Susan Pfeffer - This World We Live In

“No, Hal,” Mom said. “We can still hope for our children, for their future. That’s all that matters, their future.”

I thought about the future I’d imagined for myself two days before—Lisa, Gabriel, and Julie in a safe place; Dad and Alex and me near enough that we could see them sometimes, know they were being taken care of; having that future Mom wanted for all of us.

It was more than twenty-four hours since I’d seen Alex. A part of me was starting to think he’d never existed, that I’d made up a boy I’d given my heart to because he wouldn’t accept anything less from me.

But I knew he was real because I missed him so much, and because his sister was lying helpless in the sunroom and we were talking about her death.

Alex had thought about her death. He’d prepared for it. He’d accepted something I had never had to, that there might come a moment when death was preferable to life and that he bore the responsibility of recognizing that moment and acting on it out of love.

He’d been so concerned about leaving Julie in Dad and Lisa’s care because no matter how much they loved her, they weren’t family. But when I’d agreed to marry Alex, I’d become Julie’s family. That’s why Alex had told me to get his missal. He knew he was risking death, biking into the path of the tornado. But he trusted me with the only possessions of value he had, the passes and the pills.

All of that came to me while I worked, every one of those thoughts, those realizations. And once they were in my mind, I thought them over and over again, like the nightmares I’d had, endlessly looping through my mind until I finally accepted the truth. Alex was gone. Julie was my responsibility, no one else’s.

I don’t know what time it was when Mom told me to go home, to send Matt back, and to get some sleep. All I know is we were working by lamplight then, and the night was so clear you could make out the full moon through the ashen sky.

I stumbled to our house, the darkness and my exhaustion making it almost impossible to walk a straight line. Matt was sleeping and I hated waking him, but we needed every hand we had. He didn’t say anything when I shook him awake. All he did was nod and walk away.

I lifted the blankets off Julie to see if she needed changing, but she was dry. I’d hoped she was asleep, but when I saw her eyes were open, I asked if she needed anything.

“No,” she said. “Matt gave me some food and water. But I wish Alex was here.”

I stroked her face. “Alex loves you,” I said. “We love you, Julie. All of us love you.”

“I wish I could see Lisa and Gabriel,” Julie said. “And Charlie. Charlie always makes me laugh.”

“You’ll see him soon,” I said. “I promise you that.”

Julie began to cough, and when she did, her body shook.

I lifted her so she was in more of a sitting position and had her rest against my chest until the coughing stopped. There were three pillows on the mattress already, but I asked if she’d like another. She said no.

“You’re like the princess and the pea,” I said, knowing what was coming but postponing it for another hour, another minute. I remember hoping that Alex would somehow fly in and Julie would be miraculously cured.

But I’d been hoping for miracles for over a year now. Another hour, another minute, was never long enough.

“What’s the princess and the pea?” she asked.

“It’s a fairy tale,” I said. “About how the only way you can tell a true princess is if you put a pea under forty mattresses. If she can feel it, then she’s a true princess.”

“What a waste of a pea,” Julie said.

“When they wrote fairy tales, they didn’t know,” I said. “They had peas to spare in those days.”

Julie giggled.

“Did your mother tell you fairy tales?” I asked. “When you were little?”

“No,” Julie said. “But she liked it when we told her about the saints. We learned about them in school and we’d tell her what we’d learned. Joan of Arc was my favorite. I wrote a report about her once.”

“I didn’t know she was a saint,” I said. “I guess I never thought about her being one.”

“She was,” Julie said. “She’s the patron saint of soldiers.”

“She’s your brother Carlos’s patron saint, then,” I said.

“Maybe,” Julie said. “Maybe the Marines have a different one. Carlos says it’s better to be a Marine than a soldier. He’d probably rather have his own patron saint.”

“You believe in all that,” I said. “You and Alex. In spite of everything you still believe?”

It was dark in the sunroom, just the glow from the woodstove, but even so I could see the look of surprise on Julie’s face. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll see Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, when I’m in heaven.”

“What’s heaven like?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“No one’s hungry there,” Julie said. “Or cold or lonely. You can see millions of stars at night, like that painting. And there are gardens. Big vegetable gardens filled with everything. Tomatoes, radishes. String beans. They’re my favorites, the string bean plants.”

“No flowers?” I said.

“You can have flowers if you want,” Julie said. “It’s heaven.”

She began coughing again, her face contorted, her body in spasms. I held her, comforted her, told her soon she’d be all right.

We could both tell she’d soiled herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll get a washcloth and clean you and change your clothes.”

She began to cry. “Don’t leave me,” she said. “Please. I made Alex promise he’d never leave me to die alone.”

I think that’s what she said. But she might have said Alex had promised he’d never leave her to be alone. I can’t be sure.

“I’ll just be gone for a minute,” I said. “Why don’t you say a prayer while you’re waiting? That’s what Alex would want you to do.”

I left her praying in Spanish. I walked upstairs to my room, got some fresh clothes, then took a washcloth and towel from the bathroom.

We’re not supposed to stay upstairs any longer than we have to. The roof could cave in anytime. But still I waited for a minute, a second, hoping for that miracle I knew would never happen.

I stopped in the kitchen, wetted the washcloth, then poured Julie a glass of water. Maybe I thought about Alex. I’m not certain. All I remember is opening the envelope, taking out two of the pills, and shaking so hard the water spilled out of the glass.

Julie was quiet when I returned. I pulled off her pants and underpants, cleaned and dried her as best I could, and put on the fresh clothes. Then I lifted her gently, raising her head and back from the pillows she’d been resting on.

“I want you to take these,” I said, showing her the pills. “They’ll help you stop coughing.”

“I can’t hold them,” she said.

“No, you can’t,” I said. “Wait a second. I’ll put them on a spoon for you.” I rested her tenderly on the bed again, went back to the kitchen, and put the pills on a spoon. Then with my left arm, I lifted her again, placing her head in the crook of my arm, and with my right hand I spoon-fed her the pills. When I was sure the spoon was empty, I put the glass of water to her lips and watched as she swallowed.

“Say a prayer and go to sleep,” I said. “Think about heaven, Julie, and your dreams will be sweet.”

I think she prayed. I think she said thank you. I think I heard her murmur, “brie,” and “poppy.” I know I kissed her on her forehead and told her she would never be hungry or scared or lonely again.

I remembered a prayer Grandma had taught me. I knelt by Julie’s side and put my fingers on her mouth so God would know the prayer was for her, not me.