The Disaster Days

by Rebecca Behrens

  “If wheezing and coughing don’t go away with the use of an inhaler, seek medical care. If lips or face take on a blue tinge, go to the hospital immediately.” Great—there was that helpful “immediately” again. It was too dark to accurately check my color, and I didn’t want to sneak into the bathroom to peek at my fun-house reflection in the cracked mirror. I doubted I was turning blue, anyway. I just had a little wheeze. And a cough. And a chest that felt like I’d put on last year’s swimsuit and now it was way too tight and the fabric and straps were trying to force me into the shape of a girl I’d outgrown. I unzipped Andrea’s coat past my collarbones to give myself the feeling of free space at my neck.

  “What are you reading?” Zoe asked, leaning over to see the guide. I snapped it shut. I didn’t want her to know that something was wrong with me too. I wanted her to think I was healthy and strong, fully able to handle the situation we were in. Because if she wasn’t confident in me—how could I be confident in myself?

  “The section on…nutrition,” I said. “Um, what the best foods are for energy. So I can prioritize what we have left.”

  “Chocolate?”

  “Sure, in small doses. Hey, speaking of which,” I said, putting down the books. “Did you want dessert?”

  By the time we were all done picking at the food, it was pitch dark in the living room. Outside, I heard the hoot of an owl—a clear sign it was more or less time for bed. Unfortunately, Zoe and Oscar didn’t agree with me.

  “Tonight, I’m waiting up in case my mom comes home,” Zoe said. She was perched on the arm of the couch, hovering above Oscar like a gargoyle. It made me slightly nervous—what if another aftershock happened and she fell on his leg? Zoe tilted her chin upward, defiant, daring me to tell her that, no, she’d be heading into the blanket fort to sleep. We all would, once she and I dragged the sectional cushion back underneath the blankets and rearranged Oscar on it.

  “We don’t know when that’ll be,” I said, my voice soft. I still hoped that any moment, we’d hear a car zipping up the drive, a frantic jingling of keys at the front door. But the longer it went, the more that seemed like a dream that wasn’t going to come true.

  “Don’t try to trick me with fake texts again either.” I shined the flashlight toward Zoe’s face. She looked more wounded than angry. Her lips were also quivering—and teeth chattering. The temperature had dropped even lower in the house throughout the day. All our conversations were now punctuated with little puffs of breath.

  “I promise I won’t. But even if you don’t want to sleep, will you at least help me get Oscar settled in the blanket fort? He shouldn’t be up there on the couch, exposed to the cold. He needs to rest where it’s warmest.”

  Zoe slowly nodded, scrambling down from her perch. I stood next to her, and we gently lifted Oscar off the cushion. He winced and yowled as we moved, even though I tried to keep his leg steady.

  “I’m so sorry, Oscar,” I whispered.

  He mumbled something in response, perhaps “I want my mom.”

  When he was settled, I paced the living room, looking for extra blankets. Or throw pillows, or even area rugs—any nice, warm, soft, fabric things to pile into the fort to keep us toasty. Even with Andrea’s coat still on, I couldn’t stop hunching in an attempt to stay warm. It was worse near the kitchen…because the window was still open! I carefully pushed it shut. The stinky stove smell hadn’t gotten any worse. We’d open the window again in the morning for fresh air. Not that there wasn’t plenty of that in the living room already, thanks to the broken windows.

  I crawled under the blanket flaps to find Oscar tucked neatly into the other blankets, with Zoe curled up next to him underneath a small multicolor rug. She was holding his hand. Her other arm circled protectively around Jupiter’s box, which was beginning to smell like pee. My heart panged. Zoe had every right to be mad at me for lying. Otherwise, she was doing such a good job of holding it together.

  “Mom was reading this book to us,” she said, raising herself up on one elbow to reach for her tablet. “A chapter every night. Before bed.” She held it toward me. “I think it would help him fall asleep.”

  “Great idea.” I swiped to wake up the screen and opened the books app. They were on chapter twenty-two of a mystery set in colonial times. According to the table of contents, only four chapters remained. If it was a chapter a night, I hoped I wouldn’t be finishing the story with them.

  I leaned against the couch and began to read. My voice was hoarse and husky, and I stumbled over the words for the first few paragraphs. I didn’t need a flashlight to see the text, thanks to the glowing screen. But the chapter was long, and the sentences were dense and detailed. I felt myself sucking in air at the end of each. My wheeze grew louder, like it was competing for attention with the story.

  When I finally hit a section break, I pretended the chapter was over. Oscar was asleep already, anyway. Shining the tablet toward him, I could see his eyes were closed, his hands clenched on top of the blanket covering his softly rising and falling chest. Even asleep, his expression showed he was in pain—his brows were knitted, and his mouth had frozen at the start of a frown. Poor Oscar. It hurt to know that I couldn’t give him the help he so badly needed.

  Zoe made a snuffling noise next to him. She’d fallen asleep too. I lay back on my narrow section of the cushion, clicking off the tablet. Darkness enveloped me. It was less scary than the night before. Nighttime was a relief, actually—for now, while the kids were asleep, I had a break from the responsibility to watch over them.

  And finally, a chance to recharge. I grabbed the emergency radio and hooked up my phone. I spun the knob around, and the battery icon lit up on screen. Thank goodness this actually works. But it took a full minute of cranking for the charge to go up just 1 percent. After ten minutes, with three breaks because my arm was getting so tired, the battery was only up to 25 percent. I decided that was enough for the night. I craved sleep.

  But my brain was full of bad feelings in the way a leaky bucket holds water. If I plugged one spot—stopped one worry—another would give way and start leaking. A new concern would make itself known. Zoe and Oscar being asleep didn’t give me time to rest. It only gave me time to focus hard on how badly I’d already failed them.

  I shouldn’t have lied about contact from their mom.

  I shouldn’t have let them crawl around on a floor full of sharp debris.

  I shouldn’t have let Oscar climb up on that swing set.

  I shouldn’t have let us eat so much of the food already.

  My mom was right when she said that stuff like forgetting my inhaler showed I wasn’t responsible enough for babysitting. It had barely been twenty-four hours, and already we had two serious injuries. How much longer would I be able to keep us safe?

  I’m just a kid too.

  Hot tears rolled down my cold cheeks. I tried to cry silently, which only made me cough. I pulled Andrea’s coat up to cover my mouth, but the coughing fit continued. I scrambled out of the blanket fort, to get a drink of water from the sink to soothe my throat. My chest was awfully tight again, like when Neha and I, before my asthma, would try to hold our breath underwater at the community center pool. That tense, bursting feeling.

  I pulled down the coat and took in a deep inhale. The air entering my lungs forced its way back out in another, more insistent cough. Fresh tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and my hands flew up to cover my mouth. Steps from the kitchen, I stopped to sniff the air. The rotten-eggs scent was back, and this time it was stronger. The hissing sound was louder too.

  It had to be a gas leak. Something had happened to the pipes during the shaking—or when the fridge fell. I fumbled to pull the fabric of my windbreaker up and over my mouth and nose to filter out the smell.

  Was the gas why my breathing had gotten so much wheezier?

  Had it already been poisoning us?

 
; What were you supposed to do during a gas leak, anyway? I squeezed my eyes shut. Mrs. Pinales hadn’t covered that in the babysitting course. But I’d seen a commercial on TV once about calling the gas company if you suspect a leak. My dad had muted the set for a second and turned to me. “This is good for you to know, Hannah. If you smell gas, and Mom and I aren’t here, open a window. Don’t turn on any lights or flip any switches and definitely don’t strike a match, although you shouldn’t be doing that anyway when we aren’t home.”

  “But Neha and I love candles,” I’d said. Our favorite shop was a boutique on Main Street that sold gorgeous swirly ones with scents like “Night Sky” and “Golden Birthday.” Somehow the words seemed to match the smell perfectly, even though the night sky doesn’t have a smell and neither does a birthday, other than sugar and frosting, maybe.

  My dad had sighed. “Anyway, if you smell gas, grab your phone and run outside to call for help. That’s really important, okay? That you get out fast. Right away.”

  I’d nodded and filed the info away, even though it seemed at the time like I’d never have to use it. In the same category as the Fibonacci sequence, which is cool, but does knowing that two integers add up to the next number in the sequence actually do anything useful? Other than score you extra credit on math tests.

  In the Matlocks’ dark house, I didn’t have to worry about turning on a light or anything, because the power was still out. And I hadn’t found any candles or matches to use, although thinking about it, that would’ve been a decent way for us to see after dark without using up precious batteries. Many windows were already open, because they’d shattered, although I’d closed the big one in the kitchen—maybe that’s why the smell had come back. The gas was getting trapped inside the room.

  I shook with another cough. I felt light-headed. Each exhale came out in a wheeze.

  The news broadcast had said there were fires all around Seattle. What specifically had caused them? Could it have been gas leaks?

  My imagination filled with houses turned to fireballs, like I’d seen in TV shows and disaster movies. Explosions and bursts of flames, licking up the walls. The hissing seemed to grow louder around me. All it would take would be one staticky spark…

  We need to get out. Right now.

  11

  “Wake up, Zoe. Oscar, get up.” I don’t know why I was speaking in a half whisper—we were alone in the house, after all, and there was no reason to be quiet, aside from not wanting to startle the kids. But maybe this was a time when startling was appropriate. We needed to move fast—if that was even possible with Oscar’s injury.

  “Guys! We have to go.” My voice was still hushed but firm.

  Zoe sat up, rubbing her eyes. I was amazed she’d fallen asleep so deeply, so fast. “Go where? To be with our mom?” Her voice rose with hope. I couldn’t see her mouth but I could hear the smile. Oh, I wish.

  Oscar, next to her, stirred and let out an anguished moan when he shifted his leg. I winced. Each time I was reminded of how much pain he must be in, something squeezed deep inside my chest, in sympathy.

  What were we going to do about Oscar? Where were we going to go, outside, in the middle of the night? The best place would be my house, but we couldn’t possibly travel there in the dark. There wasn’t even any ambient light from the city to help us see; the moon and stars were shrouded by clouds. I shivered. We would be cold, damp, and exposed in the backyard. Were we just going to sit in a circle on the grass until morning? We’d freeze.

  Something rattled at the other end of the living room. “The scritch-scratch!” Zoe shrieked, even though she’d been the one to tell the made-up story in the first place.

  “That’s not the scritch-scratch. It’s the wind, blowing through the porch.” The porch. The yard, away from the house and anything that could explode, would be safest. But because it would be too dangerous to sit out there in the dark, and we wouldn’t be able to keep Oscar comfortable, the porch was second best. There, we’d at least have plenty of fresh air. And a quick path to safety if a fire did start. Unless the whole house exploded, in which case… Stop it, I ordered my brain.

  “We’re transferring the blanket fort to the porch,” I said, grabbing random pillows. I whipped the tent-roof blanket from the couch, uncovering Zoe and Oscar still inside.

  “Why? In the middle of the night?” Zoe grasped toward the blanket as I pulled it away.

  “I’m staying right here,” Oscar groaned. Which was fitting, considering he was immobilized.

  I took a deep breath that still felt shallow. “Something’s wrong with the stove. I think it’s leaking gas. We’ll be safer on the porch. It’s only for tonight,” I said. Tomorrow night, you’ll be home, I promised myself. One way or another. But my own reassurance sounded empty.

  Zoe nodded solemnly and started to gather the smaller cushions. I was proud of her for taking me seriously and for not panicking. Maybe I should’ve trusted her earlier with the news.

  She and I moved everything—including Jupiter in his box—to the farthest corner of the screened porch, draping two blankets onto the old wicker settee like a tent. Wind rattled the screens. Thankfully, I couldn’t smell anything like rotten eggs out there. When we burst back inside to get Oscar and the big cushion, the scent met us halfway to the couch.

  “Yuck, it smells like Oscar farted.”

  Half a laugh escaped my grimace. “That’s the gas, Zoe. They put a stinky scent in it so people know when it’s leaking out.”

  “If they add the scent, why do they make it so gross?”

  “To make sure you want to get away from the source.”

  First we moved Oscar, temporarily, back to the cushionless couch. Zoe waited with him, holding his hand, while I ran the sectional cushion out to the porch and arranged it under the draped blankets. I tucked Jupiter’s box between it and the wall. He chittered at me, annoyed—whether from being woken up or the cold air, I’m not sure. The cold, probably—I think guinea pigs might be somewhat nocturnal? At least I’d heard him scuttling around when I was sleepless at night. Then I dashed back to the living room. Running to the couch, my big toe collided with something solid—maybe an overturned end table.

  “Ow!” I waved my arms in the air and wobbled to keep my balance, narrowly avoiding a face-plant.

  “Are you okay?” Zoe shouted.

  “Yeah,” I said, stopping to press on my toe. It smarted, but I could wiggle it fine inside my shoe. As urgent as it was to get outside, I had to slow down, be more careful. The last thing we needed was another injury.

  Zoe and I arranged our arms underneath Oscar. When we lifted him up, somehow he seemed even heavier than earlier in the day. “How many marshmallows did you eat, Oscar?” I wheezed as we made a very deliberate, slow two-step across the living room floor. Occasionally my sneaker would crunch or crackle on the carpet. I hoped the noises weren’t from anything too dear, but I’m pretty sure I stepped on the tablet.

  Oscar mouthed the numbers as he counted. “Nine.”

  “I still don’t think that explains how heavy you feel.”

  “Maybe our arms are just tired,” Zoe piped up. “Mine hurts.”

  My head snapped in her direction, although I couldn’t see her bandage. “Are you bleeding again?”

  She was quiet for a second. “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Remind me to check that once we’re settled.”

  The last few feet to the relocated blanket fort felt endless. My biceps were screaming. I wasn’t sure I could keep holding Oscar up, especially because he wouldn’t stay still in our arms.

  “Hold on, Oscar,” I said through clenched teeth. “We’re almost there.” Seconds later, we lowered him onto the sectional cushion, and then with a final push, we slid it fully underneath the blankets.

  Zoe dropped next to him onto the cushion. “Show me your cut,” I said, pulling ou
t my phone and flipping the flashlight app on. She raised her arm and pushed away her sleeve, and I looped my fingers around her wrist, shining the light on the bandage. It still looked clean, and no fresh red had seeped through.

  Back in the living room, it had been warm enough that we could spread out a bit inside the blanket fort. With all our clothes and coats on and with a blanket (or rug) tucked around us, it hadn’t been comfortable but tolerable. On the porch, it was at least ten degrees cooler. The coats and blankets weren’t cutting it—I could hear the kids’ teeth chattering, and my shivers were involuntary.

  “Let’s all try to fit on the big cushion,” I suggested. “And cuddle together, to stay warm.” I moved closest to the exterior wall, where it was coldest. Zoe took the middle, and Oscar was on the other side—so his leg was away from both of us and any accidental nighttime kicking. The blankets and rug we piled on top of ourselves. Their weight was cozy and reassuring, but I could still feel the chilled air seeping in from the wall next to me.

  At least the blanket fort now smelled like cedarwood and unwashed hair—instead of gas.

  Zoe rolled to face me. And unbrushed teeth. I couldn’t fault her. I’m sure my breath smelled abominable too.

  I stared up at the ceiling. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out the fan that hung down directly above us. Its blades glinted in the moonlight. My stomach twisted. There was danger everywhere. What if another aftershock hit and the fan fell down? I turned my head away. Please let us be safe here tonight, I pleaded with the universe.

  I curled my fingers around the edge of the blanket. Maybe by the time we woke up, my mom would be sitting on the chair across from our nest. Watching over us. She’d have picked up Top Pot doughnuts on her way back, even. I knew it was ridiculous to hope for—both her being there and the doughnuts—but I let myself imagine that particular miracle anyway. If I kept picturing our parents safely returning home—stepping out of the car with wide, relieved smiles on their faces, arms open for a hug, not a scratch on them—I didn’t think about the real possibilities of where they were. Under rubble, or in hospital beds. The photo my dad had taken of the ocean’s lapping waves flashed into my head. That same water might have taken him away from me, forever.