This World We Live In (The Last Survivors, Book 3) (24 page)

"I don't understand," Jon said. "What does that mean?"

"It means Julie wants to believe she stil has feeling," Syl said. "But believing it and having it are two different things."

"But she'l get wel ," 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?"

"Al 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."

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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 cel ar 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 stil hope for our children, for their future. That's al 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 al 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

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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 pil s.

Al 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 final y 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. Al I know is we were working by lamplight then, and the night was so clear you could make out the ful 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. Al 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. Al of us love you."

"I wish I could see Lisa and Gabriel," Julie said.

"And Charlie. Charlie always makes me laugh."

"You'l 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

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had her rest against my chest until the coughing stopped. There were three pil ows 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 tel 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 tel 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 tel 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 al that," I said. "You and Alex. In spite of everything you stil believe?"

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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'l 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 mil ions of stars at night, like that painting. And there are gardens. Big vegetable gardens fil ed 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 al right.

We could both tel she'd soiled herself. "I'm sorry,"

she said. "I didn't mean to."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'l 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'l 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

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have to. The roof could cave in anytime. But stil 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. Al I remember is opening the envelope, taking out two of the pil s, and shaking so hard the water spil ed out of the glass.

Julie was quiet when I returned. I pul ed 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 back from the pil ows she'd been resting on.

"I want you to take these," I said, showing her the pil s. "They'l help you stop coughing."

"I can't hold them," she said.

"No, you can't," I said. "Wait a second. I'l put them on a spoon for you." I rested her tenderly on the bed again, went back to the kitchen, and put the pil s 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 pil s. When I was sure the spoon was empty, I put the glass of water to her lips and watched as she swal owed.

"Say a prayer and go to sleep," I said. "Think about heaven, Julie, and your dreams wil 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.

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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 pil ows 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 pil ow 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 cel ar. We have no time to waste."

"Julie?" I said.

"She passed while you were sleeping," Syl said.

"Freshen up, Miranda, and I'l go tel the others."

My diary was in my hands. I'd fal en asleep in the sunroom and never put it back in my closet.

Syl had pul ed 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 cel ar to wait for their rescue at the top of the

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stairs. The moon had risen by the time Dad could pul the cel ar door open. They raced out, away from the house, the rubble piled high on either side of them. One of the mounds col apsed 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.

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***

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 al 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."

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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 fil ed 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 col apsed 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 final y there were no tears left, Wed him to the dining room to be with his sister.

It's been hours. He's stil in there. The rest of us take turns, going to the flower garden to say goodbye 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 tel 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'l start by going west, al of us together. We'l stop when we can find food, people, work. If we have to, we'l turn south. It won't be easy to leave. It wil be harder for me than anything I've ever done. It wil be harder for you, because you'l be leaving Julie behind. But we can't stay here. The house is fal ing in on us. It's col apsing, Alex, but you have to believe the world is stil there. The house is gone, Howel may be gone,

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but there's a world to live in, a world that needs us.

We're family, Alex. You're part of us. You always wil 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 col apse and al she loved would be lost.

Now Mom is the one tel ing al of us that we have to leave.

Alex wil come with us. He may not want to, but he wil because I'l tel him to and he loves me. And he'l have to tel Carlos what happened. Carlos lost a sister, too.

There'l come a moment, a day from now, a week from now, when Alex wil ask me about the missal.