hardly anyone’s name and perhaps I should ask Sam.

  But he whispers a question to me before I have a chance to ask him. “What are Laming—whatevers?”

  “Australian cookies,” I whisper back.

  His forehead is still crinkled.

  “Phyllis’s favorite from her childhood.”

  “Oh.” And he looks at me as if he is surprised that I know something in his territory that he does not.

  I am surprised, too, but it is the good kind of surprised.

  I sit in Meeting and think about Phyllis and the
Lamingtons. And Jessica.And the kid. Not that I want to think about what I did. Except that it all turned out okay in the end. I wish life were like that. I would not mind the fear and the pain if I knew things would turn out okay eventually. But I think about Mr. Warhead and the Rat and my life, and it seems unlikely.

  I try to decide how to handle the fact that Mr. Warhead will probably fail me. I imagine my prospects for success are poor. And I am not sure how effective the appeal process is for a cynical student whom no one knows exists. I am an insignificant country battling the Mighty Warhead. It does not look good.

  I do not even want to think about the Rat. Everyone in Meeting is calm and serene.The Rat is not exactly calming. So, I look at the quiet faces around me and think about what they might be thinking about. Their thoughts must be better than mine.

  One of my counselors, the one I called Fish Face, although not to his fish face, told me that I should let people see into my thoughts. If he knew what was there, he would not ask to be invited in. My mind is full of ugly and frightening things. I believe I am being altruistic to keep the ugliness inside. Why should other people have to see any of this? How can it help them to know any of my horrors? I do not wish that on anyone.

  Even my best thoughts are not exactly pleasant.The only good thoughts I have are borrowed from books, like Little House on the Prairie. It would be better to go straight to the source. Telling Fish Face to go to the library and read some good books did not go over well, however. His face expanded like a blowfish.

  Fish Face said I am selfish because I hide my feelings.

  Fish Face was an idiot.

  I hear my cell phone bird and peer through the windows. When I look at him, he chirps louder, more insistently, putting his whole body into it. And I stare back at him, not caring if Sam notices, because I am trying to understand. Because I am sure this bird is trying to tell me something but I do not know what.

  Then, to my horror, I do.

  Shattering glass silences the bird.

  Sam yells, “Everyone down on the floor!”

  I am there first. I know the drill.

  Bricks and rocks are raining in on us.

  He yells again. “Put your head under your chair!”

  My head is already there.

  Inside my head, there is screaming, my silent screams. Outside the Meeting House, there is screaming and yelling. But in between the inside of my head and the outside of the Meeting House is a room of people who are still and quiet. All I hear is breathing, the click of a cell phone opening, and then a man’s voice, not Sam’s, talking calmly to the 911 people. He sounds as if he is ordering a pizza rather than ordering emergency vehicles. He quietly and briefly answers questions, giving more information, as if he is ordering more toppings for the pizza.

  My head is tucked into my lap, under my hands, under my chair. I feel a hand on my back and I jerk up so violently that I knock my chair shelter over and I am exposed.

  “It’s okay, Matt, it’s just me,” I hear Sam say. I feel his Michelin Man arm come over me and feel his bulk like a wall around me. Better than a thin, metal chair. “It’s okay, honey. We’re going to be fine.”

  I hear the sirens and I pray that he is right. Sirens do not necessarily make everything fine. Where are the attackers? Why did they attack now, when they know people are inside? It is not just a building. It is people. Then I realize that there is no more yelling outside. And no more crashing glass.

  Sam is getting up and is struggling to pull me up with him. I remain in a ball. Has he learned nothing from armadillos?

  He gives up, but keeps a hand on my back as he talks to the police. I know they are the police because their radios keep barfing out codes. I do not know how they can listen to Sam and understand what he is saying when they are constantly interrupted by crackling dispatcher voices belching into the conversation.

  Finally, they stop. I do not know for how long before Sam shakes me a little. “Matt, honey, it’s okay. It’s over. Everyone’s gone. Even the police.”

  I look up. The Meeting House is white and calm and quiet, as it usually is. Except for the broken windows and the yellow police tape blaring DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE.

  Sam helps me up and walks me to the car, patting my hand most of the way, as if that will heal everything.

  We drive in stunned silence. At least, I am stunned. Sam is more alert than I have ever seen him. His eyes are sharp and keen and his jaw is set. He drives steadily with just one hand, while the other pushes his curly hair back as if to say “enough of this childishness!” He is missing his cap. He looks like a completely different person.

  I am sitting on my bed. I am not sure how I got here. I am clutching my LifeSavers. I can hear Jessica and Sam talking downstairs in hushed voices and the kid yelling for Jessica’s attention, “Maaa, Maaa!”

  Then I hear shuffling outside my door. “Matt?” It is Sam’s voice. “Can I talk with you?”

  I do not respond. My mouth is hanging open but I do not know how to make my voice work.

  “Matt?”

  I make a sound in my throat and a moan comes out of my mouth. I sound like the kid.

  “Matt? I need to come in. I’m not going to knock, okay?”

  The man is not an idiot.

  “I’m opening the door now.”

  I look up at him, my mouth still hanging open. It is the only loose part of my body. The rest of me—fingers, arms, legs, feet—are wrapped around me like a contortionist. I am a tightly tangled fit of twine.

  Sam leans against the door frame and stares into my eyes. It is not the stupid clown Sam. It is the no-nonsense Sam. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He presses his lips together and starts yanking his knuckles and making them pop. Loudly.

  The popping pulls me out of my stupor. Quickly. I am rapidly moving toward irritated and disgusted.

  He rubs his MIA bracelet and lets out a long breath. “I know that must have been frightening for you.”

  Oh, no, Sam. It is a wonderful way to spend a Sunday morning. Under a chair. With rocks crashing through glass toward you.

  “I know you’ve already been through some rough times in your life,” Sam says.

  I shrug.“So have we all, right.” I do not say it like a question but he answers, anyway.

  “No. A lot of kids have had very happy, sheltered lives, especially compared to you.”

  I stare at him. Enough with the Quaker honesty, already! “Is this supposed to be making me feel better?”

  He gives his sad clown smile. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He loses the trace of a smile. “You’re a strong girl, honey. Really strong. In fact, I think you can handle just about anything.”

  I am thinking,You do not know me very well, then, Sam. I am no George Fox. If I were not already turned off religion, this would certainly do it for me.

  “Don’t you want to talk about what happened today?”

  Jessica is behind him, holding a cup with steam rising from it. “Matt, I made you some tea.” She squeezes past Sam and I smell the raspberry even before she gives me the mug.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. My hands are warm and the steam rises to my face, letting me hide. And that is where I want to be right now. Hidden.

  Somehow Jessica knows this because she kisses the top of my head and walks quietly out of the room, tugging Sam’s arm so he follows behind her. He is saying, “No, honey, I think—shouldn’t we—” but Jessica shushes him.

  She pops her head back in my room. “Matt, you know we’re here for you whenever you want us, right?”

  I nod, the mug in front of me, and she disappears, smiling, behind the steam.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  That night I am freezing. It is so darn cold. Is it always this cold? Maybe I just never noticed. I put my hand by the floor vent.There is only cold air blowing out. Why do we need air-conditioning when it is zero degrees outside?

  I cannot s
leep. I put on my jacket for the arctic walk to the thermostat downstairs. I flip on the switch in the half bath, leaving the door almost closed so the light does not wake up Sam and Jessica. There is enough light for me to read the thermostat, though. It is fifty-four degrees. Fifty-four is an outside temperature. What is an outside temperature doing inside?

  I turn the dial up to eighty and think about Hawaii. I am waiting for the instant surge of sunshine. It does not come. Now I wish I had put my boots on because my feet, even in socks, are freezing. There is arctic air blasting them from the vent. I stamp them to keep them from turning to solid ice.

  I hear a click and am blinded by light from the living room. There is a rustling, and Jessica comes out in her flannel nightgown and sweater. “Matt, honey, are you okay?”

  “I am freezing.”

  She pushes the hair out of her face and looks at the thermostat.

  “It does not work,” I inform her. “It is not a real thermostat. It is a placebo-stat. It is only there to make you think you have control over the heat.”

  She shakes her head and grimaces. “It’s the heat pump. It never feels warm. I hate it.”

  It is nice to hear Jessica hate something. No one should be all-loving. It is not normal.

  She opens the hall closet and pulls at boxes on the top shelf. “Ah, here it is.” She takes out a black and gray blanket-type thing and smiles at it.“This was my grandmother’s shawl.”

  “The grandmother of the blue-dented-pot fame?”

  Jessica laughs and shakes out the shawl. “One and the same. It’s an angora wool shawl, which her mother, my great-grandmother, brought over from Ireland. There’s a little rip somewhere. . . .” She examines the corners. “Ah, here it is.” She holds up a corner with dark blue yarn woven through it. “I fixed it, thinking the blue would blend in enough.” She scrunches her nose up.“Maybe if I were a better seamstress it would have, but I’m afraid sewing isn’t my forte.”

  “It looks fine,” I tell her. “I like the tassels.” There are wispy, ghostly threads of yarn fringing the entire shawl.They start solid next to the body of the shawl and stretch out into such fine threads they seem to disappear into the air. There is something unearthly about them, as if they are tying together what is and what was.