Pandemic (15 page)

Back at our house, I locked the stroller wheels before moving the baby toys from the tray back into the diaper bag. I hoisted TK into my arms with the bag slung over my shoulder. Then I froze.

We’d been looted.

C
HAPTER
15

The American justice system has grinded to a halt. No lawyers, no judges, no jurors would possibly participate in a trial right now.

—Blue Flu interview, Manhattan judge

I
steadied myself with a hand on the kitchen counter. Staring at the disaster in our house was a lot worse than surveying the Goodwins’ mess. Cabinet doors had been flung open revealing emptiness where Mom usually kept coffee, sugar, and spices. Shards of glass created a glistening pattern of destruction across the kitchen floor. Why? Why break our plates? Mindlessly, I picked up a fragment of pink rose and placed it near the toaster.

The refrigerator motor kicked in, making me jump. I did not want to stay inside the house, possibly alone with violent thieves. Every creak seemed dangerous. I grabbed TK and the phone and went into the backyard. When I was reasonably sure we were alone, I plopped him onto the grass and called the police.

“We can be there in two to three days,” said the cop who answered.

“But I’m home alone
now
. What if the robbers are still in the house?”

“I’m sorry, miss, I really am. But there’s a riot at the pharmacy on Main Street where people are attempting to steal medicine. We had two officers called to the Newark morgue this afternoon, and several more are out sick,” he said. “You’re our twelfth looting report today and there’s no one to send. Can you stay someplace else?”

“Never mind.” My voice cracked in desperation. If the police couldn’t help, Portico was in worse shape than I realized. I hung up without giving him our address. What was the point? I’d contaminate any evidence over the next few days anyway.

I needed a plan. Neither Reggie nor Jay answered his phone. Sitting outside with TK all day wasn’t an option either. Plus, my mind was already onto the next worry. If there was a riot at the pharmacy, then medicine was in high demand. Had the looters found our safe?

I got up and took TK with me into the garage to find the hornet spray. Armed with bee killer, I forced myself upstairs with TK on my hip, afraid to leave him alone. My breath came short and shallow as I scrutinized each room. Brandishing the bee spray like a gun, I started with the top floor and methodically worked my way downstairs. Like a robot, I ensured each window was locked, that every possible hiding spot was empty. I inspected all the closets and under the beds. Otherwise, I’d never sleep again.

In Dad’s office, I tried to ignore the way the robbers had carelessly swept his research folders onto the floor and knocked his books from the shelves. The linen closet was bare, our sheets toppled in a heap. My desk drawers had been dumped out, creating a pile of schoolwork and unused stationery. I spotted the crumpled note from Mr. B.

Was he behind this somehow? But that didn’t make any sense. I had to think rationally. Looters had ransacked our house. It wasn’t personal, but it sure felt like it. The scattered papers, the jumble of clothing Mom always folded so neatly, the dirty shoe prints across my bedroom rug. It seemed
very
personal.

Like at the Goodwins’ house, the looters had emptied the medicine cabinets, leaving only a few cotton balls and stray hairs behind. My mother’s jewelry box was also gone. The bed pillows looked naked without their cases, which the looters had presumably taken in order to carry our belongings away.

The good news: Dad was right. Burglars didn’t care about laundry rooms and the safe was untouched. The bottled water remained under my bed and a few cans of food that I hadn’t moved downstairs sat on the top shelf of my closet. Dad’s computer was also intact. In the hall closet, even though the lanterns and batteries were missing, the emergency hand crank radio had fallen behind several boxes of tampons, hidden from sight.

I saved the kitchen—the worst—for last. Even though I anticipated the bare kitchen pantry, the stark emptiness took my breath away. Someone had stolen my substantial supply of food. It must have been a group of people, because it would have been a lot to carry. All of that planning and buying and stacking.

Gone.

“This is bad, TK. This is very, very bad.”

My family meal plan for the next several weeks had fallen to the floor. I left it there. My hands shook as I tried to keep the panic at bay. I’d have to scrape together something to eat. I had TK to think about, too. Thankfully I had some formula and food in the diaper bag, enough to get by until the arrival of the baby stuff I ordered online.

Online! Maybe there was still a chance to refill the pantry. I dragged TK’s playpen into Dad’s office so he could play while I accessed the grocery site. Using my previous order, I restocked my virtual grocery cart, ignoring the exorbitant delivery fee. I typed as fast as possible, as if the inventory would evaporate if I moved any slower. Satisfied, I clicked the “purchase now” button. The website froze.

“Damn!”

I rebooted, tried again. My order wouldn’t go through. I felt physically ill, as if someone had taken one of my last cans and rammed it into my stomach.

But I couldn’t sit and brood. I needed to keep moving.

TK whimpered. I had to ignore him while I went downstairs. Fragments of glass from the back door glistened on the linoleum floor of our small mud room. Cursing, I swept the floor wearing flip-flops to protect my feet. After cleaning that mess, I tackled the broken door. Using a thin piece of wood, a hammer, and nails, I covered the hole. Then, tapping into my rage, I shoved our biggest chair in front of it. No one else would be able to use that entrance.

TK had quieted. Thirsty, I opened the fridge to get a soda, only to be greeted by vacant shelves. They had emptied the freezer, too. Unbelievable.

I was already hungry and my head throbbed. All the pain relievers were stolen, of course, along with the remainder of my antiviral. If I took 40 percent of a medicine that had a 50 percent chance of working, and if my food lasted three to four days, what were my odds of survival?

Not good.

I could open another box of antiviral from the safe, but something held me back. I hadn’t gotten sick yet. Mom and Dad might still need the medicine. It seemed like I should save it for them, only opening another pack as a last resort.

A last resort. Could things actually get that bad? What if I became desperate for food? Would I be driven to steal from strangers, too? With empty houses throughout town, there must be uneaten food somewhere. Too many people had died, like Megs and her mom.

No.

I couldn’t do it. Could I? Would it be bad to steal from my best friend?

I crawled into bed and the tears came fast. It wasn’t a silent weeping, but aching sobs for everything wrong with the world. For Megs, my missing parents, orphaned babies, our violated homes. It was only when TK bawled that I climbed out of bed to hold him.

Resignation settled over me as I fed him. I wasn’t calm, exactly. But I couldn’t shut down with a baby to care for. I strapped him to my chest in his carrier and started to clean, bending carefully so as not to tilt him too far over. There was no sense waiting, staring at the depressing remains of my emergency food supply and the clothes strewn on the floor. When I finished, I put the hornet spray in my bedroom on top of the book case where TK couldn’t reach it but where it would be nearby during the night.

It was nearly six. I was in no mood to go to Jay’s and be social. But I wasn’t about to pass up a meal. Dinner at his house would stretch my meager food supply that much longer. After splashing cold water on my face, I changed into black pants and a black shirt with ruffles. My nose was red and my eyes were puffy, but I was in no mood to fuss.

“Let’s do this, little man,” I said, scooping up TK.

When I rang their doorbell, Jay yelled to come in. The kitchen was surprisingly neat for two guys and a frequently working aunt. Jay dumped pasta into a strainer in the sink, the steam rising into the air. His brother hovered nearby. I tried not to stare desperately at the spaghetti.

“Hi,” I said. “Is it OK to wheel the stroller in here? I don’t have a high chair.”

“Sure,” he said. “But we might have an old one in the basement. Ty, can you check?”

Ty sniffed the air. “That baby doesn’t stink too bad. I guess he can stay.”

When he left the kitchen, Jay turned to me. “What’s the matter? You look upset.”

There was no sense keeping it a secret. “Looters,” I said. “Most of my food is gone.” I sniffed, willing myself not to cry again.

Jay looked solemn. “Wow.”

“Wow what?” Ty asked, returning with a booster seat that attached to the kitchen chair.

“Nothing,” Jay said.

“I hate when you do that,” he said.

I grabbed some paper towels and wiped the seat off.

“Hate when I do what?”

“Act all secret-ish. Lie about what you were talking about.” Ty set the rectangular wooden table, slamming the white bowls in front of each chair.

“Someone stole food from Lil’s house,” Jay said.

“Oh. What’s the big deal about telling me that?”

Jay shrugged. “I don’t want you to worry about things.”

“I saw stuff like that on TV. We can share our spaghetti, right?”

“Sure.”

“Is he your son?” Ty asked.

Jay laughed. “He’s been watching too many episodes of
High School Moms
, I think.”

“I’m babysitting him,” I explained. “His name is TK.” I strapped him into his seat and put a bib on him. He banged on the tray with his palms, smiling.

“If you’re being his mom, where’s your mom?”

“My mom and dad are away,” I said.

“Oh. Jay, can I show Lil my video game? He can watch, too.”

“After dinner,” Jay said.

We ate family style, the pasta in one big bowl, the sauce in another. There was some baked bread, too. Everything was delicious, but I would have eaten it even if it tasted like dirt.

“You have fresh bread? That’s amazing.” I broke off a small, soft piece for TK to go with his jar of sweet potatoes and chicken.

“Auntie freezes it,” Ty said. “She’s at work. Sometimes we save her dinner for later.”

“Did you make the sauce, Jay? It’s really good.”

“Yeah.” He handed Ty some extra napkins, since most of the sauce ended up on his face. “My mom taught me.”

“Jay wants to be a chef when he grows up,” Ty said in a tattle-tale voice.

“Be quiet.”

“It’s true. He watches cooking shows and everything.”

Jay’s cheeks reddened.

“What do
you
want to be?” I asked Ty.

“A doctor. So I can help sick people.” He looked down at his food, suddenly quiet.

During the long pause, I thought about his mother dying, how hard that must be for him. I struggled to find a more neutral topic.

“Are you feeling better?” I finally asked. “Jay said you had strep throat.”

“Yeah.” His face lit up. “At the doctor’s office, they put this swab-thing in my throat, then they dipped it into some chemicals like a science experiment. A few minutes later the plus sign showed.”

“That sounds cool.”

When Jay offered me seconds, I refilled my bowl, too worried about my next meal to refuse. We spent the rest of dinner talking about anything but looting and the flu. Afterwards, Ty convinced us to leave the dirty dishes and watch him play his game on the TV screen. The brown leather couch in the family room was big enough for the four of us.

“I reached level fifteen since school is closed,” he said. The screen pinged a few times. “Did you see that? I got the bonus!”

We watched until TK started to fuss.

“Time for a bottle,” I said.

“Let’s go in the kitchen,” Jay said. “I have to load the dishwasher anyway. Tell us when you get to level sixteen, Ty.”

Jay rinsed the plates while I sat at the kitchen table and fed TK.

“I’m sorry your house was robbed. That happened to us once in Arizona. It felt so invasive, knowing people had searched through our stuff.”

“I tried to clean up so I can pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Are you spooked about staying alone?” he asked.

“A little. But they took what they wanted, right? It wouldn’t make sense for them to come back. I did put the hornet spray in my room.”

“That’s good.”

“But all my supplies . . . Do you think it would be awful for me to take food,” I paused, ready to gauge his reaction. “To take it from Megs’s house?”

“I’m sure Megs wouldn’t mind. She’d want to help you if she could.”

TK whimpered. I adjusted the angle of his bottle, grateful for the distraction.

“You must babysit a lot. Either that or you’ve got great maternal instincts,” Jay teased.

He leaned over to clear the spaghetti, putting his hand on my shoulder. Already tense, I stiffened at his touch.

“Just a joke,” he said, carrying the big bowl over to the sink.

Jay had been so generous. Not wanting him to think I was a total jerk, I decided to go with the abbreviated truth. “I, um, I’m not that good with people touching me sometimes. Like when I’m stressed.” I leaned TK where Jay’s hand had been and patted the baby’s back.

“Oh?”

There were a lot of questions in that one syllable. I hadn’t meant to start a conversation about my hang-ups. I was comfortable with Jay, but not that comfortable.

“Maybe it’s an only child thing.” My voice sounded unconvincing, even to me. While I struggled with what to say next, TK saved me. He spit up all over me—thick, yellow baby barf.

“Gross,” I said.

Jay handed me a wet towel to clean up. “That smells foul. Do you want to borrow a shirt?”

Big splotches covered my black ruffles. “I guess so.”

“I told you babies stink,” Ty called from the adjoining room.

Jay came back a few minutes later and handed me a pale blue hoodie with the
Chef Adventure
TV logo across the chest.

“Can you take him?” I held out TK.