This Is Not Adolescent Hyperbole
This is my reality.
Alone in this place where I’ve been surviving on my own for over three years with no one but
a big, smelly rottweiler who farts and hogs the covers.
(You might think
I’m exaggerating but I’m not. I’m not just “being dramatic,” like my grandma might say.)
I figured by the time
I was a teenager I’d be thinking about
getting my driver’s permit going to dances
playing varsity soccer and kissing.
But instead
I’m thinking about where to find food and fuel
and water
and whether to use Mountain Dew to force flush the toilet
or to drink
even though it’s the color of radioactive urine
and it’s probably toxic when ingested over long periods of time.
Better to be radioactive or dehydrated?
These are the questions that plague
my daily existence. At least for now.
At least until
my parents come back.
Heaven
(n.) bliss, ecstasy, paradise, dreamland
Back When My Life Was Heaven and I Had No Idea
“Shoes off before you come in!”
Mom hollers as I open the kitchen door. “I mopped today.”
She wipes orange slop off the baby’s face. “Honey, I know you have different rules at your dad’s, but could you try
a little harder to make an effort when you’re at our house?”
Sometimes
the way my mom talks to me feels like a scratchy shirt tag on the back of my neck.
I kick off my tattered silver Converse and calculate how much more
I need to save before
I can special-order a custom pair for my thirteenth birthday.
Mom hugs me. “Sorry, sweetie.
I’m just rushing to get ready to go. So glad you’re home.”
Hands me a mug filled with chopped carrots and celery. “I bet you’re starving.”
I squeeze an empty Twinkie wrapper in my pocket. I’ll have to remember to throw it away later.
Before middle school
I was never even tempted to lie.
Lately though
it just seems to make things so much simpler.
Mom
“Are you going out like that?” I make my horror obvious.
Mom has on the paisley embarrassments she calls her “meditation pants.”
She always wears something mortifying to the Tuesday-night dharma talks.
They all just sit still and learn to breathe.
Like breathing is something you have to learn.
Mom does that thing where she pulls my hair to get me to smile.
“Oh come on, honey.
It’s called a ‘sitting meditation.’ If I wore jeans like yours
I’d lose circulation in my legs.
Come to think of it
did your dad see you wearing those when you lefi this morning?”
Seriously?
My jeans are not even tight.
So what if the shape of my cell phone
is permanently embossed on one pocket?
Sometimes just being
in the same room with my mom even the sound of her voice makes it hard to be a person.
Paul’s car pulls up. Mom grabs her wallet out of the diaper bag.
“Thanks for babysitting, sweetie.
We should be back early unless they’re stopping people at the checkpoints.
We’ll definitely be home before the curfew.”
She kisses Trevor. Calls to the twins. “Hey, guys, bedtime at the usual time tonight. No messing around!”
She signs I love you toward the dining room blows me a kiss
and is gone.
Brothers
Trevor smiles from his high chair. Reaches for me.
I lean in.
Pretend to steal his nose. He erupts in belly laughs.
Smears pureed carrots in my long hair.
I pull it into a ponytail with a twist tie.
Sigh.
I adore my baby brother but
I want to get upstairs.
Check on The Weekend Plan.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to eat that.” Elliott surprises me.
Unnaturally quiet. Never hear him coming.
I try to bribe him to feed Trevor. (I have another Twinkie
in my backpack.
In the gluten-free economy of my bizarre family
Twinkies are worth a lot on the stepbrother
black market.)
But he’s helping James. Science project.
Can’t be bought.
They have one of those freaky twin connections.
Can read each other’s minds.
Plus the fact that James is deaf makes me feel awkward.
Even afier all this time.
I know it’s not cool
to say that, but there it is. I said it anyway.
Doesn’t help I live half-time with Dad and Jennifer.
I used to love the regular breaks from gluten-phobic diets and silent dinner conversations.
Until Paul and Mom had Trevor. Now it feels like I’m missing out.
I want my own freaky connection with someone who can read my mind.
Pocket vibrates.
Click on Ashanti’s name.
6:55 p.m.
WEEKEND MISSION IS GO
Our Weekend Plan (or, How I Got Myself into This Mess)
We are going to lie
to our parents and have
a
secret sleepover.
Emma and Ashanti will say
they are spending the night at
each other’s house and I will tell Mom I am with Dad
and tell Dad
I am with Mom but
we will actually sleep over at
my grandparents’ empty summer apartment.
We will:
make popcorn
stay up super late
watch glamorous old Katharine Hepburn movies lounge on the king-sized bed
sleep as long as we like
No one nagging us to: get up
do the laundry clean your room
change (stinky gross) diapers
We. Are. Geniuses.
Thesis
Afier dinner, Elliott sneaks up on me again. “Can you please help me with my book report? I’m having trouble with my thesis.”
Thesis?
He’s in fourth grade.
What does he know about drafiing a thesis? “I’m in Accelerated.”
(my family is a freak show)
He takes a deep breath. Launches his explanation.
“It’s called Island of the Blue Dolphins and it’s about a girl who lives alone on an island for eighteen years.
She jumps off a boat and stays behind to save her brother but then he dies
and she tames a dog and later she makes a friend but really she’s pretty much on her own
until she’s totally grown up and—”
“ELLIOTT.”
Sharper than I intend.
His hands flutter.
He shifis his weight.
I tweak the brim of his hat. He relaxes.
“I have to prove whether her biggest challenge is to
- defend herself against the wild dogs
- provide food and shelter for herself
or
- learn to trust a friend.”
Plot details are sketchy in my memory. I ask him what he thinks.
“Her brother dies and she’s lefi alone.” Elliott’s eyes fill with tears.
“The wild dogs get him.”
He glances toward the dining room where we hear James working.
Jeez. Why do they let little kids read stuff like this even if they are in Accelerated?
“Listen, Ell,” I say, “wild dogs can be scary for sure and it sucks what happens to her brother
but if she doesn’t have a place to live and
food to eat, she can’t exactly survive, can she? I think her biggest challenge is B, definitely.”
Elliott exhales.
“Really? I kind of thought so too
but I wasn’t positive. Thanks, Maddie!”
I smile.
And think of the upcoming weekend.
Our very own Island of No Brothers or Parents. All alone with unlimited fun and freedom.
Cannot wait.
Paul
I wrangle the boys into their bunk beds.
Trevor finishes his bottle and falls asleep in the crib across the room from where I lie on my own twin bed.
I don’t love sharing my room but at least for now he’s quiet.
Log in to my laptop. Kitten videos.
Tumbling around on
a patient golden retriever. Adorable. So precious.
Hear garage door.
Switch computer to online history textbook. Open binder.
Stretch out on stomach. Pretend to study.
Afier a few minutes, Paul peeks in the open door.
“Hey there, how’s it going, kiddo?” He crosses to Trevor’s crib.
Tucks in the baby blanket.
I grunt.
Frown at my Cornell notes. Draw an elephant in the margin.
(My friends all say I draw really good elephants.)
Paul tries again.
“It’s nice to have you here. We miss you on the weeks you’re at your dad’s.”
Not even sure why I’m being so rude.
Paul’s gentle voice brings out the meanest part of me.
“Well, we really appreciate you babysitting so we could have a little date. Thanks.”
He pauses.
A few awkward moments. I keep drawing.
“Okay. Sleep tight.” Paul leaves the room. Closes the door.
exhale
slam the computer shut roll onto my back
stare up at the ceiling fan
trace the pattern of blades moving in lazy rotations weekend can’t come soon enough
Friday
Feeling fine.
New striped top and denim leggings. Jean jacket. Floral backpack.
I even let Mom kiss me as I leave for school.
Language Arts (autopilot)
Pre-Algebra
(autopilot)
Study Hall
(shopping list)
Social Studies (lockdown drill)
Fine Art
(progress on vanishing-point project)
Spanish
(autopilot) Earth Science (autopilot)
Final bell!
Bike to store.
(snacks, soda, frozen pizza) Grocery bags on handlebars.
Fifieen-minute wait at intersection for military trucks to roll through town.
Convoys come through every day now.
Mom always has the news on listening for information about checkpoints and delays
and “protective action” curfews whatever that means.
I personally don’t get why everyone is so uptight. It’s just a bunch of trucks moving stuff around not World War III.
Pedal to grandparents’ empty apartment. (Easy to get the key
since Dad had an extra set hanging on a hook
in the laundry room.)
Soda in fridge to chill. TV on.
Feet up.
YES
Tangled Web
to Mom 4:46 p.m.
plan changed
staying over at dads for help with huge history project
back tomorrow afternoon xo
to Dad 4:47 p.m.
babysitting tonight for P and Mom
c u sunday after church? I’ll make the waffles this time!
from Mom 4:50 p.m.
Please ask Dad if he might be able to get us two tickets to the concert next Thursday? I’d like to take Paul for his birthday.
Good luck with the project and don’t stay up too late.
 |
Concert tickets are a good idea. Dad conducts.
Jennifer plays flute.
Paul doesn’t play anything but loves music.
from Dad 4:53 p.m.
Sounds good. I want bananas and walnuts on mine! Make sure you charge Paul time and a half for working on a weekend! ha ha.
love you.
Everything is going perfectly.
Monkey Wrench
Emma 6:40 p.m.
no sleepover.
ashanti threw up in her moms car
 |
Me 6:40 p.m.
gross! can u still come?
tell ur mom ur sleeping over at my house
Emma 6:41 p.m.
tried but she called ur mom who said u were 2 busy w/ur dad doing history. sux! maybe next week?
Me 6:41 p.m.
 |
A banquet of junk food spans the coffee table.
All that money and risk and no one’s coming afier all.
At least there’s no crying baby to wake me up and I can sleep in tomorrow.
I settle into the couch and scroll through channels until I find an old black-and-white movie.
Ginger Rogers tap-dances with Fred Astaire around a big empty dance studio.
An invisible orchestra plays somewhere offscreen. Ginger lifis her wrist and her skirt swirls around her like the petals of a tropical flower.
Her perfect hair falls to her shoulders in smooth, elegant waves.
I tug my fingers through my curly tangles and reach for a Twinkie.
Disruption
middle of the night trucks rumble
loud voices outside
grab remote TV off
glad lights aren’t on in the apartment
something BANGS against the front door I jump
footsteps move down the hall unfamiliar voice speaks outside the door
“What about this one?”
“They’re part-timers,” says a neighbor “only here for summers and holidays.”
voices move away doors close and open and close
I creep across the floor crouch by the door
hear people talking downstairs dogs barking outside
someone having a party? curious
but can’t risk being seen
avoid windows sound
light
if I get caught here alone I’ll be grounded forever worry infects the room
eventually sounds fade crawl back to the couch pull up Grandma’s afghan
sit in the dark
wide awake
Forsaken
(adj.) deserted; abandoned; forlorn
Saturday
Bright sun shines high in the sky.
The sofa cushion is embossed on my cheek and my teeth feel fuzzy.
I rub sleep crumbs from my eyes. Reach for the last of the popcorn.
Plug in my phone to charge the dead battery. Messages and missed calls light up the screen. Oh crap.
Text Message
 |
EMERGENCY ALERTS 12:01 a.m.
IMMINENT THREAT ALERT. INCREASED PROTECTIVE ACTIONS ARE BEING TAKEN. FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS OF LOCAL AUTHORITIES. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
VOICE MAIL FROM DAD
“Hey there, sweetheart. I’m sorry this happened so fast and we didn’t get a chance to touch base, but we’ll reconnect when we arrive, and then your mom and I will work out a plan for the next few weeks, okay? In the meantime, don’t be scared, I’m sure this is all just precautionary. And Jennifer says not to worry, because she’s packing your earbuds and your purple jeans, and she’ll give them to you when we see you. Okay, Peanut? I love you and I’ll see you soon. Be sure to help your mom with the boys and try not to worry. Bye now.”
1:39 a.m.
VOICE MAIL FROM MOM
“Hi, darlin’, it’s Mom. I hope you can hear me over Trevor crying. I was really hoping to talk to you, but I imagine things over there are as crazy as they are here. We’re trying to get everyone up and moving and it’s pretty chaotic. Listen, I only have a second, but I want you to be sure to stay with your dad and don’t try to come home. It’s too hectic to try to make a switch now, and I worry that we’ll end up separated in all the confusion. Stay with Dad and Jennifer, and we will meet you all when we get there. Okay, Maddie? I love you with all my heart, and I can’t wait to see you. Tell your dad I’ll call him.”
2:07 a.m.
VOICE MAIL FROM MOM
“Hi, sweets, it’s Mom again. We were going to drive ourselves, but it sounds like that’s not an option so it looks like we’ll be on one of the transports. I can’t get through to your dad, but hopefully we’ll connect at the embarkation point. If not, we’ll see you when we arrive, okay? Try not to worry, baby. I love you!”
2:21 a.m.
Text Messages
Emma 2:30 a.m.
Thank god we didnt end up sleeping over! isnt this freaky?! which transport r u on? call me!!
Ashanti 3:03 a.m.
hey girl!!! im scared out of my mind and i cant believe we got so lucky imagine if we hadnt been home????we r in line for #78 but the guy says its full so i dont know if we’ll get on where r u? i hope we r on the same transport!
W H A T
IS
H A P P E N I N G
?
Panic
Speed-dial. Mom. Now.
Voice mail. (damn) “Mom? Where are you? What’s happened?
I wasn’t at Dad’s last night.
I stayed alone at Grandma’s. Call me back, please, Mom? I’m really worried!”
SPEEDDIALDADNOW.
Voice mail.
“Daddy, it’s Maddie please call me right away I don’t know what’s going on and I’m scared please call me, Dad!”
Emma: Voice mail.
Ashanti: Voice mail.
I
text text text text text text
everyone.
Nothing.
Television
Reach for remote.
Grave-faced news anchor talks to camera.
“… imminent threat resulting in emergency evacuations… state of emergency… top
priority to secure the homeland… infrastructure protection… western United States… information security… crisis and emergency planning…”
TV shows farmland.
Soldiers erecting rows and rows of tents. Highways and traffic jams for miles.
Picture changes.
Hundreds of sleepy-looking people standing in lines waiting
climbing into military buses vans, trains, trucks.
I scan the crowds
for family or friends but don’t recognize anyone. Don’t even know if
I’m looking at images from Colorado.
Grave-faced news anchor continues.
“… national threat advisory… others on pre-evacuation alert… temporary
shelters in multiple jurisdictions… reduce vulnerability… the safety of American citizens… stay tuned for more
up-to-the-minute coverage of Operation Relocate Freedom…”
Grave-faced news anchor disappears and a cartoon dog barks at a whale on the screen.
I drop to my knees crawl to the window peer over the sill.
No one is in the parking lot below. No one is swimming in the pool.
No cars or traffic pass by on the street. I don’t see a single person.
Imminent Threat?
What kind of threat? Are we under attack? Am I in danger?
Everything looks normal outside except for the absence
of human beings.
What sort of threat are they talking about? Why can’t they be specific?
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to find my family.
Is it safe?
I’ve got to find out, either way.
I turn away from the window and reach for my shoes.
At the Last Minute
I think about air.
What if the imminent threat is in the air? Some kind of poison?
Should I be breathing? How can I not breathe?
I grab Grandpa’s red bandana
off the brim of his gardening hat. Unroll it. Tie it around my face so I look like a surgeon
from a Wild West sci-fi movie.
I make my way out into the hallway and sniff.
I don’t smell anything except for Grandpa’s afiershave.
Downstairs outside
I cling to the sides of the building. Peek around the corner.
Nothing.
The sun is warm.
A breeze blows a piece of junk mail
across the parking lot. Birds are singing.
Singing birds need to breathe! Maybe no poison?
I take a shallow breath and run for my bike.
Evidence
I pedal down the street toward the center of town.
I ride around clothing
photo albums, potted plants
alarm clocks, baby toys, framed pictures laptop cases, cell phone chargers sleeping bags.
I come to the parking lot
for the Park-n-Ride on the corner by the megachurch.
Half-packed suitcases
lie open on the sidewalks.
This must be where they loaded everyone onto the transports.
What did Mom call it? The embarkation point?
If the streets and sidewalks are any indication, it looks like people
had to leave a lot of belongings behind.
I coast around the street searching for any signs of anyone.
Hello?
Anyone here?
Hello?
HELLO? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?
I get off my bike and turn in circles.
I scan every direction
for movement of any kind.
Sounds come
from the bus shelter.
I run hoping someone is
still there.
Place Compromised Devices Here
At the shelter
labeled cardboard barrels overflow with
cell phones.
I hear a ringtone.
Run from one barrel to the next
dig inside to find the ringing phone.
It stops.
All I can hear
is my own desperate panting.
I sit down
on the hard pavement surrounded by cell phones and abandoned luggage.
I cry.
A Thought So Terrible
I dig my own phone out of my pocket. Speed-dial Mom.
It rings in my ear.
A few seconds later
Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer”
—Mom’s special ringtone for me— comes from one of the barrels.
I cry out.
Eyes blurring and breath shallow I speed-dial Dad.
A barrel rings.
I dial Paul.
And Jennifer.
And Emma.
And Ashanti.
The barrels keep ringing.
All the cell phones have been
lefi
behind.
Brain Churn
What now? What now? What now?
Bike twenty miles out to the interstate and try to find someone?
Head north to the fire station
and hope emergency crews are still there? Dial 911!
I hold my breath and pray
for a live person at the other end. Eleven rings.
“… you have reached a number
that has been disconnected… check the number and dial again…”
I call my grandparents in Texas.
“… abnormally heavy call volume… could not be completed… try again…”
Grave-faced news anchor echoes in my head.
“… temporary shelters in multiple jurisdictions…”
With all my heart I do not want to think the next, horrible thought that moves
like a fast-growing cancer through my brain. The thought thinks itself anyway.
What if
my parents have been sent to different shelters
in different places?
And what if
they each still think
I am with the other?
Without their cell phones it could be days
—or even weeks— before they realize
I’ve
been lefi behind.
Upheaval
I ride through town, looking for any sign of another human. Occasionally dogs bark or a hungry cat runs across the road.
At Dad’s, the front door stands open
and Jennifer’s flutes are still in the house. She never travels without her flutes.
I close the windows, lock the doors, and slip the key into my pocket.
At Mom’s, the minivan is in the driveway with the sliding door and back hatch open.
Duffel bags and suitcases sit on the front porch.
It looks like Mom just stepped inside and will be right back.
My heart leaps with hope
but I remember the ringing cell phones in the barrels downtown.
I swallow tears. Close the car doors and go inside.
In their rush to leave they lefi a mess.
open cupboards open closet doors unmade beds scattered clothes
in the boys’ room toppled baskets of toys books piled in stacks
in my room Trevor’s empty crib
humidifier still steaming
I switch it off
curl up on my bed clutch my tattered Lovey Bunny.
Reality Check
Twenty-four hours ago I sat in school surrounded by classmates
teachers custodians.
I went to
the grocery store and navigated busy streets
full of traffic.
Horns honked and people shopped
biked
stood in line ate ice cream played in
the splash fountain.
Now
the only sounds come from the house
or the natural world. The refrigerator hums birds sing
the house fan kicks on but not a single car helicopter
or plane.
No voices
out in the street.
No basketball dribbling in the Nortons’ driveway next door.
No kabump-kabump-kabump
of a skateboarder cruising over cracks in the sidewalk.
Not a single human sound.
Just clocks ticking and dogs barking.
Dogs barking?
I remember cats crossing the road and dogs in yards
as I cycled home.
No one took their pets?
Surely the evacuation can’t last long
or people would have taken their pets!
I have nothing to worry about. People won’t let their animals starve.
Everyone will be back in a day or two.
Dread runs off my body like hot water circling the shower drain.
Relief embraces me
like a warm terry-cloth towel.
Productivity
If my parents will be home in a few days I might as well make myself useful.
And maybe make up for the fact that I lied to them.
Boys’ room:
pick up toys from floor stack books on desks
pile dirty clothes into hamper
Mom and Paul’s room: make bed
hang clothes in closets turn off lights
Bathrooms:
clear counters
close medicine chests wipe mirrors
Front porch:
bring in duffels and suitcases water flowerpots
I find keys in the van’s ignition. Pull it back in the garage?
I’ve only ever driven one time
at my uncle’s ranch in California.
Mom was pissed when she found out.
I lock the car
leave it in the driveway close the garage door.
Heavy Call Volume
Every fifieen minutes, I call my grandparents but still get the “heavy call volume” message.
I haven’t eaten all day.
I flip on the radio in the kitchen and hear the Car Guys
teasing a caller about his carburetor. The familiar voices comfort me.
I find an apple almond butter
a gluten-free mac-and-cheese dinner with soy cheese but I’m so hungry I don’t care.
A jingle plays and the news comes on.
What is the imminent threat?
How long will the evacuation last?
Reporters talk.
“safeguard the American people the cooperation of patriots”
Descriptions of people sleeping on cots sitting in shelters waiting in lines.
I listen for new information, but no one makes any actual sense and
it just repeats what I’ve already heard adding that “agencies across
the eastern half of the United States are coordinating efforts
to take in displaced evacuees.” I chew my apple.
Could there really be something right here
in Millerville, Colorado that is a threat to me personally?
First Night
The streetlights come on. They glow faint orange at first then gain strength.
I search the sky for clues but only the evening star flickers over the foothills and the moon rises
on the horizon.
I cross to the sidewalk.
Look up and down the street.
The neighborhood houses line up in tidy rows.
Some have lights lefi on in the windows.
Others are dark.
Carriage lights on timers glow on either side
of garage doors.
It’s almost
an ordinary evening on Lake Drive.
To the west, the street dead-ends
at Miner’s Lake Park.
How many times have I taken the boys to the playground there or to rent paddleboats in the summer?
How ofien have I pushed Trevor
in the infant swing while Mom went for a quick run around the lake?
Those untroubled days seem long ago
even though
it was only yesterday I was lefi behind.
Somewhere up the block a dog howls at the dusk.
From the other side of the lake a coyote yips an answer.
I go back inside and
lock the door behind me. Being alone is weird enough but being alone at night is giving me the creeps.
I lock every window and close the curtains.
Barricade myself from
the ghost town
that is my neighborhood.
Upstairs in Mom and Paul’s room I turn on the TV.
Click and click. “No signal”
on every channel.
Turn the cable box off wait thirty seconds
on again
click over and over
and
over and over.
I give up.
Pull out The Philadelphia Story
with Katharine Hepburn. Pop it in the player.
Escape into glamour and style from
an earlier century.
I climb up into the big, sofi bed.
Try
to forget I am
completely entirely totally alone.
Morning
Alarm going off going off going off going off.
Six a.m.
Mom gets up early to run.
Mom.
The nightmare of the last twenty-four hours coagulates in my stomach and
I almost don’t make it
to the bathroom in time. Gluten-free/dairy-free vomit swirls down the toilet.
The irony is not lost on me.
I curl up on the bathroom floor. Cool tile comforts my cheek.
I stare at a clump of Mom’s hair nested in the corner behind the tank.
I want to save it, her DNA. I might need it for cloning
someday, just in case.
(in case I never see her again)
But I lie without moving and
close my eyes.
I conjure the peaceful voice from Mom’s yoga video
and try to breathe into my belly but
my belly’s still clenched too tightly around
my fear.
Refusing to let go.
Outside
Everything out the window looks exactly like it did
last night.
No sign of anyone. Nothing has moved.
Standing on the front porch
I hear birds singing at the lake.
A pair of swallows darts
in and around the eaves of the house.
Mother Nature doesn’t seem to mind an empty town with no people.
The sun still rises.
The swallows go right on sculpting their muddy nest high out of reach.
A sudden crash from next door at the Nortons’ house.
I pee my pants a tiny bit.
Someone’s over there.
Next Door
I pound on the back door. Silence.
I use the hidden spare key to let myself in.
George, the Nortons’ rottweiler, eats chocolate chip cookies from broken shards of cookie jar
on the kitchen floor.
He looks at me.
I tell him to stay and he does.
I sweep up the mess.
He sniffs around for another cookie.
I scratch between his ears and
he wags his stubby little nub of tail.
I fill a bowl with water and look for dog food. George wags his whole rear end and keeps bumping into me as I take out the can opener. He gobbles every bite and finishes the water.
I rub his head and belly. Poor baby.
No wonder he went for the cookie jar.
He gives me a little lick and whimpers. He needs to go outside.
He jumps up and runs to the back door.
He sniffs around the yard while I tuck his bowls into a grocery bag.
Add several cans of dog food and some dog treats.
I find his leash in the coat closet.
I whistle and he comes to me.
No need for us both to hang out alone.
He wags again and does his
doggy pant-smile thing. He nuzzles his head under my hand.
Having company feels better already.
Stay Put
George makes me braver. More optimistic.
He runs happily alongside my bike.
We clean up the mess at Dad’s house
then scout all over town looking for anyone or for transports passing through.
We go to the Park-n-Ride and post a big handwritten sign.
We hang around for a long time hoping one of the phones might ring hoping someone might call
might find me here alone but
they are all running out of battery.
I keep trying my grandparents and other friends and relatives but no cell service yet.
I stay logged on to my computer sending e-mails to everyone
but the little dial keeps spinning.
Looking for networks Looking for networks
Looking for networks
I debate riding five miles
over to Lewistown or all the way out to the interstate
to see if I can find anyone
but according to news reports the entire state is evacuated.
And then there’s Dad’s
Golden Rule for Hiking and Camping:
If you’re ever lost, STAY PUT.
Ensure proper supplies
for warmth through the night
then wait for help to come to you.
Technically, I’m not lost.
I know exactly where I am. Is this a “stay put” time?
What if I leave to find help and I do get lost or hurt and everyone comes home and finds me missing?
Following Dad’s rule
seems like the smartest thing
at least for now.
I stay put.
Third Night
We curl up on Mom’s bed to binge-watch a boxed set of I Love Lucy.
George takes over Paul’s pillow. Under normal circumstances this would never be allowed
but I am prepared to face the consequences.
He whimpers in his sleep. Twitches his paws.
I lean on his broad back. He grunts.
Exhales loudly.
Then the power goes out.
Television dies. Lights switch off. The whole house. Silent and dark.
George lifis his head as I cross to the window. I don’t see anything imminently threatening.
Neighborhood is black.
Garage carriage lights are out.
And streetlights and lights down the block at the lake playground.
Only light is the faint white glow
of solar-powered garden lights lining paths in neighboring yards.
George whines. Puts his head down.
His eyes follow my shape as I cross the room.
In the kitchen I find flashlight, candles, matches. I light six candles in the wrought-iron candleholder in the dining room.
I light votive candles in the living room.
Ambiance, Mom would call it.
A little candlelight to set the mood.
Every national crisis needs a little romance.
Dark
Outside, the moon hasn’t yet begun to rise. The constant glow in the skies above Denver is gone.
The dark sky is clear and stars shine loudly.
I haul a comforter into the backyard.
Pull the hammock stand to the center of the grass.
George sniffs his way around the edges of the yard. Explores dark corners. Nighttime smells.
Coyotes yip and cry over near the lake.
George perks up.
Gives a low growl in the back of his throat. Trots to the fence.
Barks a warning.
I whistle and he comes to me, tall and alert. I sway back and forth.
I remember long nights on backpacking trips with Dad, high in the mountains and far
from the city’s light pollution.
I locate Venus.
See the misty band of Milky Way tearing a rip in the inky night.
I wish Dad were here with his telescope and his astronomy app
to identify
everything I’m seeing in the sky.
To help me pinpoint exactly
where I am
in the universe.
tμplouotion
(n.) act of investigating; examination; search for natural resources
Investigation
Afier the power outage George and I conduct
a systematic investigation of the entire town.
Street by street across the grid.
Seeking any signs of life. I bike slowly, listening.
George pads alongside sniffing the air.
We visit homes of
friends and acquaintances. Businesses and schools.
If we find pets, we coax them out hoping they will scrounge food
to survive on their own.
At Millerville Middle School we find an unlocked door behind the gym.
Wander the halls. Footsteps echo against rows of lockers.
I dial my locker combination.
Stare at the contents. Everything is just as I lefi it:
sticky travel mug bunch of binders
magnets of Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe plaid scarf from last winter
I can hear my math teacher droning on about lockers and how
they should be called permutation locks not combination locks.
I wish I was in his class for real. Happily bored and surrounded by people I didn’t even
realize I loved.
A few months ago
I would have jumped at the offer of an indefinite vacation.
Now I long for
the predictable regularity of classes. The comfort of having a daily routine. A place to be and people to notice when I’m absent.
We leave school and ride on through parks, playgrounds
the entire length of the creek path. Bubbles float downstream
and accumulate in yellow foam along the shore.
George tries to drink but I stop him.
Getting sick with giardia is the last thing we need.
I give him what’s lefi from my water bottle.
At the end of our search
all we have to show for it are
sore paws and sunburned shoulders.
I think of Emma and Ashanti.
How things would be different now if only
they had been able to spend the night.
Without Power
The water stops running.
I lug bottled water
up from the basement. Wonder about recycling the empty bottles.
Toilets stop refilling and won’t flush.
I remember once
when the water was off at Dad’s he flushed by pouring water directly into the bowl.
I don’t want to waste drinking water
but I find a case of red wine in the basement.
It’s a fact that wine smells bad and tastes worse.
Even if I liked it
my parents would murder me if I started drinking alcohol the minute I was lefi alone.
Pull out a bottle and am relieved
to find a screw cap not a cork.
Break the seal and
pour a third of the bottle into the toilet.
Nothing happens.
Maybe more volume? More speed?
I find a bucket
in the laundry room. Fill it with wine.
I empty the whole bucket into the toilet bowl
all at once.
The toilet flushes.
The sound is like music.
Waiting
We eat what fresh food we can. Stuff what’s lefi into garbage bags before spoiled food
stinks up the whole house. Drag the bags to the alley. Throw them in the dumpster.
I lower the saddle on Mom’s bike. Use it to pull Trevor’s bike trailer to Dad’s house.
I load up the camp stove, lantern more bottles of water
a case of propane cylinders. Haul it back to Mom’s.
Afier two weeks
we finish the food in Mom’s pantry.
Start on soup and canned vegetables from next door.
Use bottled water
to boil pasta. Oatmeal.
The days are long
so I don’t light the lantern
or candles much.
I save resources and time my activities with the daylight.
But I tell myself my parents are on their way home.
No One Comes
It’s getting more difficult
to comfort myself with the belief
that my parents will be back any minute.
At night, I curl up against George’s broad back. I mull scenarios.
Imagine the reasons why no one has come for me.
The Best Explanation:
My parents are in different shelters.
They haven’t yet been able to contact each other so they don’t know I’ve been lefi behind.
It will just be a matter of time before they reconnect and discover what happened.
I imagine the look on my parents’ faces when they realize where I am.
Mom will demand to talk to whoever is in charge refusing to take no for an answer.
Dad can convince anyone to do anything.
It will only be a matter of time before they’ll be here
maybe even in a big military Humvee that will drive right up to the front of the house, honk the horn, and my parents will climb down to embrace me and carry me away to safety.
That’s the good scenario.
The bad scenario involves a transport accident on the highway, far from help or hospitals.
My little brothers hurt and crying. Mom bleeding on the side of the road. Paul calling out for help.
Or Dad and Jennifer mangled with dozens of others
in an overturned truck, bodies scattered across the highway like images on the news from faraway wars.
I banish those pictures from my mind but they invade my dreams.
I thrash and cry out.
Wake with tears on my face.
George, concerned and whimpering.
On those long nights
I drag my blankets out to the hammock. Watch the stars rove across the sky.
Rock myself back to troubled sleep.
Routine
As summer temperatures rise we fall into a routine.
Spend our time in the cool comfort of the basement family room.
At sunset, I bring in solar garden lights I’ve collected from the neighborhood.
Place them in twos and threes throughout the house. They illuminate enough to get around.
In the morning, I gather them up and return them to the sunny backyard.
They recharge all day.
We have no shortage of good books. I reread my childhood favorites.
E. B. White. Kate DiCamillo. Roald Dahl. Natalie Babbitt. The Calvin and Hobbes treasury.
Old friends to smooth the hard edges of being frightened and alone.
Sometimes I read to myself.
Other times I read aloud to George. He listens politely. Wags his tail when I check to see if he’s paying attention.
When we read late into the evening, we ofien hear the howls and yips of coyotes at the lake.
Hearing them never used to make me nervous but now everything feels like a threat.
More than once we have seen small packs of them running together in the distance.
George stiffens and growls, but always stays with me.
I don’t like to be gone from the house too long in case a rescue party comes and doesn’t find us.
We limit our outings to riding around looking for someone lefi behind.
We don’t find anyone.
Laundry
Twenty-one days since the evacuation. Bottled water supply’s running low.
Only enough for a few more days.
I need clean underwear
but don’t want to waste water.
I drag the big two-wheeled cooler
out of the garage and haul it to the lake. Tip it on its side and fill as much as I can.
The water swirls with dirt and muck.
A sodden duck feather floats on the surface. I use both hands to drag the cooler home.
Wash my clothes in the front yard. Lay them in the sun to dry.
Use the dirty water to flush the toilet.
Scavenging
I go house to house
searching for food, water, other supplies.
Sometimes doors are unlocked. I walk right in. Other times, I find an open window or a dog door big enough to crawl through.
Lots of homes have doors from their backyards into garages, and then unlocked doors from garages into houses.
Must brace for the worst.
Many dogs and cats have starved to death and are decomposing inside.
I occasionally surprise a pet who’s managed to survive by drinking toilet water.
But as guilty as I feel, I can’t help them.
It’s hard enough to keep George and me fed.
I leave the doors open and try to shoo them through so they can test their luck at survival outside.
Mostly, though, rancid fish tanks, bird and rodent cages carcasses of pets make me gag and want to run.
I get in and out as quickly as possible.
Limit my searches to kitchens and pantries.
Anything I haul home has to fit one of two categories or it isn’t worth my time:
- food and drink (cans of soup, vegetables, fruit, chili, boxes of crackers, bottles of water, cranberry juice, ginger ale)
- sup plies for survival (soap, propane, matches, candles, boots, sunscreen)
I always bring a pad and pencil with me.
I always leave a thank-you note with my name and address.
At one house, I find a shoebox full of batteries along with extra flashlights.
At another, I find a first aid kit with bandages and those ice packs that freeze when squeezed hard enough.
At still another, I find a hand-cranked emergency radio.
Radio
No news since the power went out.
Only voice I’ve heard is my own, talking to George. Or my mother’s—calling in my nightmares.
I sit on the floor.
Pull the radio out of the case.
Hold it in my hands, turn it around. Switch it to on but nothing happens.
How does it work?
Crank the handle several times. Broken hisses come from the speaker. Stop again when I stop cranking.
I crank and turn the tuner at the same time.
At first, just static.
Afier a while, though
words push through the crackle.
Turn the dial back and forth. Music.
The melody catches in my throat. Makes my eyes sting.
Turn again.
Voices become discernable.
I don’t recognize names or places. Have no idea where they are.
Sports scores and laughter.
Jokes about a baseball game from the night before.
How can baseball season continue with so many people displaced?
Are the Rockies still playing somewhere?
More laughter.
Sadness balloons in my chest.
Voices marvel at the events of the game. I lean back against the wall and cry.
A commercial for Magic Car Wax comes on and diamond jewelry “guaranteed to win her heart.”
A woman reports that traffic is jammed downtown due to a broken water main.
Commuters should avoid the interchange at Hudson and Parkway.
The voices sound so close but they could be as far away
as Maine or Florida or Alaska. Or Mars.
I stop cranking.
I tuck the radio in my backpack.
Write the homeowner a thank-you note and head for home.
Ghost
I’m hot and sticky.
I’ve spent most of the afiernoon scavenging. One more house then quits for today.
I crawl through a large pet door.
Am assessing the contents of the kitchen when my eyes land on a photo on the fridge.
The face of my classmate smiles out at me.
Heather Juay and I had known each other since kindergarten.
We were never super close, but we went to birthday parties and played on soccer teams. We were friends.
In the summer between fifih and sixth grade her family was driving in the mountains.
A rockslide fell down on the highway crushing the roof of their car.
She died instantly.
My whole family went to the funeral.
I occasionally saw her brother at school.
Now I am standing in her kitchen her dead face grinning at me from
the front of an appliance.
Heather’s bedroom is easy to find. It’s as though no time has passed.
Like she might walk into the room at any moment. Bed made.
Stuffed animals arranged across the pillow. Movie posters on the wall.
Summer reading books stacked on the desk, along with a new binder, a ream of notebook paper
a package of mechanical pencils.
Either Heather had been excited to start middle school or her mother had been.
But the evacuation happened and she’s still dead.
Her room stays frozen in time, despite the disappearance of everyone she loved.
Do ghosts haunt places? Or people?
If she haunts this house
does she know she’s been lefi behind?
I am a ghost. Haunting this town.
Snoop
I ride ride ride toward Emma’s neighborhood.
A golf course meanders around streets called Enclave and Aerie
and Repose.
Em’s ground-floor bedroom has French doors
out to a fountain and a trampoline.
The doors are unlocked.
My eyes adjust to the dim light.
Unmade bed.
New clothes with tags still on them strewn across the floor.
She lefi in a hurry.
Bottles of nail polish and polish remover on the plush carpet next to
a pile of stained cotton balls and a stack of magazines.
In the bathroom
cosmetics litter the counter.
A hair dryer in one of the sinks. A bottle of Emma’s perfume.
I remove the glass stopper. My throat cinches shut.
The fragrance is so familiar it’s disorienting.
Like Emma is standing next to me.
I see myself in her mirror.
My face is sunburned and my hair hangs over my shoulders in tangles. I haven’t worn makeup or straightened my curls since
the evacuation.
I’m wearing Mom’s T-shirt
with the lotus flower and the om symbol but it’s stretched and faded and
smells like lake water. My shorts are filthy and I haven’t shaved my legs.
My silver Converse have a hole in one toe.
Emma would not approve.
I lie on her bed.
Bury my face in her pillow. I can smell her shampoo.
Sleepovers and slumber parties.
Salted-toffee popcorn. Pink lemonade. Cold feet under down comforters.
The time Emma dreamed she was standing up in a canoe and
fell out of bed
in the middle of the night. We got the giggles.
Couldn’t stop laughing.
Where is she now?
Is she laughing somewhere with someone new?
Does she ever think of me?
Too Personal
I go upstairs.
The house comforts me
despite the lack of human presence.
In Emma’s mom’s office
a large desk takes up two walls.
I swivel in her plush leather chair.
Pile of documents
under a glass paperweight with tiny flowers inside.
Folder labeled
Dissolution/Divorce. This can’t be right.
Emma’s family is officially
the Happiest of All My Friends. Emma’s dad gives her mom beautiful, expensive presents.
Whisks her away
to remote Caribbean islands and exclusive Swiss chalets.
They kiss in public even at school events. The whole family
counts their blessings
before eating dinner together. Every night.
Literally. Counts them.
Before anyone takes a single bite.
I go back downstairs. Out into the backyard.
Lie in the shade under the trampoline.
If Emma’s parents aren’t happily married I’m not sure a happy marriage is possible.
My own parents fought and cried before they finally split up.
Emma’s never mentioned anything like that.
Does Emma know?
Has the evacuation changed anything? Made them forget their troubles?
Or has it made things worse?
I want to unread everything.
Go back to Perfect Happy Family. This is too personal.
Intimate. Especially if
Emma doesn’t know.
I want Mom.
Nothing Makes Any Kind of Sense
i ride.
pressure
in my chest starts as
a low thrum but swells from inside out
emanating from belly upward pushing against sternum
into throat
taking space in my mouth. sound
bursts out up into
air above the road.
shouts.wails.roars. down below muscles
explode pedals blur.
i ride as
fast as i can
straight down
the middle of the street
toward home.
Dream
I’m at Heather’s funeral but my parents are getting married and I’m
shouting at them to stop and I’m trying to find Jennifer and Paul
and the twins are crying and I look into the grave and see Trevor playing
on top of Heather’s coffin and I scream
but nothing comes out and I wake up
in the middle of the night jaw clenched fists locked shaking violently.
Paradox
maybe God
sends us nightmares so our living reality doesn’t seem so bad when we wake up
until we wake up and remember
we are living in a nightmare we can’t escape
except by going to sleep
