Pandemic

by Ventresca, Yvonne

  Mindlessly, I pulled out blades of grass one by one until I made a large empty patch, losing track of time. Piling the grass in my palms, I let the breeze scatter the pieces. The world seemed so vibrant: the bright sky, picture-perfect clouds, a mourning dove cooing nearby. But Megs wasn’t a part of it any longer. How could that be?

  Yet part of me had known it in my heart since the dream. Megs was gone.

  In a way, she had said a final good-bye to me in that dream. She would have known I needed the last conversation, the closure. I hated loose ends, and Megs understood me better than anyone.

  Megs was a part of my everyday life: the drama, the boredom, the survival. After the Mr. B incident, Mom and Dad had an unspoken rule not to talk about it unless I brought it up, which I never did. But somehow discussing it with Megs was different, less intimidating. Unlike my family, she wasn’t analyzing the long-term emotional implications to my mental health. She just listened.

  Only Megs believed I could study anything I wanted in college, even major in history if I put my mind to it. To her, the future was a blank page with no lines. Anything was possible.

  Once we made chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the night then ate them straight from the baking sheet while we discussed our ideal careers. In between giggles and bites of gooey sweetness, we ruled out nutrition-related fields that would discourage midnight snacks.

  Megs and I spent one sleepover planning our weddings in detail. We found pictures online of our perfect white dresses and elegant bouquets: roses for her, lilies for me. She wanted to have her ceremony outside under an ivy-covered cabana on a beautiful spring afternoon.

  A day just like today.

  The phone rang. What if it was Mr. B? I hesitated. What if it wasn’t?

  I moved like a sleepwalker back inside the house. It was Mom. Finally, the tears came.

  CHAPTER 12

  Portico has become a hotbed of flu-like activity with more than 200 cases reported among its 10,000 townspeople. This has resulted in a record number of departures. “I’m not sure leaving Portico is the answer,” Mayor Hein said. But residents seem to disagree and cars jam all major roads exiting Portico. When a policeman asked one mother where she was taking her three children, their beagle, and their parakeet, she replied, “Anywhere but here.”

  —Various Blue Flu interviews

  Mom was stuck in Hong Kong, Dad in Delaware. I was in voluntary quarantine hell, monitoring my temperature every hour, waiting for the flu to descend upon me. If I sat perfectly still as the minutes ticked by, maybe I could sense the illness shift in my body, feel the cells mutate, and mandate them to stop.

  The groceries came. That was the highlight of Monday. After putting the perishable stuff in the fridge, I spent most of the day sleeping between bouts of nausea. Whether it was the antiviral medicine or the grief, I couldn’t say.

  Dad kept his word, texting me every few hours to check in. He insisted on ignoring text language and spelled out every word.

  Dad: I tried to get a journalist’s exemption from the quarantine. They told me there is no such thing. I’m attempting to invent one.

  Dad: On a serious note, Mom told me about Megs. Not something that is easy to text about. You OK?

  It took me a long time to type the five words, to condense the overwhelming sadness into alphabetical characters.

  Me: Not really. Come home soon.

  Later:

  Dad: There is no official word on how long the quarantine will last. They’ve got people in masks cleaning the rooms. Probably too late for that. Are you still healthy?

  Me: Yes.

  Me: Hurts 2 think about Megs.

  When I wasn’t checking for his messages, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I couldn’t send flowers, visit her grave, or do any of the normal grieving things. Hours passed as I gazed outside, staring at the clouds. Remembering all the good times she and I had together made my chest ache.

  On Tuesday, I texted her.

  Me: I miss u.

  Me: U will never believe who the mystery guy was.

  Me: J! Isn’t that weird.

  Me: How can u b gone?

  Me: I really miss u.

  The phone rang in the kitchen and for a crazy second I thought it was Megs. I let it ring and ring, crying, unable to answer it. The machine clicked on and the caller hung up.

  I did not want to think about Mr. B calling again.

  I turned on the TV as a distraction and realized I wasn’t the only one in hell. Apparently, the flu had gotten stronger as it moved up the coast, with each state struck harder than the one before. New York and Connecticut prepared for the worst and various cases were being reported across the United States.

  The camera panned over a group of somber gray tents. “The governor of New Jersey has declared a state of emergency,” a reporter wearing a pale blue mask narrated. “Tents like those behind me are being erected outside many Jersey hospitals to deal with overwhelming demand. Retired nurses and doctors are asked to help wherever possible. While schools, churches, and ‘nonessential’ businesses decide whether to remain open, the governor encourages them to keep the greater good of the public’s health in mind. ‘Loss of business income and school days can be recovered,’ he said in a press conference earlier today. ‘Loss of life cannot.’”

  I stared at the tents. Megs and I had camped out in her backyard once. Or at least tried to. We made it until about midnight before we dragged our sleeping bags inside, grateful for the sturdy walls and ceiling to protect us from the outside world.

  The next news segment pulled me out of my thoughts. A doctor described the mechanics of the virus and how it affected the lungs. “The lack of oxygen,” she explained, “causes cyanosis, a blue discoloration of the skin.” A photo of an unidentified victim filled the screen, the face mostly obscured for privacy. But the ears were navy-colored as if they were covered with dark blue ink. I stood in the family room afraid to move, transfixed by the horror of it all.

  The next reporter also wore a mask. “I’m on location at the biggest ice arena in Morris County,” he said.

  I recognized the building. We skated there once—me, Megs, and Kayla. Kayla skated with a fluid grace while Megs and I slid around the rink, clutching each other and giggling.

  “Because of the large number of deaths here and in the surrounding counties, the ice skating rink behind me is being used to handle the overflow of bodies.”

  I turned the TV off, not wanting to imagine Megs as part of an overflow, another dead person stacked in the cold ice arena. She deserved so much more than that.

  I needed to talk about her before the sadness crushed me with its weight. I texted Mom and Dad with no responses. When the phone rang again, I checked the caller ID before answering. It was Jay.

  “Hey, I’m home from school today, too,” he said. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  I managed to tell him about Megs’s death.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s never a good time to lose your best friend. I won’t say anything lame about God’s will or how it was meant to be.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know if this will make you feel better or worse, but she’s not the only one. Some other kids from school have died, too.”

  “Who?” I asked, dreading the answer. Not that I would miss anyone more than Megs. But locking myself inside our house hadn’t stopped the march of death through our town.

  “Jennifer Williams.”

  From my bio class.

  “Teddy Rhodes.”

  My former cigarette supplier.

  “And Jose Rodriguez.”

  The class vice president.

  “Those are the kids I’ve heard about,” Jay said.

  “Well, I didn’t think it was possible to feel even more miserable.”

  “I know. It’s surreal. I was thinking about starting a student memorial page through my blog. I could list the . . . fatalities, keep it updated for our town. I talked t
o Jenny Silverman at Portico Press and she thought it would be a good way for people to share info, a place to check in. Especially if they close the school,” he said. “My aunt says even if they don’t close it, I’m not going this week. My two older sisters are at Arizona State. She’s forbidden them to attend classes, too.”

  “I didn’t realize you had sisters. I thought it was only you and your little brother.”

  “I mentioned it when we chatted online. Maybe that was to Megs? Anyway, only my brother and I moved here. My sisters didn’t want to leave. So my aunt tries to boss them around from a distance.”

  “I’ve been staying home under a Dad-imposed quarantine, too, since he found out Megs was sick. But it’s been almost three days.”

  “Do you have any symptoms?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  I told him about my parents. “It’s hard not to have them here during a crisis. Normally, Mrs. Salerno would be here for me. But she’s probably trying to cope with everything.”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. But Mrs. Salerno . . . she didn’t make it. They wrote a tribute to her on Portico Press.”

  “Oh.” Sadness overwhelmed me yet again. Angela, Megs, Mrs. Salerno. The other kids from school. I curled up on the couch, tugging the blanket around me.

  “Are you OK?” Jay asked.

  “OK is relative these days.”

  I wasn’t really all right, but telling the truth was too hard. I couldn’t admit that my world felt like a lone island battered by a tsunami. Everything washed away, but the real damage hadn’t been realized yet.

  And the forecast called for more disaster. A cynical voice whispered in my head, it’s only the beginning.

  Jay interrupted my brooding. “Do you think they’ll list our assignments online? Maybe they’ll send us another cliché-filled alert. Something like: you might think we can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but as luck would have it, we’ve convinced our teachers to communicate lessons online. It’s all in a day’s work.”

  Any other time I would have laughed. But not today.

  “They have to cancel classes,” I said. “If they can close an airport, how much more bureaucratic do you think it would be to cancel high school?”

  “True,” he said. “I wonder if they’ll add back the lost days in June.”

  “I guess it depends how long we’re out. I think if it’s a state of emergency, we don’t have to make them up.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Kayla thought, too,” he said.

  “Kayla?”

  “We’ve texted a few times.”

  “Oh.” I should have realized that if she liked him, she’d take the initiative. She always did. But it made talking to him suddenly feel uncomfortable. “Well, I should go.” As if I had such a busy schedule for the day.

  “Sure,” he said. “You can always stop by if you get stir-crazy.”

  “Thanks.” But my plan for surviving the pandemic meant avoiding potentially-infected people, which basically meant everyone. Especially guys who liked Kayla.

  Bored, I checked my phone. Bonus! I found texts from Dad and Mom.

  Dad: Two people from our conference have fallen ill. They’re trying to separate the healthy from the sick. I’m taking pages of notes for my article. But I wish I was home. Let me know that you are still well.

  Me: I’m OK. More kids from school have died.

  Dad: Hang in there and DO NOT attend school.

  Me: You don’t have to convince me.

  Mom was still getting the hang of the texting thing.

  Mom: hi lily

  Mom: it’s mom

  Mom: miss you lots

  Mom: stuck in airport

  Mom: with hundreds of other americans

  Mom: desperate to get home

  Mom: if i could steal a plane i would

  Mom: at least we are still healthy

  Mom: i’ve been thinking about megs

  Mom: and how hard it must be on you

  Mom: when aunt caryn died i took lots of walks

  Mom: movement helped

  Mom: don’t stay in bed too much

  Mom: text me soon

  Mom: bye sweeter

  Mom: that was supposed to be sweetie

  Mom: what is up with spelling on this thing

  Mom: love you

  After letting Mom know I was all right, I took her advice and moved through the numbness, doing stupid things, like dusting. As if the dust mattered. But it did feel good to be busy. The laundry was next. Then I unpacked the rest of the groceries that had been delivered, along with the stuff from the drug store site, too. They wouldn’t fit upstairs, so I reorganized the kitchen pantry, carrying supplies down from both my bedroom closet and the hall closet until the kitchen was full. The neat rows of cans gave me a satisfied feeling. So far, the once-a-day antiviral dose seemed to be working. I had taken it three nights in a row.

  I wondered if they had given Megs the antiviral. They must have. At least I wanted to believe they’d tried everything. But then that begged the question: Why didn’t it help her? And what if it didn’t help me?

  Wednesday morning it was official. School was closed indefinitely.

  Instant Alert from Portico High School

  On the advice of the mayor, the Portico Police, and the Department of Health, ALL SCHOOLS AND OFFICES in the Portico School District will be closed until further notice. All athletic and extracurricular activities are also cancelled. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

  Teachers will be asked to update their school websites with assignments to be completed by healthy students. When this crisis has passed, we look forward to getting back into the swing of things. Thank you for your support and cooperation.

  When the phone rang, I was half expecting it to be Jay again, pointing out the clichés in the alert.

  “Hello, Miss Lil.”

  “Oh, hi, Reggie.”

  “How are you holding up on your own?”

  It was nice to know that someone was looking out for me. “I’ve been fine. Symptom-free. Did my dad tell you to call?”

  “He said I should check that you’re not hosting any parties.”

  “Ha. I think the whole town is completely partyfree. How’ve you been?”

  “All’s well here. I’m heading to work soon. Not that there’s any food, but they want a few employees in there to dissuade potential looters.”

  I envisioned aisle after aisle of empty shelves. “There’s nothing to eat? In the whole store?”

  “Some leftover items, here and there, but it’s slim pickings. We were supposed to receive shipments soon, but the flu has impacted the delivery people, too. I guess they can’t find enough old people who are still capable drivers.”

  “That’s not good.”

  I wanted to ask if he had enough to eat. What if Reggie were starving? But the selfish, survivalist part of my brain insisted I shouldn’t share. Depending on how long the crisis lasted, every bit of food could become critical.

  Squeezing the phone, I tried to decide. “Do they know when the next trucks will arrive?”

  “No one can tell. But I have extra food if you need some,” he said, as if sharing were as easy as breathing. “I’ll eat supper at the Senior Center. A bunch of us have been meeting for meals, combining supplies. No one seems desperate yet. Do you want me to bring you some dinner?”

  I choked back tears. What was happening to me? How could I have become so self-centered? “I’m OK. Thanks for checking on me.”

  “If you need anything, give a holler.”

  Feeling despicable, I paced around the house. I’d been reluctant to split my food with an old man who only wanted to look after me. What kind of human being was I to hesitate like that? I dialed Megs to tell her what an awful person I was, then remembered she wasn’t there. The grief crashed into me all over again.

  When the sobs faded to a w
himper, I found my sneakers. Walking through the neighborhood wouldn’t be a magical cure for my grief, but maybe Mom was right. Maybe it would help. I would try anything to make the aching stop.

  I tried to focus on the practical, like the fact that today was garbage day. When I wheeled our trash to the curb, the clatter seemed so loud that I lifted the can and carried it the rest of the way.

  As I walked down the street, all the normal spring noises were missing. No lawn mowers buzzed. No cars passed me. No neighbors walked their dogs. Nature still prevailed: sparrows twittered, squirrels chattered, and breezes fluttered through the trees. But without the usual human sounds, Portico transformed into a ghost town.

  A few other people had put their trash out, too, but not many. As I passed each home near mine, I couldn’t help wondering which families were healthy, which were ill, and which had fled town in hopes of avoiding the flu. Would Megs still be alive if the Salernos had left? What if I had convinced Megs to skip Career Day? Would she still be here?

  Four houses away from mine, the Goodwins’ baby cried loudly, interrupting the silence and ending my what-if spiral. It wasn’t a normal cry, but a continuous high-pitched wail. Mrs. Goodwin and my mom were do-you-have-a-cup-of-sugar neighbors, but I didn’t know her well.

  I continued passed the house, not seeing a single soul. Was it safe to be out alone? It was daylight but I couldn’t help thinking that if someone wanted to hurt me, there would be no one around to help. That realization was as worrisome as the flu. Freaked out, I turned around a few blocks from home and hurried back.

  The baby still cried as I passed by the Goodwins’ house. The glass storm door was closed, but the wooden one behind it was wide open. I crept to the front and peeked inside. Most of the lights were off, giving the entranceway a gloomy air. I doubted anyone would hear the doorbell over the baby, but I rang it anyway, then jiggled the door handle. It was unlocked. A striped tabby cat ran to the door, staring at me with yellow-green eyes. Its plaintive meows combined with the baby’s bawling.

  Something was wrong. But if the flu had infected the Goodwins, I didn’t want to risk being exposed. Using my cell phone, I called information for their number, then listened as it rang inside the house. The answering machine kicked in. “We can’t take your call right now . . .”