We’re spending more and more time outdoors, just because it’s nicer outside and the sun provides natural light. We’re all used to seeing the moon now, so that isn’t bothering us like it used to.
But we leave a light on in the living room window, so when the electricity does come back on we can go inside and do what we need to do. Today it came on around 1 and we raced in.
Mom went on the Internet, which kind of surprised me. Usually she vacuums or starts a load of laundry. She’s given up changing the time on the clocks.
But this afternoon she skipped all that and went to the Internet. She had heard on the radio this morning that they were starting to list the names of the dead.
She found the names of most of the editors she worked with, and her agent, and a lot of writers she’d met over the years. She found two friends from college and one friend from a long time ago, before we moved here, and Dad’s best man and his family. She also found a couple of second cousins and their kids. In less than 10 minutes, she found over 30 names. But one good thing: She checked on Mrs. Nesbitt’s son and daughter-in-law and their kids and didn’t find them on any list.
I asked her to look up Brandon and she did but couldn’t find him. Of course there are still millions of people unaccounted for, but at least there’s still hope he’s alive. I don’t get to go on the board very much, but when I do, no one seems to have heard anything. I can’t help thinking that’s a good sign.
There were names of people I know that I could have looked up: kids I went to summer camp with, and kids I know from swimming, and old friends from elementary school who moved to New York or California or Florida. But I didn’t try to find them. They weren’t everyday parts of my life anyway, and it feels wrong somehow to find out if they’re dead when I didn’t much think about them while they were living.
Jonny looked up baseball players. A lot of them were listed as known dead and a lot more were listed as missing/presumed dead.
Matt looked up kids from his high school class. Only three were listed as dead, but a bunch were listed as missing/presumed dead.
As a test, he looked us up, but none of our names were on any of the lists.
And that’s how we know we’re alive this Memorial Day.
May 31
The first day without bus service. So naturally it poured.
It wasn’t scary rain like it was that other time. No big thunderstorm, no tornado winds. Just good oldfashioned pouring rain.
Matt ended up driving Jonny and me to school. Mom stayed home to take advantage of electricity and work on her book. I hadn’t really thought about how hard it must be for Mom to get any writing done without a computer. Or without an agent, or editors, or publishers.
Over half the kids were absent and Jonny says there were even fewer kids at the middle, school. Most of our teachers were there, though, and we actually got a lot of work done. And we had electricity until nearly 2, so even though it was dark outside, the school was really kind of cheerful. Empty but cheerful.
When Jonny came home today, he told us they’d announced that all standardizing testing had been canceled. I’ve begun wondering what they’re going to do about our finals, which should start in two weeks.
We haven’t really gotten any schoolwork done, and no one is assigning homework because there’s never any way of knowing if there’ll be any light to work by.
Peter said over the weekend that he’d heard a rumor that they might just close school next week and promote all of us and hope things are back to normal by September.
I don’t know if I want that or not. Except the part about back to normal by September. I know I want that.
Chapter Five
June 2
We all got notices at school today to take home. It said there would be no final exams this semester and our grades would reflect only those tests we’d taken before May 19. We’d be told what our grades are tomorrow in class. If we wanted to raise our average in a course, we were to talk to our teacher next week and see if there was a way of doing that. School would officially close on June 10 and reopen on August 31, unless we heard otherwise.
They’re still planning to have graduation, though. Outdoors, with a rain date.
It feels weird to think there aren’t going to be any finals, but it’s not like I’ve been studying for them. It’s not like I’ve done any schoolwork in weeks.
I feel bad for kids who are on the cusp, though: One good grade and they won’t flunk the course. Sammi for one. I know she’s been just below passing in French all year. And I’ve seen her cram for a final and ace it, which was probably what she planned on doing this year.
She probably doesn’t care, though. Actually, except for some of the Really Bright Ivy League types, I doubt anyone cares.
June 3
I got my grades and they’re all pretty much as I expected. My math grade was dragged down by those stupid tests (or by those tests where I was stupid), so I know I’m going to have to talk to Mom this weekend about what to do.
All they served for lunch today was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on stale white bread. We each were allowed one sandwich.
I don’t want to whine about being hungry, because I know compared to a lot of kids, I’m eating okay. For breakfast we have cereal with powdered milk. It doesn’t taste the same as real milk, but it’s still something and it’s thanks to Mom, who bought boxes of the stuff on Crazy Shopping Day.
And even if I’m sick of tuna or pasta or canned chicken, I can’t say we’re not eating supper. So it’s not exactly the end of the world for me if lunch consists of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I know I should be grateful we’re getting that much. Everyone knows the reason school is closing so early is because they’re running out of food for us and they don’t know what to do about it.
I had lunch with Megan and Sammi and Dave and Brian and Jenna. Megan didn’t eat with her church group, which was a nice change of pace. Half the swim team wasn’t at school.
We stood in line and got our sandwiches and people were griping and moaning and it wasn’t very pleasant. We went to our table, and even though we should have nibbled on our sandwiches to make them feel like a full meal, we gulped them down. Three bites and 25 minutes to kill.
Except for Megan. She tore her sandwich in two roughly equal parts and took dainty-lady bites. She finished her half sandwich in more time than it took us to eat our whole ones, and then she asked if anyone wanted the other part of her sandwich.
Everyone (except me) said yes.
She looked around the table and gave the half sandwich to Dave. I have no idea why she picked him, but he didn’t ask. He just ate his half sandwich fast, before anyone else had a chance to get to it.
I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does.
June 4
Mom and I discussed my grades. I’ll be getting a 95 in English, a 94 in history, a 90 in French, a 91 in biology, and a 78 in math.
“I could ask to retake a math test,” I said. “If I do well on the test, I’d at least pull my grade up to an eighty.”
“What’s the point?” Mom said.
I was so glad she wasn’t mad, I just said okay and changed the subject. But this evening it hit me. I found Matt and we sat outside under the bean tree. Mom calls it a big weed, but it’s so beautiful when it flowers, and it’s the last tree to lose its leaves in the fall so I love it.
“Matt, does Mom think we’re all going to die?” I asked. I could never ask her that, because I know she’d lie if she did.
Matt was quiet for longer than I would have liked. What I wanted him to do was laugh and say of course not and everything was going to be okay once they got the electrical systems back online and figured out a way of getting oil here so the trucks could start transporting food again.
“Mom’s concerned,” he said instead. “We all are.”
“That we’re going to die?” I asked, and my voice got shrill. “Like we’re going to starve to death or something
?”
“I don’t think Mom’s worried we’re going to starve to death,” he said. “She has the garden going, and we still have plenty of canned goods. Everything could be back to normal by this fall; maybe a little sooner, maybe a little later. We’re okay for food until then if the garden stays healthy. And even if things don’t get exactly back to normal, that doesn’t mean things won’t improve. Mom’s an optimist and so am I.”
“So why did she say it doesn’t matter about my math grade?” I asked. “When has Mom ever not cared about our grades?”
Matt laughed. “Is that what this is all about?” he asked.
“Matt, this isn’t funny,” I said. “I’m not a kid, but Mom’s more likely to talk to you than to me. What does she think is going to happen? You’re with her all day. She’s got to be talking to you.”
“Right now her main concern is Jonny and baseball camp,” he said. “She wants Jonny to have as normal a summer as possible. Who knows what next summer will be like? And…” He paused for a moment. “Look, this is strictly between you and me, okay?”
I nodded.
“If Jonny’s at camp, then Mom doesn’t have to feed him,” Matt said. “And when you and Jonny spend August with Dad, Mom won’t have to feed either of you. Mom’s eating less already. She doesn’t have breakfast and she only eats lunch if I make her. Which I do about half the time. With school letting out two weeks early, that means lunch for you and Jonny for two extra weeks. Right now that’s more important to Mom than your math grade.”
I couldn’t say anything. I looked at the sky. Sunset was just beginning. That used to be my favorite time of day, but now at sunset the moon is so large it looks like it’s about to hit us. I almost never look at the sky anymore.
“Look,” Matt said, and he grabbed my hand and held it. “If things get back to normal, no college in the world is going to care about your seventy-eight. They’ll know how crazy things were this spring. A seventyeight in tenth-grade math won’t keep you from getting into college.”
“And if things don’t get back to normal?” I asked.
“Then it won’t matter, anyway,” he said. “Promise me you won’t tell Mom what we talked about?”
“I promise,” I said.
“And don’t start skipping meals,” he said. “We need you to be strong, Miranda.”
“I promise,” I said.
But I can’t help thinking that I’m not strong. Would I give up food for Jonny if it comes to that? Is that what Megan did at lunch on Friday?
Will things ever be normal again?
June 5
Mrs. Nesbitt drove over around 5 today. I don’t remember the last time I saw her look that happy or excited.
Even a visit from Mrs. Nesbitt is something different these days. The electricity is out pretty much all day and most of the night, so it’s not like we can watch TV or go online. There isn’t any homework to do, and no one feels like socializing.
“I have a wonderful treat,” she said, and she carried in a bowl covered with a dish towel.
We crowded around to see what she had to show us. She pulled away the towel, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but all we saw were washcloths. She laughed at the expressions on our faces. Then she carefully unwrapped the washcloths. And there were two eggs.
They weren’t very big, but they were still the most beautiful eggs I’ve ever seen.
“Where did you find them?” Mom asked.
“One of my old students brought them to me,” Mrs. Nesbitt said. “Wasn’t that sweet of him? He has a farm about ten miles out of town and he still has feed for his chickens, so they’re still laying. He brought two eggs to me and to a few other people. He said he has enough for his family if they’re careful and they decided we might like a special treat. I couldn’t possibly enjoy them by myself.”
Eggs. Real honest-to-goodness, actual eggs. I touched one, just to remind myself of what an eggshell felt like.
First Mom took two potatoes and an onion, and chopped them up and fried them in olive oil. Just the smell of fried potatoes and onions was enough to make us giddy. While they were cooking we discussed all possible egg dishes. By a vote of 4-1, we picked scrambled. We stood around and watched as Mom put in some powdered milk and beat those eggs. Of course we don’t have any butter, and we decided against cooking oil, so Mom used a little spray-on stuff and a nonstick pan.
We each took equal amounts of the eggs and potatoes and onions. I watched Mom, to make sure she didn’t cheat herself of any. We got a couple of teaspoons’ worth of scrambled egg, and we nibbled to make it last longer.
Then Matt jumped up and said he also had a special treat he had been saving, but tonight seemed like as good a time as any. He ran to his room, and when he came back he had a chocolate bar.
“I found this in my bag when I unpacked,” he said. “I don’t know how old it is, but chocolate doesn’t go bad.”
So we each had a piece of chocolate for dessert. I’d almost forgotten how much I love chocolate, how there’s something about it that makes life a little more wonderful.
After supper, we sat around and sang. None of us has much of a voice, and we didn’t all know the same songs, but Horton was our only audience and he didn’t mind. We sang for more than an hour and we laughed and Mrs. Nesbitt told us stories about Mom when she was a little girl.
It almost felt like we were happy again.
June 6
At lunch today, Megan did the same business with her PB&J sandwich. This time she gave her second half to Sammi.
If she keeps it up, she’ll be the most popular girl in high school.
I waited for her after school and yanked her away from her church friends. “Why aren’t you eating all your lunch?” I asked.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
I love Megan and she isn’t fat, but I’ve seen her pack away double burgers and extra fries with a milkshake. I looked at her, really looked at her, and noticed she’d lost weight, maybe 10 pounds. The thing is we’re all losing weight so it’s easier not to notice. It’s kind of like the moon: If I don’t look I can pretend it’s still the same.
“Are you eating at all?” I asked her.
“Of course I am,” Megan said. “I just don’t need to eat much anymore. God sustains me. Food doesn’t.”
“So why are you even eating half your sandwich?” I asked. I don’t know why. It wasn’t a rational question, so there was no reason to expect a rational answer.
“I figured people wouldn’t notice if I ate half,” she said.
“They notice,” I said. “I notice.”
“It’s only for a couple more days,” she said. “Next week no one will see what I’m eating and what I’m not.”
“They can’t possibly be telling you at your church not to eat,” I said.
Megan gave me one of those pitying looks that always make me want to slug her. “Reverend Marshall doesn’t have to tell us how much to eat,” she said. “He trusts us to hear God’s voice.”
“So God’s the one telling you not to eat?” I said. “What? He called you up and said, ’Split the peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the poor unfortunates’?”
“I’m starting to think you’re the poor unfortunate,” Megan said.
“And I’m starting to think you’re crazy,” I said. That’s something I’ve been thinking for a while now, but haven’t said out loud.
“Why?” Megan asked and for a moment she really was angry like she used to get when we were 12. But then she bowed her head, closed her eyes, and moved her lips, in prayer I guess.
“What?” I said.
“I begged God for forgiveness,” she said. “And if I were you, Miranda, I’d ask for divine forgiveness, also.”
“God doesn’t want you to starve to death,” I said. “How can you believe in a God that would ask that of you?”
“But He isn’t asking,” she said. “Honestly, Miranda, you’re making an awfully big deal over half a sandwi
ch.”
“Promise me you won’t stop eating,” I said.
Megan smiled and I think that was what scared me the most. “I’ll get my sustenance as God wishes me to,” she said. “There are lots of different ways of being hungry, you know. Some people are hungry for food and others are hungry for God’s love.” She gave me a look then, pure Megan, to let me know which camp I fell into.
“Eat your sandwich tomorrow,” I said. “Indulge me. If you insist on starving, at least wait until Saturday when I won’t have to watch.”
“You don’t have to watch now,” she said, and walked away from me to join her church friends again.
June 7
I dreamed last night of Becky. She was in heaven, which looked an awful lot like the Jersey shore, the way I remember it from summers ago, when the tides behaved themselves and the Atlantic was the world’s most glorious swimming pool. Becky looked like she had before she got sick, with those long blonde braids. I was always so jealous of her hair when we were young.
“Is this Heaven?” I asked her.
“Yes, it is,” she said. Only then she closed a giant gate, so I was on one side and she and the ocean were on the other.
“Let me in,” I said. “Did Megan tell you not to let me into Heaven?”
Becky laughed. I haven’t thought about Becky’s laugh in a long time. She used to giggle all the time and whenever she did, she’d get me laughing. Sometimes we’d laugh for five straight minutes with no idea what we were laughing about.
“It’s not Megan’s fault,” she said. “It’s yours.”
“What did I do wrong?” I asked. Well, whined, really. Even in my sleep, I thought I could have worded it better.
“You can’t enter Heaven because you’re not dead,” Becky said. “You’re not good enough to be dead.”
“I will be. I promise,” I said, and then I woke up. I was shaking, the dream disturbed me so much. It wasn’t
like it was a nightmare. It was just, I don’t know. I don’t know the words to describe what it felt like to be
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