Jenna
Cold cheeks. Before my eyes are open, that's all I'm aware of. Next I register the light through my eyelids, then the soft warmth of the bundle up against my chest. I open my eyes, and there's Everett, his long black lashes against pink cheeks. I inch forward and put my lips against his soft skin, which is cold, like mine.
We have to get out of here.
The feeling settles over me like a blanket, originating from nowhere and everywhere at once.
I roll over and touch Travis's shoulder. His blue eyes pop open, wander for a moment, and finally rest of me. I watch as it registers that we're sleeping in the family room, to be near the fireplace, with our babies bundled close.
"Fire," I whisper.
Everett whimpers.
As Travis backs out of the covers, I roll back toward my baby, whose pink lips are puckering as I untie my nightgown. I pull him to me, and he closes in on his target.
"Good morning, bubby." I rub his head, the fine, downy hair like silk beneath my fingers. His eyes close, and he swallows, his tiny lips a machine.
The popping of the fire as it comes back to life is enough to wake Jacob. His mouth opens before his eyes.
"Is the power still out?" he asks.
He's up on his knees, looking around, surveying.
"Yes, baby, it's still out," I answer.
"Daddy, can I help?" He scrambles out of the blankets, but his foot gets caught in a tangle of sheets, and he falls forward. He lands in a heap, already giggling.
"I need help with this one here. Hurry, it's too heavy!" Travis grasps one side of a thick log, groaning with effort.
I watch as my boys tend the fire, as if this were a normal February morning, as if I could savor the sight of father teaching son. But the light coming through the tall windows of the family room seems too bright, the round arm of the love seat has an edge that's too sharp, and the toys shoved in the corner in haste are a reminder that we aren't having a slumber party. We're in a strange, altered dimension, where our routine is suspended, and our eyes strain under natural light and unaccustomed darkness.
* * * *
Packing turns into a mad dash as soon as we crank the radio and hear fuzz.
All those cans and boxes of food, bought on impulse because they were on sale, are like discovered gold. Who knew I had seventeen cans of beans, peas, and corn? There's oatmeal and cereal, chips and crackers, tuna, rice, and soup. Two boxes of blueberry muffin mix, three boxes of cornbread, and plenty of oil for more. I wonder how many eggs we have in the fridge. There are six boxes of pasta but only two jars of sauce. We have more crackers than soup, more cereal than milk, and only two loaves of bread. My pantry is now empty.
"Good job grabbing all this ice at the store, babe," Travis says as he transfers our frozen food to a cooler.
Everett, in his jumper a few feet away, slaps at a toy, making it light up and dance. He lets out that deep baby laugh and swats it again.
"How much meat did we have in there?" I ask.
"Plenty."
For a week or two? Three at most? I look at my other tote, the one dedicated to jars of baby food and toddler snacks. It's only half full.
Jacob struts into the kitchen with his cowboy hat perched sideways on his head and his silver toy gun in his hand. "I'm ready to help!"
Surely this won't be more than a few days.
"Mama! I said I'm ready to help!" Jacob shouts.
I feel like screaming, but I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
"Here, bud. Help me load up this cooler," Travis says, and he hands Jacob a box of organic corn dogs.
* * * *
Raiding the medicine cabinet, grabbing pills and syrups and Band-Aids, I drop them in a box. I fill a canvas bag with the candles and flashlights that are stashed around the house in case of storms. There's a tote dedicated to toys and books and another just for arts-and-crafts supplies. I wonder if I'm grabbing too much, but I don't want to regret leaving something behind.
"Why aren't these in the car?" I ask Travis as I point to the totes.
"They're unnecessary."
"But..."
Travis continues loading as Everett slaps my chest and squeals, spilling a line of drool.
"Mommy!" Jacob calls from the top of the porch stairs. "I need help!"
"Be right there, baby."
I wait a few seconds, counting them.
"Honey?" I say to Travis.
He stops. "What?"
"Can we please bring those totes too? Just in case?"
"Seriously, honey?"
I look down at my feet.
He sighs. Loudly. "They'd have to go on the roof."
"Isn't that what we got the roof cargo thingy for?"
He rolls his eyes but goes to the garage, comes back with the ladder.
"Thank you," I whisper, brushing his lips with mine.
"You'll pay me back later," he says, grinning.
* * * *
"Mommy, where's my binky?" Jacob asks from the back seat of the car.
We have to get out of here. The feeling is growing strong, demanding action.
I twist around as best I can to look at him. The excitement of our adventure has turned into fear. His face is tense, and he's on the verge of tears.
I panic. I haven't seen his blanket. I have no idea where it is. Beauty, our Labrador, begins whimpering behind me and rests her head on the edge of Everett's car seat, watching Jacob. She can't stand to hear either of my sons cry. My head is throbbing. Have I eaten anything?
"Mommy will find it, baby, I promise."
I move the stack of pillows from my lap to the driver seat, extricate my feet, climb out, and go around the car to where Travis is coming down the ladder.
"Have you seen his binky?"
Travis's forehead creases. He stares at the ground.
"Fudge!" I run up the back stairs and into the house; scan the floor, room by room. I finally catch a glimpse of the worn blue blanket thrown under the vanity stool.
* * * *
My heart starts pounding as soon as we back out of the driveway. No one is outside on our street. No children playing, bundled up and hoping for snow. No lights in the windows. As we come around the corner, a woman is standing in the middle of the street with her long, straight hair flying wildly in the wind and her arms outstretched. She has three coats on, as far as I can tell, and she's shouting, her face contorted with intensity.
"I'm not stopping," Travis says in a hushed tone, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror and landing on Jacob, who's silent and watching.
"We have to," I say.
The woman puts both hands on the hood of our Cherokee, her arms spread, as if in an embrace. She looks through the windshield at Travis, and then her gaze settles on me. She moves around the car and is at my window. I hold my breath as I push the down button, and cold air assaults my face.
"Please help us," she says.
Her eyes look from me to Travis, then back to me.
"My boys are in the car, but I don't have much gas left. It's too cold in the house. I don't have any firewood. I gathered some sticks from the yard yesterday, but it's hard with the boys. They're so young, I can't leave them alone..."
She looks at Jacob, who's leaning as far forward as his booster straps will allow, and then to the car seat next to him, which is facing backward.
"We just moved in a month ago. I can't reach my husband." Her eyes fill with tears, and mine begin prickling.
"He's in Colorado on business. I ... I have no family here." Her voice breaks as she looks back at her car. "Please."
"How much gas do you have?" Travis asks the woman as tears are streaming down her red face.
"I don't know." She runs to her car in her driveway, gets in the front seat, says something to the children, and then is back, breathless.
"A little over a quarter tank."
I look at Travis. We can't leave her here. What will they do? I envision her lugging two small children around, begging door to door in the cold. I see them in my mind's eye. The children begin coughing. They develop fevers. They cry that they're hungry, and she has nothing to feed them.
"Travis."
He looks again at Jacob's face in the mirror and takes a deep breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.
"We're headed to a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains," he says. "It has a generator, a propane tank, and well water. It's going to be cramped if my entire family shows up, which I think they will. But you and your children are welcome there. You can follow us up in your car. You should have just enough gas. It's about an hour drive."
"Thank you! Thank you ... I ... thank you."
"It's okay," I say. "Do you have anything packed?"
"No."
I look at Travis. "I'll help her get a few things together."
"Shut off your engine for now, and be back out here in ten minutes. I'm serious. Ten minutes," Travis tells her.
I jump out and follow the woman to her car. She shuts it off and reassures her boys she'll be back in a few minutes. Crammed between their two car seats, they're buried beneath a mound of blankets, with faces tense like Jacob's.
As we go in through her garage, I ask how old they are.
"Mikey is five, and Caden is three and a half. Two years apart, more or less," she says.
"Our son Jacob is almost five, and Everett is seven months and two weeks."
She stops and turns to me. Her blue eyes once again fill with tears.
"Thank you for stopping. Thank you for helping us." She shakes her head, as if she's willing away the scenarios she imagined before we stopped.
I squirm at the display of her emotionality. "It's okay, really. What do you have that we might need? How much food do you have?"
Now she's the one to squirm.
"Not much. We just moved in."
* * * *
We find a cooler in the garage that's dusty with cobwebs and bring it to the kitchen. In her refrigerator, I find a jug of orange juice, two liters of Coke, an assortment of Lunchables and condiments. I wonder if she knows just how much sodium is in one Lunchable.
"I had to throw the milk and meat away. They soured. But I think the Lunchables might still be okay to eat," she says, wringing her hands. Her nose is running, but she doesn't seem to notice.
"I think we should avoid them, just to be safe."
I suck in my breath as I pull open the freezer. There's a melted tub of double-chocolate ice cream leaking down the bottom shelves, and four bottles of liquor. I'm about to close the door when she stops me.
"Times like these call for a cocktail or two, am I right?"
She takes two bottles of vodka from the freezer and puts them in the cooler. I look at her forehead instead of meeting her eyes, note the three wrinkles there as I say, "Why don't you pack some clothing and toiletries, a few of the boys' favorite things, while I pack the food?"
She nods and disappears down the hallway. I drag the nearly empty cooler across the floor to the panty. Her meager food supply includes a pack of ramen noodles, several boxes of sugary cereal, crackers, and a half dozen cans of SpaghettiOs. I toss it all in the cooler and rummage through a few more cupboards. They're fully stocked. I look around for moving boxes but see none.
I check the time on my Fitbit, stamping my foot distractedly. Stacks of plastic to-go containers fill the sink, unrinsed and crusty. The trash can is so full I'm not sure the bag can be tied. I check my watch again and walk through the dining room toward the hallway. The table is littered with Cheerios. There's a sippy cup on its side, and a wine glass. A week's worth of mail spills from the center of the table.
I pass a child's room on the right. Above the single bed, "Mikey" is spelled out in dark-blue calligraphy. A large duffel bag is already packed and waiting in the doorway. I continue down the hall to the next bedroom, on the left. A large suitcase sits open atop a king-size bed. I hesitate at entering a stranger's bedroom. But then again, we are inviting her into our family home. I clear my throat and enter.
"We really need to go."
She comes out of the master bath, a small travel bag in her hands. She tosses it on the bed's mountain of clothing and zips the suitcase. She looks angry. Her face is red and mottled.
"I'm ready," she says.
I go back to the pantry, grab the cooler, and carefully maneuver down the garage stairs. Travis is waiting at her car and loads her things into the trunk. I look at the time. We took fifteen minutes.
"I'm going to check the house one more time. I'll be really fast," she says, then turns and runs before we can argue.
I open the back door of her car and lean over to see her sons.
"Hi. I'm Jenna." I smile, but only the older one smiles back, tentatively. Then he looks down at his feet. His hair is dark brown, almost black, and he has a large bruise on the right side of his chin. "What are your names?"
"I'm Mikey," he says, and then dips his head to the left to indicate his younger brother. "That's Caden."
"Very nice to meet you both. I'm going to buckle y'all in while we wait for your mommy, okay?"
I reach for the younger boy, but he flinches and pulls away.
His brother puts his hand on his arm and says, "It's okay, Caden. She's nice."
Caden lets me lift him then, carefully, into his booster seat. As I strap him in, Mikey climbs into his own seat and buckles himself.
"Look at you! What a big boy!"
Mikey's face flushes red.
I pull the blankets over them, tucking them around their seats. I can feel Mikey studying me. I smile at Caden before turning to meet Mikey's dark-brown eyes. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks toward the garage door, then back to me. Taking a deep breath, he gives me a tight-lipped smile, then nods.
"Do you want to know where we're going?"
His smile loosens, and he nods several times.
"We're going to a cabin in the mountains. It's warm and has good water to drink. And guess what?"
The boys look at each other.
"I have a little boy too. He's almost your age, Mikey. So, don't worry, okay?"
I nod and squeeze Mikey's knee gently.
"Yes, ma'am," he says.
I close the door and get back in our Cherokee, where Travis is tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, his knee bopping up and down much faster than normal.
"Are they coming with us?" Jacob asks.
"Yes, sweetie."
"Who are they?"
"They're our neighbors."
"And strangers?"
"Well, not really strangers anymore."
The woman comes out of the garage carrying a black leather bag.
"Finally," Travis says as he shifts into drive.
* * * *
My stomach starts flipping as we approach the end of the neighborhood. So far, we haven't seen any other people - no one else in the street, no cars passing by. Travis stops and looks at me.
"How long till we get there?" Jacob asks.
"About an hour, bud," Travis says as he eases on the gas.
The main road is empty. We pass the grocery store, and I stare, looking for signs of looters. I can't see the front windows of the store, but the parking lot is littered with trash and odds and ends. I see a smashed box of cereal and a solitary can rolling across the pavement. There's not a single soul wandering out there and only one car, right in the middle of all that concrete. The gas station is covered with boards.
We turn onto the highway, heading north, joining the few cars also loaded down like ours. I check the side mirror. Our neighbor, in her silver Lexus, is right on our tail.
I realize I don't even know her name.
