thunderstorm. Don’t be such a baby.”
George yelps.
The wind kicks up.
I shield my eyes from blowing sand.
“I’m coming, boy. Don’t worry.”
I make the top of the stairs
and glance at the sky.
Dark storm clouds.
A thin gray finger forms in the distance.
Points down and then pulls up again
teasing and poking at the ground beneath it.
Crap.
The tornado touches earth.
A cloud of dust and debris flies up around the funnel.
“George!” I shout, climbing down.
I fight wind and hail.
George barks.
Runs back and forth.
“Let’s go!”
Come On, George
We run to the doorway.
Down the ramp.
Slip on wet plywood.
Land in mud at the bottom.
Look around for shelter.
Everything is exposed.
The MODEL HOME sign blows past me.
Slams into the foundation.
“George! Make for the house!”
We plow through the mud.
Run down the street to the cul-de-sac
with the lone house at the end.
The sky is guacamole.
I glance over my shoulder.
The tornado is closing the distance between us.
“Come on, George!”
I put my head down against the hail.
We reach the backyard.
Run to the door.
Locked.
See window wells open down
to basement rooms.
“Come on, George!”
I run for the nearest well.
At the edge of the grass, my foot catches.
I smack down hard on my hands and knees.
Pain sears through my left leg.
Blood gushes from a gash in my shin.
Sharp landscape edging
drips sticky red.
George barks again.
The tornado roars.
I drag myself the last five feet.
Lower my legs over the edge.
Drop six feet to the ground below.
“Come on, George!
Attaboy, you can do it!”
George whines.
Puts his front paws over the edge of the well.
I start to cry.
“Come on, boy! Please, George!”
He puts his head on his paws.
Looks down at me.
The wind is deafening now.
The air is full of debris.
I turn to the window.
Try to slide it open.
Locked.
I shift my weight onto my hip.
With my good leg, I break the window.
Reach around and unlock it.
Slide it open and slip through.
I lose my balance and for a moment
I can’t tell if I’m falling or dizzy
or both.
I land on the carpet in a family room.
My body is still but my brain still spins.
I can’t find George.
The safest place will be a bathroom
close to plumbing and away from windows.
I drag my throbbing leg across the floor
toward a closed door.
Discover two bedrooms and a closet
before I find the bathroom.
Crawl to the bathtub.
Pull myself over and inside.
The last thing I hear before I pass out
is the crash and shatter of the windows
upstairs imploding.
Consciousness
My neck hurts.
I moan and shift position
but I’m trapped
in something hard and cold.
I open one eye. All is white.
Pain stabs when
I try to sit up.
Turn my head.
I’m in the bathtub.
It’s completely silent.
I survived.
Equilibrium
I don’t know
how long
I was unconscious
or how long
the storm lasted
but a dim glow
from the family room
suggests
it’s still daylight
outside.
I pull myself to a seated position
and on the floor next to the bathtub
is George.
Head on his paws
he tracks me with his eyes.
Wags his stub of tail.
Gazes up.
I try to stand
but the pain in my leg
surprises me.
I fall backward.
George stands up and presses himself
against the bathtub.
Looks at me. Barks.
I lean over and put my weight on him.
Balance on one leg.
He braces me as I shift forward.
Maneuver over the edge of the tub.
Mission accomplished.
I lie, panting, on the bathroom floor.
“This could be a long day, buddy.”
Injured
The gash on my leg looks like
a canyon cut by an angry river.
Crimson. Striated. Raw.
A trail of blood leads from
outside the bathroom door
across the floor and into the tub.
I pull decorative towels off the towel rack.
Take off my T-shirt and rip it into strips.
Wrap a towel around the wound on my leg.
Cinch it with strips of shirt.
Wearing only my sports bra and shorts
I struggle to stand.
Even with George’s help, I can’t walk.
“I’m gonna need a crutch or something, George.
We’ve gotta find a first aid kit and I’m betting that
Model Homes don’t have anything that useful in them.”
Room inventory:
a vase with silk flowers
a scented candle on the back of the toilet
a floral shower curtain hanging from a shower rod
A shower rod.
Held in place by nothing more than a spring
and some tension. I smile.
“There’s my crutch, George.”
I gather the shower curtain in both hands.
Scoot on the floor to the middle of the room.
Brace my good leg against the tub.
Pull as hard as I can with both hands.
The rod pops out. Falls down with a clatter.
I tear off the curtain.
The rod and George help me stand.
Upstairs, we survey the mess.
Shattered windows.
Draperies and paintings in tatters.
Furniture upended.
Kitchen cupboard doors hang askew
on their hinges.
The front door
that had been locked before
has vanished.
We hobble onto the front porch.
Where before there were at least
a dozen half-built house skeletons
now there is nothing.
Not a single two-by-four or
piece of plywood remains.
The only indications that this land
had ever been intended for a neighborhood
are the gaping cellar mouths every fifty feet.
“Holy crap, George. We’re lucky to be alive.
I guess this really is a Model Home.”
First Aid
The sun is high in the sky.
We limp along for what feels like hours.
Tree limbs litter the streets and sidewalks
but nothing else in town appears damaged.
We head north toward the drugst
ore.
The looters helpfully broke the lock on the door.
I move the brick I had wedged there to keep
animals out after my last shopping expedition.
I make my way down the first aid aisle.
Sit to nurse my wound.
Blood has dried and caked on the towels.
I bite my lip to keep from crying as
I pull off the makeshift dressing.
Before Evacuation, I would get stitches.
Little point in thinking like that now.
I pour hydrogen peroxide onto the wound
and cry aloud from the burning pain.
I curse as it bubbles and froths a foamy pink.
An infection could be the end of me.
I grit my teeth and pour on some more.
When the bottle is empty, I pat the wound dry.
Apply a liberal coating of antibiotic ointment.
Dress it in clean bandages.
Wrap an Ace bandage over the entire thing.
“Okay, George. I think I’m ready for a
guest appearance on Emergency 911.”
I rub his head between his ears.
“Let’s get you some food before we head home.”
We make our way to the pet food aisle.
Break open a box of dog biscuits.
George devours them while I drink
a bottle of Gatorade in big, thirsty gulps.
A package of peanut butter crackers and
a Kit Kat bar give me new energy.
I fill a bag with first aid supplies and
see the perfect solution to my problem.
Propped in a big rack next to the pharmacy
is a wide assortment of crutches.
I choose two, adjust them to my height
and begin the arduous walk home.
Fever
My grandparents’ apartment
is as far
as I manage to go.
I prop the door for George
to go pee.
collapse on Grandma’s bed
wake up achy and hot
dark out
bedroom door spins
on its hinges
slowly
then faster and faster
a red rubber ball
bounces
through the room
ricochets
off ceiling and walls
drumbeats pummel
my brain
I fall backward
but
where the bed should be
it isn’t
tumble through space
dizzy
disoriented
George’s head under
my hand
I know I need
to drink
Dad’s voice
pounds on my eyeballs
“Stay hydrated!”
force sips of
soda left over
from the sleepover
that wasn’t
joints hurt
freezing or drenched
in sweat
kick off covers
smell Grandma’s perfume
on the pillowcases
Grandpa wipes my forehead
takes my temperature
I was almost five
when my parents
divorced
spent long days
and nights
in my grandparents’ care
climb the big bed
tuck in under
Grandma’s arm
listen to her read
Little House in the Big Woods
Trixie Belden mysteries
now
in my feverish delusions
I conjure them
to care for me
again
Close Call
I sit up.
My wound has soaked through the bandages.
I unwrap it.
The cut is infected and oozing pus.
More hydrogen peroxide.
Antibiotic ointment.
Wrap it in clean bandages.
Fall back into fits
of troubled sleep.
How long do I sleep?
How many hours elapse?
Sometimes it’s daylight.
Other times, it’s dark.
The stars move crazily through the windows.
Every time I regain consciousness
I’m aware of George at my side.
Finally, my skin is cool.
No more itchy, hot eyes.
I rise up on my elbows.
My head doesn’t ache.
George looks up at me from the floor.
Wags his stumpy tail.
“Hey there, buddy. How’re you doing?”
He scoots on his belly to be closer to me.
I rub his head.
“Thanks for taking care of me, sweet boy.”
I press my forehead to his.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He licks my cheek and whimpers.
“You need something to eat, don’t you?
Poor baby. Come on.”
I get to the kitchen.
Find crackers and canned tuna.
Collapse on the couch to check my cut.
The angry red has faded.
No longer appears infected.
I clean and dress it.
Sit back against the couch cushions.
I’m already exhausted
but relieved.
I’ve managed to escape another close call.
Autumn
Chill in the air.
Days grow shorter.
I fire up the minivan.
Drive all the way
to SuperSave
for winter supplies.
Back to Dad’s house.
Only drive when absolutely necessary.
Conserve fuel.
I walk and bike as much as possible
but the cut in my leg still slows me down.
Puckery pink scar aches.
Reading Project
I am reading
my way
alphabetically
through the
fiction section
of the library.
Rule #1: Skip the book if I don’t like the first page.
Rule #2: Quit the book if it isn’t interesting by page 21.
Rule #3: Quit the book if there are no important female characters.
Rule #4: I can read books out of order if I want to.
I have read 147 novels and
thirteen short story collections and
I am three-quarters of the way
through the Bs.
Like: Louisa May Alcott
Love: Charlotte Brontë
I get Jane Eyre.
We get each other.
We get loneliness.
“I can live alone, if self-respect, and
circumstances require me so to do.…
I care for myself.
The more solitary, the more friendless,
the more unsustained I am,
the more I will respect myself.”
Jane thinks my thoughts.
I Cling to the Belief That
My parents survived the evacuation.
My parents are healthy and safe somewhere.
My parents must know by now I was left behind.
My parents will not rest until we are reunited.
My parents will rescue me.
My story will have a happy ending.
Almanac
In the reference section
of the library
I find an almanac
with calendars
going back
hundreds of years
in the past
and forward
hundreds of years
in the future.
I plot how many
days and months
have passed since
I was left behind.
If my calculations
are correct
I’ve been alone
in Millerville for
seventeen months
eleven days
and counting.
Recommended Teen Fiction
The most popular books
on the library shelf
(the ones the girls at school
pass around like popcorn)
provide little comfort.
To hell with these
heroines who have
entire dystopias rooting
for them as they fight
to save the day.
Sure, their parents are
missing in action
but I’d like to see them
try to survive
completely alone
without any help
from friends
or teammates.
Sure, they’re brave
most of the time
but they’re part
of something bigger
that inspires them
when times are tough.
Their societies are
messed up, but at least
they belong.
Sure, I wish I had
their skills and resources
but I wonder
would they fare
so heroically if
faced with the
vast loneliness
and uncertainty
that is my everyday
experience?
Not likely.
And Another Thing
What about the
imminent threat?
What is so dangerous
or so threatening
that absolutely everyone
had to leave?
Seriously?
Everyone?
Obviously George and I
are just fine.
Unless we’re breathing some
invisible poison gas
that takes months and months to kill us
or
an invading army is on its way
in which case they are taking
their sweet time getting here
and I wish they’d hurry up
so at least someone somewhere
would know I’m here.
What did the TV call it?
Operation Relocate Freedom?
What does that even mean, anyway?
Misgivings
The looters said they
had to get to the border.
Which border?
Can I possibly be
the only person left
in the entire western
United States?
I should leave Millerville.
Take the car and drive as far
east as the gas will take me.
Surely I’ll find other people
in other towns who have also
Alone Page 8
