“Can you go get the—wait, never mind.” I was going to ask Zoe to fetch the flowerpot full of water, but then I remembered her injury. I glanced at her arm. “How’s your cut doing, by the way?” She’d been itching at it earlier, and she still let her arm hang in her lap, like she didn’t want to overuse it. Or like it hurt to move.
She shrugged, pushing back her sleeve to check on the bandage. It had picked up smears of dirt, but no bloodstains were visible.
“Does it still hurt?” I asked. The skin around the bandage looked kind of red. But maybe that was part of the healing process? I wished we’d had some antibiotic ointment to slather on it. Or that we still had water to spare—and soap—to keep it clean.
“Yeah,” she answered. “But not like Oscar’s leg.”
No parts of us hurt like that, I supposed, feeling sympathetic pricks of pain in my own legs, from crouching.
“Wait here, and I’ll get the water,” I said. “Don’t touch the matches!”
Zoe nodded, tapping the lid of the box.
It took me a few minutes to get over to the carport. I stopped, standing underneath its roof, and for the first time, stared at the driveway and out toward the road. Nothing stirred, not even the branches of the pine trees. What was left of them anyway. The yard was dead calm. I strained my ears, hoping to hear a sound from beyond the yard. If not a car coming along the road, then a siren from across the inlet, or an airplane overhead, making its descent into Sea-Tac.
I heard nothing. The quiet that I usually loved about our slice of the island had curdled into something worrisome.
I walked back at a quarter of my usual pokey pace, because I was terrified about spilling any water and also the full flowerpot was heavier than I expected. About halfway to the pit, my nose wrinkled. I sniffed. I smelled something like…smoke. I squinted. A parka-clad figure huddled on the log, her back to me. A curl of smoke rose above her toward the clouds.
“Zoe!” I lurched forward into a run, until water from the flowerpot sloshed onto the thick, insulated gardening gloves I’d put on. I’d figured it would be a good idea to have something like oven mitts to handle the metal pot with, once it had been heated up.
She turned in my direction. I made a very angry but slow march toward her and the crackling fire.
“What did I tell you about touching the matches?”
“Not to?” she replied. Reaching her, I gently set the water down next to the logs. The flames already licked up through the firepit’s grates. It was a really good fire, actually. Not bad for our first try, especially considering how damp everything was. In addition to being a prodigy builder, Zoe must be some kind of fire-starting savant.
“You have to listen to me,” I said. “I know you think you can do stuff on your own, but sometimes it’s not safe. You’re already hurt”—I pointed to her arm—“and I don’t want anything else to happen to you.” I stopped, feeling the prickle of déjà vu. Why did those words sound so familiar? Oh, right. I sounded exactly like my mom, whenever she chided me for forgetting my inhaler, or baking cookies when she wasn’t home, or anything else that I was absolutely capable of doing but for some reason she refused to let me try.
You’d think that would make me take it all back, out of sympathy for Zoe. Except the person I felt sympathy for was my mom. It was hard being in charge of someone who thought she could handle a task that was, in fact, incredibly dangerous for her to do on her own. It was hard to feel the weight of responsibility on your shoulders, twenty-four hours of the day.
I wasn’t actually angry with Zoe, I realized. She was a go-getter and smart and capable. I respected that she was eager to grow up and try things. I was only angry that there had been an opportunity for her to get hurt, and I’d failed to prevent it.
I wished I could tell my mom all that. Even more, I wished I’d understood these feelings when we had been in the car and I’d ducked her hug.
“You did a great job of starting the fire, though,” I said. “You know, I’m really happy you’re here to help me deal with all this.” Zoe’s face flushed as she hugged her coat tighter, poking at the firewood with a stick. She had a tiny smile. For a few minutes, we sat in silence, our cheeks warming as we watched the flames grow.
When they settled down a bit, I rested the flowerpot—carefully using its handle, thank goodness, so I didn’t have to hold the sides right above the flames—on top of the grate. Then I closed the mesh-like dome over it.
“Should we bring Oscar out to see the fire?” Zoe asked.
“We could for a couple of minutes. I don’t think that would hurt.”
We settled him on the log next to Zoe. Woozy, he rested his head on her shoulder. Jupiter was safe in his box, tucked on the ground in between Zoe’s feet. Jupiter! I’d forgotten about the problem of what to feed him.
“You guys don’t know what guinea pigs eat other than pellets, do you?”
“We feed him carrots sometimes,” Zoe said.
“We can’t reach the ones in the fridge, and the garden hasn’t grown any yet,” I said. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t get to his food. The cabinet is stuck shut.”
“Just Google—oh,” Oscar said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, ruefully. How weird that I wasn’t even reaching for my phone anymore when I had a question.
Zoe rubbed her arm. “Look it up? In one of the encyclopedias…”
“You’re right.” In entries for animals, they usually tell what they eat. “I’ll go get the G book. Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.” I gave Zoe a look like my mom always gives me when she knows I don’t want to listen to her advice and probably won’t.
It was good to step away from the firepit for a minute. The smoke wasn’t helping my lungs. While crossing the yard, I went back to yoga breathing. In for four counts, out for eight. Or was it the other way around? Either way, I focused on filling both my belly and my chest with clean air. I visualized my lungs expanding like a balloon, even though they felt uninflated even at the top of a breath.
The screened porch still had a huge puddle of rainwater, but it hadn’t spread to the box of books. I dug around until I found the G volume, which I tucked under my arm.
Turning to leave the porch, I realized how low the sun had sunk. The sky and clouds had a dusky haze. How had it gotten so late? Before we could leave for my house, we had to wait for the water to boil, then cool, pour it into the gallon jug, then pack up all our things and safely position Oscar in the wagon. Should I lock the house before we left? I didn’t even know if there were keys somewhere inside. But who could possibly break in while we were gone? Anyway, the house already looked ransacked.
I would also need to leave a note for Andrea. Maybe tacked to the front door, where she’d see it right when she got back.
If she got back?
I pulled out my phone to check the time. Almost six. Realistically—at the rate we’d been moving, we wouldn’t be ready before the sun set, and we absolutely couldn’t travel to my house in the dark. We would need daylight to show us debris in our way, and other damage—downed wires or holes in the earth. Quicksand, like Beth Kajawa had mentioned. I shivered.
The safest thing would probably be to spend the night in the tent and go in the morning.
I slumped on the log next to the kids, resting the encyclopedia volume on my legs. “It’s too late to leave for my house today.”
Even though he’d fought leaving, Oscar’s expression remained the same—not neutral, but pained.
“We’re going to have to sleep in the tent.”
“I don’t mind,” Zoe said, reaching to stoke the fire with her stick. She winced as she stretched her arm straight.
“Let me see your wound,” I said, motioning for her to scoot toward me. She pushed up her sleeves. The skin around the bandage definitely looked redder, but maybe that was because Zoe had been itching at it al
l day. I worked my fingernail under the adhesive on one corner to lift it up for a peek, and I cringed.
The cut looked so much worse than yesterday. It was fiery and raised, and the swelling spread centimeters beyond the wound itself. Worse, there was a lot of yellowish…stuff.
“Oh, Zoe,” I whispered. “That must be very painful.” I carefully pressed the bandage back down.
She nodded, blinking back tears.
“It’s okay to be upset when you’re in pain,” I said gently. “Why didn’t you tell me it hurt so badly?”
She shrugged, apparently still unable to respond without crying.
I sighed. “Go inside the tent and rest for a few minutes. I’ll finish the water and then make dinner.”
We helped Oscar and Jupiter inside, and I came back out alone with the empty water jug and the big can of beans. I put on my gardening gloves and then very, very carefully transferred the bubbling pot off the grate and down to the gravel. It occurred to me that I could’ve gone back into the kitchen to get a real cooking pot to boil the water in, and maybe that would’ve been a lot easier and safer to handle. Oh well. I’d remember it for next time. There being a next time didn’t seem totally unlikely.
Once it cooled, I carefully poured the contents of the pot into the water jug. It wasn’t the clearest-looking water in the world, but it appeared a lot more drinkable than the gunky stuff coming out of the faucets.
I popped the top off the bean can and set it on the grating. The sun was low, and the glow of the firelight was kind of mesmerizing. It was actually a nice place to sit and rest—except for the smoke. That had thickened, and the breeze seemed to be playing a game of tag with me, so the trails of smoke followed me no matter which log I rested on. I rubbed at my eyes and coughed. My chest was tightening again. The beans are probably warm enough. I could put the fire out.
I trudged to the carport to get the other, smaller flowerpot of rainwater. The way the backyard curved, the carport was close to the woods. As I hefted up the pot, the breeze shifted and rustled all the surviving leaves and needles on the trees. I heard something else, a plaintive sound from deep in the forest. A coyote’s howl.
Even though I was exhausted and hungry and my chest ached, and I was carrying a heavy pot of rainwater, I ran back like I was on fire. I dumped the water on the dying flames. I know the instructions said I should sprinkle it once the fire had shrunk to glowing embers, but I didn’t want to wait in the yard for whatever was howling to find me standing there alone. It was time to hunker down in the tent for the night, that was for sure.
* * *
Three spoons and one can of lumpy refried beans. Without rice or cheese, the beans weren’t as tasty as I usually found them. Also, they had cooked inconsistently, with spots of the can holding much warmer bean goo than others. I swallowed the cold, dry spoonful I’d gotten and passed it to Zoe.
“When your mom was giving me instructions, she said we could eat these but only if we got ‘really desperate.’” I paused. “Isn’t it funny that we actually are?”
Oscar only moaned in response. He was reclining against a couch pillow that propped him up just enough to safely eat. We only had one pain-reliever chewable left, and I’d been saving it for an emergency. Like, what if one of us suddenly got a very high fever?
But looking at Oscar, weak and miserable, it seemed cruel not to give it to him right then. I kept picturing him the afternoon before the quake—jumping around on the couch, smiling and laughing. All his happy energy had curdled into fear and pain. It was heartbreaking to witness.
Zoe had gotten quieter too. She stirred her spoon in the bean can, clanging it against the sides. “I don’t think it’s very funny.”
My shoulders curved inward like I was deflating. I shouldn’t have tried to make a lighthearted joke. At least, not about something their mom had said—or our pathetic food situation. I just couldn’t get over how Andrea’s throwaway statement had actually come true. There were moments when I paused and thought, Is this real life? Have we really been alone for over forty-eight hours? Are we actually living in a tent in the backyard? If Neha were there, she’d understand. She would’ve laughed and riffed about us having to make literal stone soup next. Sometimes the only way to deal with the bizarreness of life is to find the humor in it—both Neha and I understood that.
I felt a pang like homesickness. I miss her so much. And I missed my actual home, and my parents, and the boring everyday details of life that don’t seem wondrous until you no longer experience them: a sip of fresh clean water from the faucet, the buzz of a text message from a friend, the soft glow of the reading lamp you flick on at nightfall.
“We should feed Jups,” Zoe reminded me.
“Right!” I said, grabbing the G encyclopedia. I flipped until I found the entry for guinea pigs. “Let me see…” I scanned the page. “Did you know they have tails? They’re just not visible on the outside. Oh, hey! This is great. It says they don’t actually require water to drink.”
“No way. Jupiter sips from his water bottle all the time,” Oscar said.
“That’s because he eats pellets—dried food. If they’re fed fresh vegetation, they don’t need to drink. And look here,” I pointed to the entry. “Guinea pigs eat grass.” I grinned. “We still have a yard full of that. And in the morning, it will be nice and dewy too.”
“I’m getting him some now. He must be starving,” Zoe said, bolting for the tent door.
“Wait—” I didn’t want her in the yard by herself—not after hearing howls from the woods—but she was only reaching her good arm out, tugging up handfuls of fresh, clean grass, which she plopped on the bottom of Jupiter’s box. He squeaked happily and did a little hop before he started nibbling the blades.
“I’m sorry you were so hungry, Jups.” I picked up a bit of the grass and rolled it between my fingers. Still damp from the rain, it would be good enough to keep Jupiter hydrated. I pulled his water bottle—mostly full—out of the box and set it next to the water jug. We’d only taken sips of the boiled rainwater during dinner, partly to ration it and partly because it had a strange metallic taste. Not surprising, considering the source.
Our next indicator of true desperation would be drinking from a guinea pig’s water bottle.
I really, really hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
By the time the bean can was empty, it was fully dark outside the tent—inside, we had our flashlight, whose beam was weakening. It seemed foolish to keep it on, especially when we had no idea how much juice the batteries had left. The only thing that made sense to do was go to bed.
I unzipped the tent and darted out to deposit the bean can over by the firepit. The edges were jagged, and I didn’t want anyone to accidentally slice themselves. When I crawled back inside, I remembered that my phone needed to be recharged—the battery had dipped precariously low again. If it got too cold at night, it might die altogether, and what if a text finally came through? I couldn’t miss it.
“Where’s the emergency radio?” I asked, tossing around the blankets to find it. The more I overturned them and didn’t see it, the more panic started to set in.
“Over here.” Zoe motioned to the space between her and Oscar.
I exhaled, feeling the flutter in my chest release. “Thank goodness. I need to charge before we turn in.”
“We’re going to sleep already?” Zoe wrinkled her nose. “We just ate dinner. Our bedtime is nine.”
“What else are we going to do in a totally dark tent? And aren’t you exhausted?” I was bone-tired, as my grandma would say.
“No, I’m not sleepy.” Zoe was getting more and more contrary. Maybe she was still mad about the lies I’d told. Or maybe it was simply because her arm hurt.
“Well, do you want to charge my phone with the radio? Maybe that’ll make you tired.” I offered a smile. Also, cranking the charger took a surprising a
mount of effort. I didn’t want to get wheezier.
She shrugged. “Sure.” I handed over my phone, which she hooked into the charger part of the emergency radio. She started turning the crank, vigorously, with her uninjured arm, gripping the radio in her other hand.
“I don’t think you have to spin it so fast to get it to work, and we actually do have all night.” But she didn’t slow down. It made me nervous how hard she was whipping the crank. “Come on, Zoe, be gentle with it. It’s not a toy.” I sounded just like my mom.
She didn’t listen. She gripped the crank and turned it even faster, giggling. I thought of Neha in the babysitting course, asking Mrs. Pinales how to handle a kid who wouldn’t listen or behave. What was I supposed to do—give her some space to settle down on her own? I watched Zoe warily. She was literally winding herself up.
The snap sounded like something heavy stepping on a brittle twig: crisp and sharp. At first, I thought it had come from outside, and I started to bring my index finger to my lips, to signal to the kids to be quiet so I could listen. But then I saw Zoe’s mouth form a perfect O of surprise, which melted into a grimace after she realized that the radio no longer tethered her hands together. We both looked to the hand she held up in slow motion. The crank had been severed from the radio. The tip of the plastic was jagged, where it had broken free. It’s like Zoe was brandishing a tiny sword in defiance of me.
We’d never have enough sunlight to use the radio’s solar-powered option. That tiny piece of red plastic was our lifeline. Without it, the radio was worthless. Without it, we had no way to charge my phone.
The Disaster Days Page 15
