The Disaster Days

by Rebecca Behrens

  I couldn’t see her nod with the pillows piled up so high beneath my chin, but I heard her start stacking the books. I ran back into the yard, but after a few paces I had to stop. My chest was getting really tight again, and the grass was super slippery. I didn’t want to trip on debris and sprain something—I was the only one left with the use of all their limbs.

  In the tent, I dumped the pillows and blankets in a corner. Once we got Oscar inside, I’d bring out the big cushions too. Although the tent was in the middle of the yard, it already felt so much cozier inside its warm orange walls, even with the rain pelting all sides. It wasn’t any colder than the house.

  By the time we’d moved Oscar, Jupiter, the cushions, and all our essentials—flashlight, survival books, notebook, gallon of water, food bag, bandages, and the radio—into the tent, the rain had cleared up. I unzipped the windows so we could see into the yard. Even though it was cold, the fresh evergreen air was nice. Maybe I was imagining it, but I could breathe easier. I stared longingly in the direction of my house, even though you can’t see it through all the trees. So near, and yet so far.

  I flopped onto a couch cushion, staring up at the orange dome.

  “What are we going to do now?” Zoe asked.

  Good question. I wanted a rest, more than anything. Before I could suggest a nap, Oscar piped up, “I’m starving, and I need more Tylenol.”

  No rest for the weary. My mom sometimes says that. Thinking of her made my stomach drop, but I ignored the sensation and rose to my knees. Mom wouldn’t want me to cry about her. She’d want me to take care of Oscar and Zoe, to be responsible—the best I could, anyway. “Let’s see what we have to eat in here.”

  “Could we listen to the radio again?” Zoe was already fiddling with its dial. “Maybe it’ll give us an update so we know when our mom will be back.”

  I stared at the little red radio. Just looking at it made my pulse race, my chest muscles clench tighter. I couldn’t unhear whatever news the broadcasts shared, and while I knew Beth Kajawa and whoever else was reporting didn’t want to frighten anyone, didn’t want to share news that acted like a punch straight to your heart—that’s what their broadcasts were. Everyone listening probably felt exactly like we did: scared, helpless, and desperate for reassurance that their loved ones were okay. If Beth said the f-word again—fatalities—I’m not sure I could bear to hear it.

  But it was also possible that the radio would tell us something we needed to hear. Like instructions on how to get help from a doctor. Or when the power was coming back on. Or whether the brown water was safe to drink. Every time I checked on Oscar’s leg, it looked worse—puffier and more deeply bruised. There were only three chewables left to dull his pain.

  It would be irresponsible not to stay informed. “Okay, we can listen while we eat,” I said. “I’ll power it up.”

  Zoe passed me the radio and I flipped out the crank, then started whirling it in circles. I kept twisting and twisting; the longer I took to charge it, the longer I could delay facing the news.

  “Don’t you think it’s done already?” Zoe eventually asked, wiping graham cracker crumbs from her mouth. “You only cranked it a little last time.”

  “Um, yeah. Probably.” I stopped and tucked the crank back in its spot. I slowly pulled out the antenna. Then I flipped the switch.

  “The rain this afternoon brings an increased risk of landslides. Emergency Management advises listening carefully for the sounds of moving debris, such as trees cracking. Avoid sheltering in low-lying areas. If you find yourself in the path of a landslide, move away from the flow of debris as quickly as possible. If escape is not possible,” she paused to clear her throat. Since the last broadcast, Beth Kajawa’s voice had grown raspy with exhaustion. I wondered where she was reporting from, and how long she’d been on the air. What about her friends and family? Did she know if they were okay? I wished I could thank her, for trying to sound so calm and reassuring—and mostly succeeding. “Curl in a ball and protect your head with your arms. Another risk facing residents of low-lying areas is liquefaction. Soil and groundwater can mix in an earthquake event as strong as this. When that happens, it causes the ground to become very soft and function almost like quicksand. Buildings may sink into it, causing tilting or even a collapse. If you notice signs of liquefaction, such as the formation of ‘sand volcanoes’ on the ground—use caution.”

  Wait. Sand volcanoes? We had those. Now our ground could turn into quicksand? I honestly thought that didn’t exist outside of chapter books and old cartoons. Kind of like the threat of slipping on a banana peel. “Don’t go anywhere near the sand mounds, Zoe,” I said.

  “We now have an updated list of bridge closures, but remember this is only a partial list. Other bridges, especially in suburban and rural areas, may also be closed or unstable. Use extreme caution if attempting to cross. I’ll say it again, folks: shelter in place.” She sighed and paused for what sounded like a sip of water. “Closures are: Ship Canal Bridge, Montlake Bridge, Murrow Memorial Bridge, Fremont Bridge, Elliott Bay Bridge, Ballard Bridge. In terms of ferry service: It’s not operating, and I’m going to venture a guess that it will be a long time before it’s running again. King County Metro Transit and Link Light Rail are not operating. Basically—a car is your only option at this point, but road conditions and closures make travel inadvisable. Unless you have an emergency need, the Office of Emergency Management still asks everyone to shelter in place. I know you’ve heard me say that phrase dozens of times by now, friends. But, please, listen. The first responders who are out there already have their hands full. You will be helping yourselves and everyone in the metro area if you just stay put.”

  Elliott Bay Bridge. Which connected Pelling Island to the rest of the world, at least by car. And if ferries weren’t running—how could anyone get back to our island? Maybe if they had a boat. Otherwise, we were totally cut off.

  Beth Kajawa cleared her throat, like she dreaded whichever update was next. “Now, an update on the coastal region. The tsunami’s floodwaters reached as far as two and a half miles inland.” Beth Kawaja paused. When she spoke again, her voice had taken on a tremble. “I’m afraid to say, we’ve had no contact with Emergency Management west of the inundation zone. At this point, helicopters from Fort Lewis are undertaking flyovers to look for signs of…survivors.” Her voice cracked. “Some of you listening, I know, are thinking of friends and family who were there. I—I am too. All I can say right now is, try to keep hope alive—”

  I lunged for the radio and flipped the dial off. I couldn’t breathe. I froze on my hands and knees, gasping. Now it was like air was trying to get in and out of my lungs through one of those tiny coffee-stirring straws they have at gas station coffee bars, the ones not even meant for sucking up any liquid. With each gasp, my throat and chest felt tighter. I honestly thought I might suffocate. It was a full-blown asthma attack, worse than any I remembered having before.

  I struggled to think of the instructions the doctor had given me, other than “use your rescue inhaler.” Keep calm. Lean forward. Take long, deep breaths. Loosen tight clothing.

  I sat cross-legged, leaning with my elbows on my thighs. I tried that yoga breathing, repeating the word calm over and over and over in my head. I reached up with one hand to unbutton the top of Andrea’s coat and unzip my windbreaker and then my vest inside. I stretched out the neck of my long sleeve.

  Calm. Calm. Calm.

  I stared out the tent’s clear plastic window, at the trees waving in the breeze. At the wide-open sky above them. I imagined my throat and lungs being as expansive as it. I avoided looking in the direction of Zoe and Oscar, because I could feel their eyes fixed on me. I’m sure I was really freaking them out.

  It took a few minutes of focusing on the breathing exercises, but the coffee stirrer turned back into a normal straw. My hands stopped tingling. The nausea I’d begun to feel subsided.

&n
bsp; “Are you…okay?” Zoe’s voice was a notch above a whisper.

  I nodded. I couldn’t talk yet. A few more full breaths, and then I would try.

  “Yeah.” My voice was hoarse, strained.

  “What happened?” Zoe was messing with her bandage again, rubbing at the skin around it.

  “I had an asthma attack. But I think it’s over. I’m fine now.”

  Another lie.

  With those words, I’d rebroken my promise to Zoe, but I had no other choice than to tell that lie—I’m fine, it’s okay—to her, and myself.

  13

  When I was in fourth grade, one of our vocabulary words was utopia. Mrs. Simpson told us that the definition is an imaginary place where life is perfect: Everyone there gets along, and it’s safe and beautiful and happy. “Like a paradise,” she’d said, before asking us to please use it in a sentence.

  I chewed on the eraser end of my pencil. Her definition kind of sounded like a description of Pelling Island—especially our mini neighborhood across the inlet. Mr. Aranita, the Matlocks, and my family all got along just fine and our peninsula was completely safe. I could run outside and pluck wild berries from a bush for my breakfast. There’s never a lot of noise, other than chirping birds. We lived peacefully with the animals, even the coyotes and bears. The island might not be particularly sunny, except for in August, but overcast skies are beautiful too—especially the way the gray and white clouds sometimes swirl together like milk into tea. And every morning on my way to school, I had a chance of catching a glimpse of Mount Rainier and the Cascades, their snowcapped peaks reaching up toward the heavens.

  So for my sentence, I wrote: I am lucky to live in a utopia.

  Mrs. Simpson called on me to share my sentence with the rest of the class, which was slightly embarrassing. When I read it aloud, her brows furrowed and she paused for a moment before asking, “Could you tell us more about your sentence, Hannah?”

  “Sure,” I’d said. Then I explained everything I’d been thinking, about how I love living in a place where the air is always fresh and smells like ocean and pine, where sometimes while I’m sitting in the breakfast nook reading, I can see deer nibbling in the yard. Where on a lazy Sunday morning my dad and I will go for a bike ride through the forest preserve and stop near the bridge to skip stones into the calm, clear, silvery water. “Nothing really bad ever happens in my neighborhood, or on Pelling. Everyone’s pretty happy here. So…it’s a utopia. Right?”

  Mrs. Simpson smiled. “Usually we use ‘utopia’ to mean a made-up place. But you’ve made a compelling point, and I have to say I agree.”

  I never forgot that moment in class. Afterward, whenever I came across utopia in print, I’d picture the view from the front door of my house. The word utopia would also pop into my head sometimes when I was outside in the yard, or biking along the road. How lucky am I to live here, in this utopia. I really believed that was true.

  But as I stared out the tent window, still waiting for my breathing to return to normal, I realized that as lovely and idyllic as Pelling might be—utopias are fictional. No place is perfect, or perfectly safe. The earthquake had proven that. “Pellingites” were as vulnerable to disasters and trouble as people anywhere else. Maybe more so, because we were cut off from everything and everyone. Our community was fragile. That truth stung. I’d been betrayed by the island I loved so much.

  But my house—maybe it was still safe. Protected from the earthquake by my dad’s planning and handiwork. Warm and dry inside, with clear water and no gas smell and—most important of all—my rescue inhaler resting on top of my nightstand. If I could get it, I wouldn’t have to fear another asthma attack.

  I knew exactly where the first aid kit was too, and that my mom kept it stocked full of bandages and wipes and packets of children’s pain relievers. We also had that emergency tub, waiting in the closet next to the kitchen.

  Beth Kajawa had begged us to shelter in place, unless it was a real emergency. Although weren’t we having a real emergency at the Matlocks’, with our cuts and broken bones and worsening asthma? We’d resorted to living in a tent. It was only three-quarters of a mile between their front door and mine. It’s time to pack up and head home.

  “Hannah? Is there more water? I’m thirsty,” Zoe asked.

  “And I have to pee,” Oscar whined.

  None of us had needed a bathroom break since we had moved into the tent. Should we still use the toilet inside—and now that the water was messed up, would it flush properly? I definitely didn’t want to add raw sewage to the list of problems—and smells—inside the house.

  My hand fluttered to my throat as I thought about dashing back in, even for a few minutes. I was convinced the gas smell helped trigger my asthma attack. I couldn’t avoid the cold, or the strong emotions, or the exertion that my doctor had said could cause a flare-up, but I could avoid those fumes.

  “Hannah? I have to go bad.” Oscar was shifting on the cushion like he was doing a lying-down version of the gotta-pee shuffle dance. “It’s an emergency.” Using his forearms, he lifted his bottom off the blanket—but that’s as far as he could get up on his own, without shifting weight into his legs. He gasped, wincing, and lowered down.

  “Hang on, we’ll help you.” I motioned to Zoe to take one side, and I’d get the other, after I unzipped the tent door.

  When Oscar was back in our aching arms—mine felt like spaghetti from lugging him around—Zoe started to maneuver us toward the porch. “Wait! We should stay out of the bathroom for now,” I said. “At least when we only have to go number one.”

  She looked over at me, horrified. “Then where are we supposed to do our business?”

  I motioned toward the edge of the yard, hemmed in by waist-high bramble bushes and some trees. “We’re camping, remember? We’ll go in the woods.”

  Oscar giggled. “Cool,” he said, his voice still weak.

  “You’re gross, Oscar,” Zoe teased. “You’re probably happy that I won’t bug you about washing your hands.”

  I had to smile, because they were acting like themselves again. I clung to any moment of normalcy like a raft in the ocean.

  We deposited Oscar next to a tree that he could lean on, turning our backs for privacy but sticking close in case he started to lose his balance. I tried not to listen to the sound of him relieving himself onto the leaves and twigs. When he was done, we slowly started back for the tent. I made a silent plea to my arms, to please give me just enough strength to get Oscar inside. Then I’d give them a rest.

  Clouds still covered the sun, but the quality of its light told me that we were firmly into the afternoon. I reached through all my layers to my vest pocket to pull out my phone. That might have been the longest I’d ever gone without reaching for it. 2:00 p.m., leaving us a few hours before dusk—so it was now or never, if we were going to trek to my house. But how? I had to figure out how to transport Oscar—and all our essentials. Everything in the tent and maybe some more supplies too.

  As we carried Oscar back, I silently brainstormed all we would need to gather before leaving: A jug of water. Any remaining food. Our survival information—at least what was transcribed in the notebook, because the books would be cumbersome to take along. Except maybe the home medical guide. That was too essential to leave behind. A safe mode of transportation for Oscar and Jupiter—a wagon or wheelbarrow? Wagon would be safer; wheelbarrows topple over pretty easily. Speaking of Jupiter, we should clean the poop out of his box before we left. Oh, and we needed the flashlight and the radio/charger. Plus blankets. And a thousand things I was either forgetting or simply not aware we needed. This would be less like a trip next door and more like leaving for the Oregon Trail.

  Once Oscar was safely deposited on top of the cushion, it was time for a checkup. The magazine-scrunchie splint appeared to be holding up surprisingly well. I snapped a photo with my phone, thinking I could
show it to Neha…later. Sometime. Hopefully. I clicked the screen off, then reached over to carefully roll up the fabric covering Oscar’s injury. Expecting it would look better than the last time I’d seen it.

  I choked back a gasp once his pant leg was up. The rainbow of bruising had deepened, and the whole area had swollen. I pressed lightly on his puffy, mottled skin. Before I could ask if he felt my touch, and if it hurt, he sucked in his breath sharply and let out a yelp of pain. I clenched my teeth and worked to keep my face neutral as I rolled his pant leg back down.

  “How does it look?” Zoe sounded more nervous than curious.

  “It looks…okay,” I said. If only we had some ice. I felt a bubble of rage toward the refrigerator, for having the nerve to fall facedown on the kitchen floor. Had it fallen onto any of its other sides, we could’ve gotten inside. It was cold enough in the kitchen that it was entirely possible that the trapped ice was still perfectly usable. Another reason to get to my house ASAP.

  I sat back on my heels, then reached for the notebook with all our instructions. “Okay, guys, here’s the plan.” I swallowed hard, hoping they’d go along with it. I was in charge—but without their cooperation, we couldn’t go anywhere. “We’re moving to my house.”

  “I don’t want to leave!” Oscar cried. He reached for Jupiter in the box next to him, scooping the guinea pig up and pressing him next to his chest. Jupiter squeaked in protest too. “Neither does Jupiter.”

  Zoe looked thoughtful. “Why? Shouldn’t we stay here, because this is where all our parents think we are? They’ll be really worried if they get back and we’re not waiting. And that radio lady said to shelter in place.”

  “True, but this isn’t a safe place for us anymore. I mean, the tent is safe…ish. But we don’t even have a bathroom at this point. The water’s not working inside, and there’s a gas leak. That is so, so dangerous.” I peered out of the tent’s unzipped door, in the direction of my house. “My dad’s an architect. He knows how to reinforce things, and all about the building codes, so I’m positive our house held up well. Also, we have an emergency tub with water, food, extra batteries, and flashlights. And who knows—maybe my phone will work over there.” That wasn’t an unreasonable idea. The Matlocks’ house was the farthest from downtown Pelling, where the nearest cell tower was. When I’m biking in the forest preserve, my phone gets spotty service. Maybe the closer we got to the bridge and the rest of civilization, the better the chance we could communicate with the outside world. By now, they could’ve restored some of the network, or figured out another way to return communication to people.