Pandemic (11 page)

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 to 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.

Mom was still getting the hang of the texting thing.

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.

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 whimper, 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 . . .”