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 sun-room 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-not-from-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.
Peter and Jon broke the wishbone. Jon won, but it didn't matter since we all have the same wish.
November 26
I guess the chicken really revitalized Mom, because today she decided we were all wasting our lives and that had to stop. Of course it's true, but it's still pretty funny that Mom felt the need to make a big deal out of it.
"Have any of you done a bit of schoolwork all fall?" she asked. "You too, Matt. Have you?"
Well, of course not. We tried to look shamefaced. Bad us for not doing algebra when the world is coming to an end.
"I don't care what you study," Mom said. "But you have to study something. Pick one subject and work on that. I want to see open schoolbooks. I want to see some learning going on here."
"I absolutely refuse to study French," I said. "I'll never go to France. I'll never meet anyone from France. For all we know, there isn't a France anymore."
"So don't study French," Mom said. "Study history. We may not have a future, but you can't deny we have a past."
That was the first time I ever heard Mom say that about the future. It shocked any possible fight out of me.
So I picked history as my subject. Jon picked algebra and Matt said he'd help him with it. Matt admitted he'd been wanting to read some philosophy. And Mom said if I wasn't going to use my French textbook, she would.
I don't know how long this burst of studying is going to last, but I understand Mom's point. The other night I dreamed that I found myself in school for a final and not only hadn't I been to class and didn't know anything, but the school was just the way it had been and everybody there was normal looking and I was dressed in layers of clothes and hadn't washed in days and everyone stared at me like I was a drop-in from hell.
At least now if it's a history test, I'll have a fighting chance of knowing some of the answers.
November 30
There's nothing like schoolwork to make a person want to play hooky.
I told Mom I wanted to go for a walk and she said, "Well, why don't you? You've been spending entirely too much time indoors."
I love
her but I could throttle her.
So I layered up and walked over to Mrs. Nesbitt's house. I don't know what I was looking for or what I was expecting to find. But the house had been ransacked since the day she'd died. That was to be expected. We'd taken everything we could use, but there was stuff like furniture that we didn't need and other people had taken for themselves.
It felt funny walking around the empty house. It reminded me of Megan's house when I'd gone there, like the house itself was dead.
After I'd walked around awhile, I realized what I wanted to do was explore the attic. Maybe that hadn't been gone through, or at least not as thoroughly.
And sure enough, even though all the boxes had been opened and contents pulled out, there was plenty of stuff left in there. And that's when I knew I was there looking for a Christmas present for Matt. Jon had the baseball cards. Mom had the box of chocolates. But I wanted Matt to have something, too.
Most of what was lying around on the floor was old linens, tablecloths, and stuff like that. There were piles of old clothes, too, nothing anyone could have found usable.
When I'd gone through the attic the first time, it had been crowded with boxes, but everything was neatly packed away. Now it was chaos. Not that it mattered. I looked through piles of things, through boxes that had been gone through but nothing taken out. And finally I found something I could give Matt.
It was a dozen or so different colored pencils from an old color-by-number picture set. The pictures had all been carefully colored in, but their backs were blank, so I decided to take them, too.
Back in high school, Matt had done some drawing. I wasn't sure he'd even remember it, but I did, because he did a sketch of me in a much better layback position than I'd ever really managed. Mom had loved it and wanted to hang it up, but it embarrassed me because I knew it wasn't really me and I threw a tantrum until she gave up on the idea. I guess she kept the picture, but I don't know where she hid it.
Life as We Knew It Page 21