The Sky So Heavy

by Claire Zorn

People were crowded around the truck. Two guys in army uniforms stood on the back, on the tray, passing boxes down. The sight of them was almost overwhelming – just the relief of knowing that we weren’t forgotten gave me a lump in my throat. Max and I ran over to the truck, one of the officers gave us each a box.

  ‘Hey, is the snow radioactive? Is the air radioactive?’ I asked.

  ‘The levels are low,’ he answered. He wasn’t wearing a protective suit, so that was a good sign.

  ‘Will it get worse?’

  ‘Try to stay inside.’ He moved onto the next person.

  We carried our boxes inside. Unpacking them felt like Christmas. There was dried fruit, some nuts, bags of rice, more cans of soup. Water. Matches. I added the new supplies to our list and worked out how to ration it.

  I listened to my one iPod song while lying on my back with my head up against the lounge-room window, looking up at the grey ache of the sky. For those three minutes and forty-eight seconds the weight of the smog and cloud couldn’t touch me. I was free of it.

  Two weeks passed. We began sleeping in the same bed, it was warmer that way. Even though I had been careful only to light the fire during the day, firewood began to run low. We cocooned ourselves in beanies and gloves.

  I learned that if I could keep my thoughts about Dad focused on the afternoon when I found the letter from Mum, I could almost stem my anxiety about his absence. My anger formed a nice protective cushion. If I let it slide to the other things – those days when he would carry me up the hill on his back or my memory of him slipping me fifty-dollar notes under the table during childhood games of Monopoly – worry would fester in my gut and even though I was so, so hungry, I couldn’t eat.

  As for Mum, I imagined her in some sort of command centre, consulting people in uniforms, pointing at diagrams. I imagined her safe.

  And when I slept, I dreamed of Lucy.

  Another knock at the door. Mid-morning. I was drawing while Max told me about a guy who survived a tsunami by ripping his front door from its hinges and surfing the wave. (He didn’t have a lot of concrete facts.)

  I think we both assumed it would be the army at the door, back with more food. We were sticking to our rations and it seemed to be working pretty well, but I’d gladly accept some more, even just for a bit of variety. (Not to mention the hazards of continually eating baked beans in a confined space.) The figure through the peephole wasn’t wearing an army uniform. I opened the door and realised it was Mick from across the road, Ellen’s husband. It took me a moment to recognise him beneath the thick stubble that had swallowed up half his face.

  ‘Hey mate.’ He ran a hand over his shaggy hair. ‘How you going?’

  ‘Yeah okay.’

  ‘Any news about your dad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’ Mick nodded, waited for a moment out of respect. ‘Look, I was just wondering if you had any food you could spare us. We’ve run out of that stuff the army brought around.’

  ‘Um, yeah so have we.’

  ‘You don’t have any spare?’

  I didn’t even hesitate. The lie came straight out without a beat. ‘No. I mean I’ve got some for tonight and a bit for tomorrow but that’s it.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. It’s just we’ve run out of food for the kids.’

  I hesitated. ‘I can give you some rice. Just, like a cup. We don’t have much left.’

  ‘Would you, mate? That’d be awesome.’

  ‘Sure, um, can you take off your shoes though?’

  Mick slipped off his Volleys and stepped inside. I closed the door behind him.

  ‘Wait here if you want, I’ll go grab the rice.’ I tried to make it sound like I was saving him the trouble of coming into the kitchen rather than hiding our food from him. I went to the cupboard and measured out two mugs full of rice, poured them into a sandwich bag and tied a knot in the top. I brought the bag out to Mick.

  ‘Oh, man, you’re a lifesaver.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Max watched as I handed the bag to Mick. It was a pathetic amount of rice. Max didn’t say anything but there was a question in his eyes. When Mick was gone he looked at me like I was thick.

  ‘Why did you do that? We don’t have enough!’

  ‘We do have enough. They’ve run out.’

  ‘What’s the point of rationing it and going fucking hungry if you’re going to give it away?

  ‘Oi! Don’t swear.’

  ‘It’s not fair, Fin. I’m not going with less tonight. That’s come out of yours.’

  ‘Whatever, Max.’

  Later on, I drew Mick wading through chest-high water with a beanie pulled down over his ears. He held the little bag of rice in one hand.

  Nine

  The police came back. Rather, one of them came back. The CSI wannabe, no Constable Lund. I thought it was a bit weird that he was on his own as I assumed they travelled in pairs, like Jehovah’s Witnesses. He asked if he could come inside and, because of the cop shows on TV, I thought he was going to tell me they had found Dad’s car wrapped around a tree. It wasn’t supposed to be like that – he was the parent, I was the irresponsible teenager.

  I asked him to take his shoes off and he took his hat off too, making me feel certain he was going to give us bad news.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said CSI. ‘You look worried. I just came to give you an update.’

  I exhaled.

  ‘I think we’ve located your dad. There’s a Greg Heath staying at a refuge they’ve set up on the highway. Sorry it’s taken so long.’

  I smiled. It almost hurt my face, it had been that long since I had actually smiled. ‘Max!’ I called in the direction of the living room. ‘Hey, Max! They’ve found Dad!’

  ‘Might have,’ said the cop. ‘We haven’t confirmed it’s him.’

  I didn’t let myself hear that. I led CSI into the house. Max practically jumped up off the couch.

  ‘When’s he coming home?’ he asked.

  ‘Again, I have to confirm it’s him,’ said CSI. ‘But soon, hopefully, buddy.’ He walked casually around the place, sort of like he was looking for something. I thought he was just making sure we weren’t living in complete squalor.

  ‘There’s thousands of people displaced by the snow,’ he went on. ‘And with all the phones down and the power out, relaying information is a nightmare. The army has been working to clear the roads so we can transport people and get them home, but rather than easing off, the snow’s just getting worse. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.’

  ‘Um, yeah.’

  His eyes wandered in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Where’s your food? You got enough?’

  ‘We’re good.’

  ‘Got it somewhere dry? You haven’t stuck the box out the back have you? Someone’ll nick it.’

  ‘No, it’s safe.’

  He went into the kitchen and began opening cupboards.

  ‘Hey, you don’t have to do that,’ I said. ‘It’s safe. It’s taken care of.’

  ‘As long as you’ve got the rice somewhere nice and dry. You don’t want it getting damp. Where is it?’ He opened the corner cupboard, the pantry. ‘You’ve got a bit here. Stock up early did you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I walked over and closed the cupboard. He looked at me and our eyes stayed locked for a moment. ‘It’s fine. It’s dry.’

  ‘So you’ll let us know about Dad?’ said Max.

  CSI kept his eyes on me, taking a minute before he turned to Max with a big smile.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll be back to check up on you guys.’

  I walked to the front door and opened it.

  ‘I’ll leave you guys to it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Max said. ‘’Cause we’re really busy, totally snowed under.’ He started cracking up.

  CSI gave a short laugh, then cleared his thro
at. ‘Like I said, I’ll be back.’

  I didn’t wait until he had finished putting his boots back on before I closed the door.

  ‘You’re a tool,’ I said to Max. He responded with an awesome display of his superior intellect and gave me the finger.

  I didn’t know why exactly, but I felt sick in the stomach.

  Ten

  Our world was made of the dull light filtered through the gauze of the sky. It became a small, self-contained thing, a snow dome of our very own. The rest of the world may as well not have existed. CSI didn’t come back with Dad. And I wasn’t surprised. The army with their truck of dehydrated goodies didn’t come back either. We didn’t get a visit from Lokey or Mrs White or Mick. No one walked through the bleak picture framed by our living room window. I went back to Lucy’s house, knocked on the door. Still nobody was there.

  I had stopped testing the light switches ages ago.

  I waited until we had finished all our other food before we started on the army rations. My jeans had started getting loose around my hips. We went days without words other than ‘yes’ and ‘no’.

  Eight weeks without power. Eight weeks since I last saw my dad. Ten since I last saw my mother.

  When we ran out of newspaper to light the fire we started on Kara’s magazines. When they were done we started burning books. It sounds like a horrible Nazi-style travesty, but all we were burning were Kara’s self-help manuals and Dad’s Jon Cleary collection. Problem was there weren’t that many in the house and we soon ran out of those too.

  In my social studies class we had done a unit on asylum seekers. A guy from a refugee advocacy group told us about the refugee camps in the Sudan; he said it was common for members of a family to take turns eating on alternate days.

  I decided I would eat every second day.

  Max didn’t like it. He said he should do the same but I told him that was bullshit and that I was in charge.

  Eleven

  The axe was where I had last left it: around the side of the house, under the tarp, like the body of an accident victim. I picked it up, heavy in my hand, and walked down to where our back garden edged onto bushland. I selected my victim: a young grey gum, tall but relatively skinny. I swung the axe and the blade thudded into the trunk. I swung again and the blade landed several inches above the first cut. I tried again, making a third and equally inaccurate cut. Clearly there was a technique required that I had failed to factor in. There had to be an easier way. I looked back toward the house and my gaze fell on our patio, where the seven-piece timber outdoor setting Mum had chosen from Barbeques Galore stood unwittingly. I walked back across the lawn and up the patio steps. I pulled one chair away from the huddle, its legs scraped the concrete in protest. My hands were white with the cold and I was distracted for a moment by the way they looked like a skeleton’s. I thought of my seventh birthday when my uncle Mark dressed up in a skeleton costume and I was so scared I peed myself in front of half my class, who were at the party.

  I put one foot up on the seat of the chair and lifted the axe. Between the moment that I put my weight behind it to swing and the moment it cracked into the lacquered timber, I imagined it glancing off and carving through my ankle. I would bleed to death on the porch. At least it would be quicker than starving.

  Would Max eat me? He should. I thought of how I should have told him – before I went out there – that if I accidentally cut my foot off and died, he should eat me to survive. Just like those rugby players in that plane crash movie we had to watch for PE. Take one for the team.

  The axe split the seat of the chair and thudded into the concrete. It took longer to break up the chair than I thought it would. I took the dismembered parts into the house. I would chop up the rest as we needed them.

  Twelve

  We ran out of washing-up liquid so we started using laundry detergent. I started to take pride in keeping the kitchen orderly, didn’t let the dirty plates stack up. Mornings were for the maintenance of the living space, afternoons free time. Free. Ha.

  We waited for the army to show up again or the police with Dad. Neither did.

  Mick came round again. Not as rectangular any more. A full beard. He told me Zac had bad asthma and Ellen had been vomiting. He had put chains on the tyres of his car and was going to take her and Zac to find a doctor.

  ‘Can’t Doctor Ketterly help?’ I asked. ‘At number nine? He’s a surgeon or something.’

  Mick shook his head, he’d clearly been down that road and it had worn him out. ‘Zac needs medication, and Ellen . . . he says he can’t help her. I’m going to try the hospital.’

  He paused after he said that. He cleared his throat and looked away.

  ‘Look, mate, you seem like a good kid.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’ve got a box of canned stuff. I’ve been saving it, rationing it in case . . . You . . . you can have it if you look after Zadie for me.’

  I opened my mouth but he put up his hands.

  ‘I was going to ask Mrs White but she’s not well either. I’m worried that if I take Zadie and we get stuck in the snow, well, we’ll all be . . . cactus. Zadie likes you. She’s a good little kid. She’s out of nappies––’

  ‘I don’t know how to look after a kid.’

  ‘Please mate. Please. I’ll try not to be long. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t look after the three of them.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I’m up to my elbows in vomit.’

  Beneath the beard and the big shoulders, Mick wasn’t that much older than me, maybe ten years. He stood with his feet set apart and let out a ragged breath.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I didn’t let myself consider it too long. Max would think I’d lost my mind. I clearly had. After I told Mick I would look after Zadie and he went back to his place to get her, I reassured myself that when he came back I would tell him that I was really sorry, but there was no way I could do it. Except when he brought her around I failed to communicate this with the words that came out of my mouth: ‘No worries, it’ll be fine.’ I found myself standing in the living room with a three-year-old and a giant My Little Pony that was neither mine nor little. Oh, and Max who was somewhere between angry and amused at my stupidity.

  ‘What are we supposed to do with her?’ Max asked.

  Zadie pointed to the fire and said in a very serious voice, ‘Das da fire. You don touch da fire tis vewy, vewy hot.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right!’ I said to her in a happy voice.

  ‘Fin, we’ll have to share our food with her!’

  ‘We’ve got enough, Max. I couldn’t say no.’

  ‘No dah.’

  ‘Whosat?’ Zadie said and pointed to Max.

  ‘That’s Max.’

  ‘You Fim,’ Zadie said, pointing to me.

  ‘Yes, Fin.’

  ‘Iz snowing outside. Ba you don touch da snow. Mummy touch da snow too much and den she chucked up.’

  Zadie sat down on the floor and started to play with the buckle on her shoes.

  Max and I looked at each other.

  ‘Does that mean what I think it does, Fin?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Fin?’

  ‘Max, I don’t know.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Thirteen

  I found our old Duplo in the garage and brought it in for Zadie to play with. That seemed to keep her occupied for a fair while and it was kind of nice having her there. It passed the time. In the afternoon she fell asleep sitting up surrounded by a sea of coloured plastic blocks, so I arranged the cushions from the sofa into a bed next to the fire and tucked her in with my old Transformers doona. She slept for over an hour and Max and I found ourselves just sitting there, waiting for her to wake up. When she did she saw us and started to cry. It wasn’t just a few sobs either, it was distraught screami
ng as if she was in pain. I checked her all over, looking for some kind of injury but then Max put her up on his shoulders and galloped around like a horse and she seemed to like that.

  The darkness was coming earlier and earlier every day and by four-thirty it was pretty much night. We ate dinner at five-thirty because by then everyone had well and truly run out of things to do. I heated up a can of soup on the fire, poured some into a little plastic bowl and gave it to Zadie with a teaspoon. She barely paused for breath as she ate it. When she was done she licked the bowl.

  I didn’t know when to expect Mick back. We had both stepped around the subject, knowing it could be hours or days. Part of me wanted to go with him to see what the rest of the world looked like. I couldn’t imagine it.

  He wasn’t back by six-thirty so Max and I read Zadie a story and put her into bed. She insisted on hugging the storybook when it was finished and she went to sleep with our hardcover edition of Pooh and Tigger Fly Kites, which can’t have been comfortable.

  Later, before Max and I went to bed, I put some more wood on the fire as we could cope with the cold when it went out, but I wasn’t sure about Zadie. Max read an old National Geographic magazine and told me that exposure to radiation is measured in units called millirem. The average American is exposed to three hundred and sixty millirem a year, three hundred from natural sources, sixty from man-made sources.

  ‘I reckon that’s probably gone up,’ he said and cracked up at his own joke.

  I spent the night somewhere between awake and asleep, partially listening for Mick’s knock at the door. It didn’t come.

  And the army still hadn’t turned up with more food.

  Fourteen

  He didn’t even try knocking first, just rattled the door handle and started shouting. We were reading Zadie a story before her afternoon nap. The shouting cut into the room just as we were about to learn what Maisy Mouse liked to grow in her garden.

  ‘Get out here, you little shits! You little punks! Where are ya?’