The Disaster Days Read online

  No. My chest was tightening again, my throat narrowing. The more I worried, the harder I had to work to breathe normally. I was torn between trying to calm myself and surrendering to the fear, because it almost felt like worrying about my parents, Neha, and Andrea was important. Protective, even. Like if I kept them in my mind, I might keep them safe. If I let go and stopped worrying, even for a few moments—Boom! That’s when something awful would happen to them. If it hadn’t already.

  Whenever I let go of fear and let in the hope I was trying to preserve in the kids, even for just a moment, guilt immediately followed.

  Oscar started climbing around on the swing set. Zoe sat in one of the swings. Her injured arm rested in her lap; her other hand grasped the chain. She barely pumped her legs, instead letting the breeze twirl her in gentle half-circles.

  I sat down on a large smooth rock at the edge of the fish pond, about halfway to the swing set. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, letting the sun shine on my face. It felt nice and warm. In the house, I had seen my breath when I spoke. Maybe, when we eventually went back inside, I should use dish towels as blankets to make sure Jupiter stayed cozy inside his box. Assuming I could find some usable towels in the kitchen mess. Shavings would be good to add too, if they weren’t already covering the floor. The box already had gained several pee stains.

  With my eyes closed, I listened carefully to our surroundings, hoping for some nearby sound of civilization. I hadn’t heard a car on the road since Andrea had driven away the afternoon before and not even a distant horn or siren. Although only my family, the Matlocks, and Mr. Aranita live on this side of the inlet, plenty of cars pass through our neighborhood. People like to hike in the forest, and at night they even go in to stargaze if the sky is clear. The rangers patrol the preserve road too. But as far as I could tell, not a single vehicle had driven by since the shaking had begun. That was alarming. Maybe later we should walk down the driveway to the road, see if it looked like anyone had been by.

  Or maybe we should just head all the way to my house, where there was plenty of food, probably less damage, that generator (although I had no clue how to turn it on), and—best of all—my inhaler. But we had no way of telling our parents we were leaving. Although, we could always write a note…

  Oscar was laughing, so I peeked an eye open to see what he was up to: he’d climbed down and was giving Zoe a push on the swing. I smiled. They were actually doing great, considering. A tiny bud of hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe I wasn’t a failure of a babysitter. Sure, Zoe had gotten cut pretty badly, and it was partly because I encouraged them to crawl around on a glass-shard-covered carpet. We’d also eaten mostly from the “use sparingly” parts of the food pyramid since I’d gotten there: ice cream, marshmallows, chocolate eggs, chips. Even the mandarin oranges had been syrupy sweet.

  But Zoe and Oscar had still slept through the night. They were in decent spirits. I’d smartly moved them away from the kitchen when I smelled the funky gas scent. If Mrs. Pinales were going to grade me on the job I’d done so far, I would pass. She’d give me an A for effort, definitely.

  I daydreamed about my mom and Andrea racing up to the house. Panicked and breathless. They’d fling open the door to find the kids and me, safe inside, playing cards by flashlight—even though I didn’t know any card games, much less know where playing cards might be kept. It just seemed like the kind of thing a great, responsible babysitter would do while watching kids in a house with no electricity. Or—better yet—we’d be loading big black trash bags with debris from the kitchen floor—with rubber gloves protecting our hands, of course. Starting the cleanup effort before our parents had even returned. Even though it was only a fantasy, I felt the rosy flush of pride in my cheeks. My mom would probably never again chide me for a little mistake like forgetting my inhaler…not if I’d shown so much responsibility in such a tough situation. Maybe she’d even start letting me use the oven on my own.

  I lifted Jupiter out of the box and onto my lap, stroking his soft, silky fur. He didn’t feel too cold but instead like a furry hot-water bottle. He cooed as I petted him, and he nestled next to my stomach. I stretched my legs out onto the damp grass and went back to watching the strange sand geysers. My dad would probably know what they were. My heart panged, as I wished he were with me. I did not allow myself to think of where he could be.

  I heard the crack first, loud and sharp like a baseball hitting a bat. Instinctively, I looked up. But, of course, in the Matlocks’ yard there was no ball spinning through the air above me.

  Next, I heard a shout, more surprised than scared. It came from the swing set. The swing set. I thought of all the things far more solid than wood inside the house, and how they were now toppled, shattered, cracked, peeled, pummeled. The swing set had looked fine…from a distance. I should’ve inspected it first. I should’ve checked to make sure nothing was split or bowing or sunken. Instead, I’d let Oscar tear across the yard and climb up the ladder, let Zoe dangle by a chain on her swing.

  I hugged Jupiter to my chest as I hopped to my feet. I was running toward the swing set before I even looked to it, before I saw the piece of the monkey bars bent and drooping in the air. Before I saw the heap of sky-blue parka crumpled on the ground; Zoe, frantically screaming, on her knees next to him.

  9

  We didn’t cover much first aid in the babysitting class. Mrs. Pinales taught us the basics, of course—make sure to wash a cut before you bandage it, elevate whatever’s bleeding, cool water instead of ice for a minor burn, flush out someone’s eyes if chemicals get in them. But mostly she reminded us of whom to contact, aside from the parents, for various medical emergencies. The answer was always 911, although she did say if you had the number for poison control, you could also call that if a kid swallowed something from underneath the sink. “I can’t emphasize enough how important it is,” she’d said, “to not try to handle a medical issue on your own. Even if you think it’s not a big deal. Sometimes the most responsible thing a babysitter can do is actually nothing—because you need help from an adult. Preferably one with first aid training.” I wrote that down in my notebook, underlined it, and even drew an exclamation point next to it. It had seemed like a really serious point. Neha had whispered to me, “Doing nothing—sounds doable.” I’d stifled a giggle. It was funny partly because Neha was too much of a doer to ever follow that advice. Case in point, Neha had then given me her cousin-sitting pro tip that “boo-boos” almost always need a kiss in order to heal, even if the boo-boo is somewhere gross, like a toddler’s bare foot. “So be prepared for that.” She’d wrinkled her nose but still looked proud.

  I wished she were with me—or better yet, Mrs. Pinales—as I hunched next to a howling Oscar on the grass. When I first reached the kids, huddling below the swing set, and I dropped to my knees—still carrying Jupiter in the crook of my elbow—I was relieved that there wasn’t any gushing blood. Visible to me, at least.

  “Did he hit his head?” I asked Zoe. Head injuries could be really serious. My dad once got bonked on his hard hat at a construction site and wound up in the emergency room for a CT scan.

  “No. He fell straight down, like he was jumping, but he landed hard on his leg.” She pointed, and my eyes followed the tip of her finger. My stomach lurched, and I had to glance away for a second before turning back.

  Oscar’s right leg, near his ankle, was bent at a sickening angle, like he was an action figure and someone had turned its foot the wrong way. I used to pull mine out of their storage tubs and their limbs would all be bent—“akimbo,” my mom called it—and I would laugh, never thinking about what it would be like for an actual human body to twist like that. How painful and scary. His leg looks broken. My body flushed with panic. Now this was an emergency, and like Mrs. Pinales said, I definitely needed an adult. Not just an adult, but a doctor—right away.

  The yard seemed to grow very quiet around us. I didn’t even hear the br
eeze or the birds. We were entirely alone. We had no way to call 911 or run to the nearest grown-up for help. Unless Mr. Aranita was home for once, the closest adult was somewhere across the bridge that spans the inlet. Only trees loomed around us, watching this crisis unfold. I felt incredibly small. Powerless.

  Figuring out what to do was entirely up to me. I had all the responsibility and few of the skills, but doing “nothing” wasn’t an option.

  “Oscar, it’s going to be okay,” I said, working hard to keep the tremor out of my voice. My words sounded hollow, and they didn’t soothe him. Oscar kept crying and moaning. He stared up at the sky, tears running so fast down his cheeks I worried he’d choke on them. His face was red as his shoes.

  His cries upset Jupiter, who started chittering and clawing his way out of my elbow nook. “Zoe, can you take him?” That broke her out of the position in which she’d been frozen. She tucked Jupiter to her chest with her good arm, the bandaged one hanging limp. They’re both hurt. How did I let this happen? Guilt and shame washed over me. My throat squeezed.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m just a kid. I need help.

  I fumbled to unzip Andrea’s coat so I could reach inside my windbreaker to get to the vest pocket where I’d zipped my phone. It was a reflex, whenever I had any kind of question—from What’s the capital of Bolivia? to Best chocolate-chip cookie recipe to How do you cure asthma?—to pull out my phone and Google it. Or I’d ask one of my parents, but then they’d more often than not grab their phones or a laptop and type my question into a search box. And ta-da, there was our answer. Bolivia actually has two capitals, Sucre and La Paz. The best recipe is from the back of the Toll House package. Asthma can’t be cured, but it can be managed and here are some ways…With shaking fingers I swiped to unlock my home screen so I could search How to tell if a bone is broken? and then First aid for broken bone.

  The browser wouldn’t even load. No bars, no Wi-Fi. My phone was no longer my oracle. It was simply a hunk of aluminum and glass, useless aside from the flashlight app. I was stranded without it or the internet.

  I sat back on my heels, my head spinning. More than anything, I wished I’d thought to ask Mrs. Pinales about a situation like this. What if you can’t get ahold of the parents in case of emergency? What if there are no adults around, so you can’t just wait for help? What if you can’t even search for a wiki how-to article to show you how to deal with a problem in fifteen not-so-easy steps, with unintentionally funny illustrations? What do you do then?

  Zoe pointed at my phone. “Why aren’t you calling my mom? Or texting her?” Upon hearing the word mom, Oscar wailed even louder. “Is your phone even working?” She lunged for it, reaching with the hand that wasn’t cradling Jupiter, but I swiped my phone out of her reach at the last second.

  She knew right then that I’d been lying all along.

  “Let me see the messages from my mom!” she bellowed, startling the birds in the nearby trees. The louder her voice got, the louder Oscar’s cries. “Right now!” The veins on her face and neck had suddenly become very visible.

  “Zoe, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to worry. I wanted you to be able to sleep. I honestly thought she’d be here when we woke up,” I pleaded. “When she wasn’t, I didn’t know what to do…” I stopped to catch my breath. “I didn’t want to lie. I really, really didn’t.” Zoe looked stung.

  “I don’t care, just get my mom!” Oscar’s scream snapped at me like a rubber band. The problems piling up around me needed triage. Zoe finding out I’d lied didn’t matter right now. Taking care of Oscar did, even if I didn’t know how to properly do that.

  “Zoe,” I leaned in so I was inches from her furious face. “I know you’re upset with me, and I totally get why. But we can’t focus on that. Oscar needs our help. Badly. We have to focus on him. You can yell at me later.”

  She nodded.

  “We should move him inside,” I said. Clouds had formed overhead, boxing out the blue sky. Eventually, it would rain, and the air felt cooler than it had when we first ventured out. “Oscar, I know it hurts. I know you’re scared. We’re going to help you get back to the couch, where you’ll be more comfortable. Then I’m going to figure out what else to do. To make it better.” Make it better. It reminded me of Neha’s advice, kissing boo-boos. Neha always knew how to take charge of a situation, whether it was guiding the ball down the field or organizing a fund-raiser for a charity she cared about or studying for an intimidating test. Once Neha Jain got an idea in her head, nothing could stop her. I loved that about her.

  I hoped, wherever she was, that glint of determination was still in her eyes. To survive this moment, I was going to have to borrow it.

  “Does anywhere else hurt?” I asked Oscar. “Other than your leg?” With some injuries—like ones to the spinal column—I know you aren’t supposed to move a person, but so far he was moving the rest of his body okay.

  He shook his head no. I sucked in another breath. We could pick him up, then, so long as we kept his leg safe. I turned to Zoe. “We’ll carry him chair-style—you take one side, I’ll take the other. His right side, so I can protect his leg.”

  “I still have Jupiter,” she said, motioning to the guinea pig in her arms.

  “I want to hold him!” Oscar wailed.

  I didn’t want to deny him any comfort, but I shook my head. “You’ll need to hang on to us tightly so we don’t jostle you. Here, Zoe—give me Jupiter and I’ll run him back inside.” She handed the guinea pig to me and I took off across the yard for his box, still sitting next to the fish pond.

  I hate to admit this, but running away, I wished I didn’t have to go back to them. I wanted to keep running, all the way to my house. I wanted to burst through my front door and race up the stairs to my bed, then dive inside my covers. It would be easy to breathe there. My inhaler would be waiting on my nightstand. Underneath my lavender comforter, it would be quiet and warm and cozy. I wanted to be somewhere safe like that. Where I wasn’t in charge, but I was simply a kid again. As soon as I wished all that, I hated myself a little. And what—strand two injured children? Sure, I hadn’t asked for this kind of responsibility, but nevertheless it was mine.

  By the time I reached the porch with Jupiter, I was winded. I placed his box, partially closed, on a rocking chair and then propped open the door for when we came back with Oscar. I gave myself two seconds to rest, leaning over with my hands on my thighs. Then I gulped more air and raced back across the yard, dodging fallen tree limbs and those sand volcanoes like I was on an obstacle course.

  The night before I’d been surprised how small and fragile Oscar had felt when I hugged him. His bones had seemed as delicate as a bird’s, and maybe that wasn’t untrue, considering what had happened to his leg. But when Zoe and I hoisted him off the ground, he sure felt heavy. We pressed our hands to his back as his arms wrapped around our shoulders, and we clasped hands below his thighs so he could rest on us like he was in a swing. His hurt leg dangled next to me, and I kept my eyes on it the whole time, careful not to bump it into anything, including myself. “Zoe, you lead. I need to keep track of Oscar’s leg.”

  We inched our way across the Matlocks’ yard toward the house. I worried about the ground starting to shake. I worried about potential holes or cracks or stumbling points that the grass hid. I worried more sand volcanoes would crop up underfoot. “We’re almost there,” I said to Oscar. He’d stopped wailing, but the tears still streamed down his face, and every other step he’d let out an agonized moan. His fingertips dug into my upper arm.

  Finally, we reached the screened porch. “Keep going to the living room. I think he’ll be most comfortable on the couch.”

  Zoe grimaced. “He’s getting heavy.”

  “I know.” Channel Neha. Remember how she used to psych everyone up during Pirates games? Even when we were exhausted and losing, and it was starting to drizzle. “A little farther—y
ou got this, Zoe, I know you do.” Zoe nodded, clenching her jaw and tightening her grip.

  We had to scoot around a few boxes that blocked our path into the living room from the porch. They were too heavy to quick kick out of the way. “What’s in all these?” I asked, my voice strained and wheezy.

  “Books,” Zoe said, in between pants. “Grandpa’s encyclopedia set…some other old ones. Mom’s gonna donate them.” I almost bumped Oscar’s foot into the door frame, missing it by no more than half an inch. Sweat beaded around my hairline, even though it was cold. Four layers were too many for that level of exertion. We still had the obstacle course of the living room to navigate. More Neha-speak. “You’re doing great, Zoe. You’re killing it.” Bad choice of words. “I’m so proud of you.”

  The couch cushions were all still tucked inside the blanket fort, so we had to lay Oscar down on the flimsy fabric that separates plush cushion from the sharp couch innards. “Give us a sec, and we’ll get you some padding.” I dove underneath the blankets to pull out the big sectional cushion that had made such a nice mattress the night before. My arms burned from carrying his weight. Inside the fort, where the ambient noise was dampened, I heard my own breathing clearly. There was still a hint of a wheeze. I ignored it.

  We lifted Oscar up one more time to get the cushion in place, then carefully lowered him to rest on top of it. With his legs stretched out, the right one didn’t look as obviously twisted as before—but his pants were now covering it. “Can I check on your leg?” He nodded.

  Gingerly, I lifted the hem of his sweatpants and began to roll it upward, careful not to put any pressure on his body. At least the hem was loose and not an elastic fit, so I didn’t have to tug. Already the skin around his ankle was discolored. It was puffy from the top of his foot to his shin. There was a lump-like deformity on the outside of his ankle above the knobby part. I winced—it hurt to look at.