May 14

We spent most of the day getting the water out of the cellar. We took turns filling the pails and emptying them. It was a long, disgusting, cruddy day. The electricity never came on, which didn’t help.

Two things, though. Syl worked just as hard as the rest of us. And we didn’t sing, so I guess we’re not crazy.

 

May 15

Matt and Syl biked to town today to get our food, and to see if they could get more now that Syl’s a member of the family, and to ask the mayor to make her an even more official member.

Jon and I volunteered to go with them. “I could be your bridesmaid,” I said to Syl, “and make Mom happy.”

But what made Mom happy was keeping Jon and me home to do our schoolwork. I guess the somewhat more official wedding day of our brother didn’t justify ignoring algebra and Shakespeare.

Mom didn’t supervise us, though. She spent the day in Matt’s bedroom, cleaning it. Matt’s been too impatient to bother.

“We should be going through houses,” I said to Jon. “We’re going to need more toilet paper now that Syl’s here.”

“Another bike, too,” Jon said. “People left all kinds of good stuff behind.”

“I don’t suppose they left any steak,” I said. “I’m getting tired of shad.”

“How do you think I feel?” Jon asked. “It’s all we ate last week.”

I’d been so taken aback by Syl’s existence, I hadn’t thought about what she’d be eating. The shad’s made a huge difference. Instead of sharing a can of this and a can of that and a can of something else, we’ve had a can of this and a can of that and some fish. But the shad can’t last forever, and then we’ll be back to a can of this and a can of that and a can of something else. Only with one more mouth to feed.

All of which was a lot more on my mind than Romeo and Juliet when Matt and Syl got back.

“The mayor wasn’t there,” Matt said. “Mr. Danworth said he’d tell him to come next Monday, so we’ll go back then.”

“What about food?” I asked. “Will they give us an extra bag?”

“Not this week,” Matt said. “Maybe next week if there’s enough. It doesn’t matter. Syl and I can share my food.”

“No,” Mom said. “Syl’s a member of this family, so we’ll all share.”

“That’s fine, Mom,” Matt said. “But I don’t want you eating less so the rest of us can have more.”

“Share and share alike,” I said, picturing what that would be like once the fish supply runs out. Oh, well. I’m used to being hungry.

“We could go back to the river tomorrow,” Jon said. “Matt and Syl and me, and catch some more fish.”

“We should,” Matt said. “I don’t know how much longer the shad will be running, but we should get as much as we can. Syl and I will go. Jon can stay home with you and Miranda.”

“I never get to go anyplace,” I grumbled.

“Jon, you go with Matt,” Mom said. “Syl will stay home with Miranda and me so we can get to know each other better.”

“Mom,” Matt said, and he sounded exactly like me. I guess whining is a family trait.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Syl said. “Besides, you’ll catch more fish if you aren’t distracted.”

Jon snickered. Matt looked like he couldn’t decide who to kill first.

“We’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “And get back Wednesday night.”

“No,” Mom said. “Stay until Friday. Jon’s algebra’s a lost cause, and the longer you’re there, the more fish you’ll bring home.”

“Mom,” Matt said, “could you and I talk about this privately?”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Mom said. “You and Jon do the hunter-gatherer thing. Syl and Miranda can roam around the neighborhood looking for boxes of rice pilaf. I’ll stay home and worry about all of you. That’s the appropriate division of labor.”

Syl burst out laughing, but when none of us joined her, she stopped.

“Come on, Matt,” Jon said. “We’d better catch lots of fish before we start chopping firewood again.”

For a moment I felt sorry for Matt. In an ordinary world he wouldn’t have to leave his wife of four days to go fishing with his kid brother. Then again, in an ordinary world he wouldn’t have exchanged vows with a strange girl the day after meeting her. At least I assume not.

“Tomorrow morning,” Matt said. “And back Friday. After that Syl and I will never be separated again. Is that understood?”

“Nobody’s suggesting otherwise,” Mom said. This time Syl knew better than to laugh.

So tomorrow Matt and Jon will be leaving again. Who knows. Maybe when they get back, Jon’ll have a wife of his own.

 

May 16

Syl and I went house hunting right after breakfast. I guess she was glad to be away from Mom. I know I was.

“Matt tells me you keep a diary,” Syl said as we biked down the road.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s only for me, though. No one else reads it.”

“I know,” Syl said. “It’s just funny to think of someone writing about me.”

“Didn’t you ever keep a diary?” I asked.

“For school once,” she said. “But I made up stuff.”

“Why?” I asked. “Were things going on you didn’t want people to know about?”

“Nothing was going on,” Syl said. “Nothing ever went on. But I felt if I put my thoughts down on paper, they wouldn’t belong to me anymore.”

I’d never thought of it that way, and I didn’t think I wanted to. Mom, Matt, and Jon have always respected my privacy, or at least the privacy of my diaries. We don’t have any other privacy. It feels strange sharing the sunroom with Jon but not Matt. Less crowded but more intimate somehow.

“I can’t get over your hair,” I said. “How long it is. How pretty.”

“Hair is an asset,” Syl said. “You should grow yours.”

“Maybe someday,” I said. Someday when water isn’t gray.

We rode silently for a while, and I waited for Syl to ask me questions the way Jon said she did. But I guess I wasn’t as interesting as baseball.

It didn’t matter. Once we started breaking into houses, I could see how good Syl was at things. At Mom’s insistence we entered each house together, but thanks to Syl, there wasn’t a wasted moment. We went through a dozen houses, top to bottom, inch by inch, garages and sheds included. We didn’t find that much, and we didn’t celebrate when we did find something. No bursting into song over half a roll of toilet paper.

We did find two electric space heaters, though, one for each of us to bike home with. Now, if we ever have electricity, we’ll be able to warm up the kitchen and the dining room.

When we got back home, I went up to my room and hid all my diaries in the back of my closet. They’re my thoughts and I want to keep them that way.

 

May 17

I wish Syl hadn’t said anything about my diary. I can’t blame Matt for telling her, but I really wish he hadn’t.

I’m writing this entry in the kitchen using one of the flashlight pens Jon found for me. Mom’s asleep in the sunroom, not that it ever mattered before. I’ve written in my diary with her and Matt and Jon in the room for months now. But even though I know Syl’s in Matt’s room probably asleep, I feel like somebody’s looking over my shoulder.

Last summer Dad and Lisa were here, on their way out west. With six of us in the house I felt more private than I do right now with just three of us here.

Not that I have anything to write, except to say these diaries are mine, for my eyes only.

 

May 18

Today’s the first anniversary of the asteroid hitting the moon.

A year ago I was sixteen years old, a sophomore in high school. Matt was in his freshman year at Cornell and Jon was in middle school. Dad and Lisa had asked me to be godmother to their new baby. Mom was between book projects.

I know I’ve gained a lot in the past year, but I woke up this morning and all I could think about was everything I’ve lost. No, that’s not right. Not everything, everybody. Everything doesn’t matter, not really. After a while you get used to being cold, and hungry, and living in the dark.

But you can’t get used to losing people. Or if you can, I don’t want to. So many people in the past year, people I’ve loved, have vanished from my life. Some have died; others have moved on. It almost doesn’t matter. Gone is gone.

I was lying on my mattress in the sunroom, thinking about how today was the first anniversary and whether I should mention it to Mom. I know dates because of my diary, but calendars vanished along with everything else during the past year. Somehow I felt the anniversary was like the mound of bodies, the kind of thing you keep to yourself.

But the one thing I’ve gained this past year is a sister-in-law, and over breakfast this morning (a shared can of sweet potatoes, not the breakfast I had a year ago), Syl brought up the subject.

“Today’s the first anniversary,” she said.

“Of what?” Mom asked. “Oh, it’s been a week since you and Matt exchanged your vows. Well, he’ll be back tomorrow and you can celebrate then.”

“No, Mom,” I said. “Today’s the first anniversary of when everything happened. It happened a year ago today.”

“Has it only been a year?” Mom asked. “Time sure passes when you’re having fun.”

“May 18th,” Syl said. “I’ve been keeping track of the days for a while now. I felt I should do something significant on the anniversary day.”

“Significant like what?” I asked. “You got married a week ago. It’s hard to be more significant than that.”

“Something more global,” Syl said. “Maybe an offering to the moon goddess.”

“Not my firstborn,” Mom said. “He’s not available.”

Syl laughed. “I’m not about to sacrifice Matt,” she said. “But there must be something we could give up. Something that matters, that Diana will accept.”

“Diana’s the goddess of the hunt,” Mom said. It always amazes me she knows stuff like that.

“She’s also the goddess of the moon,” Syl said, proving she had every bit as much useless information as Mom did. “Apollo, god of the sun, is her brother.”

“Maybe he’s the one we should make an offering to,” I suggested. “We need sunlight a lot more than we need moonlight.”

Syl shook her head. “It all began with the moon,” she said. “We should start there.”

I looked around the sunroom. Horton was sleeping by the woodstove. He’s gotten thinner the past couple of weeks, but I wasn’t about to offer him to any goddess.

“Maybe Jon’s baseball card collection?” I said. “Diana might like a Mickey Mantle rookie card.”

“No,” Syl said. “The offering has to come from us. We’re Diana’s handmaidens.”

“I know,” I said. “We’ll give Diana some fish.”

“No,” Mom said. “We need that fish. Diana can eat out on her own dime.”

Syl looked at us. “What do you cherish most?” she asked.

“My children,” Mom said. “After them my home. And they’re all off limits to Diana, Apollo, and any other god who might happen by.”

“My diaries,” I said.

“No,” Mom said. “Off limits also.”

I had mixed feelings about that. Mrs. Nesbitt, I remembered, burned all her letters before she died. Not that I’m planning to die in the immediate future, but if I burned my diaries, I wouldn’t have to worry about Syl reading them.

“I don’t mind,” I said.

“I do,” Mom said. “Your diaries are the only record of this family’s existence. They’re our link to the past and the future. I won’t let you destroy them. Not on a whim.”

“I don’t have anything else,” I said, thinking about how pathetic my life was, that I didn’t have a single possession worthy of an offering to a goddess I hadn’t known existed ten minutes before. “Oh, I do have some trophies, from when I skated. Maybe Diana would like those.”

“One trophy,” Mom said. “That third-place one you got. The tacky one.”

I ran upstairs to my bedroom and found the tacky third-place trophy. I clutched it for a moment, thinking about that competition. I’d fallen twice. If I’d only fallen once, I might have come in second, but the girl who won was really good, and there was no way I could have gotten first.

I’d been ten. Mom and Dad were there, and even Dad, who loved to encourage all of us to do better at our sports, could see the difference in quality between me and the girl who won. On the drive home, instead of talking about my practicing more and harder, he said how proud he was of me, the way I’d gotten up after both falls and continued to skate well enough to medal.

I held on to the trophy and thought about what life had been like when Mom and Dad were still married, when I thought the worst thing that could possibly happen was falling during a competition. I’d been so young, so dumb, upset only that falling twice had cost me the silver.

I went back to the sunroom and found Mom and Syl discussing the appropriate ceremony. “I can’t believe you’re agreeing to all this,” I said to Mom.

“I don’t see why not,” she said. “I did sillier things in college. I’ve decided to sacrifice my first book contract. Stay here while I go look for it.”

I put the trophy on the floor and sat on my mattress.

“Your mother is amazing,” Syl said. “I thought she’d be all righteous about this. No pagan practices, if you know what I mean.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think Mom believes in much of anything,” I said. “And it’s not like we really think the moon’s going to zip back into place just because we give it a tacky trophy.”

“It’s a beautiful trophy,” Syl said, walking over and picking it up. “You must have been very proud when you won it.”

“Not really,” I said. “Mom’s book contract is a much bigger offering. First book, firstborn, that kind of thing.”

“I have to give up something as well,” Syl said.

“You didn’t come with a lot of stuff,” I said.

Syl laughed. “I travel light,” she said.

“I’m sure Diana will understand,” I said. “Besides, she’ll be so dazzled by my trophy, she won’t notice anything else.”

“She’d better notice my contract,” Mom said, joining us. “At least she should appreciate how quickly I found it. You may not believe this, Syl, but I used to be a very organized person.”

“I know what I can offer,” Syl said, her eyes lighting up. “My hair.”

“No!” I cried. “You can’t cut your hair. It’s an asset.”

“I don’t need it anymore,” Syl said. “Matt loves me, not my hair. Well, not just my hair. Where are your scissors?”

“Do you really think you should?” Mom asked. “Your hair is so beautiful.”

“So is Miranda’s trophy,” Syl said. “So is your contract. They’re things that matter. Where do you keep the scissors?”

Mom shook her head, but I got the scissors and brought them to Syl. “I won’t be able to cut your braid,” I said. “It’s too thick.”

“Don’t worry,” Syl said. She unbraided her hair and then took the scissors from me and whacked away. By the time she was finished, her hair looked ragged, the same as Mom’s and mine, but her cheekbones looked even better.

Life really is unfair.

“Now what?” Mom said. “We can’t make a burnt offering out of Miranda’s trophy.”

“Let’s bury everything,” Syl said. “I’m sure Diana will understand.”

I wasn’t too sure about that. The last thing I want is for the moon to get any closer because of a simple misunderstanding.

“I have a gift bag somewhere,” Mom said. “Left over from last Christmas. No, Christmas before last. I keep bows in it. Hold on, I’ll get it.”

“I’m going to the bathroom to look in the mirror,” Syl said. “It’s been years since I had short hair.”

Horton and I stayed in the sunroom until they got back. Horton didn’t seem at all interested in offerings, so I didn’t ask him if he’d be willing to give up his favorite catnip mouse.

Mom and Syl came back, and we put the trophy in the bag first, and then the contract around it, and stuffed in Syl’s hair.

“There should be a shovel in the garage,” Mom said. “Miranda, get it, and you girls can bury everything by the window. I’ll stay inside where it’s warm.”

“Join us—” Syl said, and she stopped in such a funny way, Mom and I both understood the problem immediately.

“Call me Laura,” Mom said. “And thank you, but I’d just as soon watch from here.”

I went to the garage and got the shovel, and then Syl came out with the bag. We picked a spot where it would be easy for Mom to see us, and we took turns shoveling. All the snow is melted now and the ground is soft, so it didn’t take much effort. Besides, I folded the bag over, so it wasn’t very big.

I thought about how hard it had been for me to pray by the mound of bodies, and I realized if I couldn’t pray there, I didn’t want to pray to a goddess. “You say something,” I said to Syl. “I’ll pray silently.”

“All right,” Syl said. “Oh, Diana, goddess of the moon. Take our offerings and return peace and wholeness to our planet.”

I thought about the earth then, really thought about it, the tsunamis and earthquakes and volcanoes, all the horrors I haven’t witnessed but have changed my life, the lives of everyone I know, all the people I’ll never know. I thought about life without the sun, the moon, stars, without flowers and warm days in May. I thought about a year ago and all the good things I’d taken for granted and all the unbearable things that had replaced those simple blessings. And even though I hated the thought of crying in front of Syl, tears streamed down my face.

“That’s good,” she said, gently wiping my cheeks. “Your tears are the best offering of all.”

 

May 19

It was an awful day.

It started raining last night and it never stopped. It was cold and windy, and the combination made me realize we haven’t had electricity in a week or more. All those lovely electric heaters are useless.

We had no idea when Matt and Jon would get back, but we knew they’d have a hard trip because of the rain. Mom checked on the cellar to see if it was flooded, and she cursed so loudly, Syl and I could hear her from the sunroom.

Horton’s hardly eaten since Jon left, but in spite of that he managed to throw up a hairball. Even though we’ve been cooking the shad on the barbecue outside, the sunroom stinks of fish. Two aspirin did nothing for my head ache.

Matt and Jon got in around 4:00. Last week they brought back two huge bags of fish and a sister-in-law. This time all they had was a half bag.

“We stayed as long as we could,” Jon said. “There was hardly any fish. Everyone was gone.”

“Put on some dry clothes,” Mom said. “We’ll be fine with what you caught.”

But we all knew we wouldn’t be. We’ll go through the fish in no time, and then it’ll be five people with food for four. I can tell myself over and over that I’m used to being hungry, that it isn’t so bad, but it is bad and I hate it. I just hate being cold and lonely and dirty more.

The first thing Matt did was go to Syl and hug her so hard I thought she’d choke. “I kept thinking what if you’re not here,” he said. “What if you left while I was gone?”

“Why would I do that?” Syl asked, which wasn’t exactly the same as “I love you and need you and will never ever leave you.”

Matt pulled away from her and then he noticed. “What did you do to your hair?” he said. “Mom, did you make Syl cut her hair off? Was it so she should look like shit, the same as the rest of us?”

“No, Matt,” I said. “Mom tried to talk her out of it.” It didn’t seem like the right time to explain about offerings to the moon goddess Diana.

“I was tired of it,” Syl said. “It was a nuisance to keep clean. Besides, this way I look like I belong.”

“You don’t belong,” Matt said. “Don’t you understand? I love you because you’re different from everything I’ve been stuck with this past year.”

“I’m sick of you, too!” Jon shouted. “I don’t want to be in this stupid family, either!”

“Matt, you go upstairs,” Mom said. “You and Syl both. Take your fight to your room. And change into dry clothes while you’re up there.”

“Mom, you can’t keep telling me what we should do,” Matt said.

“Yes, I can,” Mom said. “As long as you live under my roof. Now go!”

Syl took Matt’s hand and led him out.

“Miranda, take the bag of fish and put it in the garage,” Mom said. “Now.”

“Can I put my coat on first?” I asked.

“No back talk!” Mom said. “Get out.”

I grabbed the pathetic half-full bag of smelly, disgusting, uncleaned fish and went out into the cold, dreary, rainy day. When I got to the garage (which in all honesty took about ten seconds), I realized I didn’t have the key to the padlock. I was stuck outside in the cold, dreary rain until Mom came to her senses.

I didn’t know how long it would take Matt to fall in love with shorthaired Syl, but my guess was once he noticed her cheekbones, he’d adjust. Which meant the two of them would resume their honeymoon and it’d be a while before we saw them again. Which was fine with me.

But what I really couldn’t be sure of was how long Mom would need to talk with Jon. And even though my head hurt, and I hate shad, and I was cold and wet and hungry and scared, I knew Jon was cold and wet and hungry and scared and really angry at Matt, who must have made his life miserable for the past few days.

So I stood against the garage wall with the bag of shad by my side. It began raining really hard then. There was no way to keep dry, and I began to shiver.

“It’d serve them right if I died of pneumonia,” I said to myself, because when you’re stuck outside in the rain with half a bag of dead fish, you say stupid things like that out loud.

I thought about pulling the shad out of the bag and counting them, multiplying by two, for the two remaining bags, then dividing the total by five, so I could guess how short a time it would be before all we’d have were a few cans of vegetables to keep us alive.

I thought about the mound of bodies.

I thought about what a really rotten moon goddess Diana had turned out to be.

I wasn’t outside for more than ten minutes, but it was long enough that I was shaking pretty badly by the time Jon came to get me. He was carrying my coat and an umbrella.

“Mom says she’s sorry,” he said.

I knew she was. I knew Matt was, too. I knew we were all sorry. That’s what we’re best at. Being sorry.

 

May 20

Last night Jon took the plywood off the dining room window and moved his mattress in. He now has the room to himself, although of course we can look in from the sunroom.

Mom asked me this morning if I wanted to take the plywood off the kitchen window as well. She said she’d keep sleeping in the sunroom and could check on the woodstove during the night.

I considered it, but right now what I really want is to be back in my bedroom. Being there the other day, looking at my skating trophies, made me long for my bed, my chest of drawers, my windows.

The dining room has two doors: one from the living room and one from the kitchen. But we’re never in the living room, since that’s where we put all the dining room furniture. And there’s no reason to go from the kitchen to the dining room, except for Jon to get in there.

But you have to cross the kitchen to get to the downstairs bathroom and the sunroom, and even the cellar stairs. And it’s the kitchen. We keep our food there and plates and silverware.

The dining room may only have fake privacy. But the kitchen has no privacy whatsoever.

So I’m going to keep sharing the sunroom with Mom, at least for the time being. We moved our mattresses away from the back door, and then we moved the clothesline into the kitchen so the sunroom feels less like a dorm and more like a family room.

It’s rained on and off since Matt and Jon got home. It’s not like I expect to see sunlight, but I’d like it if things dried out.

 

May 21

Just what we needed. A cold spell. The rain turned into snow last night, and there are a couple of fresh inches on the ground.

“Sometimes it snows in the spring,” Mom said. “It’ll melt soon enough.”

Matt and Syl took advantage of the snow day by spending it in Matt’s room. Occasionally there were shrieks.

Jon reorganized his baseball cards. Good thing we hadn’t sacrificed Mickey Mantle.

I looked out onto the backyard and pictured the mound of bodies covered once again with snow.