Alone Page 4

  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:

  1) food and drink (cans of soup, vegetables, fruit, chili, boxes of crackers, bottles of water, cranberry juice, ginger ale)

  2) supplies 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.

  After 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 afternoon 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 fifth 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 left 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 left 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.

&nbs
p; 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

  I Want to Know More

  I sit at Paul’s desk.

  Open drawers.

  Shuffle through files.

  Bills. Tax documents.

  I find what I’m looking for.

  Mom’s divorce papers.

  I want to know what really happened.

  Fifty percent custody.

  Alternating holidays.

  Shared costs of orthodontia and college tuition.

  Take turns claiming me as a dependent

  whatever that means. Ironic given

  how independent I’ve become lately.

  Paul’s files are boring, except for

  a bunch of ten-year-old hospital bills

  and brochures about in vitro fertilization.

  Wow. Seriously?

  Never occurred to me

  that the twins weren’t just

  freaks of nature.

  I’m glad Paul and Mom had Trevor.

  As much as I resent sharing my room

  (It’s only… just temporarily, honey, until

  we get the basement finished…)

  I adore the slobberface.

  Photographs

  A shoebox full of photographs

  on a closet shelf.

  Some taken before my parents got married.

  College. Graduate school.

  One from when they eloped in Las Vegas.

  I love my mom’s jeans and T-shirt.

  My dad’s long, curly ponytail.

  Baby photo of me in a

  tie-dyed onesie snuggling a lamb.

  Pretty darned cute.

  Mom must’ve enjoyed dressing me up.

  Different outfits in every photo.

  Dad seated at the piano.

  Me standing on the piano bench.

  Leaning on his back

  making us both laugh.

  I pull that one out.

  Set it aside.

  School photos.

  Happy holiday faces

  around Christmas trees.

  Can’t remember some of those

  early years together

  just as a family of three.

  Now impossible to imagine life without

  Jennifer and Paul and Trevor and the twins.

  Hate stories about wicked stepmothers.

  The phrase “broken home” pisses me off.

  At my sixth-grade back-to-school night

  the principal told all the families that

  “children from broken homes were five times

  more likely to suffer mental issues than those

  where the family of origin was intact.”

  Mom got so angry she cried.

  Afterward, Dad told the principal

  to do anatomically impossible things

  to herself on her way to hell.

  Maybe once the evacuation order is lifted

  we can write a book about our lives.

  Or something.

  And maybe

  Emma’s family will be okay

  too, after all.

  Homesick

  I take a baby photo of me

  reading and cuddling

  in Mom’s lap and

  the photo of Dad

  and me at the piano

  out on the porch.

  Sit and study

  my parents’ faces.

  Close my eyes.

  Picture them safe

  somewhere.

  Together.

  Mom and Dad talking intently

  to high-level military

  personnel who strategize

  about how to get back

  to Millerville to rescue me.

  Jennifer playing with Trevor

  while Paul and the twins

  consult with top military brass

  on expediting homecomings

  for all evacuees.

  I smile


  thinking my family might

  single-handedly halt

  the imminent threat

  and save the day

  for me and the rest

  of the country.

  I wonder who will

  play us in the movie.

  It’s Weird

  The imminent threat

  all the reporters

  were talking about

  has yet to materialize.

  At least that I can see.

  Aside from the power going out

  nothing has changed.

  It’s weird

  not having a device

  to turn to

  with every urge

  to text someone

  go somewhere

  know something.

  my body’s habits

  reaching

  clicking

  swiping

  bending

  over my screens

  are breaking

  my muscles are confused

  but

  my mind is steady

  Days. Weeks. Months.

  Weeds choke

  the yards

  in all

  the neighborhoods

  and grass

  grows tall

  and goes

  to seed.

  Dogs and cats

  roam

  the streets

  foraging for food.

  The summer

  crawls by

  and the

  evenings begin

  to cool off.

  I talk

  to the silence.

  Sometimes

  I sing.

  I study

  my features

  in the mirror

  looking

  for traces

  of my family.

  I don’t recognize

  my face

  but

  I see

  my father

  in my

  hands.

  Comfort

  Sprawled out on Mom’s bed

  in the glow

  of solar garden lights

  wedged between

  the headboard and the wall

  I reread her worn-out copy

  of Mrs. Mike for the

  gazillionth time.

  Perfect escape from my reality.

  Possibly the best

  adventure-romance-fiction

  book ever written. Never fails

  to transport me out of my life

  and into the vastness

  of Mrs. Mike’s

  Canadian wilderness.

  Follow the geese north

  over Millerville toward Wyoming

  over Montana toward Alberta.

  Toward Sergeant Mike Flannigan

  Royal Canadian Mounted Police

  in his red jacket with brass buttons.

  Sergeant Mike and me.

  Facing unrelenting threats of danger.

  Fighting to survive against all odds.

  Doesn’t matter I am far