Alone Read online

  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 aftershave.

  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 phon
es

  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

  left

  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 left

  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 left 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 fifteen 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 ef
forts

  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 left 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 often 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 left 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