Life As We Knew It lawki-1

by Susan Beth Pfeffer

  What I really wanted to do was go through her kitchen cabinets and see what food she had left, but the very thought of it made me excited and that didn’t seem like the proper way to feel. It made me feel like a cannibal.

  So I found a flashlight and started with the attic. I didn’t know what I was going to find there but Mrs. Nesbitt had told me to go from the attic to the cellar and I had no desire to go to the cellar.

  The attic was filled with boxes and trunks. It was ice cold in there and I knew I didn’t have the energy to go through every single one of them. So I hopped from box to box.

  There were lots of old clothes which I didn’t think would be any help to us. There were also boxes of papers, accounts from Mr. Nesbitt’s business.

  I opened a box called Bobby’s Things and found something great in there. Most of the stuff was from school, papers he’d written and the letters he’d gotten from being on the school basketball team. But toward the bottom I found a shoebox filled with old baseball cards.

  I thought about how Jon hadn’t gotten a birthday present and I clutched that shoebox. I’d surprise him with it at Christmas. Or before Christmas if I don’t think we’ll make it that long.

  I went downstairs then and walked through the bedrooms and looked in the closets. There were clean towels and washcloths that Mrs. Nesbitt must not have used. Clean sheets and blankets and quilts. No matter how warm we might be in the sunroom, extra blankets seemed like a good idea. There were boxes of tissues I knew we could use, and rolls of toilet paper. Aspirin and painkillers. Cold remedies.

  I took a clean pillowcase and started putting stuff in there, starting with the baseball cards. I didn’t put any of the blankets in there, but I did throw in some of the towels and washcloths. There really wasn’t any logic to what I put in and what I left out. I’d be sending Matt over to fill the car and he could pick up anything I forgot to take.

  Then I allowed myself to go to the kitchen. I opened the cabinets and I saw cans of soup and vegetables and tuna and chicken. All the stuff we’d been eating for months now. There wasn’t enough for us to eat three meals a day. But every can would keep us alive a little bit longer.

  I knew, without her ever telling me, that Mrs. Nesbitt had been going hungry so we could have the food. I thanked her silently and kept looking.

  In the back of one of the cabinets I found a box of chocolates, unopened, with a Happy Mother’s Day card attached. Mrs. Nesbitt never was one for chocolate. You would have thought her son knew that.

  I took the chocolate and put it in the bottom of the pillowcase along with the baseball cards. I couldn’t decide whether to give it to Mom at Christmas or on her birthday.

  Then I realized there was a funny noise in back of me. I turned around and saw the kitchen faucet was dripping.

  I grabbed a pot and put it under the faucet and turned it on. Actual water poured out.

  Mrs. Nesbitt’s well hadn’t run dry. There was only one of her and she hadn’t used up all her water. Her insistence on keeping the heat on had prevented the pipes from freezing.

  I grabbed a lot of the cans and an unopened box of raisins and rammed them into the pillowcase. Then I went through the entire house, top to bottom, looking for containers for the water. Everything I found that could possibly hold water, bottles and jugs and canisters and barrels, I dragged into the kitchen. I filled them all just for the joy of hearing running water.

  I was tempted to pour myself a glass of water and drink it, but even though the water was probably clean, I knew it should be boiled first. But then I thought to look in Mrs. Nesbitt’s refrigerator. Sure enough, she’d been using it for storage space, and there was an untouched six-pack of bottled water.

  I let myself drink one. It was all I could do to keep from gulping it down in three giant swallows. But I sipped it instead, like a fine wine.

  It’s funny. All the food there and I wasn’t tempted by any of it. But I couldn’t resist the water.

  Then just because I could, I took a washcloth, dampened it with sink water, and washed my face and hands. Soon I took off all my clothes and gave myself a sponge bath. The water was cold and the kitchen wasn’t much warmer, but it was glorious feeling clean again.

  I got back into my dirty clothes and slipped the five bottles of drinking water into what I was starting to think of as my Santa bag and realized I couldn’t carry much more. There was no way I could manage to take the paintings, but I did put the two pieces of jewelry in my pants pocket. I heaved the bag over my shoulder and went out the kitchen door.

  I’ve been alternating between walking on the road and through the back woods to get to Mrs. Nesbitt’s so I knew no one would think it suspicious if they didn’t see me on the road. I only hoped no one would see me in the woods, since if they saw the Santa bag they’d know right away that I’d been taking things from Mrs. Nesbitt’s house. If anyone got there before Matt, we’d lose the food, the water, everything.

  I walked as fast as I could, cursing myself for having filled the pillowcase with so much stuff. It was one of my non-brunch days and I was hungry. The water gurgled in my stomach.

  I spotted Matt and Jon chopping away. They’d cut firewood for Mrs. Nesbitt, I remembered. More stuff for them to take from her house.

  For a moment I was torn between speaking to them while I was still holding on to the bag or going to the house to drop the bag off and then going to talk to them. But I’d have to tell Mom if she saw me carrying stuff in, and I was just as happy to postpone that. So I positioned myself with the bag behind a tree just in case someone could see me talking to Matt and Jon.

  “Mrs. Nesbitt died,” I whispered. “She told me a few days ago to take everything we could use. She still has running water. Her car has a little gas in it.”

  “Where is she?” Jonny asked.

  “She’s in her bed,” I said. “Peter told her the hospital was taking bodies and she said we should bring her there if that was easiest for us. We had a long talk about things a few days ago.”

  “Do I have to do that?” Jonny asked. “Do I have to go in?”

  “No,” Matt said. “But you have to help us bring stuff over. There’s a wheelbarrow in her garage. We can fill it with firewood for you to take back here. Miranda, would you mind going back in?”

  “No, of course not,” I said.

  “Okay, then,” he said. “We’ll strip the house. Do you have any idea how to drive?”

  “The gas pedal makes it go and the brake makes it stop,” I said.

  Matt grinned. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll drive the van there and we’ll bring all our empty bottles and jugs so we can fill them with water. We’ll load things up and I’ll drive the van back and you’ll drive Mrs. Nesbitt’s car. Then I’ll go back and get Mrs. Nesbitt and take her to the hospital. By the time I get back, the house will be ransacked, but we’ll have gotten everything we can out of there.”

  “When you go back for Mrs. Nesbitt, fill the car up again,” I said. “Honestly, she wouldn’t mind.”

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Take the bag in and tell Mom. Jon, come with me. Let’s get water containers.”

  So we all went back to the house. Mom was sitting on her mattress, staring at the fire. She heard me come in and then she saw the pillowcase.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked.

  “It’s Mrs. Nesbitt’s,” I said. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

  It took her a moment to realize what I was saying. Then she did and took a deep breath. “Was it peaceful?” she asked. “Could you tell?”

  “She died in her sleep,” I said. “Just the way she wanted.”

  “Well, that’s the best we can hope for,” Mom said.

  When we got to Mrs. Nesbitt’s, Jonny stayed outside and loaded the wheelbarrow with wood. Matt and I went inside. Matt filled all the containers we’d brought with water, and I packed up the blankets and towels and sheets and food and the photo albums and the two paintings.

  While we were in
the kitchen, Jon raced in. He’d found two barrels in the garage and a couple of plastic recycling bins and a heavy garbage pail.

  The garbage pail weighed so much when we filled it with water that it took all three of us to lift it into the van. Jonny and I managed the recycling bins together.

  We did everything as quietly as we could, but of course if anyone heard the car motor, they’d know something was up. The rule is family first and Matt said everyone thought of us as Mrs. Nesbitt’s family, so we should be okay, but it was still scary until we got both cars loaded and both engines running.

  Then of course I had to drive down the driveway, onto the road, and up our driveway to the sunroom door.

  The important thing, I kept telling myself, was not to panic. There were no cars on the road, so I wasn’t going to hit anybody. It was more a question of whether I’d hit a tree. I kept my hands locked on the steering wheel and drove about five miles an hour. The whole trip couldn’t have taken more than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

  If I was that nervous driving, I knew I wasn’t ready to die.

  Jon arrived with the wheelbarrow, which he left in our garage. Then he and Matt and I unloaded the cars. We put everything in the kitchen to be gone through later. I thought Mom was going to cry when she saw all the water.

  Matt asked me if I wanted to go back with him and bring Mrs. Nesbitt to the hospital. Before I had a chance to agree, Mom said no.

  “Miranda’s done enough,” she said. “Jonny, go with your brother.”

  “Mom,” Jonny said.

  “You heard me,” Mom said. “You say you want to be treated like an adult. Then behave like one. Miranda’s said her good-byes to Mrs. Nesbitt. Mine, too, I’m sure. It’s your turn to do so and I expect that you will.”

  “Okay,” Jonny said. He sounded so young, I wanted to hug him.

  “This is going to take a while,” Matt said. “Don’t open the door while we’re gone. You should be fine, but don’t take any chances.”

  “We’ll be safe,” Mom said. “Be careful. I love you both.”

  After they left, I made Mom drink one of the bottles of water. Then I sat with her and told her about the conversation I’d had with Mrs. Nesbitt. I pulled the pendant out of the Santa bag and handed it to her.

  “It was her fiftieth-birthday present,” Mom said. “Her husband gave it to her. There was a big surprise party and I think she was genuinely surprised. Bobby brought Sally home for the party so we all knew it was serious. They got married later that year.”

  “She told me to give you her photo albums,” I said. “I bet there are pictures from the party.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there are,” Mom said. “Here. Help me with the clasp. I think she’d like to know I’m wearing the pendant.”

  I helped Mom on with it. She’s gotten so thin I could see her shoulder blades.

  “She gave me this brooch,” I said, showing it to Mom.

  “She loved that brooch,” Mom said. “It was her grandmother’s. Cherish it, Miranda. That’s a very special gift.”

  Then I went back to work. The bottles and jugs got moved to the kitchen. I put the food in the pantry and then I changed Mom’s sheets. I took a pot, filled it with water, and after it had heated up, I helped Mom shampoo her hair. I hid the baseball cards and the chocolate, and put everything else away.

  Matt and Jon got home around suppertime. They had seen Peter and there was no problem with the hospital taking Mrs. Nesbitt. Then we ate tuna and red beans and pineapple chunks. And we toasted the best friend we’ll ever have.

  November 8

  Mom hobbled her way (which she probably shouldn’t have done) into the pantry this afternoon. Matt and Jonny were doing their wood-chopping things.

  I left Mom alone in the pantry for a while (I’m losing all sense of time), but then I figured I’d better make sure she hadn’t fallen. So I went into the pantry and found her sitting on the floor weeping. I put my arm around her shoulder and let her cry. After a while she calmed down and then she embraced me.

  I helped her up and she leaned on me as we went back to the sunroom.

  I have never loved Mom as much as I love her now. I almost feel like some of Mrs. Nesbitt’s love for Mom has seeped into me.

  November 10

  Peter came over this afternoon. Each time I see him, he looks five years older.

  He didn’t talk much to us. He just lifted Mom off her mattress, blankets and all, and carried her into the living room.

  They stayed there a long time. Matt and Jon came in while they were there, and we all whispered, so Mom wouldn’t be disturbed by the sound of our voices.

  When they came back into the sunroom, Peter put Mom down so gently on her mattress, I almost wept.

  There was so much love and kindness in that gesture. Peter told us to take care of Mom and make sure she doesn’t try to do too much. We promised we would.

  I wonder if Dad was ever that gentle with Mom. I wonder if he’s that gentle now with Lisa.

  November 11

  Veterans Day.

  A national holiday.

  Matt stayed home from the post office.

  I think this is the funniest thing ever.

  November 15

  I went to my bedroom to look for clean(er) socks, and while I was up there, I decided to weigh myself.

  I had on a fair number of layers of clothes. Even though we have the woodstove going day and night, the sides of the sunroom don’t get too warm. And of course leaving the sunroom to go to the pantry or the kitchen or upstairs is like hiking to the North Pole. You don’t just stroll there in a bikini.

  I had on my underwear and my long Johns (sometimes I remember how upset I was when Mom bought them last spring, and now I thank her over and over, at least in my mind) and jeans and sweatpants and two shirts and a sweatshirt and a winter coat and two pairs of socks and shoes. I didn’t bother with a scarf and I kept my gloves in my pocket because I knew I wasn’t going to be upstairs too long.

  For the great weighing-in, I took off my shoes and my coat. According to the scale, my clothes and I weigh 96 pounds.

  I don’t think that’s too bad. Nobody starves to death at 96 pounds.

  I weighed 118 last spring. My real concern is how much muscle I’ve lost. I was in good shape from all the swimming and now I don’t do anything except carry firewood and shiver.

  I’d like to go back to the pond and do some more skating, but I feel guilty leaving Mom alone. When I left her alone to visit Mrs. Nesbitt, I was doing something for someone else. But skating would just be for me, and I can’t justify that.

  Matt and Jon are both thin, but they look like they’re pure muscle. Mom looks skinny and sickly. She’s been eating less than the rest of us for a while now, but she also started out weighing more so I don’t think she’s at starvation level, either.

  We have food but we’re so careful with it. Who knows when we’ll get any more. Even Peter doesn’t bring us any when he visits.

  Thanksgiving is next week. I wonder if we’ll have anything to be thankful for.

  November 18

  Matt came flying home from the post office today. There was a letter from Dad.

  The only problem was the letter was sent before the other one. I guess he wrote a letter between the two we’d already gotten.

  This one was from Ohio. It didn’t say much, just that he and Lisa were doing well and so far they had enough gas and food and camping out was fun. They met lots of other families who were also going south or west and he’d even run into someone he’d known in college. Lisa threw in a PS to say she could feel the baby move. She was sure it was a boy but Dad was equally sure it was a girl.

  It was so strange getting that letter. I couldn’t understand why Matt was so happy. It wasn’t like there was any new news in it, since we know Dad and Lisa made it farther west than that. But Matt said it means mail is still traveling and is totally unpredictable, so a newer letter from Dad could arrive at any time
.

  Sometimes I feel like I miss Dad and Sammi and Dan more than I miss Megan and Mrs. Nesbitt. They all deserted me but I can’t blame Megan or Mrs. Nesbitt for not writing. I know I can’t blame Dad or Sammi or Dan, either. Or I shouldn’t blame them, which is more accurate.

  I have no privacy. But I feel so alone.

  November 20

  It was minus 10 when I went out with the bedpan. I’m pretty sure that was early afternoon.

  Matt keeps chopping wood. There’s already too much for the dining room, so he’s started a pile in the living room.

  I wonder if we’ll have any trees left by the time winter ends. If it ends.

  We still have water but we ration it.

  November 24

  Thanksgiving.

  Even Mom didn’t pretend we had anything to be thankful for.

  November 25

  Matt came home today from the post office with two special treats.

  One was Peter.

  The other was a chicken.

  It wasn’t all that much of a chicken, maybe a little bigger than a Cornish hen. But it was dead and plucked and ready for cooking.

  I guess Matt knew he’d be getting it, and had arranged for Peter to join us in our Day After Thanksgiving Feast.

  There was a moment when I thought about where the chicken had come from and what Matt must have given up for us to have it. But then I decided the hell with it. It was chicken, a real honest-to-goodness-notfrom-a-can chicken. And I’d be a fool to look a gift chicken in the mouth.

  No matter what Matt might have given up for the chicken, it would have been worth it for the look in Mom’s eyes when she saw it. She looked happier than she has in weeks.

  Since the only way we can cook is on top of the woodstove, we were kind of limited. But we put the chicken in a pot with a can of chicken broth and salt and pepper and rosemary and tarragon. Just the smell of it was heaven. We made rice and string beans, too.

  It was wonderful beyond description. I’d forgotten what actual chicken tastes like. I think we each could have eaten the entire chicken, but we shared it very civilly. I had a leg and two bites of thigh.