with Katharine Hepburn.
Pop it in the player.
Escape into glamour
and style from
an earlier century.
I climb up into the big, soft bed.
Try
to forget
I am
completely
entirely
totally
alone.
Morning
Alarm
going off
going off
going off
going off.
Six a.m.
Mom gets up early to run.
Mom.
The nightmare of the last twenty-four hours
coagulates in my stomach and
I almost don’t make it
to the bathroom in time.
Gluten-free/dairy-free vomit
swirls down the toilet.
The irony is not lost on me.
I curl up on the bathroom floor.
Cool tile comforts my cheek.
I stare at a clump of Mom’s hair nested
in the corner behind the tank.
I want to save it, her DNA.
I might need it for cloning
someday, just in case.
(in case I never see her again)
But I lie without moving
and
close my eyes.
I conjure the peaceful voice
from Mom’s yoga video
and try to breathe into my belly
but
my belly’s still clenched
too tightly around
my fear.
Refusing to let go.
Outside
Everything out the window
looks exactly like it did
last night.
No sign of anyone. Nothing
has moved.
Standing on the front porch
I hear birds singing at the lake.
A pair of swallows darts
in and around the eaves of the house.
Mother Nature doesn’t seem to mind
an empty town with no people.
The sun still rises.
The swallows go right on
sculpting their muddy nest
high out of reach.
A sudden crash from next door
at the Nortons’ house.
I pee my pants a tiny bit.
Someone’s over there.
Next Door
I pound on the back door.
Silence.
I use the hidden spare key to
let myself in.
George, the Nortons’ rottweiler,
eats chocolate chip cookies from
broken shards of cookie jar
on the kitchen floor.
He looks at me.
I tell him to stay and he does.
I sweep up the mess.
He sniffs around for another cookie.
I scratch between his ears and
he wags his stubby little nub of tail.
I fill a bowl with water and look for dog food.
George wags his whole rear end and keeps
bumping into me as I take out the can opener.
He gobbles every bite and finishes the water.
I rub his head and belly.
Poor baby.
No wonder he went for the cookie jar.
He gives me a little lick and whimpers.
He needs to go outside.
He jumps up and runs
to the back door.
He sniffs around the yard
while I tuck his bowls
into a grocery bag.
Add several cans of dog food
and some dog treats.
I find his leash in
the coat closet.
I whistle and he comes to me.
No need for us both to hang out alone.
He wags again and does his
doggy pant-smile thing. He nuzzles
his head under my hand.
Having company
feels better already.
Stay Put
George makes me braver.
More optimistic.
He runs happily alongside my bike.
We clean up the mess at Dad’s house
then scout all over town looking for anyone
or for transports passing through.
We go to the Park-n-Ride and
post a big handwritten sign.
We hang around for a long time
hoping one of the phones might ring
hoping someone might call
might find me here alone
but
they are all running out of battery.
I keep trying my grandparents
and other friends and relatives
but no cell service yet.
I stay logged on to my computer
sending e-mails to everyone
but the little dial keeps spinning.
Looking for networks
Looking for networks
Looking for networks
I debate riding five miles
over to Lewistown or all the way
out to the interstate
to see if I can find anyone
but according to news reports
the entire state is evacuated.
And then there’s Dad’s
Golden Rule for Hiking and Camping:
If you’re ever lost, STAY PUT.
Ensure proper supplies
for warmth through the night
then wait for help to come to you.
Technically, I’m not lost.
I know exactly where I am.
Is this a “stay put” time?
What if I leave to find help
and I do get lost or hurt
and everyone comes home
and finds me missing?
Following Dad’s rule
seems like the smartest thing
at least for now.
I stay put.
Third Night
We curl up on Mom’s bed
to binge-watch a boxed set
of I Love Lucy.
George takes over Paul’s pillow.
Under normal circumstances
this would never be allowed
but I am prepared to
face the consequences.
He whimpers in his sleep.
Twitches his paws.
I lean on his broad back.
He grunts.
Exhales loudly.
Then the power goes out.
Television dies.
Lights switch off.
The whole house.
Silent and dark.
George lifts his head as I cross to the window.
I don’t see anything imminently threatening.
Neighborhood is black.
Garage carriage lights are out.
And streetlights and
lights down the block at
the lake playground.
Only light is the faint white glow
of solar-powered garden lights lining
paths in neighboring yards.
George whines. Puts his head down.
His eyes follow my shape as I cross the room.
In the kitchen I find flashlight, candles, matches.
I light six candles in the wrought-iron
candleholder in the dining room.
I light votive candles in the living room.
Ambiance, Mom would call it.
A little candlelight to set the mood.
Every national crisis needs a little romance.
Dark
Outside, the moon hasn’t yet begun to rise.
The constant glow in the skies above
Denver is gone.
The dark sky is clear and
stars shine loudly.
I haul a comforter into the backyard.
Pull the hammock stand to
the center of the grass.
Explores dark corners. Nighttime smells.
Coyotes yip and cry over near the lake.
George perks up.
Gives a low growl in the back of his throat.
Trots to the fence.
Barks a warning.
I whistle and he comes to me, tall and alert.
I sway back and forth.
I remember long nights on backpacking trips
with Dad, high in the mountains and far
from the city’s light pollution.
I locate Venus.
See the misty band of Milky Way
tearing a rip in the inky night.
I wish Dad were here
with his telescope and
his astronomy app
to identify
everything I’m seeing in the sky.
To help me pinpoint
exactly
where I am
in the universe.
Exploration
(n.) act of investigating; examination; search for natural resources
Investigation
After the power outage
George and I conduct
a systematic investigation
of the entire town.
Street by street
across the grid.
Seeking any signs of life.
I bike slowly, listening.
George pads alongside
sniffing the air.
We visit homes of
friends and acquaintances.
Businesses and schools.
If we find pets, we coax them out
hoping they will scrounge food
to survive on their own.
At Millerville Middle School
we find an unlocked door
behind the gym.
Wander the halls.
Footsteps echo against
rows of lockers.
I dial my locker combination.
Stare at the contents.
Everything is just as I left it:
sticky travel mug
bunch of binders
magnets of Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe
plaid scarf from last winter
I can hear my math teacher
droning on about lockers and how
they should be called permutation locks
not combination locks.
I wish I was in his class for real.
Happily bored and surrounded
by people I didn’t even
realize I loved.
A few months ago
I would have jumped at the offer
of an indefinite vacation.
Now I long for
the predictable regularity of classes.
The comfort of having a daily routine.
A place to be and people to notice
when I’m absent.
We leave school and ride on
through parks, playgrounds
the entire length of the creek path.
Bubbles float downstream
and accumulate in yellow foam
along the shore.
George tries to drink but I stop him.
Getting sick with giardia
is the last thing we need.
I give him what’s left from
my water bottle.
At the end of our search
all we have to show for it are
sore paws and sunburned shoulders.
I think of Emma and Ashanti.
How things would be different now
if only
they had been able to spend the night.
Without Power
The water stops running.
I lug bottled water
up from the basement.
Wonder about recycling
the empty bottles.
Toilets stop refilling and won’t flush.
I remember once
when the water was off at Dad’s
he flushed by pouring water
directly into the bowl.
I don’t want to waste
drinking water
but I find a case of red wine
in the basement.
It’s a fact that wine smells bad
and tastes worse.
Even if I liked it
my parents would murder me
if I started drinking alcohol
the minute I was left alone.
Pull out a bottle and am relieved
to find a screw cap
not a cork.
Break the seal and
pour a third of the bottle
into the toilet.
Nothing happens.
Maybe more volume? More speed?
I find a bucket
in the laundry room.
Fill it with wine.
I empty the whole bucket
into the toilet bowl
all at once.
The toilet flushes.
The sound is like music.
Waiting
We eat what fresh food we can.
Stuff what’s left into garbage bags
before spoiled food
stinks up the whole house.
Drag the bags to the alley.
Throw them in the dumpster.
I lower the saddle on Mom’s bike.
Use it to pull Trevor’s bike trailer
to Dad’s house.
I load up the camp stove, lantern
more bottles of water
a case of propane cylinders.
Haul it back to Mom’s.
After two weeks
we finish the food in Mom’s pantry.
Start on soup and
canned vegetables
from next door.
Use bottled water
to boil pasta. Oatmeal.
The days are long
so I don’t light the lantern
or candles much.
I save resources and
time my activities with
the daylight.
But I tell myself my parents
are on their way home.
No One Comes
It’s getting more difficult
to comfort myself with the belief
that my parents will be back any minute.
At night, I curl up against George’s broad back.
I mull scenarios.
Imagine the reasons why no one has come for me.
The Best Explanation:
My parents are in different shelters.
They haven’t yet been able to contact each other
so they don’t know I’ve been left behind.
It will just be a matter of time before they
reconnect and discover what happened.
I imagine the look on my parents’ faces when
they realize where I am.
Mom will demand to talk to whoever is in charge
refusing to take no for an answer.
Dad can convince anyone to do anything.
It will only be a matter of time before they’ll be here
maybe even in a big military Humvee that will drive right up
to the front of the house, honk the horn, and my parents will
climb down to embrace me and carry me away to safety.
That’s the good scenario.
The bad scenario involves a transport accident
on the highway, far from help or hospitals.
My little brothers hurt and crying.
Mom bleeding on the side of the road.
Paul calling out for help.
Or Dad and Jennifer mangled with dozens of others
in an overturned truck, bodies scattered across the highway
like images on the news from faraway wars.
I banish those pictures from my mind
but they invade my dreams.
I thrash and cry out.
Wake with tears on my face.
/> George, concerned and whimpering.
On those long nights
I drag my blankets out to the hammock.
Watch the stars rove across the sky.
Rock myself back to troubled sleep.
Routine
As summer temperatures rise
we fall into a routine.
Spend our time in the cool comfort
of the basement family room.
At sunset, I bring in solar garden lights
I’ve collected from the neighborhood.
Place them in twos and threes throughout the house.
They illuminate enough to get around.
In the morning, I gather them up and
return them to the sunny backyard.
They recharge all day.
We have no shortage of good books.
I reread my childhood favorites.
E. B. White. Kate DiCamillo.
Roald Dahl. Natalie Babbitt.
The Calvin and Hobbes treasury.
Old friends to smooth the hard edges
of being frightened and alone.
Sometimes I read to myself.
Other times I read aloud to George.
He listens politely. Wags his tail when
I check to see if he’s paying attention.
When we read late into the evening, we often hear
the howls and yips of coyotes at the lake.
Hearing them never used to make me nervous
but now everything feels like a threat.
More than once we have seen small packs of them
running together in the distance.
George stiffens and growls, but always stays with me.
I don’t like to be gone from the house too long
in case a rescue party comes and doesn’t find us.
We limit our outings to riding around
looking for someone left behind.
We don’t find anyone.
Laundry
Twenty-one days since the evacuation.
Bottled water supply’s running low.
Only enough for a few more days.
I need clean underwear
but don’t want to waste water.
I drag the big two-wheeled cooler
out of the garage and haul it to the lake.
Tip it on its side and fill as much as I can.
The water swirls with dirt and muck.
A sodden duck feather floats on the surface.
I use both hands to drag the cooler home.
Wash my clothes in the front yard.
Lay them in the sun to dry.
Use the dirty water to flush the toilet.
Scavenging
I go house to house
searching for food, water, other supplies.
Sometimes doors are unlocked. I walk right in.
Other times, I find an open window or a dog door
Alone Page 3
