The First Year

by Jeff Rosenplot

  I spend time beside Oliver’s grave. I’ve purposely avoided it, terrified that it will draw me back down my dark hole. Instead, it’s comforting. It’s all a challenge at first. I feel like I’m playing some role playing game. But the more I do and the more often I do it, being truly alive becomes second nature.

  I find a book on gardening and set about creating one. It’s been part of the plan, the last time I planned. I’ve never been a strong advocate of vegetables, but anything has to be better than canned green beans. And the thought of freshanything sounds pretty good.

  A small garden shop in the touristy end of Charleston provides most of what I need — trowels, a wheelbarrow, spades, rakes and seeds. Digging the garden is exhausting. The soil is sandy, so I have to dig up and haul soil from the forest to make my garden look even remotely like the pictures in the book. Mr. Hays down the street in Flint had been the only person in our neighborhood with a garden, and he was a bit of a jackass so I don’t have much firsthand knowledge to go by. I have no idea what “good earth” is supposed to look like, but the book is pretty adamant about having it. It takes me most of a week to get it dug and planted, and when it’s done it looks more or less like the pictures.

  I collect rainwater in a half dozen large plastic barrels. Some of it I filter for drinking, but the rest I keep for the garden. The warmer air brings daily bursts of rain. Most of the time the rain is gone quickly, but some days it lingers. On those days I sit inside painting or reading or writing in my journal.

  The journal was Kate Moynihan’s idea. I’ve been thinking about Kate a great deal lately. Not sure why. Maybe repainting the house has stirred up her ghost. Regardless, I think a lot about her. Why was I so hard on her? Because she’d brought back time? Because she’d reminded me of who I used to be? None of that is poor Kate’s fault. That girl has been through enough. Kate isn’t Grace, and even if she was, I’m not Hannah anymore. The person I was doesn’t matter anymore. Each day is fresh, and that removes a lot of the baggage I’ve carried with me. My own journal is a way to help figure out the meaning of my own life. Maybe that’s what Kate was trying to do. Maybe it’s whateverybody was trying to do.

  I don’t know who to address this to. Do I say ‘dear diary’, do I write it to me in the future, to someone else in the future? Maybe I’ll write it to you. I haven’t talked to you in a long time. I don’t even know what day this is. That last one’s by choice, though. Time does a real number on you if you’re not careful.

  I don’t even know how old I am. It’s springtime. That must mean I’m almost fifteen, if I’m not already there. It’s funny, I don’t really feel like I’m any age. I have nothing to compare it to. I don’t have classmates, I don’t have friends who are my own age. There’s no one around who’s older than me. So I guess my age doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t to me.

  I guess I’m the last person in the world. I guess because I don’t know. I saw lights a couple of times on the ocean, and I heard a voice on the radio. It seems kind of ridiculous to me that I’d be the last person. But someone has to be, right? I’ve thought about searching for other people. But what happens if I find them? I guess I’d go back to school again. I was going to start high school this coming fall. I always thought I’d be going to Carman-Ainsworth High School in Flint. I’d’ve been a Cavalier, not that I would’ve been into school spirit. I would’ve probably spent my time in the library. Maybe some cute nervous nerdy boy would’ve asked me to a dance. I would’ve had a boyfriend. I’m not sure where I would’ve gone to school in Detroit. The districts kept changing. Maybe I would’ve met a cute nervous nerdy boy there, too.

  I don’t think about boys that often. Is that weird? Even if I did, there aren’t any around. I think mostly about how I’m going to spend tomorrow.

  Being the last person is lonelier than you can imagine. If it’s you I’m writing this for, then you know that yourself. At first, I’ll admit, the solitude was kinda’ cool. There are no cars, no airplanes, no horns or car alarms. It doesn’t matter how much money you have because everything in the stores is yours for the taking. Whatever you want, whenever you want it, it’s all up for grabs. And then after awhile, it stops being cool.

  People didn’t just vanish. They died. Dead bodies are messy, smelly, and they’re terrifying. They smell when they’re freshly dead and they really smell after they’ve been dead awhile. Because as cool as it was grabbing whatever I wanted from stores, the reality was that the world has become an open cemetery. Most people died in their houses. Lots of them died in hospitals. Every now and then, someone died in a car or a store or a public bathroom. Know the thing that surprised me most? Not the fact that a human body shits its pants when it dies, or that bodies will eventually explode when the gases inside them build up. The thing that surprised me most is that I got used to it.

  My family died. My father, mother, brother and sister, all of them one after the other. The sickness, the thing they called General Tsao, it was a horrible way to die. It started out like the flu, there was a lot of barfing and diarrhea. And then they had trouble breathing. Their coughs were thick and wet. They coughed up blood. My family didn’t recognize me at the end. I don’t think they knew where they were. Maybe that was for the best. The part of them that had been them was gone before the worst of it happened. I didn’t have that luxury. I saw everything. I remember everything.

  I walked to Charleston, South Carolina from Detroit, Michigan. I don’t know how long it took. I stopped keeping track of time, remember? But it was a long walk. I came to Charleston because it seemed like the right thing to do. Because it was the last place I’d been happy. Would I do it again? I don’t know. But I did it then. And if I hadn’t, I never would’ve found Oliver.

  I don’t know why Oliver’s death still hurts more than my family’s. He was a dog. He was my friend when I didn’t believe I’d ever have one again. Weird, huh? The best friend I ever had, and he never said a word to me. He died defending me. He died because I made a stupid, selfish mistake. I left the door open.

  Being the last person is lonelier than you’d imagine. It’s lonelier than I’d imagined. It’s not any one single thing. I can’t point to a particular time of day or an activity or anything that makes me lonely. It’s a combination of a million little things that just keep reminding me. There’s no one I can call on the phone, text with, no midnight infomercials to watch or all-night pancake place to sit down in. There’s no one to annoy me or make fun of me or laugh with me. No one bothers me when I’m reading. Loneliness sneaks up on me, like one of those guys with a knife in horror movies. I do things to fill time. Tend my garden, read my books, take walks. But I’m not always very good company.

  Maybe you are who I’m writing to. Not some future person but to you, my imagined friend, sitting somewhere alone with your own awful past never more than an inch or two from your memories. In order to have arrived here, you’ve paid a steep price. I can’t tell you the purpose of it. I don’t think it has a purpose. Dad does. Or at least the figment of my imagination that conjured Dad thinks so. That all of this is for a reason. And that my reason is different than yours. I guess my subconscious is wiser than me. Or maybe Dad really was here. I can’t really tell anymore.

  I imagine that you’re a girl, maybe my age, maybe a little older. I think you’re smart. You’d have to be, wouldn’t you? This isn’t an experience for the weak-minded. Maybe you’re on a beach or on a mountain, or in a house in an empty city. You know where the food is, water, supplies. Maybe you’ve killed an animal to eat. I haven’t done that yet. Just fish. You might have the stomach for it. At night, you look up at the stars. They’re so much clearer now without the lights. Maybe you wonder about me. I’m your imagined friend, too. We’ve never met. We never will. But maybe the possibility is what’s important. I don’t know if you’re out there, but I can imagine you are. And if I can imagine you, doesn’t that mean you’re possible? I think you are. So am I.

  I don’t know the meaning
of my own life. I don’t think I want to. If I did know, what if I didn’t like it? I don’t want to go backwards, I don’t want to be who I used to be. I’ve come too far for that. But I don’t know what’s next. I used to be just a girl from somewhere, trying to fit in and trying to find my way at the same time. Now I’m something else. I don’t know what that is. I’m shapeless and forming, and I don’t know what I’ll eventually become. But I guess that’s the point. Possibility is what’s important.

  The burden seems a little lighter now. You and I can both be the last person. It doesn’t matter whether you’re real or not. I’ll never know if you’re not. And you’ll never know if I’m not. It’s a pretty good arrangement, if you ask me.

  I close the diary. There isn’t much more to say. I haven’t talked to you for a long time. Talking to Oliver was what I did instead. Maybe you’re out there. Maybe you’re not. I feel better, if there even is such a thing. Nothing has changed, but I’ve opened the door to change’s possibility. It’s what I can control. It’s all a game, anyway. As long as I’m making the rules, anything’s possible. Even you.

  The Coyote

  The fire has burned down to embers. It’s dark outside. Pouring rain has removed any starlight.

  The howl wakes me. I wait in the darkness. Again, closer. Jump off the couch. My eyes adjust to the eerie red glow of the dying fire.

  It’s instinct that makes me grab the crossbow. Despite my high and holy pronouncements, my first reaction is still revenge.

  Take a breath. What’s the plan? Is it to run outside in the rain and kill the coyote? The weapon in my hand indicates as much. But haven’t the past few weeks been all about the exact opposite? Vengeance is primitive. I’m not primitive.

  The coyote needs to die. It has pointed itself along that path. I don’t want to kill it. Ihave to kill it. To restore balance. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. Those are the rules. Not my rules. Life’s rules.

  I’m angry. My heart beats fast and my palms are sweaty. Rub them on my shorts. Yes, anger is good. Anger is real. It isn’t some invisible pen pal or a ghost on the beach.

  The coyote killed Oliver. I hadallowed the coyote to kill Oliver. Those are facts, black and white and tinted with rage red. Facts don’t deviate. They don’t lie. Decisions need to be based on facts, not some dreamed-up ideal of purpose and meaning.

  I’m wasting time. If I don’t act, the coyote will only become stronger. Next time, I might not be willing to do what’s necessary. My indecision gave it strength before. The only way out is through.

  Load the crossbow. Put a half-dozen arrows in the quiver and slung it over my shoulder.

  Another howl, closer still. The coyote believes itself invincible. It has won its last battle here. I was naive then. I trusted this world. But this place, it’s primitive. It’s wild. There’s no room for games. This is the coyote’s hunting ground. Winter has pushed him away, following the game. Spring means he’s back.

  I open the French doors. The rain is coming down hard. A flash of lightning slices the night. There’s movement to my right. On the beach.

  I pull the door closed behind me. The rain is cold. It drenches me in a heartbeat. I welcome it. By becoming the rain, encasing myself in it, I’ll have the advantage.

  What are you doing? The voice is loud in my ear. It takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from inside myself. What are you doing? Haven’t you learned anything?

  I’ve learned that I can play make believe or I can survive. Survival means making hard decisions.

  Killing the coyote won’t bring Oliver back.

  What if it will? How do I know that? How do I know anything? What if death is just a big practical joke and all I need to do to bring it all back is to kill this animal? Whyshouldn’t I do it? What makes this coyote so special that he can live when everything else is dead?

  Another flash of lightning and I see the animal clearly, hunched low and stalking me. I hold the crossbow in my arms. Feel the tension of the string. It makes a low hum as the rain dances across it. I wait. The coyote is closing in. It wants me. It’s no longer even pretending to be afraid of humans. It has smelled us all die. This one, this human, she’s small and young and weak. The coyote owns this territory. It has killed the dog. It will kill the human. I wait. I’m counting on my one chance.

  Lightning flash and I see him again. Take aim. Shoot the arrow. Hear the projectile whistle through the air. There’s a brief yelp and the coyote falls. I hold the crossbow in place, unable to move. After a moment, I slowly lowered it. The rain continues its deluge, but I no longer feel it. I walk across the deck and then feel the wet sand of the beach between my cold, bare toes.

  The coyote is dead. My aim is true and the arrow hit the coyote squarely in the throat. Another burst of lightning illuminates the crime scene. The coyote’s eyes are open. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth. I kneel down in the sand beside it.

  I expected to feel… well, anything. Relief, euphoria, power, something, but instead all I am is empty. As empty as the coyote’s corpse. Where’s victory? Where’s the warm rush of vengeance? This is supposed to mean something. This is supposed to matter.

  There’s no meaning. The coyote isn’t some supervillain and I’m no superhero. Oliver isn’t coming back. Killing the coyote didn’t break the witch’s spell.

  I scream. The sound ripples through the sheets of rain.

  “You were supposed to mean something!” I pound my fists on the coyote’s wet body. The sound is a wet THUMP-THUD.

  “Why don’t you mean anything?” I keep hitting the dead animal, THUMP-THUD, THUMP-THUD, as if beating it will release its secrets. But there are no secrets to be revealed. Life is not a fairy tale. Life is a simple equation. When you’re hungry, you eat. When you conquer a territory, you defend it. When you die, life moves on. Everyone is dead and life keeps moving.I keep moving. Mom and Dad and Grace and Gabe and Oliver, they exist now only in my memory.

  A part of me believed the coyote would change it all, that maybe he was the physical manifestation of everything that went wrong. The coyote is General Tsao. It’s the angel of death. Killing the angel, I killed death. I killed change.

  I don’t want to change. I want to stop time and remain forever that curious, awkward kid surrounded by the noises and chaos of my vibrant life. I want to be forever young, forever part of my ignorant innocence. To wake up knowing what’s expected of me, to go to school, to fight with Grace, to be held by my parents when I’m scared or sad or just want to feel their touch. I don’t want to be this new person. The past, it’s already happened and it’s a safe place to be. This new world, this new life, it’s all up to me now. I’m walking the tightrope without a net. Once upon a time, life was safe. In my mythical past, there was right and wrong, good and evil, black and white. Now, in this new haunted existence, there’s only the gray shroud of fog.

  I’m crying. My tears mix with the rain and in time I can’t tell one from the other. I’m part of this new world, melting into it and becoming something new. My body, my thoughts, my heart, all of it’s transforming. Gardens and diaries and meanings aside, I’m walking an inevitable path. No matter who I am, where I am in either time or place, life moves on.

  In time, I move on. I bury the coyote beside Oliver. The two are part of a connected chain. The coyote is simply a coyote. It’s me who assigned it meaning. What meaning had the coyote assigned me? What role did I play in the coyote’s existence? We, too, are now intimately connected.

  Death is inevitable. How and when it comes, that’s the part that’s up for grabs. In the meantime, there’s time. Change is the constant. Life moves on. Those are the rules. They’re simple and they don’t bend.

  In the middle, in the meantime, there’s life. Unpredictable, unflinching, and most often cruel, life gives you only glimpses at real joy. They are heartbeat moments when you see that yes, there really is beauty among all the slog and sadness. If you’re smart, if you open your eyes, you recognize that the moments
are the meaning. Blink your eyes and they’re gone. In the middle, in the meantime, life moves you on from one burst of beauty to the next. In those moments, you see both beauty and heartbreak. If you’re smart, only the beauty will survive, and heartbreak will only make the beauty shine brighter.

  The sun rises over the rain-soaked beach. The clouds that hold on are painted with red and orange and deep, rich purple, so beautiful it’s almost painful to see. I sit on the beach and the colors of the sunrise paint my skin and dapple my eyes and I see, completely and without fear, the beauty in the moment. It’s all I have to do. That’s my role to play. Whatever comes next, there will always be moments of beauty. My meaning, my purpose, is to see them.

  APRIL

  It Changes

  Without the clutter,the house feels less like an antique store and more like home. Not my home, butsomeone’s home. I wonder if I’ll ever feel completely comfortable. I’ve considered moving, even scoped out a few other places, but in the end decided it isn’t worth the effort. Not yet, at least. Oliver’s still there. Going anywhere else feels like I’m abandoning him a second time.

  The garden grows and I build defenses against its intruders. Rabbits mostly, but sometimes deer. I construct a rickety, makeshift enclosure out of wood and chicken wire. It isn’t pretty, but it’s effective. I spend long afternoons pulling weeds. The work is tedious but it calms me. I always sleep better after a day in the garden.