All of that is just about keeping me busy. We used to do that with Gabe when we had to go wait in line for our EBT card. Sometimes it was my job, sometimes the duty fell to Grace. Either way it was about diverting his attention from the act of waiting. Is that what I’m doing, then? Waiting? For what?
The answer’s simple. I’m waiting to find someone else. Or I’m waiting to die. At what point will I join the congregation downstairs? When will this short life I’m living become just another echo among some empty room?
I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Why not just join them now? I wonder if flinging myself off the top of this tower will do it. Maybe. But if I don’t die from my injuries, I’d end up badly broken. And then I’d die horribly. I’ve seen that already. I’ve watched people die in pain. You’d think I’d be used to it. But that’s the thing that scares me most.
So where the hell are you? Why do I keep up this silly game of talking to you like you’re actually real? You’re as phony as the invisible friends Gabe used to have. Probably serving the same purpose, too. Gabe was all about being alone in his head. He watched everyone around him sharing the same secret, the secret of speaking and hearing what other people were saying. I never gave that much thought. His deafness just was. How foreign we all must have felt to him. Maybe as foreign as this feels to me.
I can’t hear you. If youare out there, if I’m not just talking to myself, I sure hope you’ll let me know. Because this loneliness is going to drive me crazy a whole lot sooner than I hope.
The Church
It’s dark. Why is it so dark? Where’s the moon? The stars? It’s disorienting. Feel like I’m moving, walking, but I don’t know what direction is up or down. Hold out my hands, try to grab onto something.
A wall, bare brick. Feel the texture under my fingertips. Coarse. Good. Something tangible. I’m standing up. Gravity still works.
Follow the bricks, go straight ahead. I’m barefoot. Feel something slick under my soles. Not wet exactly, more gummy than wet. Like paint that’s not quite dry. Whatever it is, it’s thick. Oozes between my toes. Smells strange. Heavy. Familiar, too, but I can’t place it.
What was that? Something brushed up against my ankle, hard, solid. Can’t see anything. Deep breath. Get it under control.
Where am I? I have no memory of getting here. I don’t know the last thing I remember. The beach? Taking a swim?
What was that? Sounds like footsteps on a creaky floorboard. Behind me? In front of me? Don’t know. Can’t tell. The only reference point I have is the wall and whatever it is I’m standing on.
CREAK.
There, again, feels like it’s coming from all directions. Not an echo but a big sound, heavy, like I’m standing right in the middle of it. Another step forward, CREAK, it’s me that’s making that sound. I’m walking on old floorboards. Where am I? The beachhouse? It hasn’t creaked like this before.
The smell, it’s tickling the back of my head like a tune I can’t quite place. I should know it. I’ve smelled it before.
CREAK.
Each step is making the creaking more pronounced. What am I stepping on? How do I get out of here?
Where’s the wall? Reach back, there it is, but it ends here. Reach around, I’m at the corner, the brick goes off to my right. Okay, that’s where I’ll go. Follow the wall. What the hell am I stepping on?
My arm brushes against my skin. Bare skin. Reach down, around. I’m naked. Why am I naked?
CREAK.
That one shook the whole floor. Stop, stay where I am. The floor is wobbly. The goo under my feet is wetter here, thicker, like a lukewarm soup. The smell is stronger, too. It’s a horrible smell. I know that much. Damn it, why can’t I place it? Why can’t I figure this—?
Light, all of a sudden, a cracking and a burst of bright white light. Falling. The brick wall slips past my fingers.
Tumbling, dropping down and the floor is cracked, broken, splintering. Watch my body falling, my bare legs and my bruised hip, I’m upside down, sideways, and I can’t stop falling. Like I’m dropping all the way down into Hell.
The smell is bodies. I’ve smelled them for so long that I’ve forgotten how to discern them from everything else.
Land in a heap, the stop sudden and I’m not hurt. Why am I not hurt?
“It’s not the fall that’ll kill ya’,” Dad’s voice bubbles up from some long-ago conversation. “It’s the sudden stop at the bottom.”
But neither the fall nor the stop have killed me. Something soft and wet has stopped me, but I can’t figure out what it—
I’m in the church, I’m naked in the church and I’ve fallen onto the wet, rotting bodies that huddle together in the pews.
I’m trying to scream, but what good will a scream do? I can’t scream, anyway. I don’t have a voice. I’m buried in the greasy muck of the bodies, what used to be arms and chests and torsos, all of it soft and mushy. I feel their bodies melting all over me like candle wax.
Something touches me, GRABS me, what is it, what is it? A hand, and then another hand. They’re alive! All of them are alive, and they’re grabbing me and pulling me down into their rotting bodies and I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, they’re alive and they’re trying to suffocate me as if I—
I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.
I’m in the beachhouse and I’m awake. What’s on me, what’s on me? The blanket, just the blanket.
Untangle myself and fall to the floor. It’s cold on my bare feet and for I second it’s still all real. They’re still grabbing me. They’re not. It’s a dream.
Deep breath, in and out, just like Mom taught me to do. I didn’t wet the bed, or rather the couch. Thank God. I’m too old for that. I haven’t wet the bed in years.
Pull myself off the floor. Pick up the sweatshirt and yank it on over my naked body. I’ve fallen asleep in without clothes most nights lately. It’s too hot for anything else. I have no idea what time it is. Still dark. I need to find a watch. Add that to ny list. And try to figure out how to figure out what time it is. Maybe I’ll power up my phone. Try to find one of those solar powered chargers. Another thing to add to my list.
All of this is good. The farther away I can get from that nightmare, the better.
It’s not always the church. Sometimes it’s the cars back in Cincinnati. Other times it’s Mom and Dad and Grace and Gabe. That’s the worst one. I don’t even like to think about that one.
The surf is my antidote. The twinkling starlight dancing across the waves, the sound of them lapping at the beach. I feel the toxins of my dream disappear.
Near as I can figure, it’s sometime in July. That’s the best I’ve got. I’ve given up on dates. And as far as days of the week go, I have no clue. What does it matter, anyway? Days of the week, days of the month. Hell, even thetime. Those are civilization’s problems. I most certainly have no more connection to civilization.
I won’t be sleeping again tonight, no matter how much of a remedy the surf is. Maybe I’ll see the lights again. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen them. I haven’t even been back to the tower for a few days. Maybe longer. I’m not civilized anymore. I have no use for things like days.
So that means I’m uncivilized. I guess that’s true. I poop in the forest. Pee in the ocean. I haven’t eaten off a plate in I don’t know how long. And I don’t have to, do I? You won’t care. Whether you’re real or not, I suspect you’re not big on formalities. I hope not, anyway. Because if you are, you’ll be sorely disappointed in me. Oh, big fart. See? I don’t even care if I fart in front of you.
I wonder if I’ll ever forget how to speak. The only time I do it is when I catch myself singing. It’s strange to hear a voice and then realize it’s mine. Plus I can’t sing, so it kind of annoys me. I do it anyway. I don’t think I have much control over it. Kinda’ like farting.
I’m really scared. The dreams don’t help, but there’s a lot more to it than the dreams. I’m scared I’ll never see another human being a
gain. And then I’m scared I will.
It’s chilly. The breeze is strong. I’m glad I put on my sweatshirt.
AUGUST
Comfort
“I’m asking you,” I tell him. “I already know what I think.”
“About death?” Dad asked. “That’s an awfully gloomy question for someone your age.”
“I get it, you want me to think about Mary Poppins and the Hundred Acre Wood,” I groaned. “Wrong kid for that, Dad.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I forget sometimes how deep that brain of yours goes.”
He never did, of course. Dad viewed part of his job as being the antidote to my introverted depth. Being smart and thoughtful and introspective was all well and good, but in Dad’s opinion, I could often tilt too far to one side. He called our conversations “righting the vessel”.
“I’m not sure what I believe,” Dad said. We sat together on the roof of the Detroit house. It was fall, one of those nights during the battle between summer and winter when summer regained some ground. It was warm, and I pulled off the sweatshirt Mom had made me wear.
“That’s a cop-out, Dad.”
“Not knowing isn’t being wishy-washy, it’s just me saying I really don’t know,” Dad replied. “Nobody knows.”
“A lot of people seem to.”
“Yeah, and a lot of people are scared, too,” Dad said. “The one thing I do know is thatnobody knows. All the talk about God and heaven and Pearly Gates, the problem is that nobody’s ever seen it.”
“So why do they believe it?” I asked.
Dad shifted positions on the roof beside me.
“We’re the only species we know of that recognizes its mortality,” Dad said. “We know we’re going to die. And for most of us, that’s a scary thing.”
“Don’t elephants have graveyards? Doesn’t that mean they probably understand they’re going to die, too?”
“Smart kid,” Dad said. “Yeah, who knows, maybe elephantsdo have religious beliefs. The Church of the Holy Pachyderm.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” Dad replied. “I guess having some expectation of what’s to come makes facing it easier. When your grampa died, he’d been sick for a long time. The cancer was aggressive, but the old man fought hard. He’d never been religious or spiritual. He went to church on Sundays, but that was just so he’d be seen by his customers. The closer he got to the end, though, the more he prayed.Really prayed, too, like he meant it. I thought that was a little hypocritical of him.”
“Hypocritical?”
“Grabbing hold of religion only when he realized his life was ending,” Dad said. “I wrestled with that for a long time. It made me angry. I don’t know why, maybe because my dad, this big, powerful guy, he got scared.”
“And now?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “It was there to give him some comfort. Right or wrong, hypocritical or not, that’s what he needed to do to prepare himself to die. I can’t fault him for that, can I?”
“Is comfort more important than being honest with yourself?”
“I don’t know that he was being dishonest,” Dad replied. “Truth is sort of a sliding scale, kiddo. If you hold on too tightly to what you know for sure, you’ll miss out on what’s going on around you.”
I don’t know whether Dad found comfort at the end. Maybe his comfort came from not knowing for sure. He always seemed happiest when the path in front of him wasn’t already hacked clear of undergrowth. I thought about that as I walked my endless miles. Not about Grace or Gabe or even Mom — their certainties certainly had given them something valuable to hold onto. I lost all of them before I lost them. Their fevers took away most of their coherent thoughts. In their final few days, my family were strangers.
What’s my comfort? That’s a tough one. My family sort of bypassed religion. It hadn’t seemed like a purposeful thing. We weren’t atheists, and we didn’t have some sort of grudge against church. But formal religion was never part of our equation. There were kids in school would were full-on religious zealots. Their exceptional weirdness hadn’t been religion’s best ad campaign. I never gave much thought to God. My understanding of the concept is limited. I know about God. Or rather, I know how God had been interpreted. People talked about having a personal relationship with Him. That was the part that eluded me.
If I follow the conventional Christian logic, all the rotting bodies and empty cities are some kind of punishment. God’s wrath. But what was God angry about? Human beings certainly hadn’t been the best stewards of the planet. Was it oil spills, then, or greed, or lust, or global warming, or selfishness, or any of the thousands of other horrifying manifestations of people on the planet? Or was it like the crazy televangelists said, that it was gay marriage and people turning their backs on God that destroyed the whole thing? If any of that was the case, what about all the good stuff people did? You wouldn’t know it to watch the TV news, but peopledid do good things, on a regular basis. Most of them at least tried. Most people I met were decent. They all may not have been saints, but they certainly weren’t monsters. Some were, sure. The parade of grotesque characters on the TV news, rapists, thieves, murderers, the world was probably better off without them all. Even the girls who tormented me at school. But aren’t I a thief? A thief of circumstance, of course, but the difference between me stealing from a convenience store and someone stealing a wallet on a subway is the difference of only a few months. I’m surviving. Those from whom I steal are dead. How is that different from someone stealing a purse from a murder victim?
If the whole thing is God’s wrath, why spare me? Of all people, why some scrawny nobody from a down-and-out family in Detroit? It makes no sense. And that, actually, is whatdoes make sense. It’s all random. I wasn’t chosen. I’m simply immune. A genetic lottery has given me the winning ticket. My prize? Life. The price? Everyone else’s life.
What is my comfort? Do I have comfort? Maybe I don’t need it. Truth is a sliding scale. Dad told me as much. Isn’t that how I’ve survived this long? My truth, the rules I live by, the world in which I live, all of it has slid. I’ve simply slid along with it.
“What do you think?” Dad asked me.
“About what?”
“About death,” Dad said. “You told me you already know what you think.”
I cocked my head and bit my lower lip.
“I spend a lot of time thinking,” I said. “None of the things I think about exist anywhere else. I think maybe that’s my soul, y’know? My thoughts and dreams and things, they don’t have the same limitations as my body. So when my body dies, what happens to my thoughts and dreams? I think it would be a shame if it all died along with me.”
Dad laughed, though not unkindly. He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t put it past your thoughts and dreams to live forever.”
So maybe that’s my comfort. And maybe it had been Dad’s comfort, too. Somewhere in the ethereal darkness, Dad keeps going. If heis still going, maybe someday I’ll catch up.
Oliver
Spending most ofmy time in the orchard. What time Ido spend away from the beachhouse, anyway. My days are a constant battle against the oppressive summer heat. Mornings are the best. Early mornings, watching the sun burn its way over the horizon, eating fresh peaches and washing the juice away in the ocean. It rains a lot, torrential bursts late in the afternoon nearly every day. The rain clears the air and cools the evenings down. I have my routine — eat peaches, swim, read, ride over to the orchard, pick more fruit, ride home, read, sit in the open glass doorway watching the rain, eat dinner, swim, read until the light fades, and then sleep. I rarely step off St. John’s Island anymore. My supply runs have afforded me a surplus of canned food and books and water. Sure don’t need much else.
Having a routine gives me a purpose. Moving from one simple task to the next is a structure erected around me like scaffolding. If I simplydo, I avoid the abyss of thought.
T
hought always creeps, of course. Thinking is a stealthy adversary. It senses vulnerability, my weakest moments, and pounces. I’ve always allied herself with thought. Now, though, it’s become an unwelcome intruder.
Mornings are best. Nights are the worst. Sleep is elusive, and as I try to catch it, I run head-on into my thoughts. They’re dark thoughts. Deep. Questions without reassuring answers. And they’re always waiting for me.
What use am I? The spiritual purpose of everything aside, death and disease and survival, my survival is cold fact. The world is dead. I’m alive. By their basic existence, those facts suggest that some purpose exists. God or not, I’m alive. The next question, of course, is why? Not how — how is simple. I’m immune.Howis a mechanical question. It belongs to the scaffolding around me.Why is more insidious. It hints at cruel truths. Truths such as, is it all a mistake? I’m not worthy of the solemn duty of survival. Weak, scared, tiny little Hannah. The dweeb. Someone made a mistake. Because that’s the real question — what use am I?
The answer that haunts me is that I’m of no use. If I was an engineer, maybe I could turn the lights back on. The refrigerator. If I was a hunter, I could stock the fridge with fresh meat. If I was a musician, I could at least contribute something beautiful. But all I am is simply Hannah. Simple, useless Hannah.
It’s a strange obligation to feel. By simply surviving, I’ve become responsible. Not just the steward but thekeeperof humanity. The weight of it is exhausting to carry. That’s all dependent, of course, on whether I reallyamthe last human standing. My journey took me through some cities, but by no means have I seenevery city. Or even a particularly representative cross-section. And if that’s the case, if New York or San Francisco are still chock-full of people, that changes everything. I’d no longer be alone. The thing that makes me special, the joints that hold my scaffolding in place, it won’t exist anymore. But isn’t that exactly what I want? Isn’t that exactly what my creeping thoughts have been whining about? Being alone?
The First Year Page 12
