Unbroken

Chapter Three

About a week later temperatures plummeted and it was unseasonably cold. The power went out, we had no running water, and our gas heater ran out of fuel. Worst of all, Grandpa got really sick. At first, it wasn't that noticeable. Sure, he was under the weather, but he was grieving, we all were. Slowly, though, it became clear that something was wrong. He grew weaker by the day and he was having trouble picking things up. Grandpa refused to rest like we wanted him to; he kept himself busy, thinking that working would keep him from focusing on missing Gran. Even in a room full of people he looked like he was all alone. He and Gran had been inseparable for most of the fifty years they'd been together. Going every day without her was taking its toll on him.

One day Grandpa was struggling with getting down the stairs and when he got to the bottom he passed out. As it turns out, he was sporting a one hundred and three degree fever. Uncle Henry and Brian came over to help me take care of him, but there wasn't much we could do. Grandpa needed a doctor and none were available. Besides, it was too dangerous to venture out very far. Even a trip to town could prove fatal.

Instead of banding together, everyone turned against each other. It was horrible hearing how people were behaving in such primative ways.

One such story was when Mrs Neilson had gone to get more supplies from the store when she was beaten to death with a baseball bat. The worst part of it - they took nothing: not her purse, her twenty-four karat gold wedding ring, or her diamond earrings. Absolutely nothing. They were killing just to kill. Protecting your turf I get, but she was harmless. What kind of sick creature would do that to a person? What new form of despicable human being has this disaster created?

Safety ceased to exist. Even in my own home, I walked around with one of Uncle Henry's pistols tucked in the waistband of my jeans. A week ago I refused to touch a gun. Now I didn't go anywhere without one.

Over the next three days, Grandpa's condition worsened and I knew he didn't have much longer. On the fourth day, I sat in a chair next to Grandpa's bed while he slept, ready to get anything he needed when he woke up. Brian and Uncle Henry were gathering things at their house to bring over here. "You're going to get better," I whispered, "You have to get better." It was more of a childish wish than anything. "Who's there?" Grandpa croaked. His voice was so faint and hoarse; it broke my heart to see how fragile he had become. I took his hand. It was clammy and cold. "It's me, Grandpa." He looked confused, and I was afraid he was delirious from his fever. But then his face cleared and he relaxed. "June." He smiled. "Sweet June, my summer's sunshine." He kissed my forehead, then leaned back and closed his eyes, still smiling. Smiling, because he was finally being reunited with Gran.

I don't know how long I cried. Just sitting there unable to move, unable to do anything but think of him. Him, reading me the newspaper as I was curled up in his lap when I was little. Him, teaching me to ride a bike. Him, walking around the house in his fuzzy slippers while sipping his morning coffee. Him, with his neat, white hair, his round glasses, his plaid shirts and frayed jeans and boots. Him, the man who had always been there, was gone. And he wasn't coming back.

Sometime later, I heard a soft knock on the door. It was Uncle Henry and Brian wanting to see Grandpa. I told them it was too late. Uncle Henry nodded gravely.

I looked around and thought about how happy this place used to be. All I could see was the sadness that replaced it. Was it really not that long ago that we were laughing and having fun? No, it couldn't be. It had been years since that had happened. It had been centuries.

Uncle Henry picked Grandpa up and carried him to the backyard. He was steady, despite the limp in his right leg that usually caused him problems.

We buried Grandpa in his favorite spot under the willow tree. Brian took my hand and squeezed it hard, tears running down his pale, little cheeks. He had a rose from Grandpa's garden clutched in his other hand. He gave it to me and I put it on the grave. I felt the weight of the situation bearing down on me, threatening to crush me like I was Atlas holding up the roof of the roof of the sky. The only thing that kept me tethered to reality was Brian. He needed me and Uncle Henry. And so, my little cousin became my whole world.