Burke may not have looked at me, but Hebba did. That made it harder. No doubt, my hands shook out of control. Preparing to deliver the injection was grueling, and it only lasted a few seconds. I couldn’t think about what I was doing, I had to just act. I made brief eye contact with Hebba, then looked at her leg. I brought the syringe forward and paused.
“God forgive me,” I whispered then plunged the needle into her flesh and released the liquid that filled the syringe.
I whimpered. I know I did, and then, leaving the empty syringe on the foot of the cot, I hurried away. I couldn’t and I wouldn’t look back. There was no need to. In a matter of moments it would be over. Hebba, like Sam, would be gone forever.
17. Blocked
The arrival of dawn only brought to light the fact that we had suffered another heartache. Bringing Hebba’s body back home with us to bury became a subject of debate between Burke and me. One that ended with him winning. We left Hebba behind. Our goodbyes were our burial and we left it at that. I didn’t understand it, nor did I pretend to. But Hebba was his wife, and it was his choice.
Burke took no time. He hid his grief well, practicing what he had preached to me about moving on. Nor did he sleep after we returned. He dove straight into completing what he had begun the day before: The outhouse, Mark’s basement. He seemed unstoppable. I saw through it. I likened him to an emotional freight train, blasting full speed ahead, cascading on autopilot, blaring his horn when someone got in his way. Eventually he would run out of steam. But knowing Burke, he’d find someway to refuel, and that worried me. Burke ran on emotions, energized by way of anger. When it came time to gas up, I feared whom Burke would use as his fueling pump. My guess was Craig or Dan. They were easy targets for him.
It was two weeks to the day since the bombs had fallen. My God, how my life had changed.
My fifteen year-old son had suddenly matured and in a sense had silently proclaimed himself a father to Simon. I wanted to take care of Simon, but with each passing day, Davy took that responsibility. Making sure that Simon ate, that he was clean, stayed busy, and even exercised. Was Davy’s focus on Simon the reason he was the best adjusted of us all? In my mind, Davy and Simon needed none of us. Although they did interact, they were self-sufficient, living in their own little world within the shelter. A world I envied.
And on the flip side of the coin, there was Matty.
Matty still wasn’t fully speaking. She began to draw more and more pictures. Some of the drawings were pronounced with despair. Some were funny. Matty tended to want to draw Dan quite a bit. In most, she depicted him as repulsive, deformed, and often satanic. Rod believed it was Matty’s way of exorcising her demons. I believed a simpler explanation; Matty hated Dan. For some reason known only to my daughter, Dan never made her favorite person list.
The list.
My ‘I’ll be there’ list had dwindled down to one name. Mona. Everyone else was accounted for. Their whereabouts known, except for her. I thought of her often and stared at her name more than I should. Though I knew where she was when the bombs exploded, that wasn’t reason enough for me to believe she hadn’t survived. After all, everyone else on my list was—at some point—alive. It was a thought that I kept to myself, but the optimist and dreamer in me wondered if their survival was in someway accredited to my list. That somehow, by my writing down their names I had granted unto them the gift of living. So why wouldn’t Mona be blessed by the power of my pen?
My ‘I’ll be there’ notebook had page after page of memories about those on my list. On eight days AB, I branched out. I began writing brief journal entries in the form of letters… to Mona. Keeping my sanity, while keeping my friend alive, if only in my heart, and only through the pages of my notebook.
My first note to Mona was scarcely beyond a second grade level of composition, and really left a lot to be desired. My objective wasn’t to be a great storyteller, it was just to focus and write something. Anything. I did. The first entry simply read: ‘Dear Mona: It’s been two weeks. Sam and Hebba have both died. The rest of us are well. We worry about you and miss you. Thank you for calling me and telling me about the bombs. Jo’
I made the fatal mistake of telling Burke what I was doing, then I worsened that error by showing him what I wrote. He called me insane and ridiculed my choice of words. To him, Mona was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. I couldn’t get angry or upset with him, because when I opened my notebook, I opened myself up to Burke’s combativeness.
The hours of each day seemed to drag. By eleven in the morning I felt as if I had put in an entire days worth of time. It wouldn’t have been so bad had Burke allowed us to help with the move. About all we were permitted to do was organize my basement to be a central stock station. We were to get what we needed to live at Mark’s and that was all. At Burke’s request, Craig devised a padlock system out of wood, wire, and Davy’s bicycle padlock. It would go on my basement door, to double insure our livelihood was safe.
The physical transition from my house to Mark’s was an interesting journey. Simon, in a mockery of Dan, screamed the entire way for help because he couldn’t see. And Rod beckoned Burke not to lock his nerve medication in my basement with all the other supplies.
Moving over to Mark’s was a wise choice. His basement was over twice the size of mine. It was already divided up nicely in an apartment style from when Mark used to rent it out to his brother. A living room, two small bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a small bath. It was more of a home, and definitely a brighter atmosphere.
With the new home, we also gained a new member to our little group. Burke found her in Mark’s house—tucked away in hiding. I argued at first, and didn’t want her around.
“She’s not serious, Jo,” Burke told me. “She can bring a silliness, make us smile. We need something that isn’t so serious. She stays. Drop it.”
Rod and Craig agreed a hundred percent with Burke—they would. I, of course, had valid reasons for not wanting her around. Hygiene. History. Was she used and abused? After Burke assured me that she wasn’t. That not only was she still in an unopened box when he found her, she hadn’t even been removed from the sealed plastic bag. I dropped that argument and allowed for him to inflate the blow-up doll he had discovered. What a waste of energy. However, Burke ended up being correct. She lifted the spirits. At first I found it obscene, but Rod dressed her in some old evening gown, that made her better. Plus, Simon and Matty took an instant liking to her, so we named her Molly.
“Where’s Nicky?” I asked as I walked into the living room portion of the basement.
Rod found a corner where he huddled with a tablet. He glanced up to answer me, “Outside I think.” He brought the pen to his mouth. “Yes. She is. Craig’s there.”
“Still?” I asked. “She’s been out there a while.”
Dan, who was seated at the small table, interjected his two cents worth as he read through some magazine. “She’s fine, Jo. A big girl.”
“I guess you’re right.” I prepared to take a moment to relax, maybe even doze off. There was plenty of space in that living room, plus something about it made us all feel at ease. Perhaps it was the wood paneling, rustic appeal, or just the fact it was homey. We all took a liking to that room immediately. Even Matty. More than having room to spread about her art, she liked that the new home didn’t smell bad.