No way to listen to Beth Kajawa reporting the news from the rest of the city, or bulletins that would tell us things essential to our own safety—and survival.
No way of knowing if our loved ones might be looking for us.
If they might be safe.
If they might be alive.
“Why didn’t you listen to me?” My voice was a low hiss, unrecognizable to me. I began shaking, like the ground had. The feelings bubbling up in me were seismic. Every worry I’d pushed down, every drop of anger and fear and sadness and shocking disbelief. They tumbled out of me now, more powerful than I could control. “I told you to be gentle! Do you know how important that radio is? We’re completely cut off without it!”
Zoe’s bottom lip quivered. She looked devastated. I knew it was an accident, I knew she felt terrible now, and I knew I’d made plenty of mistakes of my own since the earthquake—ones with terrible consequences. Things even more precious than the radio had broken.
But I erupted anyway. “What’s going to happen when my phone dies? When the flashlight batteries run out?” My gasping breaths filled the silence between my shouts. “We’ll be stuck in the dark! Literally and figuratively! It’s all your fault!”
“Stop yelling,” Oscar cried, as he tried to turn away from me and pull the blanket over his head—but, after grimacing and yowling when he attempted to shift onto his side, he kept his supine position, covering his ears and eyes with a pillow. “Stop fighting!” Jupiter chattered as though in agreement.
I paused to catch my breath. It had felt so good to yell, to get mad. I hadn’t realized how furious I was. I was a bubbling-over pot and the lid had lifted. Once the steam of bad feelings was released, I settled down immediately, and as soon as I did, I understood it wasn’t Zoe I was mad at, even if she’d broken the radio. I was mad at the world. At the earth, specifically the sneaky Juan de Fuca plate, for putting us in this position, for ruining my utopia, and for hurting people I loved.
But now it was Zoe’s turn to get angry. “It was an accident!” she shrieked.
Her arm was injured. She probably had a harder time cranking because of that. We were all exhausted and loopy. “I know—” I started.
“No, you don’t know. You don’t even know how to pitch a tent or build a fire. Because you’re a kid, just like us. And I don’t have to listen to you—because you’re not our mother.” She spoke so furiously that spittle was flying out of her raw, angry mouth. Tears streamed from her eyes. “You’re a liar.” Behind her, Oscar began to cry.
“Zoe. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” I paused. “I know it was an accident.”
“Just shut up!”
“You’re not supposed to say that!” Oscar wailed.
“Who cares? Mom’s not here now! And we don’t know if she’s ever coming back. She could be dead!” Zoe, hysterical, snatched Jupiter and crawled to the far end of the tent. In between us, Oscar sobbed. I wheezed, head in my hands. I felt like I’d been punched.
She’d said it. She’d said the thing we’d all thought but were too afraid to say out loud. Ever coming back. Could be dead. Her words lingered in the thick air inside the tent. The orange walls pulsed with their energy, their pain, their fear.
I was both angry and relieved that she’d said it out loud. “Zoe…”
“Don’t talk to me. Don’t come near me. That’s your side of the tent. This is mine.”
I sank to my knees next to Oscar. “Are you okay?”
He nodded weakly.
“Do you need more Tylenol?” I was desperate to make something better inside the tent. Even if it meant using up the last precious chewable.
“I just want to sleep.” The pillow was back over his eyes and ears.
“Okay,” I said.
There was a blanket that neither had claimed next to him, balled up against the tent door. I rolled myself up in it. There was no pillow for my head, or cushions for my aching body, and the ground was surprisingly rough and spiky underneath the tent fabric. Something sharp pressed into my shoulder blades as I lay down. Even with the blanket double-wrapped around me, it was ice cold next to the ground. I shivered. What we should be doing is sleeping huddled together, to conserve body heat, but fighting really didn’t allow for that.
Soon, I could hear snoring from the other parts of the tent. Two different patterns of light snores, telling me both kids had fallen asleep. I was vaguely impressed. As exhausted as I was, I didn’t know if I ever would rest again. You needed a certain amount of security to fall asleep, confidence that the world will be waiting for you when you woke up. I’d lost that.
I kept stifling my coughs. Even if I couldn’t sleep, it was important the kids did. If there was any hope of us making up and moving on tomorrow, it hinged on them not being exhausted and cranky. But the damp, chilly air was making my lungs worse. I rolled over, and my phone pressed sharply into my hip. It took some unraveling, but I managed to free my arm from the blanket roll to pull it out.
Ten percent battery. It wasn’t going to last much longer. It would be smart to save every ounce of battery I had, in case we needed the flashlight app. But there were things I needed to say, even if the people I wanted to say them to might never have a chance to read them. To Neha:
I’m really sorry for everything I said. I didn’t mean it. I want to be your friend now and forever. I don’t know how many times over the past two days I’ve thought about you, something funny you’d say or something I wanted to share with you, or a way you’d step in and get things done like you’re always so good at doing. I miss you. I realize now that no matter how many other friends we have, no matter if our activities and stuff change and we’re not Always Being Partners, you’re still going to be my best friend.
Because that other F in BFF means forever.
Wherever you are right now, I’m hoping you’re okay.
I need you to be, all right?
I wiped away a tear and rubbed my sniffling nose. The next two were going to be even harder to type out, and not because I was in low-battery mode so the screen had started dimming if I paused in my typing for more than a half second. They were going to be the kind of messages that break what’s left of your heart.
I get it now, Mom. How hard it is to be responsible for someone else and to want to keep them safe. And how to stay strong for others when you are dealing with your own stuff. I’m so sorry I was cranky in the car. I just want to go back in time and dive in for your hug. And as long as I’m going back in time, I’d grab my inhaler off the nightstand before I left my bedroom too.
Please come home soon. I need you. And I love you.
The collar of my shirt was soaked with tears by the time I set my phone down after pressing send on that text. I knew it wasn’t going anywhere, but I had to keep trying.
The last message I started and stopped. Started and stopped. Started again, and then through the tears I remembered what Beth Kajawa had said on the radio, how she was also worried about friends and family in the tsunami zone. She’d told us all to keep hope alive. So I changed my message.
I am keeping hope alive. For you.
Dad, just try your best.
Because that was what he always asked me to do.
I pressed send and curled into myself, tucking my head into the top of the blanket roll. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined the texts zipping through wires, or space, or however text messages ping from one phone to another. I imagined Neha, my mom, and my dad all smiling as their phones lit up and they saw my messages. That was the only way I could stop the tears.
15
There was a noise outside the tent.
Even though I’d thought sleep would never come to me, I had eventually fallen into it deeply. I was in a weird position, so when I woke my left arm was numb and prickly, and that side of my face was freezing cold from being pressed ag
ainst the tent floor. It felt like there was straw in my mouth from it being so dry. Every other part of me was damp and chilled. I wiggled my way to a seated position, because my blanket roll-up had held tight so far. Maybe I’d simply been too cold to toss and turn in my sleep.
I strained to listen. Something was moving through the brush, into the backyard. Is someone here to help us? I didn’t have my bearings, so I wasn’t sure which way I was facing in the tent. I squinted into the pitch darkness. If the zippered door was in front of me, then the house was in that direction too. The noise—swishes of grass and the occasional snap of a twig—wasn’t from there. Whatever—or whoever—it was, it had come from the forest preserve.
A ranger? Hope swelled in my chest. Maybe one had been in there during the quake. Cataloging trees or something, or holed up in one of the research sheds. Maybe it had taken this long for the ranger to find a way out of the forest…but a ranger would notice the reflective fabric of our orange tent in the moonlight and then would call out to us. Right?
More twigs snapped. Whatever was lumbering toward the tent was heavy. It breathed hard—I could relate—but I’d never heard a human snuffle like that. It was a distinctly animal noise. Same as the sounds of its movement.
Coyotes didn’t lumber and neither did deer. They tiptoed. None of the small creatures of the forest could make that snuffling sound—and I didn’t think I was exaggerating how loud it was, just because it was dark and any middle-of-the-night backyard noises were unfamiliar and freaky.
I heard a light scraping and then the nylon fabric rippled as something, massive and furry, brushed up against the tent. My eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness so I could see an outline as it pressed its body against our little dome.
It was, unmistakably, the shape of a full-grown bear.
Our tent was full of snacks. Not to mention us. Although to the creature outside, I suppose we could be considered snacks too.
I held my breath, because I didn’t want it to hear me wheeze and know that the creatures inside the tent were neither the strongest nor the most capable of fighting back or dashing away. Weak gazelle, I thought. We couldn’t even run, thanks to Oscar’s leg and my asthma.
The bear hadn’t brushed up against our tent again. Maybe it had only been passing through, and now it was gone on its way. With the porch door hanging open, it would be easy for the bear to get inside the house. Once in the kitchen, it would have a smorgasbord of food options—bears didn’t mind finding a meal by digging through trash.
A chill ran down my spine as I pictured it hanging around the kitchen and thought about how it could have surprised us, if we’d dashed back in for supplies.
I jolted when I heard a clang from the direction of the firepit. The clang repeated, along with a light growl. The beans of desperation! I’d left the can out there, and even though we’d eaten the contents greedily, stubborn bean remnants stuck to the sides and especially near the sharp part around the top. The bear must’ve smelled the beans. That’s what led him, hungry, over to us.
Why, why, why did I leave food out in the open? I knew not to do that. We had special garbage cans outside with lids that prevented bears from rooting through them. Even though my dad loves birds, we don’t keep feeders in our yard—because the deer and the bears will eat all the food. And when I’d gone camping with the Girl Scouts, we’d been careful to secure our food overnight to not attract any animals. Although I’d thought they were only worried about raccoons and rodents.
The bear wouldn’t find much to satisfy its hunger in that bean can. Then would it come back to sniff around us? What would we do if it tried to get inside the tent? The fabric was great at keeping out bugs and rain, but a bear’s claws would slice through like our shelter was made of tissue paper.
I needed to get the bear away.
Wait… Oscar had been talking about this, when we were filling in our emergency survival notebook. I slowly inched in the direction of his cushion, where Oscar still lay fast asleep. The notebook was next to his head. I picked it up and the flashlight too. I flipped through the pages until I reached the one I was looking for. Zoe had sketched a bear standing on its hind legs next to my wobbly handwriting.
If you see a bear don’t run. Make noise, and back away slowly.
I vaguely remembered someone, maybe my mom, telling me that bears can always outrun people, so during an attack running is rarely an effective escape strategy. In terms of backing away slowly, we weren’t face-to-face with a bear, so we didn’t have to do that…yet. But I could make noise. If that scared it enough, maybe it would run back into the woods on its own and leave our tent alone. A totally nonconfrontational escape. That would be ideal.
My fingers were trembling so hard that I struggled to work my phone out of my pocket. I swiped to unlock the screen and pressed open the music app. I dragged the volume icon to the max point, and then I pressed play. Pop music blared, jolting everyone else in the tent awake.
“What are you doing?” Zoe yelled from the other side of the tent. “That’s so loud! It’s the middle of the night.” Even groggy, she sounded mad at me.
I let out a nervous laugh. “Good thing there’s nobody around to hear.”
“But we’re sleeping,” Oscar groaned.
“I couldn’t.” I had to shout over the volume. “Music always helps!”
“Blasting dance music? Helps you sleep?” Zoe shouted back.
If I told them what was outside the tent, what I was trying to frighten away, they’d be too scared to ever go back to bed. They’d panic, and doesn’t that attract predators like bears? Can’t they smell the fear or something?
I looked down at the phone in my hand. The battery had dropped to 8 percent. I had to conserve every—amp? Volt? Watt? I don’t know what unit of energy a cell phone battery is measured in. Regardless, I had few left, and they were precious. Now that the kids were awake, though, together we could make enough noise to scare Mr. Bear away.
It’s funny how adding “Mr.” makes even something like a hungry, prowling bear seem less terrifying.
I turned off the phone. “If it’s too loud for you, we’ll do this a capella.” I cleared my throat and started to shout-sing the lyrics. My voice was hoarse and the lingering tightness in my chest made it kind of hard to belt out the words without feeling light-headed. When Zoe and Oscar didn’t immediately chime in, I paused. “Come on, you guys! One time through, then we can go back to sleep.” I grabbed a thick encyclopedia volume and beat it like a drum in time with my singing.
Oscar and Zoe joined in, their voices weak and wary. I strained to hear if there were any lingering noises outside the tent. I watched the sides to see if the fabric would be brushed up against another time. Or clawed at. I didn’t hear any clanging of the bean can.
After we finished the last line, the only sound was my wheezing and Oscar whimpering. “I want the Tylenol now.”
“Okay,” I said, reaching through my layers into my other vest pocket, where I’d been safekeeping the vial. I handed him the last chewable. “Drink some water to wash it down.” I helped him take a hearty sip from the jug. I couldn’t see the water line in the dark but it felt less than half full.
“That water tastes so awful.” He sputtered.
“I know—I’m sorry.”
It remained quiet and still outside the tent. My heart rate slowed. We’d scared it away.
Zoe flopped back down in her corner, after tucking Jupiter safely inside the box. Oscar was already conked out in the middle. I lay back in my blanket roll, but I couldn’t sleep. I wouldn’t sleep. I’d let my guard down, and then a bear had come. If I hadn’t woken up—would it have tried to get inside the tent? I pictured its claws—each as long and thick as one of my fingers—ripping through the tent walls. I could almost smell its meaty breath, see the saliva dripping from its part-time carnivore teeth. Would it have eaten us? What little
food was in my stomach churned at the possibility.
Someone had to be vigilant at all hours, and I was the only available someone. Everyone I trusted was gone. And, like Zoe had said, they might never be coming back.
What was going to happen to us?
I didn’t have the energy to wipe my tears. They felt good as they trickled down my face—clean against my dirty, cold-chapped cheeks. The harder I cried, the more shallow and ragged my breaths became. I tucked my head to my chest and scrunched down into my blanket.
We’re not safe in the house. We’re not safe on the porch. We’re not safe in the tent. And we’re not safe with me in charge.
We couldn’t keep going like this. As soon as daylight arrived—ready or not, we had to leave. Thanks to Dad, we’d find safety at my house; I was sure of it. If we survived the newly remade wilderness to get there.
16
“Hannah. Hannah.” Each cry of my name was punctuated by a moan. The light in the tent was dim. Day was only getting started outside. It couldn’t be later than 6:45 a.m.
I rubbed my eyes and sat up, surprised I’d ever fallen back asleep, and a little disappointed in myself too. So much for total vigilance.
“What is it, Oscar?”
“More Tylenol.”
My heart sank. “We don’t have any left.” I unrolled myself, although somehow in the night I’d squirmed my way out of the blanket so that my bottom half was uncovered and the top was all twisted. When I finally tried to stand, my knees both made crackling noises. Every part of me ached. Probably from the damp chill or how much running around I’d done the day before, or both.
I crawled over to him. “Let me see how your leg is doing.” When I adjusted the splint to roll up his pant leg, he screamed and grabbed my arm. Even through the layers of parka and windbreaker and long sleeve, I could feel his fingers digging into my skin, desperate to stop me.
The Disaster Days Page 16
