Time dragged as the storm raged on, a constant roar. He was trapped in the basement with Mom, a fire snapping in the fireplace. It illuminated her sleeping form on the couch.
He climbed the steps one more time and put his ear to the door. If the storm would only stop, he could go outside and work off some energy. He’d tried running steps, but Mom woke and began a contestant stream of worry for Dad, the storm, Uncle Carl, everyone but herself. She’d dozed off finally, and Josh welcomed the silence.
He ran his fingers through his hair. This had to be El Primo. The wind had been blowing for hours. He climbed down the stairs, his nervous energy draining from his arms and legs like someone had let air out of a balloon.
He poked at the fire, and the flames grew. Brushing his hands on his jeans, he sat at the worktable to write. He found Dad’s stock of Mead notebooks and opened one, cataloguing the conditions of the storm:
Two days of strong winds from the southwest. Barometer reading? Rainfall?
He needed to get to the barn and check Dad’s equipment for those readings. Would Mom be okay? Who was he kidding? She wouldn’t let him step foot outside. Where was that stress ball?
Dad and Grandpa had prepared for this. He should be able to survive anything, solve any problem. He was registered for the amateur radio license exam next weekend.
“A day late, and a dollar short,” as Grandpa said. The storm hit before he was ready, and since Mom’s fall, he questioned every move he made. Mom’s fretting didn’t help, and his resolution to keep the farm safe seemed impossible.
Was Dad still at Vandby U? If anyone knew his way around a storm, Dad did. Josh needed to make his own way around this storm. He needed his own plan with the knowledge he possessed.
He jotted down his mom’s symptoms:
Compound break. Could be bone fragments in wound. Sleeps most of the time. Pain makes her restless. No infection—yet.
The knot in his gut tightened. He rose and crossed the floor to the desk. Grandpa hadn’t used it since Christmas two years ago. His Norwegian friend Hilmer wanted some airtime with Gramps. He flipped the switch on the ham radio, still nothing. The switch clicked, but there was no static, nothing. He jotted one last note:
No electricity, no phones, no 911.
He dropped into the upholstered chair by the couch, reached for the stress ball. It wasn’t his violin, but it would have to do. He rolled it over his fingers and spun it around his thumb, sank back into the chair and watched Mom’s abdomen rise and fall. She was alive. The candlelight shone on the waxen sheen across her forehead.
Warmth from the fire filled the basement. At least he’d done that right. He could boil water on the grate for tea and heat soup until he could start the generator and use the stove. What was he forgetting?
He set the ball down on the coffee table. He’d write one more entry. Crossing the room to the worktable, he sat and tapped the pen on the table. He gave himself a goal: write one positive thing. He chewed on the inside of his cheek then wrote:
Wind still howls. Maybe the for-sale sign blew away.
Josh snorted, and Mom moaned. Was she waking? If she didn’t ask the same question about Dad all the time, he’d welcome her company. She sighed and rustled under the blanket.
He glared across the room at the radio, but staring at it wasn’t going to make it work. Where was Dad, Uncle Carl, anyone?
He craved the sound of another voice.
He pushed back in his chair. “It’s quiet.” He clapped a hand over his mouth. His voice seemed to echo off the ceiling and walls. Mom slept on.
He moved to the stairs.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
He spun around. She was wide awake and trying to sit, and her mom-superpowers were in full force. He rushed to her side and helped her, but she grimaced and flopped back against the pillows.
He knelt beside her, and she grabbed his arm.
“What are you thinking?” Her words slurred together.
Delirium from infection would be next.
Infection, page 236.
How could he get a message to Uncle Carl without the radio? Uncle Carl—the survivalist, the EMT driver, mom’s older brother. He might have penicillin or something to fight her infection.
He could jog the three miles up Crooked Creek Road. He’d do it for Mom, but would she let him go? If she passed out again, he might have to. He needed a plan.
“Any word from Dad?” Shock was affecting her memory. She uttered those same words every time she woke.
He gritted his teeth. “No, so no radio either.” He held a glass of water to her lips, and she sipped. He’d better mix a pitcher of Rejuvelyte and have it ready to go. Dehydration was the last thing she needed.
“Where is he?” She fiddled with the edge of the blanket.
Why couldn’t she just relax? He stood and paced the floor. Why hadn’t he thrown his violin on top of the books?
“He’s waiting for the storm to break. Just like everyone else.” He clenched his fists. “Sitting here doing nothing is driving me crazy.” He turned his back to her. Why couldn’t she just sleep?
“Try Zumba. I’ve got a DVD.” She chuckled, which turned into a cough.
“Hmm.” A sense of humor was good, right? “We have to get you to the hospital. It wasn’t a clean break.”
“We’re not going anywhere in this storm.” She rolled onto her right side, her lips twisting into a frown.
“This is the storm Dad predicted, isn’t it?”
“It could be. He couldn’t predict when it would hit, though. We prepared food, water, generator.” She stroked her arm above the break.
Could she read his mind? They weren’t ready, no matter how much they’d prepared. Her dark eyes sought his.
He threw another log on the fire. It burned brighter than the candle.
“Ugh.” He squeezed his eyes closed and opened them. What a mess, books everywhere, and Dad’s papers scattered across the floor. He picked up some books, stacking them on the table.
“Let me blow out the candle, make it all disappear again.” She chuckled.
He snorted, and soon they were both laughing, but his mother’s laughter turned to sobs, and with her good hand, she lifted the blanket over her face.
He sat on the edge of the couch and put his arm around her. “We’ll figure this out.”
She leaned into him, heat radiating off her body.
Fever, page 80.
“We planned for this.” She wiped her eyes. “The solar panels, the root cellar, the radio. But look at me. I’m useless, and I forgot Kleenex.”
“Kleenex? That’s your big worry?” He hugged her to him. “We can do this, Mom.”
She placed her hand over his, a slight tremor in her fingers.
“Once the storm is over, I can start the generator and radio Uncle Carl. He’ll have the beds you need in his truck.”
She nodded. “Dad will be here by then, right?”
“Sure, he will.” He tried to keep his voice steady. “Hey, you remembered paper towels. I’ll bring you one in case you spring another leak.” He grabbed the roll on the kitchen counter.
She smiled at him, and he placed it in her hand. Closing her eyes, she dabbed the tears.
He glanced away. She never cried.
A loud boom shook the house as another tree fell. She jerked. He turned to check the dark window. It reflected the room, and he cringed as winds whipped through the house upstairs. The crashes and thumps could be anything, his Gran’s Danish plates, the crystal vase, pictures blown off the wall.
“We should get some sleep.” He sank into the overstuffed chair next to the couch.
“Right,” she said, her face pale, her voice soft.