“I don’t understand,” Jon said. “What does that mean?”
“It means Julie wants to believe she still has feeling,” Syl said. “But believing it and having it are two different things.”
“But she’ll get well,” Jon said. “Won’t she?”
“No,” Mom said. “She won’t, Jon.”
“Is she going to die?” he cried.
“Not so loud,” Dad said. “We don’t want Lisa to hear.”
“I don’t care about Lisa!” Jon said. “What about Julie? Can’t we do something?”
“All we can do is make things as easy for her as possible,” Mom said. “You’re not a child anymore, Jon. You know what things are like.”
None of us had stopped working while we talked about Julie. It was early evening, and the pile was down to four feet, so we stood ground level, stooping to pick up the debris. Our backs and arms were screaming in pain. But we kept flinging shingles and siding and pieces of mangled furniture as far from the cellar door as possible.
“I don’t want her to die,” Jon said.
“None of us want her to,” Dad said. “But we don’t want her to suffer, either. At least Charlie died fast. Sometimes I think that’s the only thing we can hope for anymore.”
“No, Hal,” Mom said. “We can still hope for our children, for their future. That’s all that matters, their future.”
I thought about the future I’d imagined for myself two days before—Lisa, Gabriel, and Julie in a safe place; Dad and Alex and me near enough that we could see them sometimes, know they were being taken care of; having that future Mom wanted for all of us.
It was more than twenty-four hours since I’d seen Alex. A part of me was starting to think he’d never existed, that I’d made up a boy I’d given my heart to because he wouldn’t accept anything less from me.
But I knew he was real because I missed him so much, and because his sister was lying helpless in the sunroom and we were talking about her death.
Alex had thought about her death. He’d prepared for it. He’d accepted something I had never had to, that there might come a moment when death was preferable to life and that he bore the responsibility of recognizing that moment and acting on it out of love.
He’d been so concerned about leaving Julie in Dad and Lisa’s care because no matter how much they loved her, they weren’t family. But when I’d agreed to marry Alex, I’d become Julie’s family. That’s why Alex had told me to get his missal. He knew he was risking death, biking into the path of the tornado. But he trusted me with the only possessions of value he had, the passes and the pills.
All of that came to me while I worked, every one of those thoughts, those realizations. And once they were in my mind, I thought them over and over again, like the nightmares I’d had, endlessly looping through my mind until I finally accepted the truth. Alex was gone. Julie was my responsibility, no one else’s.
I don’t know what time it was when Mom told me to go home, to send Matt back, and to get some sleep. All I know is we were working by lamplight then, and the night was so clear you could make out the full moon through the ashen sky.
I stumbled to our house, the darkness and my exhaustion making it almost impossible to walk a straight line. Matt was sleeping and I hated waking him, but we needed every hand we had. He didn’t say anything when I shook him awake. All he did was nod and walk away.
I lifted the blankets off Julie to see if she needed changing, but she was dry. I’d hoped she was asleep, but when I saw her eyes were open, I asked if she needed anything.
“No,” she said. “Matt gave me some food and water. But I wish Alex was here.”
I stroked her face. “Alex loves you,” I said. “We love you, Julie. All of us love you.”
“I wish I could see Lisa and Gabriel,” Julie said. “And Charlie. Charlie always makes me laugh.”
“You’ll see him soon,” I said. “I promise you that.”
Julie began to cough, and when she did, her body shook.
I lifted her so she was in more of a sitting position and had her rest against my chest until the coughing stopped. There were three pillows on the mattress already, but I asked if she’d like another. She said no.
“You’re like the princess and the pea,” I said, knowing what was coming but postponing it for another hour, another minute. I remember hoping that Alex would somehow fly in and Julie would be miraculously cured.
But I’d been hoping for miracles for over a year now. Another hour, another minute, was never long enough.
“What’s the princess and the pea?” she asked.
“It’s a fairy tale,” I said. “About how the only way you can tell a true princess is if you put a pea under forty mattresses. If she can feel it, then she’s a true princess.”
“What a waste of a pea,” Julie said.
“When they wrote fairy tales, they didn’t know,” I said. “They had peas to spare in those days.”
Julie giggled.
“Did your mother tell you fairy tales?” I asked. “When you were little?”
“No,” Julie said. “But she liked it when we told her about the saints. We learned about them in school and we’d tell her what we’d learned. Joan of Arc was my favorite. I wrote a report about her once.”
“I didn’t know she was a saint,” I said. “I guess I never thought about her being one.”
“She was,” Julie said. “She’s the patron saint of soldiers.”
“She’s your brother Carlos’s patron saint, then,” I said.
“Maybe,” Julie said. “Maybe the Marines have a different one. Carlos says it’s better to be a Marine than a soldier. He’d probably rather have his own patron saint.”
“You believe in all that,” I said. “You and Alex. In spite of everything you still believe?”
It was dark in the sunroom, just the glow from the woodstove, but even so I could see the look of surprise on Julie’s face. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll see Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, when I’m in heaven.”
“What’s heaven like?” I asked. “Do you know?”
“No one’s hungry there,” Julie said. “Or cold or lonely. You can see millions of stars at night, like that painting. And there are gardens. Big vegetable gardens filled with everything. Tomatoes, radishes. String beans. They’re my favorites, the string bean plants.”
“No flowers?” I said.
“You can have flowers if you want,” Julie said. “It’s heaven.”
She began coughing again, her face contorted, her body in spasms. I held her, comforted her, told her soon she’d be all right.
We could both tell she’d soiled herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll get a washcloth and clean you and change your clothes.”
She began to cry. “Don’t leave me,” she said. “Please. I made Alex promise he’d never leave me to die alone.”
I think that’s what she said. But she might have said Alex had promised he’d never leave her to be alone. I can’t be sure.
“I’ll just be gone for a minute,” I said. “Why don’t you say a prayer while you’re waiting? That’s what Alex would want you to do.”
I left her praying in Spanish. I walked upstairs to my room, got some fresh clothes, then took a washcloth and towel from the bathroom.
We’re not supposed to stay upstairs any longer than we have to. The roof could cave in anytime. But still I waited for a minute, a second, hoping for that miracle I knew would never happen.
I stopped in the kitchen, wetted the washcloth, then poured Julie a glass of water. Maybe I thought about Alex. I’m not certain. All I remember is opening the envelope, taking out two of the pills, and shaking so hard the water spilled out of the glass.
Julie was quiet when I returned. I pulled off her pants and underpants, cleaned and dried her as best I could, and put on the fresh clothes. Then I lifted her gently, raising her head and bac
k from the pillows she’d been resting on.
“I want you to take these,” I said, showing her the pills. “They’ll help you stop coughing.”
“I can’t hold them,” she said.
“No, you can’t,” I said. “Wait a second. I’ll put them on a spoon for you.” I rested her tenderly on the bed again, went back to the kitchen, and put the pills on a spoon. Then with my left arm, I lifted her again, placing her head in the crook of my arm, and with my right hand I spoon-fed her the pills. When I was sure the spoon was empty, I put the glass of water to her lips and watched as she swallowed.
“Say a prayer and go to sleep,” I said. “Think about heaven, Julie, and your dreams will be sweet.”
I think she prayed. I think she said thank you. I think I heard her murmur, “brie,” and “poppy.” I know I kissed her on her forehead and told her she would never be hungry or scared or lonely again.
I remembered a prayer Grandma had taught me. I knelt by Julie’s side and put my fingers on her mouth so God would know the prayer was for her, not me.
Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
When I couldn’t deny to myself anymore that she was sleeping, I eased one of the pillows from beneath Julie’s head. I held it down for as long as I could, until I could be certain, for her sake, for Alex’s, that she was in the healing embrace of her Holy Mother.
I returned the pillow to its place and gently kissed her good-bye.
She didn’t wake up.
She never woke up.
July 12
Syl woke me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s water coming into the cellar. We have no time to waste.”
“Julie?” I said.
“She passed while you were sleeping,” Syl said. “Freshen up, Miranda, and I’ll go tell the others.”
My diary was in my hands. I’d fallen asleep in the sunroom and never put it back in my closet.
Syl had pulled one of the blankets over Julie’s head. Two days ago Julie’d biked into town with my brother. Now she was just another of the dead.
I went to my room, put the diary in its hiding place, then returned to what had been Mrs. Nesbitt’s. We worked continuously, not even stopping to get food for Lisa.
The water was waist high when Lisa and Gabriel crossed the cellar to wait for their rescue at the top of the stairs. The moon had risen by the time Dad could pull the cellar door open. They raced out, away from the house, the rubble piled high on either side of them. One of the mounds collapsed inward, but they were already safe.
Dad told her then about Julie, about Alex. I think Lisa had already guessed it, because she was the one comforting Dad as he stood there weeping.
Chapter 19
July 13
The roof caved in on Mom’s bedroom that night. We’d slept in the sunroom together so none of us were hurt.
Matt had carried out Julie’s body and rested it on Jon’s mattress in the dining room, but it didn’t matter. We felt her presence. Charlie’s, too. I sensed Mrs. Nesbitt with us, and so many other people I’ve loved and lost.
Alex came home.
I knew he would. He would never leave Julie to be alone.
“I was lost,” he said. “I don’t know how that happened. I wasn’t that far from here, but the wind tossed me around and I lost all sense of direction. How long have I been gone?”
Three days, we told him.
“I didn’t know where I was,” he said. “Then this morning I saw the mound of bodies. Most of them were gone. The wind scattered them in the fields, on the road. But there were enough left that I could figure out where I was and find my way back.”
I’d gotten up to be by his side, to hold him when he heard Dad’s next words. “We have bad news for you, son,” Dad said. “Julie passed away. Two nights ago. Charlie died the day before.”
I could feel Alex’s body shudder.
“She wasn’t alone,” I said. “We never left her alone. I was with her when she died. She prayed. We talked about your mother, about saints, about heaven. Julie said it was filled with vegetable gardens, with tomatoes and string beans.”
He dissolved then. Whatever strength he’d had to get through the storm, to get through the year, melted in a moment. He collapsed onto the floor, sobbing as I’ve never heard anyone sob.
I knelt beside him, held him, kissed him, but his pain was beyond anything I could say or do. When finally there were no tears left, I led him to the dining room to be with his sister.
It’s been hours. He’s still in there. The rest of us take turns, going to the flower garden to say good-bye to Horton, to Mrs. Nesbitt’s to say good-bye to Charlie. One of us is always by Alex’s side, holding his hand, praying with him. Jon stayed the longest, but Jon had his own prayers to say.
I stood in the doorway watching, listening. I heard Dad tell Alex what had happened. I can’t be sure Alex understood. He wasn’t there when Julie couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. We were trying to describe a color he’s never seen.
Mom doesn’t pray, but she knelt by Alex’s side, put her arm around his trembling shoulders. “We’re going to have to leave in the morning,” she said. “We’ll start by going west, all of us together. We’ll stop when we can find food, people, work. If we have to, we’ll turn south. It won’t be easy to leave. It will be harder for me than anything I’ve ever done. It will be harder for you, because you’ll be leaving Julie behind. But we can’t stay here. The house is falling in on us. It’s collapsing, Alex, but you have to believe the world is still there. The house is gone, Howell may be gone, but there’s a world to live in, a world that needs us. We’re family, Alex. You’re part of us. You always will be, just as Julie was, as Charlie was, as Mrs. Nesbitt was.”
Four days ago Mom was afraid if she took a step outside, her world would collapse and all she loved would be lost.
Now Mom is the one telling all of us that we have to leave.
Alex will come with us. He may not want to, but he will because I’ll tell him to and he loves me. And he’ll have to tell Carlos what happened. Carlos lost a sister, too.
There’ll come a moment, a day from now, a week from now, when Alex will ask me about the missal. Did I find it? Do I have it? That’s what’s on endless loop in my mind now: Alex asking me about the missal, the envelope, the passes, the pills.
I could lie to him. I could tell him I never found it. We’ll have our life together, not the one with Julie, but some kind of life based on family and love and lies.
Or I could tell Alex part of the truth. I could hand him the envelope and ask him to let Lisa and Gabriel and Jon use the passes. They were the people Julie loved the best outside of him and Carlos. Julie would want to know they were safe. She would offer them that gift if she could.
Alex would notice right away, though, that there are only four pills. “I took two the night after Julie died,” I’d say. “I’d lost Charlie, Julie, my home. I thought I’d lost you. I had to sleep but I couldn’t, so I took two of the pills.”
He’d believe me at first. He’d want to believe me, and maybe it wouldn’t have sunk in yet what Julie was like, that the moment he’d dreaded had come, when her death was preferable to life.
But I know Alex, in the way you can know someone only by loving him. He’ll ask me again and again about Julie’s last moments. How did she look? What did she say? Was she at peace with God?
Eventually I’ll let something slip. Or I’ll get so tired of the questions, I’ll shout the truth at him. In my anger I’ll want him to know.
Or maybe I’ll want him to know, need him to know, because unless he forgives me, I will never forgive myself.
Of course he may never forgive me. Not for killing Julie. He would have done that himself. But for not trusting that he would return, that he would live up to his responsibilities, that he would face his own damnation.
&n
bsp; I wouldn’t tell him until after Jon and Lisa and Gabriel were safe. I can hold out until then. We’ll go together as a family, crossing Pennsylvania, making our way south to Tennessee. It will take months, but we’re strong, we’re all strong, and we have reason to live. If Alex asks me to marry him between here and McKinley, I’ll say no. I’ll say it’s too soon after Julie’s death, that neither of us is ready, that I’ll marry him only after he’s been to Texas and told Carlos what happened.
Maybe Alex will have guessed by then what happened and be relieved when I finally admit it. Maybe his love for me is deep enough to forgive me, to accept me. But if it isn’t or if he can’t, I’ll have made sure he’s free to seek solace in his Church. I have so little to give him, but I can give him that.
This is the last time I’ll write in my diaries. I’m choosing not to burn them. They’re witness to my story, to all our stories. If I burn them, it’s like denying that Mom ever lived or Jon or Matt or Syl. Dad and Lisa. Gabriel. Mrs. Nesbitt. Charlie.
Julie.
Alex.
I can’t deny them their stories just to protect mine. So when we go in the morning, I’ll leave the diaries behind. I’ll never write in one again. My story is told. Let someone else write the next one.
There’ve been times in my life when I thought I knew everything worth knowing, the sweetness of a robin’s song, the brilliance of a field of dandelions, the exhilaration of gliding across the ice on a clear winter’s day.
This past year I grew to know hunger, grief, darkness, fear. I began to understand how lonely you can feel even when all you want is to be alone.
Then the rain came. And I learned so much more.
From Syl came lessons of survival. From Gabriel, the message that despair can give birth to hope.
Charlie showed me friendship and family can be one and the same.
Without Julie I wouldn’t have remembered that the darkest sky is filled with stars, that the sun casts its warmth on the coldest day.
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