What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  “Just tell me the next part,” Lucy said and held the paper out. “Tell me what he said. Where we’re supposed to go.”

  Ethan looked confused. “There’s no other message. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Lucy cocked her head at him. “Dad said he was leaving something behind to help us and to do whatever we could to reach that place. Right? You honestly didn’t find the next clue?”

  “The next clue?” Ethan asked and shook his head. “I honestly thought he was just talking about the food.”

  Lucy took a deep breath. “He said, find this place and you’ll find me, and you thought he was talking about chicken quesadillas? This is why you were such a bad student,” she said, exasperated. Thrusting the paper out for Ethan to look at, she continued, “The message. On the bottom. It’s a clue.”

  “I didn’t catch that,” Ethan said with a shrug.

  She had known immediately because she had internalized that quote; it was as much a part of her childhood as playing with her American Girl dolls or watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas every year as a family on Christmas Eve. For a second, Lucy wondered if maybe the clue was just for her—a single nod to a shared memory. But then, she realized, that would’ve meant that her father expected her to be the one left behind and that he intended the note for her and her alone. That, she rationalized, was ridiculous.

  “Wait here,” Lucy said and she flicked her flashlight back on and scooted around the observers, heading back out into the main area, through the dining room, and up the stairs. At the top of the landing, she took in a deep breath and pushed the fear of the dark aside. She bypassed her own room and scooted into Harper’s room and shined the flashlight over her sister’s books. All of Harper’s books had been inherited from her siblings and they arrived to her already dog-eared and missing pages, falling apart at the bindings, and scribbled in with crayons. The stories were unmarred, but the books themselves had seen better days before traveling down to the youngest King.

  And yet their soiled appearances had not stopped Harper from devouring them just like her brothers and sister before her.

  Finally, after a prolonged search, Lucy saw the tan binding with purple lettering. She pulled it down gently as to not disturb any of the other books on the shelf. She held the hardback in her hand, trembling.

  Without opening it, Lucy tucked the book under her arm and went back downstairs. Darla and Grant had returned and moved to the couch, they formed a semi-circle in her absence and were discussing something in low voices as the candles flickered around them. Teddy devoured a granola bar and a bag of fruit gummies. He asked if he could watch television and Darla said, “No power Theodore…you know that…let’s just use our imaginations tonight.”

  With a full lower lip, Teddy huffed, “My imagination is too tired.”

  “Here,” Lucy said and showed Ethan the book.

  “The Velveteen Rabbit?”

  “My mom used to read that to me,” Grant said. “It’s really sad.”

  Lucy turned and regarded Grant. His mom. It was the first time he had mentioned her the entire time they were at the school. His dad, whom he lived with, he mentioned in anger. His mom hadn’t existed in conversation at all. She opened her mouth to ask about her, but Darla interrupted.

  “But it’s hopeful too,” she added.

  “Sad, but hopeful. Thanks Dad. Your stab at symbolism is bursting with heavy-handedness,” Ethan muttered.

  “I had a bunny,” Teddy said.

  “The quote at the bottom of dad’s note. It read…’When you are real you don’t mind being hurt.‘ It’s from this book.”

  “I had a bunny and it died,” Teddy continued. Darla got up and sat down by her son and gave him a hug. She kissed his cheek.

  “The rabbit in the book had to die, right? To become real? Or something like that.” Grant remembered as he reached for the copy of The Velveteen Rabbit and Lucy passed it over to him.

  “Did my bunny become real?” Teddy looked up at his mother.

  Darla smiled, “Your bunny was already real, little man. Now shush.”

  “Dad didn’t strike me as a children’s book guy. Mom was always the one who read to us,” Ethan said. He reached for the book next, but Grant shied away from his hand. “Come on, pass it over.”

  “Did you say there’s supposed to be a message in this book?” Grant asked, his voice tight.

  “Help,” Lucy stated. “He said he was leaving help.”

  “Like…maybe…coordinates?” Grant opened to an illustration of the rabbit enjoying a picnic outside. And written in marker over that idyllic image in her father’s handwriting: 42°1′16″N by 102°5′19″W.

  “Oh my goodness,” Lucy grabbed the book back and studied the numbers. “He left us directions.”

  “To where?”

  Ethan laughed, a sardonic, quiet laugh. “Too bad we can’t just Google it, right?”

  “It’s called an atlas, dumbass,” Darla replied in jest and stood up, walked over to the myriad bookshelves and scanned the titles. Finally she found a spiral-bound atlas tucked away near the door. She tossed it to Ethan who looked at it and flipped it open.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Seriously?” Darla asked. “Longitude. Latitude? Teachers don’t teach you anything nowadays. High school graduate can’t read an atlas?”

  “Here,” Grant reached up and pulled the atlas down off of Ethan’s lap. “I got this. Shine the light.”

  Lucy directed the flashlight over to the open book and Grant flipped to a page with a map of the United States. He marked an area with his finger and then looked at another area. “Nebraska,” he announced with a triumphant grin.

  “What?” Lucy leaned down.

  “The coordinates…are…for,” Grant looked around him for a pen and Darla tossed him one from the desk, “right here…in Nebraska.”

  “Do we know anyone in Nebraska?” Ethan asked.

  “Who knows people in Nebraska?” Darla replied.

  “Turn to Nebraska in the atlas,” Lucy said and Grant turned, finding the state with ease, and he looked up the coordinates again. “This is in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Brixton, Nebraska,” Grant read, squinting. “If the map is right…it’s like a two-street city. But, hey, according to the key…at least there’s a post-office. Good thing there are so many people left in the world to send letters to.”

  “What the hell?” Lucy growled. “Dad leaves us with a confusing letter and directions to Nebraska. Why not just tell us what to do? Or tell us what we’re looking for?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t,” Ethan posed. “Maybe he was afraid.”

  Lucy realized her brother had to be right. “I’m sure he had a reason. Do you think the people he was afraid of took Mom? Oh Ethan…I can’t imagine…”

  “Let’s not go there yet, Lucy. Okay?”

  “But this is real, Ethan. Right? This is where Dad is telling us to go. Brixton, Nebraska.” As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, she realized they sounded like agreement, consent to go there.

  “Nebras-ka,” Teddy repeated.

  Looking over at Grant, who was still holding the atlas, Lucy noticed his eyes were closed. He swayed and threatened to tip-over.

  “Grant? Grant!” she cried and flung the atlas away, scrambling and shaking him.

  He smiled a lazy smile and opened one eye and then the other. “I’m fine, Lucy. Just sleepy. Sal—” he stopped himself. “We didn’t sleep last night. We waited for you,” he pointed to Darla, “to come back for her.”

  No one spoke. But Lucy’s face burned; she was grateful for the dark.

  Then Grant rose and stretched, his lanky body reaching tall, casting shadows on the walls. “I—” he started. “I think maybe I should go lie down somewhere. I wish—” he stopped again and then sighed. “I feel like I should say something profound. But I’m not one for big speeches.” He smiled. “So. Maybe I’ll just say…I’ll be upstairs.”
He ended the sentence softly, sadly.

  “Grant—” Lucy whispered. “Stay.”

  “Here,” said Ethan. “Lucy?”

  She lifted her head to him and waited.

  “Dad’s Victrola?” Lucy smiled. She slipped up and walked to the corner, where their father had kept an old Victor Talking Machine phonograph from 1921. It had belonged to his great-grandmother and had been given to her as a wedding gift only a few years before his grandma was born. It was a wooden cabinet, equipped with a crank handle and tucked inside the doors were shelves, where their dad kept all his records.

  When Ethan and Lucy were little it was a treat to sit in the den and listen to the music. But they outgrew the pleasure. Only now did Lucy realize that this must have broken their father’s heart. She couldn’t even remember the last time her dad had played a record for her, letting her dance on his feet, swaying and swinging her this way and that.

  She wiped away a layer of dust off the top of the phonograph and lifted the top. Leaning over to wind the machine, she placed the fiber needle on the record that was already in there. And when the music filled the den, Lucy’s heart swelled with melancholy nostalgia. The melody was familiar. It was her father’s favorite.

  The song was Ethel Water’s rendition of “Moonglow.” It was a beautiful melodious love song, so pure and happy.

  Unable to move from her spot by the Victrola, Lucy watched the record spin and spin, the scratchiness of the needle amplified through the internal speakers. She listened to the plucky trombones and the lazy drawl of the trumpet. When she turned back to the group, she had tears in her eyes.

  Darla picked up Teddy and placed him in her lap, where the child’s eyes began to close in increments as the song progressed. She stroked his hair and rocked him softly; her subtle swaying may have been instinct as she comforted her child or a response to the music, but it was clear that the song had transported her away from an Oregon living room, sitting with near-strangers.

  The record stopped.

  But the needle kept spinning.

  Teddy’s eyes remained closed and Darla shifted him to her shoulder and stood up. “The munchkin and I are heading to bed. Ethan,” she said in a motherly tone, “pain killers in two hours.” Then she disappeared upstairs.

  “Where should I sleep?” Grant asked and at first no one answered him. “If you’re concerned about—”

  “Stop!” Lucy said quickly and firmly. “No. You’ll sleep in my parent’s room…if that’s okay.”

  “It’s perfect,” he replied and he walked over to the doorway and turned around one last time. “Night. And…” he looked at Lucy, “I’ll see you.”

  Lucy couldn’t bear it and she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him. “I’ll stay up with you, if you want. A game of Monopoly? You haven’t even had dinner…some of those meals downstairs didn’t sound so bad.” She knew how she sounded, but Lucy couldn’t help it; the thought of losing him and Salem in the same day was too much. “I’ll stay with you.”

  Grant kissed the top of Lucy’s head in a brotherly way and smiled. “Let me be alone.” He took a breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had that much.” And he turned and ascended the stairs, taking each one with slow deliberate steps, looking down at his feet. Then Lucy watched as he disappeared down the hallway.

  * *

  Ethan requested a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and Lucy couldn’t help but gag as she spread the peanut butter on their mother’s wheat and honey oat bread.

  For the rest of the evening they danced around sensitive subjects and discussed their mutual horror stories. And Lucy even cried upon Ethan’s retelling of Anna’s death—although it happened as she hoped. He dropped Anna off at her house before heading back to their mom because he was too afraid to show up with Anna instead of Lucy and suffer the consequences. Anna’s mother outlived her daughter and that was the heartbreaking moment: Ethan returning to take Anna with him as company to the airport and discovering her mother screaming in the street.

  No one knew what was happening. It had only just started then.

  Talking with Ethan felt natural, but every once in awhile he would wince, and Lucy was reminded of his pain.

  “Is it bad?” Lucy asked.

  He nodded. “The painkillers don’t help. If we were dealing with a normal, everyday situation, I think I would lose my legs, but Lucy, I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “If Spencer can do what we asked of him, I’ll have a doctor take a look at them soon.”

  Lucy was reminded of what those four vials bought them—a chance to save Ethan’s life.

  “You think he can do it? Find someone?” Lucy asked and then as she watched Ethan’s face fall, she immediately regretted it.

  But he didn’t respond. After a long moment, Ethan reached over and grabbed her hand.

  “I love you,” Ethan said. “Have I ever said that before?”

  Lucy smiled. “Not recently.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Yes, I think he can do it. I have to believe that he can. And we’re going to survive this. We’re going to figure this whole thing out.”

  “Sure,” Lucy said with a smile. “As soon as we figure out what this is.”

  * *

  Lucy wanted to sleep in her own bed. Ethan, sleepy and loopy from a cocktail of Vicodin and some of their father’s scotch, passed out on the couch. For several minutes, she stood outside her parent’s bedroom and pondered going inside to check on Grant, but the darkness and the distressing prospect of finding him already gone, kept her from fearlessly waltzing over with a flashlight. She opened the door and whispered, “Grant? Grant?” but he didn’t answer. And with a heavy heart, Lucy retreated, prepared for the worst.

  Lucy, who had navigated her bedroom and the upstairs hallways during power outages and darkened lightless nights before, was not afraid of retreating to the shadows of her own room to sleep under her own sheets, under her own blanket. However, something about her house felt different than the other times she had been seeped in darkness.

  She thought perhaps she could sleep and convince her brain that this night was just like any other night: Her parents downstairs, discussing the day in the absence of children with hushed voices. Harper asleep in her princess bed. Malcolm and Monroe tucked into their bunk-beds, trading fart jokes and brotherly quips. Galen reading contraband books by flashlight under the covers until someone caught him and forced him to bed. These were the rituals. This is what the house was supposed to feel like. Instead it felt like a tomb.

  Their house was large and cozy, even if it had paper-thin walls and décor regulations through the HOA. Her parents paid for parks and atmosphere, the promise of safe streets and cozy cul-de-sacs. Whispering Waters, their little neighborhood was called. The name implied peaceful joy, happiness, and comfort.

  If only her neighbors had known that the congenial scientist, quick with a smile and always available to offer a ladder, an hour of service, or a kind word, was starting a doomsday shelter in his fruit cellar. What would they have thought if they had known that somehow he had predicted the end of the world? That he was clandestinely spiriting away food and water and vaccines and pictures of top-secret experiments right under the noses of his unsuspecting family.

  Unsuspecting. It was a true and frightening word.

  Ethan had a theory that their mother was in the dark. Otherwise, he pondered, why would she have ever sent Lucy back to school for her homework in the first place? And while it wouldn’t be the first time in history that a man kept secrets hidden from his wife, Maxine’s potential blindness pained Lucy greatly. And it was this lack of knowledge cost her mother both of her eldest children. No doubt their mom assumed they were dead.

  And that was even operating under the assumption that her family was alive. It was a stretch and a myth; an idea born from panic and an inability to understand a wor
ld where just she and Ethan had survived Armageddon upon the human race.

  All these things ran through her brain in a loop and it occupied every second of her time, keeping her alone with memories and flashbacks. She tossed, turned, flung her blankets off, then sought them out and covered herself again. Below, she could occasionally hear a muffled voice. Ethan. Moaning in his sleep. And she kept listening for Grant, a snore or a rustle of the bedsprings—but her parent’s room was silent.

  Lucy, back in the room she had dreamed of and wished for while trapped at the school, felt fully alone.

  Careful to keep her voice small, Lucy prayed what she could remember from Grant’s prayer at Salem’s memorial and sobbed herself to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Seven days after The Release

  Teddy’s high, little voice roused Lucy from sleep.

  “My mommy’s making pancakes with syrup,” he said and he poked her in the shoulder with a plastic sword from the King siblings’ communal dress-up bin. “And I’m going to have an orange juice!”

  “Oh?” Lucy wondered how this was possible, but she didn’t question the child. She picked up her pillow and flipped it over to the cold side and then rested her head, closing her eyes again.

  “I’m a pirate,” Teddy continued.

  Then Lucy’s eyes snapped open and she swung her feet to the floor. Slipping past Teddy, who didn’t seem too fazed by her quick departure, Lucy darted up the hallway to her parent’s room and swung open the door. The quilt on their bed had a Grant-sized indent and a blanket that her mom usually kept at the foot of the bed for decoration was tossed to the floor. But Grant himself was nowhere to be seen. Lucy rushed back down the hall and got held up on the stairs as Teddy made his way down step by step. She grabbed him by the waist and then stomped down with him, Teddy protesting with, “Let me down. Pirates like to walk!”

  Darla made pancakes over a refreshed fire. She held a skillet over the flame with both hands and then set it down on floor to flip them.

  “Pancakes,” she announced without enthusiasm.

  “Where’s Grant?” Lucy asked, setting Teddy down beside his mother.