Life as We Knew It (8 page)

"Mom's concerned," he said instead. "We all are."

"That we're going to die?" I asked, and my voice got shrill. "Like we're going to starve to death or something?"

"I don't think Mom's worried we're going to starve to death," he said. "She has the garden going, and we still have plenty of canned goods. Everything could be back to normal by this fall; maybe a little sooner, maybe a little later. We're okay for food until then if the garden stays healthy. And even if things don't get exactly back to normal, that doesn't mean things won't improve. Mom's an optimist and so am I."

"So why did she say it doesn't matter about my math grade?" I asked. "When has Mom ever not cared about our grades?"

Matt laughed. "Is that what this is all about?" he asked.

"Matt, this isn't funny," I said. "I'm not a kid, but Mom's more likely to talk to you than to me. What does she think is going to happen? You're with her all day. She's got to be talking to you."

"Right now her main concern is Jonny and baseball camp," he said. "She wants Jonny to have as normal a summer as possible. Who knows what next summer will be like? And ..." He paused for a moment. "Look, this is strictly between you and me, okay?"

I nodded.

"If Jonny's at camp, then Mom doesn't have to feed him," Matt said. "And when you and Jonny spend August with Dad, Mom won't have to feed either of you. Mom's eating less already. She doesn't have breakfast and she only eats lunch if I make her. Which I do about half the time. With school letting out two weeks early, that means lunch for you and Jonny for two extra weeks. Right now that's more important to Mom than your math grade."

I couldn't say anything. I looked at the sky. Sunset was just beginning. That used to be my favorite time of day, but now at sunset the moon is so large it looks like it's about to hit us. I almost never look at the sky anymore.

"Look," Matt said, and he grabbed my hand and held it. "If things get back to normal, no college in the world is going to care about your seventy-eight. They'll know how crazy things were this spring. A seventy-eight in tenth-grade math won't keep you from getting into college."

"And if things don't get back to normal?" I asked.

"Then it won't matter, anyway," he said. "Promise me you won't tell Mom what we talked about?"

"I promise," I said.

"And don't start skipping meals," he said. "We need you to be strong, Miranda."

"I promise," I said.

But I can't help thinking that I'm not strong. Would I give up food for Jonny if it comes to that? Is that what Megan did at lunch on Friday?

Will things ever be normal again?

June 5

Mrs. Nesbitt drove over around 5 today. I don't remember the last time I saw her look that happy or excited.

Even a visit from Mrs. Nesbitt is something different these days. The electricity is out pretty much all day and most of the night, so it's not like we can watch TV or go online. There isn't any homework to do, and no one feels like socializing.

"I have a wonderful treat," she said, and she carried in a bowl covered with a dish towel.

We crowded around to see what she had to show us. She pulled away the towel, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but all we saw were washcloths. She laughed at the expressions on our faces. Then she carefully unwrapped the washcloths. And there were two eggs.

They weren't very big, but they were still the most beautiful eggs I've ever seen.

"Where did you find them?" Mom asked.

"One of my old students brought them to me," Mrs. Nesbitt said. "Wasn't that sweet of him? He has a farm about ten miles out of town and he still has feed for his chickens, so they're still laying. He brought two eggs to me and to a few other people. He said he has enough for his family if they're careful and they decided we might like a special treat. I couldn't possibly enjoy them by myself."

Eggs. Real honest-to-goodness, actual eggs. I touched one, just to remind myself of what an eggshell felt like.

First Mom took two potatoes and an onion, and chopped them up and fried them in olive oil. Just the smell of fried potatoes and onions was enough to make us giddy. While they were cooking we discussed all possible egg dishes. By a vote of 4-1, we picked scrambled. We stood around and watched as Mom put in some powdered milk and beat those eggs. Of course we don't have any butter, and we decided against cooking oil, so Mom used a little spray-on stuff and a nonstick pan.

We each took equal amounts of the eggs and potatoes and onions. I watched Mom, to make sure she didn't cheat herself of any. We got a couple of teaspoons' worth of scrambled egg, and we nibbled to make it last longer.

Then Matt jumped up and said he also had a special treat he had been saving, but tonight seemed like as good a time as any. He ran to his room, and when he came back he had a chocolate bar.

"I found this in my bag when I unpacked," he said. "I don't know how old it is, but chocolate doesn't go bad."

So we each had a piece of chocolate for dessert. I'd almost forgotten how much I love chocolate, how there's something about it that makes life a little more wonderful.

After supper, we sat around and sang. None of us has much of a voice, and we didn't all know the same songs, but Horton was our only audience and he didn't mind. We sang for more than an hour and we laughed and Mrs. Nesbitt told us stories about Mom when she was a little girl.

It almost felt like we were happy again.

June 6

At lunch today, Megan did the same business with her PB&J sandwich. This time she gave her second half to Sammi.

If she keeps it up, she'll be the most popular girl in high school.

I waited for her after school and yanked her away from her church friends. "Why aren't you eating all your lunch?" I asked.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

I love Megan and she isn't fat, but I've seen her pack away double burgers and extra fries with a milkshake.

I looked at her, really looked at her, and noticed she'd lost weight, maybe 10 pounds. The thing is we're all losing weight so it's easier not to notice. It's kind of like the moon: If I don't look I can pretend it's still the same.

"Are you eating at all?" I asked her.

"Of course I am," Megan said. "I just don't need to eat much anymore. God sustains me. Food doesn't."

"So why are you even eating half your sandwich?" I asked. I don't know why. It wasn't a rational question, so there was no reason to expect a rational answer.

"I figured people wouldn't notice if I ate half," she said.

"They notice," I said. "I notice."

"It's only for a couple more days," she said. "Next week no one will see what I'm eating and what I'm not."

"They can't possibly be telling you at your church not to eat," I said.

Megan gave me one of those pitying looks that always make me want to slug her. "Reverend Marshall doesn't have to tell us how much to eat," she said. "He trusts us to hear God's voice."

"So God's the one telling you not to eat?" I said. "What? He called you up and said, 'Split the peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the poor unfortunates'?"

"I'm starting to think you're the poor unfortunate," Megan said.

"And I'm starting to think you're crazy," I said. That's something I've been thinking for a while now, but haven't said out loud.

"Why?" Megan asked and for a moment she really was angry like she used to get when we were 12. But then she bowed her head, closed her eyes, and moved her lips, in prayer I guess.

"What?" I said.

"I begged God for forgiveness," she said. "And if I were you, Miranda, I'd ask for divine forgiveness, also."

"God doesn't want you to starve to death," I said. "How can you believe in a God that would ask that of you?"

"But He isn't asking," she said. "Honestly, Miranda, you're making an awfully big deal over half a sandwich."

"Promise me you won't stop eating," I said.

Megan smiled and I think that was what scared me the most. "I'll get my sustenance as God wishes me to,"

she said. "There are lots of different ways of being hungry, you know. Some people are hungry for food and others are hungry for God's love." She gave me a look then, pure Megan, to let me know which camp I fell into.

"Eat your sandwich tomorrow," I said. "Indulge me. If you insist on starving, at least wait until Saturday when I won't have to watch."

"You don't have to watch now," she said, and walked away from me to join her church friends again.

June 7

I dreamed last night of Becky. She was in heaven, which looked an awful lot like the Jersey shore, the way I remember it from summers ago, when the tides behaved themselves and the Atlantic was the world's most glorious swimming pool. Becky looked like she had before she got sick, with those long blonde braids. I was always so jealous of her hair when we were young.

"Is this Heaven?" I asked her.

"Yes, it is," she said. Only then she closed a giant gate, so I was on one side and she and the ocean were on the other.

"Let me in," I said. "Did Megan tell you not to let me into Heaven?"

Becky laughed. I haven't thought about Becky's laugh in a long time. She used to giggle all the time and whenever she did, she'd get me laughing. Sometimes we'd laugh for five straight minutes with no idea what we were laughing about.

"It's not Megan's fault," she said. "It's yours."

"What did I do wrong?" I asked. Well, whined, really. Even in my sleep, I thought I could have worded it better.

"You can't enter Heaven because you're not dead," Becky said. "You're not good enough to be dead."

"I will be. I promise," I said, and then I woke up. I was shaking, the dream disturbed me so much. It wasn't like it was a nightmare. It was just, I don't know. I don't know the words to describe what it felt like to be locked out of Heaven, to be so desperate that I longed to die.

School is a complete waste of time. The only classes I have are English and history; all my other teachers have vanished. In English, Mr. Clifford reads out loud, short stories and poems. Ms. Hammish tries to put things in historic perspective for us, but half the time someone in class starts crying. I haven't cried in school yet, but I've come awfully close. When we're not in class, we wander around the school building and exchange rumors. One kid said he knew where there was a Dairy Queen still in business but he wouldn't tell us where. Another kid said she heard that we were never getting electricity back, that the scientists were working on perfecting solar energy. And of course lots of kids say the moon's getting closer and closer to earth and we'll all be dead by Christmas. Sammi seems convinced of that.

At lunch today, Megan tore her sandwich in two, and gave half of it to Sammi and half to Michael.

She looked at me when she did and winked.

June 8

Lately I've been trying not to know what's going on. At least that's the excuse I've been giving myself for not caring about all the stuff that's happening outside of my little section of Pennsylvania. Who cares about earthquakes in India or Peru or even Alaska?

Okay, that's not fair. I know who cares. Matt cares and Mom cares and if there were any baseball players involved, Jonny would care, too. Knowing Dad, he cares. Mrs. Nesbitt, too.

I'm the one not caring. I'm the one pretending the earth isn't shattering all around me because I don't want it to be. I don't want to know there was an earthquake in Missouri. I don't want to know the Midwest can die, also, that what's going on isn't just tides and tsunamis. I don't want to have anything more to be afraid of.

I didn't start this diary for it to be a record of death.

June 9

The next to last day of school, whatever that means.

One day this week when we had electricity, someone took advantage of it to print a few hundred flyers, telling us if we wanted to bring in blankets and food and clothes for the people in need in New York and New Jersey, we should do so on Friday.

I liked getting that sheet. I liked the idea of helping someone. I guess we can't get stuff down to the people in Missouri because gas is up to $12 a gallon and there aren't that many gas stations still open.

I put the sheet in front of Mom, who was sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window. She's been doing that more and more lately. Not that there's much else she can be doing.

The flyer caught her eye. She read it all the way through, then picked it up and tore it into two pieces, then four, then eight. "We're not giving anything away," she said.

For a moment I really wondered if she was my mother, and not some pod person who'd taken over her body. Mom is always the first to give stuff away. She's the queen of food drives and blood drives and teddy bears for foster kids. I love that about her, although I know I'll never be half as generous as she is.

"Mom," I said. "We can spare a blanket or two."

"How do you know that?" she asked. "How can you possibly know what we're going to need this winter?"

"This winter?" I said. "Everything'll be back to normal by winter."

"And what if it isn't?" she said. "What if we can't get any heating oil? What if the only thing that keeps us from freezing to death is a single blanket, only we don't happen to have it because we gave it away in June?"

"Heating oil?" I said. I felt like a total idiot, only able to parrot her. "There'll be heating oil by winter."

"I hope you're right," she said. "But in the meantime, we're not giving anything away to anybody who isn't family."

"If Mrs. Nesbitt felt that way, we wouldn't have shared her eggs," I said.

"Mrs. Nesbitt is family," Mom said. "The poor unfortunates of New York and New Jersey can get their own damn blankets."

"Okay," I said. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

That was the moment when Mom was supposed to snap back to herself, when she was supposed to apologize and say the stress was getting to her. Only she didn't. Instead she went back to staring out the window.

I tracked Matt down, which wasn't hard, since there's nothing for him to do, either. He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. I guess that's what I'll be doing starting next week.