If I kept picturing the scene, embellishing the details with each step, it felt easier to keep going.
Next, I imagined my parents pulling up in the car, not even bothering to turn off the engine before they jumped out on either side, racing for the door, ecstatic smiles of relief stretching their tired faces…
“Stop,” I called, flinging my arm back in case Zoe hadn’t heard me or was zoning out or just being obstinate again. She skidded to a halt next to me. We were exactly half the distance between our two driveways. Ahead, a downed utility pole, or what was left of it, stretched across the road. Standing up, those things never look especially tall or heavy, but this pole was big, and it completely blocked our path. Strands of black power lines, like long thick hair, spread out across the road.
Never, ever go near a downed power cable, my dad always said. Except we had no choice. “We’re gonna have to figure out a way around that,” I said, grimacing. The downed pole was cutting us off from the rest of the neighborhood, the island, and the world. Leaving the Matlocks’ is definitely the right choice. No one who wasn’t already looking for us was going to venture past it to where we’d been waiting.
The power lines had all landed onto the asphalt—on the grassy shoulder was only the cracked, splintery pole. One low-hanging cable dipped above, but it was high enough that we could slip underneath. We would simply need to move quickly in case it came swinging down.
The ground was too crumbly and uneven for me to pull the wagon on the shoulder. “Do you think you can help me lift the wagon?” I asked Zoe.
She nodded and, without instructions, moved to the back end, positioning her fingers below the metal edge. Oscar watched us with wide, pain-glazed eyes.
“I can get out. I’ll try to walk.” His weak voice cracked with an ache.
“Absolutely not. You can help us by holding Jupiter very steady. Maybe close the top of his box, for this part.” So he doesn’t catapult into a crack, I thought but didn’t dare say out loud.
When the box was secured in his hands, I bent down and positioned mine at the front of the wagon, pressing my fingertips into the rusted metal lip for a good grip. It made them feel even colder. “Ready? One, two, three.”
Zoe and I lifted up. The wagon was unbelievably heavy. We could only raise it a foot or so off the ground. My arms ached from the strain. Zoe gasped, then pursed her lips with determination. “Step really carefully,” I warned her. “I’ll lead.”
Please, please, please, please don’t let us drop the wagon and Oscar.
We moved painfully slowly until, after four or five steps, Zoe suddenly cried out. The wagon wavered. The flashlight, resting by Oscar’s feet, tumbled out and rolled along the asphalt as we watched helplessly. Seconds later, we heard the thud as it hit the bottom of a crack in the road. Zoe groaned.
“The flashlight doesn’t matter, just keep the wagon steady!” I yelled.
“My arm!” she wailed back.
“Lower the wagon for a break!” I counted to three out loud to coordinate the movement. As soon as the wheels touched the road, Zoe sank back onto her heels, cradling her injured arm against her chest.
Oscar stared up at me from the wagon, still afraid to move. He clutched Jupiter’s box so tightly, his fingertips and knuckles appeared bloodless. “It’s okay,” I said, my voice a croak. “We’ll get to the other side.”
After a few minutes of rest, we heaved the wagon up and began to creep forward. Parallel with the end of the pole, the ground shifted below my foot, crumbling and making me slide along with it. I screamed, wobbling and struggling to catch myself, because I couldn’t let go of the wagon to flap my arms for balance. “Careful!” After a few tense seconds, I found my footing.
Zoe gritted her teeth and stepped around my mini landslide while I paused, gasping and waiting for the adrenaline to stop flooding my system.
I longed to set the wagon down, even for a second, but it wasn’t safe on such uneven ground, near frayed power lines. I was also afraid that if we took another break, we’d never have the strength to pick it back up again.
“Your breathing sounds really weird,” Zoe said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just…winded,” I said. As much to convince myself as her that I wasn’t sounding—and feeling—much worse than the days before.
Finally, we made it off the shoulder and back onto the road, the utility pole behind us. It was the only one between our houses. Now we were in the home stretch, literally. Zoe and I eased the wagon to the pavement. Releasing the weight felt sublime. My muscles were like noodles. Zoe cradled her injured forearm.
“You’re really tough,” I said.
She nodded in thanks. “So are you.”
It had been a long time since I felt like that could be true.
The road was still damaged on the other side of the pole, but without any huge gaps between us and my drive. Based on how hard I was wheezing, I knew I should take it slow the rest of the way. Bumps were hard on Oscar, but I couldn’t wait for my house to come into view. To see it standing safe and secure, a refuge in this bizarre, challenging new landscape. I tugged the wagon onward, walking twice as fast as before. Up ahead was our mailbox, robin’s-egg blue, still perched at the edge of the driveway. Almost there. I sped up even more.
Until my sneaker caught on the uneven pavement. I crumpled down, dropping the wagon handle with a clatter. Pain shot through my right leg. “Ow!” I pressed my hand to my thigh. Even though I was wearing thick leggings, the fabric had shredded up the side I’d landed on, my reddening skin peeking through. The palms of my hands stung. I held them out and studied the scrapes covering them, budding with blood.
It’s funny how now that blood didn’t bother me in the slightest. I’d dealt with so much worse. I scrambled back to standing.
“Are you okay?” Zoe asked. “Do you need to rest?”
“I’m fine,” I reassured. “Just keep moving.” I tugged the wagon forward, only a touch slower. Zoe kept pace behind me. When we finally reached my blue mailbox, I had an urge to wrap my arms around it in a hug.
“We did it.” I raised my hand for a high five from Zoe. Only when her palm met mine did I remember the scrapes, and I winced. But we made it home. Everything’s going to be okay. A huge smile spread across my face.
I turned to gaze up the driveway. My smile froze in a grimace.
All of me froze. Zoe, panting, came up next to me. “What…” she started to say, and then she had no other words.
18
First, there were no cars in the driveway. It had been a ridiculous, unrealistic hope that we’d arrive and one of my parents would be waiting there, but I’d harbored it anyway.
The scene was worse than an empty driveway, though. Our house has a modern, boxy design, with lines of wood siding that run perfectly parallel to the front yard. The roof is mostly flat—that’s why my dad was able to easily turn it into a green roof, with grasses and succulents growing up top. Now those siding lines were running at steep angles, and the roof plants had tilted or toppled. Half the house appeared to be slowly sinking down into the earth, like it was stuck in quicksand. Like Beth Kajawa warned us about. The ground was almost up to the first-floor windows on one side, and the sides of the house were bowed. One time my dad made an architectural model of a building to show a client, and when he was lifting the board it was glued to out of the back seat of the car, a gust of wind knocked it to the ground. The side of the model house that landed on the pavement was slightly smushed. Now our house had that same crumpled look.
The big tree outside the living room window—my favorite tree—had fallen over, its roots ripping up the front yard and sticking in the air like muddy tentacles. The trunk of the tree pressed against the gutters, completely blocking the steps and the front door. Its overgrown branches covered the house and roof like a veil. I could only see hints of the bright yellow door
peeking through the leaves. The front yard looked like it had been sprinkled with glitter, as the shards of broken glass reflected the daylight and raindrops.
There was no way we could go inside. Not through the front door, and definitely not into a house that was sinking slowly into the ground. It had to be that thing Beth Kajawa had mentioned—liquefaction, when normally solid ground turns to a liquid. So now my house was damaged, unstable, and sinking. It might collapse and crush us if we tried to go inside. It didn’t matter that my inhaler was somewhere in there, as was medicine and water and food and batteries and a flashlight to replace the one we’d dropped into the earth. My house might as well have fallen down one of the holes in the road. No matter how badly I wanted to start trying to salvage my things, salvage my life—I couldn’t. Not if I wanted us to stay living.
My house is gone. So is my mom. So is my dad. Maybe…forever.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. My hands were busy as I coughed, clutching at my chest. I was gasping again. The coffee-stirrer straw through which I breathed had become bent and blocked. No matter how purposefully I inhaled, it wasn’t giving me air. Panicked, I turned to Zoe. “I can’t breathe,” I sputtered. “I’m…having…an…asthma…attack.” Spots danced at the edges of my vision. I tried harder and harder to suck in air. My hands started tingling, my eyes widened with panic.
Zoe fumbled for the notebook in the wagon, flipping through a few pages before stopping to read something I’d written. “Sit, but stay upright!” I sat down on the front walkway, leaning forward slightly. “Loosen any tight clothing!”
I unfastened the neck of my raincoat and the top of Andrea’s parka below it.
“Be calm!” Zoe said. She squinted at the book. “No, I’m supposed to be calm. Uh, it’s going to be okay!” That’s not a very convincing thing to hear from a person who is shouting through tears.
“Take long, deep breaths,” Zoe said. I closed my eyes and tried Ms. Whalen’s breathing exercise. Inhale for four counts, pause, exhale for eight. Repeat. Repeat again. I focused on a random patch of grass in front of me. If I closed my eyes, I’d picture what my house should look like. That would only make it all worse.
“Hold Jupiter,” Oscar said. “He’s calming.” Zoe took him from the box and gently placed him in my lap. My hands found his warm body and stroked his fur. He purred and nestled into me. He was indeed very comforting.
Slowly, I started to feel less like I was suffocating. The tension in my stomach and chest relaxed, slightly. “I think it’s getting better,” I croaked. I continued staring at the grass. I didn’t want to have to face the world around me. I didn’t want to see my collapsing house. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t have the will to figure it out. I closed my eyes, giving in to the sadness.
We should just stay here, sitting in the road. Wait for whatever happens next. Mr. Bear, or another aftershock, or quicksand to swallow us up. We’re powerless, anyway. Even though my eyes were closed, fresh tears slid out and down my cheeks.
“Hannah?” After a few beats, I opened my eyes.
Zoe was hunched over the wagon. In it, Oscar was lying back, perfectly still. I hadn’t checked on his leg since we left the tent. I’m sure it wasn’t any better. It worried me that he’d stopped moaning. Like now he was in too much pain to even vocalize it. Zoe was holding his hand, while watching me.
The guilt felt like a slap. Not for what had happened to them, which really wasn’t my fault. But guilt for giving up. I blinked and turned to face my tilting house. That day when my dad’s model had gotten smushed, he’d been frustrated, but he’d just walked back into his workroom to fix it. “When life happens,” he’d said, “you have to take a deep breath and keep on trying.” When Neha missed a goal—she turned around and focused on making the next one. What was my mom always telling me to work on? Follow-through.
I couldn’t stop trying, even if I wanted to, because Zoe and Oscar were still here, and they deserved to have someone in charge of them who wouldn’t give up and who would keep fighting. Maybe I deserved to keep going for myself too.
But where to go? There was nothing for us at the Matlocks’ house—just a tent, unless Mr. Bear had already found his way inside it, and I’m not even sure we could lift the wagon a third time to get past the downed pole in order to get back there.
My house had been a beacon this whole time. I really believed getting there would rescue us, but it couldn’t offer us any shelter.
We could only move forward, not back. We’d head toward the bridge and hope that it could still carry us to safety. We’d try to rescue ourselves.
19
Even though the road was in slightly better shape on the other side of my house, we moved at a much slower pace. We all were hungry and weak. I didn’t think I could run even if I wanted to. It felt like my shoes were filled with lead. The faster I walked, the more I worried I’d have another asthma attack. I hadn’t recovered from the one I’d had in front of my house. My chest still ached. I might be getting a third of the air I should be with each inhale. I was dizzy and tired.
A few hundred feet past my driveway, Zoe called for me to stop. She pointed at the blackberry bushes on the side of the road. “Food,” she said.
We needed something in our bellies, badly. I’d been banking on there being food at my house, and inside, there was. We just couldn’t get anywhere near it. What was in my backpack, we had to ration.
Zoe was already at the bush, plucking berries. Once she had a handful, I expected her to start gobbling them up. Instead, she carried them over to the wagon. To feed Oscar?
She grabbed the emergency survival notebook tucked next to him. He barely stirred. I honestly wasn’t sure whether Oscar was simply sleepy or whether he was on the verge of passing out. I moved Jupiter’s box off his lap, settling it in the back of the wagon. He wasn’t even holding on to it anymore. Wedged in the back was a safer place. When I peeked inside to check on Jupiter, he barely squeaked at me. Even he was fading.
Zoe sat down on the road and opened the notebook. She studied the berries in her palm against something on the pages. “What are you looking at?” I walked over to the bush and pulled off a few for myself even though I knew that at this time of year, they weren’t ready to eat. They were bright green and firm—not black or blue in the slightest.
“I’m checking to make sure these are safe to eat and not poisonous,” Zoe said.
She wasn’t looking at me, so she couldn’t see me shake my head. “I’ve eaten from these bushes almost my whole life. Trust me, they’re blackberries. They’re just not ripe!” I said, shoving one into my mouth. It was a lot firmer and starchier than usual blackberries, tart and without a trace of sweetness. Not great, but it was food.
Zoe didn’t eat any of hers until she found whatever she was looking for in the notebook. Then she popped one into her mouth. “Here, Oscar,” she said, holding her grubby hand out with the rest. He kind of grunted at her but didn’t move to take any.
“We need to keep going.” His lack of responsiveness troubled me.
I kept thinking I heard something off in the distance as we walked. A honking or beeping. “Wait,” I said, motioning for Zoe to stop. We paused before a midsize crack in the road. I strained to find the sound again, hoping it would grow louder, and that flashing lights would suddenly appear on the horizon. Or my mom’s car. Or even one of the many doppelgänger Subarus.
But all I heard were seabirds and the wind in the trees. Whatever that noise had been, it was gone, and it had probably been far in the distance, only audible to us because of the direction of the wind and the unusual silence of a world without power.
We kept walking. Every few feet I had to stop to rest, either because my hands felt raw and numb from the scrapes and the cold or because I was wheezing badly again. At one point, after I’d doubled over with a cough, I caught Zoe studying my face with concern.
&n
bsp; “Hannah, I think your mouth is stained from the berries!” she exclaimed. “Your lips are kind of blue.” Except the berries had been mostly green. Lips tinted blue was one of the asthma warning signs the home medical guide had listed… I started my breathing exercises again. My hands were shaking. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.
Try your best. I heard my dad say it. I rolled back my shoulders, grasped the wagon pull. Wherever he was, I wanted him to keep trying too.
We stopped feet away from Mr. Aranita’s mailbox and his driveway. Unlike my house and the Matlocks’, his cozy craftsman bungalow is set close to the road. From what I could tell, it had survived the earthquake surprisingly well. No trees had come crashing down, and it wasn’t visibly sinking into the earth. His car was parked in the driveway. Wait… Could Mr. Aranita actually be at home? Maybe the noise I’d heard earlier had been coming from his house!
“Let’s see if Mr. Aranita is here,” I said to Zoe and Oscar, although Oscar appeared to be asleep again. I leaned down and pressed my fingers to his tiny wrist, feeling the weak flutter of his pulse. It was horrifying that I’d felt the need to check for it.
I dragged the wagon across the yard, stopping at the front steps. Zoe sat on the bottom one, resting her head on her knees. “How are you feeling?” I asked. She shrugged her shoulders without raising her head. I pressed the back of my hand to her neck. It was burning hot again. Whatever relief the Tylenol had given her, it had faded.
“I’m going to knock,” I said, walking up the steps. They weren’t even steep, but it felt as effortful as climbing Mount Rainier. The porch wasn’t in as good shape as I’d thought from the road—the swing was hanging by only one chain, and it must have swung backward at some point and shattered the big window behind it. Glass littered the floorboards. All of Mr. Aranita’s potted plants (and he had a lot—when we would drive past, he’d most often wave at us with a gardening glove, watering can in his other hand) had split open and spilled dirt and flowers all over. It was botanical carnage on the porch.
The Disaster Days Page 18
