Consider (18 page)

As everyone eats, I stare at the hole in the wall, the hole that everyone else has managed to forget. Everyone except me. I look over at Mom. She’s smiling and talking to Marcus as if nothing happened.
How does she manage to ignore things so easily? How did she manage to get Dad to come back out here and be civilized?

That’s when I figure out something—I know what Mom is. If Benji’s fire, I’m oil, Dad’s gasoline, and Penelope’s gunpowder, then Mom is sand. Boring, adaptable, gentle, loyal, warm sand. Able to shift landscapes, put out fires, and battle the ocean.

Benji and Marcus'
wedding announcement subdues Dad for the next week. He goes to his job at the supermarket, but when he returns he doesn’t say much anymore. Maybe he’s following that saying, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” I’m trying to be optimistic. It’s not easy. I notice that when he comes home from work, he collapses into his chair and doesn’t move for hours. He used to take a shower, grab a beer, put on the television. Now he just stares into space. Like Zombie Night in the daytime. I keep trying to snap him out of it, talking to him about sports, the vertexes, his stockpile of food. Nothing works. He craps out mid-conversation. And Benji doesn’t live here anymore to talk Zombie strategies, and Mom doesn’t notice that Dad’s disappearing down the rabbit hole again.

The first inkling
of our city’s breakdown comes as a knock on our door in early December.

I answer the door assuming it’s Dominick. We’ve been spending more and more time together since his mother’s home to watch Austin. Instead, standing on the threshold is a young couple with a toddler. The mother holds the child on her hip, a little girl gnawing at her thumb like it’s a lollipop. The father, maybe in his late thirties, stands behind them. They look harmless enough except for a wide-eyed, empty stare. It takes me a second to realize their deprivation.

“Please,” the woman begs. “Do you have any food?”

Her request catches me off guard. Of course, we have extra food, thanks to Dad’s hoarding. The poor little kid is about to eat her own hand.

“Hold on,” I say. “Wait here.”

I shut and lock the door—something inside me senses the beginning of a danger that needs locking out, but I’m not sure what exactly is activating my fear yet. I walk down the basement steps and remove the sheet from one section of stored food. I take a deep breath and focus on my mission. I think about that little girl and search under sheets until I find a box of Cheerios, a can of beef vegetable soup, some peanut butter, bread, and a container of apple juice.

Satisfied, I cover up the piles with the sheets so Dad won’t notice the difference. By the time I return upstairs, they have already left the porch and are standing on the sidewalk looking defeated. I can tell by their faces that they assumed I wasn’t coming back. I jog down the stairs and hand over the items. They react like it’s Christmas. The mother embraces me and starts to cry. The kid rips a hole in the top of the cereal box like a furrowing rabbit. The father avoids eye contact. The tops of his ears turn bright red.

“Thank you,” the mother mutters. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They scurry away like overgrown rodents hiding a treasure. I should feel happier inside about helping them, but I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that I’m putting a Band-Aid on a carcass.

Chapter 15

Day 131: December—1,284 hours to decide

Question: Do women receive equal rights?

Answer: Yes.

On December 9,
the United Nations releases a statement that part one of the CORE plan, the series of nuclear missiles, did not affect the trajectory of the comet according to NASA data. Hercules has been launched, and they’ll know by Christmas if it achieved its mission. If it fails, they’ll activate part three, which is still confidential and driving me nuts, and by January 15 they should get word whether or not CORE was successful in diverting the comet. I can’t believe it will take that long for them to get it together, but they said they want to ensure its success by taking all necessary precautions. They are especially concerned with the possibility that the “gas pressure blowing off the comet” will damage Hercules or push it off course. They are trying to compensate.
Compensate
:
going around a problem and trying to deal
. I know what’s really going on—they’ve never had to do something like this before. It’s unprecedented, which means untested. I’m worried that they have no clue what they’re doing, and that CORE really stands for Crazy, Obsolete, Rescue Error.

Benji and Marcus'
wedding has become Mom’s only focus. Doesn’t matter if there are holograms and vertexes and a comet crisis. Her only son is getting married in three days. She sends me and Rita on a mission to find flowers in the dead of winter.

“Who cares about flowers during an apocalypse?” I argue. “No flower shops are still open.”

She replies, “Flowers are celebrations of life. Necessary. Not luxuries.”

She would never win in any courtroom, but I hate when she wins arguments with me simply because I don’t understand her cryptic responses and I’m usually left speechless. Maybe that’s her plan. Confuse and deflect.

Even though I hate driving, I borrow her car. Rita and I have been texting polite nothings since our last face-to-face. I need to find the right time and apologize. When I pick her up, she bounds forward and unbuttons her coat, showing off another T-shirt underneath. There’s a cartoon of a pimped-out hologram in a purple fur coat and feathered hat charging admission at a vertex site, with the caption COME INTO MY VERTEX.

“Rita, that one’s terrible.”

“What’re you talking about? This one’s my favorite. Look at the colors in the graphics. It even has an old school hologram effect.”

She moves from side to side, and the pimp’s coat changes from purple to royal blue and back again. It also bows and tips its hat. I shake my head and laugh.

We drive to several florist shops, but each door has a closed sign and the windows are dark. I guess Mom’s wrong. Flowers are one of the first to go.

We park in downtown New Bedford and walk the old cobblestone area to see if any local businesses are still open. Rita leaves her coat open even though it’s freezing out so she can show off her slogan while she’s out of the house. Again, the small shops have CLOSED on their front doors. We change course and head up Union Street, where we find one coffee shop with lights on. We are the only customers.

“Hello?” I ask.

The owner’s head appears from the kitchen area. “The bathroom’s around the corner.”

“Could we order?” Rita asks from the counter.

“Do you have cash?” he asks.

His rude question catches me off guard. “Yeah. Would we order food if we didn’t have money?”

“Okay, then. Let me see the money first.”

“Why?” I ask, looking around at the empty business and wondering if he’s planning to jump us for cash. “What’s the problem?”

“People keep coming in here to use the bathroom. Then they beg for food. Don’t have no money. This is a business. Well, was a business.” His eyes stare at the vacant wooden tables.

Rita pulls out a five dollar bill. “I have money.”

“Sit yourself down then, ladies, and give me a sec. What would you like? I’m all out of pastries and bread, but I still have coffee.”

“I’ll take a coffee,” Rita says.

“And you? Coffee?”

His lack of hospitality and supplies concerns me. I wonder if I should really eat or drink anything he’s serving.
Probably curdled milk, ants crawling through the sugar, maggots waiting to hatch.

“Tea for me.” I’m hoping he can’t taint boiled water and a tea bag.

“Sure, coming right up.” The owner disappears behind the counter. Rita and I find a seat near the windows. Cars pass by every now and then, but not as often as they did before the comet warning.

“Did you ever think your life would turn out like this?” I ask Rita in all seriousness.

She smiles. “Did you ever think you’d ask me that question at eighteen years old? You make it sound like our lives are over.”

“Rita, everything’s screwed up. The world’s starting to crumble. Schools are closed, businesses are folding. People are getting freaked out and desperate, including me.”

She strums her fingers on the wooden table. “If it’s so bad, maybe we should leave.”

My heart skips several beats. “Are you serious?”

“Alex, it’s December. By the end of January, either the comet comes or doesn’t. Say we actually stop it—what kind of world’s gonna be left?”

My heart stops. She has a point. I’ve only been thinking about survival, not about the aftermath and consequences of surviving. “So you’re ready to leave?”

She sighs. “I wouldn’t say ‘ready
.
’ I’m willing. I just don’t know when to pull the trigger.”

The owner brings over two steaming cups—one with coffee, one with tea—and a ceramic creamer. “Enjoy, ladies. You’ll probably be my last customers before I close for good.”

I search the sugar for signs of movement before stirring some into my cup. Not touching the creamer. “Why?”

“Can’t get food supplies on time. Can’t get regular paying customers. Lose-lose situation. Time to call it quits.”

“Here,” Rita hands him the five, and I add two dollars. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks,” he says, pocketing the money in the apron wrapped around his waist. “No rush. Stay as long as you want.” He returns to the kitchen, and I see him pick up a book and read.

“That was nice of you,” I say. I stare at the brown liquid in my mug, wary to take the first sip.

“My parents’ restaurant has been hurting, too. The only reason it’s still open is because members of the church have helped to keep the business afloat.”

I nod. “How’s that going? The church stuff.”

“Getting weirder every day. I don’t wanna talk about it.” She sips from her black coffee. “How’s your dad been with the wedding coming?”

“Okay, I guess. Quiet.” I take a sip, following her lead, and let it linger. The warmth settles my insides, giving me courage. “I’m sorry about getting mad at you about the Benji thing.”

“I know,” she says and smiles. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I wasn’t being fair.”

“No, you weren’t. But you were feeling left out and ambushed. It’s a major change to wrap your brain around.” She takes a long swig of coffee and sighs deeply. “I mourned the loss of my future husband for over a week.”

“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“That’s what friends are for,” she says, grinning. “For better or worse.” She gazes out the window. “What’s with all the cars?”

A slew of vehicles have parked along the road up the street. More and more arrive and search for a space.

“Something’s going on.”

“Wanna check it out?” Rita asks.

“Sure,” I say, glad to abandon my half-drunken tea. I wait as she downs the remainder of her coffee.

We leave the café and follow the gathering crowd to the public library two blocks away. The wintry air nips at my nose and makes it run. I don’t have tissues with me, so I have to resort to wiping the drips on my sleeve.

Inside the warm library, people line the walls and sit on the floor. A man with a cropped white beard rigs a microphone near the circulation desk.

“It looks like a rally or something,” I say.

Rita leads me to a corner near the side exit. From here I can watch from a safe distance with a clear escape route if necessary. I lean back and let the wall hold my weight.

The man with the white beard steps up to the microphone. The audience goes silent.

“Thank you all for being here. As a community we need to address the growing violence in our city and discuss ways to combat the problem. In the past week alone there have been twelve home invasions, and last night the mall was looted clean.”

Rita and I glance at one another, horrified. I didn’t see that on the news. Then again, I’ve been avoiding it lately to help with my anxiety.

Rita pokes me and grins, whispering, “We could’ve grabbed so many clothes.”

I stifle a giggle. A woman nearby clears her throat and gives us the evil eye. Rita’s face changes from happy and defiant to mortified. At first I assume it’s because of the woman’s attitude, but when I follow her gaze, she’s not looking at the woman; she’s looking at the side exit near us.

Both of her parents are staring at her. Through her. Fuming. I am frozen. I don’t know what’s going on, but if they were cartoon characters, they’d have steam coming out of their ears and speech bubbles with symbols instead of words.

Her mother points at her and then points out the door. Rita flees the room, and I follow. As soon as she reaches outside, her mother grabs her arm and pulls her aside.

“Margarita Ann Bernardino!” her mother declares.
“¡Mira!”
Her mother points at her chest.
“¿Qué es esto? ¿Qué llevas puesto?”

Rita’s face burns scarlet. She fumbles to button up her coat, but it’s too late. She crosses her arms in front of her shirt to block the slogan.

Her father doesn’t speak, but if looks could talk, he’d be swearing like my father on a bad night. Or any night.

“Mami,”
Rita whimpers, her face pleading as it runs with tears and mascara.
“
¡
Lo siento!”

Her mother continues to berate her. Some people stare. Some feign obliviousness. I’m not sure what’s worse: staring at someone’s demise or ignoring it. I’m watching the humiliation of my best friend, and even though there’s nothing I can do, I don’t want to be a witness to her destruction.

“Please,” I try to intervene, “Mrs. Bernardino, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Her eyes bulge. “We don’t run our house like yours, Alexandra. We have God in our household, not guns and sex and
violencia.
Margarita, get in the car.
No quiero mirarte.”

Rita jumps into the backseat of their car. As they drive away, I see Rita bawling in the backseat, hands on her forehead. She doesn’t look at me. I’m left on the sidewalk with my hands shaking and the familiar dread building in my stomach and chest. I know my body must be reacting to Rita’s mother, but an irrational worm has burrowed itself into my mind and won’t stop repeating:
The tea. The tea in the shop was poisoned.

I pop a pill and sit on the curb, rocking and repeating to myself,
Don’t get tricked by a thought. Don’t get tricked by a thought.
It takes all the energy in my body not to flee to the hospital and demand a complete blood and urine analysis.

If Rita ever knew how much I forgot about her in that moment, she would hate me.

Rita's cell phone
is non-responsive to my string of texts and phone calls.
Dominick says she’s probably grounded. Maybe that’s true. I replay the last conversation we had at the restaurant. For better or worse.
Was she being sarcastic?
Did I ever say sorry?
My fingernails become a minefield of missing polish. I’m a terrible friend. What else is new?

The next day,
I can think about nothing but Rita and how she must still hate me, so when the doorbell rings and Dad answers it, I think nothing of it until I hear him yelling. I run to the living room and peek out the window. A crowd of people has gathered in front of our house.

“Go away,” he shouts through the half-opened door, the chain still in place. “We don’t have any food to spare. I have my own family to feed.”

A female voice responds, “But earlier this week a girl here gave us food. With long brown curly hair? Please, sir, we’re starving.”

“If you’re that desperate, go through a goddamn vertex and leave us alone.”

The door slams. “Alexandra!”

His voice has never sounded that sharp before, and that’s saying something. For a split second, I think of fleeing into the backyard like a two-year-old. But by the time I reach the kitchen, he’s behind me. I think of grabbing something to defend myself, but the only thing I see is a dishrag.

“Alexandra, did you give our food to people?”

It’s too late to lie. “Just one family.” I remember the hope and sadness in that little girl’s eyes. I had to do it. She would’ve had no fingers left.

“Alexandra, what were you thinking? I’ve stockpiled for a reason. To help our
family. No one else’s.”

I attempt to nod, but my neck feels stiff. The oxygen seems to have left the room. I need to escape. I need air. My heart convulses over and over like it’s being squished in a vise. I grab onto the counter.

“Are you even listening to me?” he yells louder. “Sometimes I think you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Other times you make the stupidest decisions.”

The room begins to spin, and I can’t hold on anymore. I feel like I’m having a heart attack. Dad catches hold of me and guides me over to the table to sit down.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Breathe.”

I listen. I try to focus on the chair, the wood grain in the table, anything other than what’s going on in my body.

“Alex, breathe. Where’s your medicine?” he asks.

“In my purse. On my desk.” My body is on fire. If Dad weren’t here, I would take off my clothes.
I’m not dying. Ten to twenty minutes. Ten to twenty minutes.

He runs out of the room. I start tapping on each leg in a back and forth pattern. It’s not working. Dad returns moments later, and I swallow a small pill of hope. The wave of swelling panic starts to plateau after several minutes. Dad sits with me and rubs my back. I feel like a child again when he does it, but I still like it.