Susan Pfeffer - This World We Live In

“Things will be all right,” I said softly. “For Julie. For us.”

“I would love you forever if I could,” he said.

“You can,” I said, wanting desperately to hold him. But all I could do was brush my hand quickly against his. For a second he clutched my hand in his.

We got back in the car, and Dad resumed his slow drive through New York. Alex and Julie had nothing more to say to each other in any language, and Dad gave up trying to make small talk. I could see he was worried about the van, but he didn’t say anything about it.

We made one pit stop, which was pretty literally that. We’d brought some food with us, but we were saving it for supper. Nothing was open, none of the strip malls we passed or the occasional motel or gas station. I thought about how Matt had met Syl at a motel and wondered if any of the ones on the side of the road had people camping out in them, but there were no signs of life.

We drove ninety miles without seeing another car, and the scariest thing was that seemed normal.

“It’s hard to believe there are still people out there,” I said. “Is everyone living in evac centers and cities?”

“It seems that way, doesn’t it,” Dad said. “But there were plenty of people on the road. There were days we didn’t run into anybody else, but for the most part you’d see someone new every day.”

“Syl told me bands of people came together and split apart,” I said. “I guess your band stayed together, all of you and Charlie.”

“Charlie was the glue,” Dad said. “He never let us give up.”

“It’s amazing,” I said. “It really is. You traveled thousands of miles, and Dad, you’re back with us, and now Julie’s going to this convent Alex has known about for a year. It really is amazing.”

“Christ has blessed us,” Alex said.

“Yes, He has,” Dad said.

Well, that was a conversation stopper.

We made two more stops, one to cool down the engine and one to clear off the road, and then we got to the town. Like everything else, it was completely deserted. It had been a charming town once, you could tell. There were antique stores and bakeries with French names and tea shoppes. But now it was a ghost town like Howell, only worse, because I know there are people in Howell.

“The convent is on Whitlock Lane,” Alex said. “Off Albany Post Road.”

“We should be able to find it, then,” Dad said. “Albany Post Road is generally the biggest street in these towns, like Main Street. We’ll see where it takes us.”

It took us through neighborhoods with empty streets. But amazingly, or maybe miraculously, we saw the road sign for Notburga Farms.

“That’s it,” Alex said. “That’s its name.”

Dad made a left, and we drove for a couple of miles on Whitlock Lane. The road was in bad shape, and we had to stop a couple of times to move debris. It was a relief when we saw the Notburga Farms sign.

We looked out at a field. You could imagine how beautiful it must have been a year ago, a large green expanse surrounded by an apple orchard. But now the ground was gray and the trees had only a few sickly leaves.

It could have been anywhere. It could have been Howell.

I got out and opened the gate. Dad followed the driveway to the convent. It was an old farmhouse, with outbuildings, barns, and what looked to be a chapel.

“I don’t think there’s anyone here,” Dad said.

“No,” Alex said. “There must be. I asked about it at the archdiocese in Louisville. It was listed as open.”

“Alex, that was months ago,” Dad said. “Anything could have happened.”

“We’re going in,” Alex said. “I won’t believe the sisters deserted this place until I see it for myself. Come on, Julie.”

We all got out of the van. Alex led the way, knocking boldly on the farmhouse door.

“Who is it?” a querulous voice asked. “Sister Grace, is that you?”

“No,” Alex said. “Please open the door. I’ve brought my sister for you to take care of.”

We could hear footsteps, and then an elderly woman nervously unlocked the door. “Did Sister Grace send you?” she asked.

“No,” Alex said. “Father Franco in New York did. May I speak with you privately, Sister?”

“I’m all alone,” the nun said. “Sister Grace told Sister Anne and Sister Monica to take the girls back to New York City and to stay there. That was October, I think. A few weeks ago Sister Grace said she’d better get help for us so she and Sister Marie left, and then it was only Sister Helen and me. Sister Helen passed away three days ago. Or maybe it was four. It’s so hard to keep track of time. I’m all alone now. Do you know where Sister Grace is?”

“No, Sister,” Alex said. “But we brought food. We can give you our food.”

“That would be very kind of you,” the nun said. “Please come in.”

“We haven’t been introduced,” Dad said. “My name is Hal Evans, and this is my daughter, Miranda, and our friends Alex and Julie Morales.”

“I’m Sister Paulina,” she said. “I was in charge of the dairy, but we slaughtered the cows months ago. There was no feed for them. The meat kept us alive until Easter.”

I couldn’t bear it. “I’ll get the food,” I said, glad for any excuse to get away from her and the house. It reeked of death, and I realized that Sister Helen must still be there, rotting away.

It was awful. I remembered finding Mrs. Nesbitt lying on her bed the morning she died. I left her there, went through her house searching for food, for anything we could use, before going home to tell Matt and Jon and Mom that she had died.

At the time it seemed so right to do that. Now I asked myself what kind of monster was I, that I could carefully examine every inch of a house knowing that a beloved friend was lying dead while I looked.

I took the food from the van and slowly carried it to the farmhouse. The smell must have been too much for everybody, because they were all sitting on the porch, looking out onto the gray deserted field.

“It’s so nice to have company,” Sister Paulina was saying as I approached. “I don’t know when Grace and Marie will be back, though. It’s been so long. You’d think if they’d found help, they would have returned by now.”

“Here,” I said, thrusting the bag of food at her. “It’s all the food we brought with us.”

“This is so kind,” Sister Paulina said. “Sister Helen would have been so glad. She said she wasn’t hungry, but I could see that she was. In her eyes, you know. Even at the end her eyes never lost that look.”

“Maybe you should come with us, Sister Paulina,” Dad said. “Back to our home in Pennsylvania.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Sister Paulina said. “But Grace left me in charge while she’s gone. I couldn’t possibly leave.”

“Sister Grace might never return,” Dad said.

“Oh, she will,” Sister Paulina said. “It’s only been a few weeks, and nowadays everything takes so long. I worry that Marie has taken sick. There’s been so much illness. We did what we could for the people in town, but so many died. I suppose they’ve all left by now, the ones who survived. It used to be people would bring us food and firewood, but no one’s come for a very long time. We had hoped at Easter we’d be remembered, but it was just the four of us.”

“Please,” Dad said. “You’ll die here if you stay alone.”

“I’ll die anyway,” Sister Paulina said. “I made my peace with that a long time ago.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a crazy-lady smile. It was the smile of someone who wasn’t afraid of death.

“We’ll stay with you,” Alex said. “Julie and I. Until Sister Grace gets back.”

“Alex,” Dad said.