Life as We Knew It (23 page)

I mentioned that to Matt when we had a chance to be by ourselves.

"Well, he's dealing with illness all the time," Matt pointed out. "Most of his patients are probably dying. And he's alone. He's divorced and he had two daughters, but they both died."

"I didn't know that," I said.

"Mom told me," he said.

I guess all the worrying Peter would do for his own family, he's doing for us.

How am I going to feel when people I love start dying?

September 26

Matt and I went to the library today. It's only open on Mondays now. They don't know how much longer they'll stay open.

As we were leaving, I saw Michelle Schmidt. I guess she hasn't vanished after all.

I wonder how much I hear is true and how much is just made up. Maybe everything is fine with the world and we just don't know it.

The joke would sure be on us if that's the case.

September 29

It's funny how much I'm enjoying things these days. I think we all are. We're so used to worrying we hardly even notice it.

Actually, life is pretty cozy. We have the woodstove going full-time because of Mom, so there's always a warm spot in the house. We spend our daytimes doing whatever needs to be done. Matt and Jonny are still bringing in firewood ("Better too much than too little" is Matt's mantra and I can't argue with him). I'm doing whatever housework there is to be done (the worst is the clothes washing, which has to be done with as little water as possible, all by hand, and very yucky) and visiting Mrs. Nesbitt every afternoon. I go after lunchtime so she won't try to feed me (although she does, but I always say no, thanks) and I stay for an hour or so. A lot of times we hardly even talk; we just sit at the table and stare out the kitchen window together.

Mom says she and Mrs. Nesbitt do the same thing so I shouldn't worry.

Mom now trusts me to go to the pantry and I get to select our suppers. A can of this and a can of that.

There's less food there than there was when I had my great chocolate chip feast, but as long as we don't eat too much, we'll be okay for a while.

Ever since I saw Michelle Schmidt and realized she had never disappeared the way the kids at school thought she had, I feel like things really are better than we've been letting ourselves believe. So what if I'm deluding myself? Better to delude myself that things are okay than to delude myself that things are doomed.

At least this way I smile.

After supper when we're all feeling good because we're not too hungry, we've taken to playing poker. I like 7-card stud the best. Jonny and Matt like Texas Hold 'Em, and Mom prefers 5-card draw. So dealer decides.

Matt went into the attic and dug out a box of poker chips. Jonny is the best player, and as of tonight I owe him $328,000 and a utility infielder (we're high-stakes gamblers).

I think even Peter is feeling better about things. He came over this evening, proclaimed Mom able to walk around again as long as she is careful and avoids stairs, and he didn't mention a single new way people are dying. We convinced him to stay for supper and I put out an extra can of tuna. This is the first time I can remember when Peter came over and didn't bring us anything, so either he's run out of supplies or he's now officially family. I hope it's family. Because I owe him $33,000 from a single hand of Omaha Hi.

Horton is on a diet (not of his choosing). Maybe it's the warmth of the woodstove, or maybe he just hopes we'll feed him, but he's very affectionate lately. He keeps Mom company all day and in the evenings he sits on the most available lap or else by the woodstove.

Matt brought down an old portable typewriter because Mom is thinking about writing down some of the stories she knows about her great-grandmother and her family. What life was like in this house before there was electricity and indoor plumbing.

I like thinking about that. It makes me feel connected, like I'm a part of some bigger thing, like family is more important than electricity. The sunroom was just a porch back then, but I can imagine my great-great-grandmother's family sitting around in the parlor, with the oil lamps glowing, and the men tired out from chopping wood and the women tired out from doing the laundry.

Actually, Mom says the family had two servants and one of them did all the laundry, but the women were probably tired out anyway.

I wonder if they imagined the future. I bet they never could have guessed what things would be like today.

Chapter Fourteen

October 2

I turned on the stove to boil water and no flame came out. I ran the hot water in the kitchen and the water stayed cold.

I guess Aaron's father knew what he was talking about when he said the natural gas would be turned off by October.

Mom says it's okay. We can heat our food and boil our water on the woodstove. She's refusing to let us use up the last of our oil for the furnace, but at least we're not dependent on gas for our heat. A lot of families are worse off than we are.

We've all been taking just one shower a week for a while now, but with no hot water I guess no more showers at all. And no hot water is going to make washing clothes that much harder.

I know it shouldn't bother me but it does. I can see Mom's upset, too, even though she's acting like she isn't.

I guess it's because things have been kind of level for a while, and now they're worse again. Not big bad worse (at least not for us or Mrs. Nesbitt, who also has a woodstove and oil heat), but worse anyway.

We played poker tonight, but none of us were really into it. Which is probably why for the first time I was the big winner.

October 3

Matt, Jonny, and I all went to the library. Mom's ankle still isn't strong enough for her to bike.

The library was open, but Mrs. Hotchkiss was the only person working there. She said that this was the last day the library would be open; they just couldn't keep it open with no heat. There was no limit on how many books we could take. Mrs. Hotchkiss told us to take as many as we possibly could. If the library reopens in the spring, we can always bring them back.

So we loaded up. We had our backpacks and the bikes all have baskets, so we managed a dozen or more books each. We looked for ourselves and for Mom, too. Since we've been playing poker, we've been reading less, and of course there are plenty of books in the house (including lots of old ones in the attic). But it's still upsetting to think the library won't be there.

Mrs. Hotchkiss said she and her husband were going to Georgia. Her husband has a sister there. Jonny asked her how they were going to get there, and she said walk if they had to.

"The temperature's been below freezing for the past two weeks," she said. "If it's this bad in October, none of us will make it through the winter."

"I think we should go, too," Jonny said as we were getting on our bikes to go home. "We should go to Kansas and see if we can find Dad."

"We don't know where Dad is," Matt said. "He could be in Colorado. He could be back in Springfield."

"No," I said. "He would have stopped off here if they came back east."

"We still don't know where he is," Matt said. "Jon, Mom and I have talked about it a lot, about what we should do. There's no point in going. We have shelter. We have firewood, so we won't freeze. It's not like we're going to be able to find food anyplace else."

"We don't know that," Jonny said. "Maybe there's food in Kansas."

"Dad couldn't even get into Kansas," I said.

"Missouri, then," Jonny said. "Or Oklahoma. I don't see why we're staying here just to die."

"We're not going to die," Matt said.

"You don't know that," Jonny said. "What if the moon crashes in?"

"Then it won't matter where we are, we'll die anyway," Matt said. "Our chances of survival are best here.

This isn't just happening to Pennsylvania, Jon. It's all over the world. We have a roof over our heads. We have heat. We have water. We have food. How long do you think we'd survive biking our way across country?"

"Dad got gas," Jonny said. "We could get gas."

"Dad bought black market gas," Matt said. "He had connections. And at that, his gas ran out."

"Black market?" I said.

Matt looked at me like I was an infant. "How do you think he got all that food?" he said. "You didn't really think it was just waking to be taken, did you?"

"Does Mom know?" I asked.

Matt shrugged. "Dad and I talked about it while we were cutting down trees," he said. "I don't know what he talked to Mom about. He probably didn't tell her. Mom's happier not knowing things. You know that."

I do, but I didn't realize Matt knew it also.

"So we're stuck here?" Jonny asked.

"I'm afraid so," Matt said. "But things will get better. Maybe not right away but we'll make it."

That's Mom's answer for everything. Hold on and wait until things get better. It didn't sound any more believable coming from Matt.

But I know he's right about our not going. It's like the world before Columbus. People leave and you never hear from them again. They might as well have fallen off the face of the earth.

We have each other. As long as we have each other, we'll be all right.

October 6

Mom's writing again. Or at least she's typing.

"I'd forgotten how hard it is," she said. "The letter A in particular. My left pinky isn't really up to it on a manual typewriter."

It's been so long since it rained I don't remember what it sounds like. It's getting harder to remember sunlight, also. The days are getting shorter, but it doesn't matter.

The air's getting worse, too. The longer you stay out the dirtier you are when you come in. Mom's worried about what all the ash is doing to Matt's and Jonny's lungs, even with the face masks, but they still keep chopping firewood for as long as they can every day.

Mom and I scrub the clothes as hard as we can, but even though we're hanging them indoors, they're still gray. We wash ourselves every night, and the washcloths are filthy and we can never get them really clean.

The towels aren't much better.

Matt says if the air is getting dirtier it probably means more volcanoes are erupting, but we have no way of knowing. The post office is still open, but less and less mail is coming and it's all weeks or months old when it finally arrives. Anything could have happened in and we'd have no way of knowing.

One good thing about the extra ash. It's completely blocked out the moon. Before, especially on windy nights, you could make it out. But now it's totally gone. I'm glad I don't have to see it anymore. I can pretend it's not there and if it isn't, maybe things will get back to normal.

Okay. I know that's crazy. But I'm still glad I don't have to see the moon anymore.

October 10

Columbus Day.

In honor of the holiday, I asked Mom to cut my hair really short, the way I'd cut hers. Her hair hasn't grown out yet but I've gotten used to it, and I hate washing my hair now. It never gets clean and it's so lank and disgusting. I figured short would be better.

So Mom chopped my hair off. When she finished, I looked at myself in the mirror. It was all I could do to keep from crying.

But I didn't. And Mom kissed me and hugged me and told me I was beautiful with short hair.

"It's a good thing the bars are closed," she said. "You could pass for twenty-one."

I really do love her. At least we're not fighting anymore.

Matt and Jonny came in and I could see how shocked they were. But Matt said I looked great and asked Mom to cut his hair as well. Mom ended up cutting all our hair.

We threw the hair in the woodstove and watched it sizzle.

October 13

It was 2 degrees below zero this morning.

Mom and Matt had a big fight. Matt said we had to start using whatever oil we had. Mom said we should wait until November at least. Matt won the argument. He said our pipes were going to freeze and we might as well use up the well water while we still could.

He and Jonny moved Mom's mattress out of the sunroom. and into the kitchen. Then they went upstairs and got all the mattresses and one by one carried them downstairs.

I went upstairs, closed off the heat registers, and closed the doors.

"We can go back to using our bedrooms in the spring."' Mom said. "This isn't forever."

For the time being, Mom and I are sleeping in the kitchen and Matt and Jonny are in the living room. Mom and I are actually better off, since the kitchen gets a little bit of warmth from the woodstove in the sunroom.

We also have more space. Matt, Jonny, and I piled the dining room furniture and living room furniture together so there's room for the two mattresses in there, but they barely have space to move around. When the fuel oil runs out, we'll all move into the sunroom.

I keep telling myself it isn't like I've been comfortable in my bedroom. It's freezing in there, so cold sometimes I lie in bed shivering, unable to fall asleep. But it's been the only space I could call my own. I have my candles, my flashlight, and no one tells me not to use them. I can write or read or just pretend I'm someplace else.

I guess it's better to be warm.

I want to weep. And I feel like I have no place left where I can.

October 14

Matt still goes to the post office every Friday to find out if there's any news. He came in while Mom and I were washing clothes at the kitchen sink. He gestured to me and I followed him into the pantry.

"I have bad news," he said. "Megan's on the dead list."

That's what they have now, the dead list. If you find out someone is dead, you write their name on the list.

Just the local people, of course, since there's no way of knowing if anybody in the rest of the world has died.

I guess I didn't say anything because Matt kept talking. "Her mother is on the list, too."

"What?" I said. "Why?"

"I'm just telling you what I know," he said. "They were both on the list. I didn't see their names last week, but that doesn't mean anything. You know how the list is."