Dad came back down then, but Lisa never did.
August 3
Dad and Matt worked all day. When Dad came in for supper, he told us he and Lisa would be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.
I knew I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still hurt to hear it.
Lisa pretty much stuck to bed today. Mom went in there a couple of times to make sure she was okay but it didn’t seem to make a difference.
“She’s worried about her parents,” Mom said to me. “And of course she’s worried about the baby. She wants to be settled in as soon as possible, and the longer they wait, the harder it may be to travel.”
I wonder if Lisa would be in such a hurry to go if Jonny hadn’t asked about the world ending.
Dad made tuna fish sandwiches for himself and Lisa and took hers up to their room. For a long time I thought he might stay there and then leave early tomorrow morning and I wouldn’t have a chance to see him again.
But after an hour or so, he joined us in the sunroom. “How about sitting on the porch with me, Miranda?” he said.
“Sure,” I said, and the two of us walked out together.
“I haven’t had much of a chance to talk with you,” Dad said after we sat down on the porch swing. “I’ve spent a lot of time with Matt and Jonny, but not much with you.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Cutting the wood was the important thing.”
“You and your brothers are the important thing,” Dad said. “Miranda, I want you to know how proud of you I am.”
“Proud of me?” I asked. “Why?”
“For a million reasons,” Dad said. “For being smart and funny and beautiful. For finding swimming when skating didn’t work out. For all the things you’re doing to make your mother’s life easier. For not complaining when you have so much to complain about. For being a daughter any father would be proud of. I knew asking you to be the baby’s godmother was the right thing, and the past few days I’ve realized just how right it is. I’m so glad I’m your father. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” I said. “And the baby is going to be all right. Everything will be; I just know it.”
“I know it, too,” Dad said, and we hugged. We sat there quietly for a while, because we both knew anything we said would spoil the mood.
Then Dad got up and went back to Lisa. I sat on the porch a little while longer, and thought about babies and butterflies and what the rest of my life was going to be like. When I thought every thought I possibly could think, I went back inside and listened for a while to the silence.
August 4
Dad and Lisa left at 6 this morning.
We all got up when they did and we had breakfast together. Mom found a jar of strawberry jam and used the last of the bread. We had canned peaches and powdered orange drink mix. Dad and Mom had coffee. Lisa had tea.
Dad hugged all of us and kissed us all good-bye. It took all my willpower not to cling to him. We all know we may never see each other again.
Dad promised he’d write every chance he got, and he’d make sure to let us know how Grandma is.
When they got in the car, Lisa did the driving. I think that’s because Dad was crying so hard, he knew he couldn’t drive.
Chapter Nine
August 6
I woke up this morning thinking, I’ll never see Sammi again. I’ll never see Dan again.
I am so scared I’ll never see Dad again.
I don’t know how I’ll survive if I never see sunlight again.
August 7
I went into Matt’s room before supper to see if he had any library books to return tomorrow.
Matt walked in as I was looking. “What the hell are you doing in my room?” he shouted.
I was so startled I just stood there.
“I’ve been chopping wood all day,” he said. “I’m tired and I’m filthy and hungry and I have to be with Jonny every damn minute and I swear I could kill Dad for not staying here to take care of us.”
“I’m sorry,” I stammered.
“Well, so am I,” he said. “Fat lot of good that does.”
August 9
We’re all in a funk. You would think knowing we actually have food in the house would cheer us up, but nothing seems to.
I’ve noticed that Mom’s skipping breakfast again, and for the past couple of days I haven’t seen her eat lunch, either. Matt’s been chopping wood all day long, so I guess he’s not eating any lunch. He hasn’t been real chatty lately.
Nobody’s telling me what to do, but I guess I’d better go back to brunch, also.
It scares me that Mom is eating less when we do have food in the house. It must mean she doesn’t think the stuff Dad brought (and what we still had before he came) is going to last long enough.
You’ve got to think something in this world would get back to normal. I don’t remember the last time we had electricity, not even for a few minutes in the middle of the night. Mom makes sure at least one of us goes into town every day, to see if there’s any news at the post office (it’s become the community bulletin board) or if there’s a food giveaway, but we all come home empty handed.
It’s getting colder, too. The temperature today never even hit 60.
August 11
First frost. Just a light one, but nonetheless.
“Why are we staying here?” Jonny asked me this morning. “Everybody else is moving down south.”
“Everybody else isn’t moving,” I said, mostly because I was flustered by the question. Jonny’s never been much of a talker, but since he came home from camp, he’s been even quieter than usual. It’s like this whole business has made him old before he ever had a chance to be a teenager.
“Half the kids at camp said their families were planning to move,” Jonny said. “And camp was less than half full. I ran into Aaron in town yesterday, and he said so many kids from school had already left they’re talking about closing down some of the schools.”
“Aaron isn’t exactly a reliable witness,” I said.
“His father is on the school board,” Jonny said.
“Okay,” I said. “So he is a reliable witness. But we’re not going anywhere, and you’d better not talk to Mom about it.”
“Do you think we should go?” Jonny asked. It felt so strange, because he sounded like I do when I ask Matt stuff like that.
“We can’t leave Mrs. Nesbitt,” I said. “And to get in our car and drive someplace, without knowing where we’d end up, or if there’d be food there and a place to live? Some people can do that. I don’t think Mom can.”
“Maybe one of us should go,” Jonny said. “Matt or me. You could stay here with Mom and Mrs. Nesbitt.”
“You’re not old enough,” I said. “So stop thinking about it. We’ll be okay. We have food, we have wood, we even have some oil for the furnace. Things are bound to get better. They can’t get worse.”
Jonny grinned. “That’s what they all say,” he pointed out. “And they’ve all been wrong.”
August 14
At supper tonight (canned chicken and mixed vegetables), Jonny said, “I know my birthday is coming but I don’t expect any presents so don’t worry about it.”
I had totally forgotten about Jonny’s birthday.
When I list all the things I miss, I need to include shopping.
Mom said that was very mature of Jonny, and she had to admit she didn’t have anything for his birthday, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to be a special day. Which I guess means an extra vegetable at supper, or maybe some canned fruit salad for dessert.
Or maybe we’ll drink that other bottle of wine Peter brought and all get drunk.
It kind of annoys me that Jonny’s making these big grown-up gestures and I’m not. I can’t exactly say don’t worry about my birthday, since it’s in March, and I think we’ll have lots of other stuff to worry about between now and then.
I’m back to two meals a day, but that’s not exactly a big grown-up gesture a
round here.
Also, even though none of us is saying it, we’re all worried because there’s been no word from Dad. The mail is so weird, letters can take weeks to arrive, and probably a lot of mail doesn’t make it through at all. There’s no reason to think we’d have heard anything by now, but it’s scary to think of him and Lisa driving into the void.
Mom listens to the radio every morning, and I’m pretty sure if the rest of the United States had evaporated or something, she’d mention it. So Dad and Lisa are probably safe wherever they are.
Still, we’d all like to hear.
August 15
I asked Mom if things were better than they had been. Had all the bad stuff, the floods and the earthquakes and the volcanoes, stopped?
She said no, that once the moon’s gravitational pull had changed, things could never go back to where they’d been.
But things aren’t any worse, I said.
Mom obviously didn’t feel like answering that.
How much worse can they get? I asked.
Mom explained that there were volcanoes erupting in all kinds of unexpected places like Montreal. It seems there’s a volcano there that never erupted because the earth’s crust had been too thick, but now that the moon’s pull is so much stronger, the lava was able to break through the crust. The volcanoes cause fires and the earthquakes cause fires and the tsunamis get bigger and bigger so there’s less and less coastline and people are fleeing places with volcanoes and earthquakes and floods so things are getting worse even in the stable places.
And, of course, there are epidemics.
Once Mom got started, there was no stopping her. We’ve already had three nights with frost, but New England and the upper Midwest have already had weeks of killing frost. All the crops there have died.
Oh, and there was an earthquake right by a nuclear power plant, and it exploded or something. I think that was California.
“Now do you see how lucky we are?” she demanded. “I never said we weren’t!” I yelled, because I hadn’t. Or at least I hadn’t today. All I did was ask if things were getting better, which isn’t exactly the same as saying I wish we had electricity and hot chocolate and television and a prom with an actual date to look forward to.
All of which I think about every morning when I wake up and every night before I fall asleep.
“Don’t use that tone with me!” Mom shouted. “What tone?” I shouted right back. “You’re the one who’s using a tone! How come you can yell at me and I have to just take it?”
We really went at it. Which we haven’t done in weeks, not since that whole horrible business with Horton. How ungrateful I am. How I just sit around and do nothing. How self-pitying I am.
“You’re damn right I’m self-pitying,” I shouted right back at her. “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s bad enough my life is like this and I have no idea if I’m going to survive. I’m stuck with a mother who doesn’t love me. I should have gone with Dad and Lisa. He loves me even if you don’t!”
“Go,” Mom said. “Just get out. I don’t want to look at you.”
I was so stunned it took me a moment to run out of the house. But once I did, I had no idea where to go or what to do. I got on my bike and let my legs tell me where to go. And much to my surprise (although I guess not to my legs’ surprise), I ended up at Megan’s.
Megan’s mom looked about ten years older than she had when I saw her last month. But she smiled when she saw me, like it was the most normal thing for me to be popping in for a visit. At least she didn’t remind me of Becky’s mom anymore.
“Megan’s in her room,” she said. “She’ll be glad to see you.”
I went up to Megan’s room. For a moment I wondered what the hell I was doing there. But I knocked on her door and told her it was me and went on in.
Megan was lying on her bed reading the Bible. It was scary seeing how thin she’d gotten. But she didn’t look crazy or anything and these days you take what you can get.
“Miranda!” she squealed, and for a moment she was my Megan. “I’m so happy you’re here. Sit down. Tell me everything.”
So I did. Every single thing. Mom and the fights and Jonny and Matt and Dad and Lisa and Horton. And how Dan was going to ask me to the prom only now he’s gone. I must have talked nonstop for half an hour, with Megan interrupting me only to ask a question or make some kind of sympathetic noise.
“Boy,” she said when I finally finished. “Your life is terrible.”
I didn’t know whether to burst into tears or laughter. Laughter won.
“I’m having one of those ‘Except for that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?’ moments,” I said.
“Everyone is,” Megan said.
“Even you?” I asked.
Megan nodded. “I know what I need to do,” she said. “And I’m doing it as best I can. But even though I know it’s God’s will and I can’t question, I want to know Mom’s soul is saved and Dad’s and yours and everyone else’s I’ve ever loved. I pray and I pray but I don’t think it’s making any difference. We’re all in hell, Miranda. God knows what’s best for us, but it’s still hell.”
“Does Reverend Marshall think that way?” I asked. I was pretty shocked to hear Megan talk like that.
“He says God is punishing us for our sins,” she said. “We’re all sinners. I know how sinful I am. I covet things, Miranda. Food. I covet food so much sometimes. And I have lustful thoughts. Don’t look so shocked. I’m sixteen. You think I never had a lustful thought?”
“Who for?” I asked.
Megan laughed. “Tim Jenkins,” she said. “And James Belle. And Mr. Martin.”
“We all had crushes on Mr. Martin,” I said. “Half the girls at Howell High are going to hell if having a crush on Mr. Martin is a sin. But Tim Jenkins? I didn’t think he was your type. He’s kind of wild, Megan.”
“I know,” she said. “I used to think if he loved me, I could get him to reform. But that wasn’t how I lusted after him, if you know what I mean. I didn’t lust after him just so I could save his soul.”
“And Reverend Marshall thinks all the horrible stuff has happened because you lusted after Tim Jenkins?” I asked.
“That’s kind of simplistic,” Megan said. “My point was that I’m as much a sinner as anybody else and I’ve hardly had a chance to do anything. I might have lustful thoughts, but Sammi’s actually done something with hers, and if God is angry with me, then He’s angry at her, too, and pretty much everybody else on earth. We really have made a giant mess of things.”
“Speak for yourself,” I grumbled, and we both laughed.
“I can’t believe the moon came crashing in because I want to go to the prom with Dan,” I said. “What’s the point of God making us human if He doesn’t want us to act like we’re human?”
“To see if we can rise above our natures,” Megan said. “Eve got Adam to eat the apple, and that was the end of the Garden of Eden.”
“It all comes back to food, doesn’t it,” I said, and we laughed again.
I can’t tell you how it felt to be laughing with Megan. I know she’s crazy to be flinging herself into death, when so many people are dying you practically have to take a number and wait your turn. And she looked like a talking skeleton. But she was still Megan. For the first time since all this happened, I felt like I’d gotten something back.
“I think I’ll go home,” I said. “I don’t have anyplace else to go.”
Megan nodded. “Miranda,” she said, and she took one of those long pauses I’ve come to expect from people.
“Miranda, I don’t know if we’re ever going to see each other again.”
“Of course we will,” I said. “Or are you and your mother planning on leaving?”
“I think she’ll go after I die,” Megan said. “But we’re staying until then.”
“In that case, I’m sure I’ll see you again,” I said.
Megan shook her head. “Don’t come back,” she said. “I have to show
God I’m truly repentant and I can’t do that if you make me think about Tim Jenkins and food and how awful things are now. I don’t want to be angry at God and seeing you makes me feel that way, just a little bit. So I can’t see you again. I have to sacrifice our friendship, because I don’t have much left I can sacrifice to prove to God how much I love Him.”
“I hate your God,” I said.
“Find your own then,” she said. “Go, Miranda, please. And if you ever hear from Sammi, tell her I prayed for every day, just like I pray for you.”
“I will,” I said. “Good-bye, Megan.”
And then the worst thing happened. She’d been propped up on her bed for the whole time I’d been there.
But when I got ready to go, she struggled to get off the bed, and I could see she barely had the strength to stand. She had to support herself as we hugged and kissed, and then she fell back onto the bed.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Go, Miranda. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I said and I ran away from her, away from her house, without even saying good-bye to her mother. I got back on my bike and rode straight home. I probably burned off three days’ worth of calories, I rode so fast.
I put the bike in the garage and raced into the house. Mom was sitting in the kitchen sobbing.
“Mom!” I cried, and I flung myself into her arms.
She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe. “Oh, Miranda, Miranda,” she kept crying. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said and I was. Not for anything I’d said earlier. I was sorry because I make Mom worry and there’s nothing I can do to keep her from worrying.
I love her so much. In a world where there’s so little good, she’s good. Sometimes I forget that or resent it.
But she is good and she loves me and every thought she has is to protect Matt and Jonny and me.
If God’s looking for sacrifices, all He has to do is look at Mom.
August 18
Jonny’s birthday.
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