A cinder in the fireplace pinged, and Josh jolted upright. He unwedged himself from the overstuffed chair and rubbed the knot in his neck from hours cramped in a lumpy chair. He searched the dark windows for signs of morning light. Mom rustled under her blanket, and Josh glanced at Grandpa’s clock on the mantel. No one had wound it since grandpa fell ill. The man loved himself some wind-up clocks, that was for sure. Dad had wound the gold pocket watch and put it in Grandpa’s pocket during his funeral.
Josh pushed against the arms of the chair and stood. The clock over the kitchen sink read 6:48. Stretching his arms over his head, he waited for the thump of a tree or the whack of a branch.
Embers glowed in the fireplace, and he stirred the ashes. He threw on some kindling. A flame leapt up, and the wood snapped. He added a larger piece then another. Flickering light filled the basement.
Coffee. He shuffled toward the sink for water. He’d French press a pot and have water left for mom’s tea. The creaks of the old house as it settled heightened his senses.
“Silence?”
The quiet sucked the air from the room. His ears rang with it, or was that the rush of his blood through his veins?
“Mom?” He bent, checked her pulse. Her chest rose and fell in a slow regular pattern. “Mother?” He jiggled her shoulder, but she didn’t moan or stir. He brushed the back of his fingers across her forehead, dry and hot. He lifted the bandage, and a sour odor hit him.
He rushed to the bathroom and checked the medicine chest for antibiotics, knocking over a bottle of milk of magnesia. A pair of toenail clippers fell into the sink. He slammed the medicine chest door. The hospital would have what she needed. He sure didn’t.
How would he get her there? All he could do here was keep the wound clean, but it wouldn’t be enough. He crossed the room and knelt at her side. Heat radiated from her still form.
Fever, page 82.
He shook her shoulder harder, but she didn’t even moan. Rushing to the sink, he wet a cloth under a cold faucet, wrung it out, and turning, knocked into a chair. It skittered across the floor, hit the rug, and crashed on its side.
“What a klutz.” Great, now he was talking to himself.
Her eyes flickered, and she moaned. He hurried to her and placed the cool rag on her burning forehead. She didn’t stir. Dehydration. No, no, no.
Rejuvelyte, how could he forget? Dashing to the sink, he reached for a packet knocking the whole box on the counter. He gripped the edge of the sink and gulped in air.
He could do this. He had to.
The electrolytes in the drink would help stabilize her. How much water? He read the box; one packet per quart. He filled the pitcher, splashing onto the counter. His fingers trembled as he tore open two packets and dumped them into the pitcher, the tinkling of Mom stirring a pitcher of Rejuvelyte flashed through his mind. She called it R and kept a pitcher of it in the fridge for the first signs of flu or colds. This had to work. It was the only plan he had.
He pressed the glass to her lips. She sipped a small amount at first then drank deeper from the glass. She needed to be in a hospital. He lifted his dead phone from his back pocket. Where was Mom’s? A knot formed at the base of his skull. She’d dropped it in her purse and grabbed dad’s papers instead. It was still upstairs. He climbed the steps.
He eased the door open, and sunlight burst through. A fresh breeze washed over him, and goosebumps rose on his arms. He blinked until his eyes adjusted. The quiet pounded in his ears. Bird song came from outside, and the tang of fir trees hung in the air. Branches, insulation, glass, wood, and papers covered the floors, but he couldn’t find the purse.
He climbed over chairs, bookcases, and tree branches, scanning the floor, opened the front door and wandered into the sunrise. He stood on the front porch then like a sleepwalker stumbled out into the yard.
Trees lay on the ground, stacked three deep in places, branches, bits of paper, plastic bottles, and shingles covered the lawn. But the sunshine warmed him, and the blue sky gave him hope. Mom needed to see this. The warm sun would do her good, but how did he get her up the stairs?
Light filled the yard where trees had once cast shade. He smoothed his fingers over his hair. The number of trees that had snapped in half or been uprooted stunned him. They lay sprawled on the ground. Root systems fanned out like enormous plates of tangled hair, clods of dirt clinging to them. Many of the trees had stood sixty to eighty feet tall, their branches the size of small trees.
Grandpa’s barn still stood and so did the apple tree. Several branches dangled and some lay on the ground, but the main framework of branches and trunk stood strong and upright. Josh drew from that strength. He scanned the yard for the for-sale sign and chuckled. The farm was officially off the market.
He glanced at the house. This must be dad’s storm. One of the fingerprints of El Primo was high winds blowing in from the southwest. They’d rush over the Pacific Ocean bringing warm temperatures and moisture. He squinted in the direction of the highway, but fallen trees now blocked his view. How would an ambulance get in?
He climbed over branches and debris to the barn, took inventory of the house. The roof looked solid, but all the windows on the west side were either cracked or broken, glass and fir needles covering the porch. The front door had deep gouges where branches, pinecones, and other debris had hit.
He jogged across the driveway and into the living room to the window seat, reached underneath until his fingers hit the familiar case. Opening it, he inspected the violin. Not a scratch. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.
He drank the sweet air, so refreshing after the dusty basement. Mom needed another drink. He clutched his violin to his chest and headed down. All he could do was keep her comfortable, but how long would she last now that infection had set in?
****
The warmth of the sun did not reach the basement, and the firelight did not match the sunshine outside. Josh slumped in the lumpy chair and stared at Mom. She never got sick. How could this happen now when help seemed as far away as Mars? He needed to stick to Grandpa’s plan. He’d start the generator. That would keep the water pump and radio running until he got a solar panel circuit running, then he’d make sure the ham radio antenna was still attached so he could listen to NOAA and keep track of the storm.
Why had he waited to get his license? Grandpa had harped on it until he got too sick. Grandpa had always said, “If the power goes out and things are really bad, fire up the emergency radio.” Once he was gone, Josh had lost interest. Without his license, if he got caught, he faced fines by the FCC, but this was an emergency, right? Mom needed help.
His mom lay on the couch, flushed but otherwise unchanged. He offered her the glass of R, and she sipped. She’d need a steady dose of R every half-hour or so. He grabbed grandma’s windup timer by the stove. He set it for a half-hour, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and, tucking the blanket around her, he headed to the generator.
The full effect of the storm hit him like a blow as he emerged from the house. There’d be another storm soon, if this was El Primo, so he’d have to work fast.
The electrical grid would take weeks to restore with all this damage. A glint in the driveway under the branches caught his eye, a solar panel. He’d find them all and repair the circuit.
The kitchen windows and porch had escaped the high winds. He yanked the tarp off the generator and folded it. He brushed his hand over the dusty, red metal, added fresh gas to the tank, then turned on the generator. It roared to life. He plugged in the cord and ran it to the circuit box hanging inside the kitchen door. He plugged it into the manual transfer switch and flipped the switch for the basement circuit to generator.
He caught the distinct odor of gas and checked the sides until his fingers located a dent near the bottom of the metal tank. It didn’t seem to be leaking. He’d just filled the tank. Maybe some had spilled. If the generator had a leak, the solar panels would be a priority. He had about two gallons of gas left in the tank. How much was in Mom’s car? Bugger only had enough to get him to the gas station. The real question was, how long would the power be out, and when would another storm hit?
One storm would follow another, Dad said, each with high intensity, which meant even if this weren’t El Primo, the well pump and the radio had to be running, maybe long-term.
He flipped a light switch at the top of the stairs. Light filled the stairwell. Such a simple thing to flip a switch and have light. He pursed his lips and blew out a hiss of air. Their emergency plan was working, except for Mom’s arm. He took the timer out, two minutes. He jogged down the steps and gave her a sip. She didn’t open her eyes. Was she in pain? He let her sleep.
He set the timer again and, with a lighter step, headed outside. He threw branches and kicked debris out of his way, creating a trail around the house to the chimney. He located the wire antenna running up the side. It hadn’t been knocked down.
“Yes.” He raced into the basement. The radio would work, and he’d call for help. With a final glance at the blue sky, he entered the house.
He headed down the steps, and the timer rang. Mom drank.
He sat at the desk and bumped the hidden door with a loud crack. He glanced at Mom. She rolled toward the back of the couch. He pushed the wall panel, and the door popped open, but it hung loose in its frame. The storage room let in dust, and he sneezed. The apples from the root cellar beyond made his mouth water. He’d grab one for lunch.
He closed the door and removed the plastic cover from the radio. He flipped the power switch, but the dials didn’t move. He tapped the glass, nothing. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out the crank handle. He fitted it on a cog and cranked. Still nothing. Now what?
He laced his fingers behind his head, glaring at the radio, willing it to work.
He turned the radio around and checked the connections between the power supply and the radio, flipped the switch, nothing. He leaned back in the chair.
“Could I please get a break right now?”
He stood and paced. How would he send and receive messages? How would he let Uncle Carl about Mom? He dropped into the chair and flipped the switch on and off several times.
The crunch of footsteps on the floorboards upstairs brought him to his feet, and all his muscles tensed.