12 April
Last year we were making plans for the Easter vacation. Lee thought we'd road trip it, drive along the Mississippi and camp. He got the well-worn map out of the car and spread it out on the table, showing the boys where we'd drive, where we'd camp. He told them we'd get to make campfires and roast marshmallows, and joked that we'd have to fish for our dinner each night. He didn't know then how useful those skills would have come in later.
It was a cold Spring, and when we woke up mid-April to a late snowfall Lee decided against his plan for a road trip. We'd do it during the summer, he said, when the days are hot and the nights are cold along the river. We ended up spending Easter picnicking out under the trees at the edge of the cornfield. We spent an entire, glorious day there, eating strawberries and apples, playing Rummy, the kids chasing each other around. I remember laying down on my back and looking up at the cloud-frisked sky through Spring branches, hearing Lee teaching Marc a card trick, the sound of Regan and Beau's laughter at some inside joke. What I wouldn't give to hear the sound of their laughter again.
Today I look across the field to our picnic spot and see a ravaged forest edge, the trees are leafless. Perhaps they too are hiding. Last night Lee told me, as he always does, that we'll be fine, that we'll all make it out alive. I'm beginning to wonder if he does this for his comfort, or for mine. Because the way I see it, in this new world every sunrise means the call to another battle, one we're never sure to win. And every sunset means dreams. The good, and the bad. Some days I wish I could conjure my own dreams instead of seeing the same nightmares, the reminders of days I wish never existed, even dreams of Before. Sometimes the most painful kind of dreams are the ones where you have everything you've ever wanted, only to wake up and remember that you never can.
I can't help myself from mourning some lost world. Those simple things from Before. Going to the grocery store and hearing announcements over the loudspeaker about deals on ice cream. A morning jog through the acres of forest lining the winding road beside our house in Autumn, my cheeks flushed and cold. Ice skating at my parents' house in Rochester the year before Regan was born, laughing and squealing together, blades etching our newlywed bliss on December ice. Arguing. The silent treatment seems like a cruel joke to me now, and it was my preferred method.
It's corny, it's sentimental, and I don't talk to anyone about it, but I feel it sometimes. Like in spite of everything pointing to the contrary, some terrible, blinding beauty is going to descend and, like the wrath of God, suck it all away, orphan us, deliver us, leaving us wondering how exactly we're going to start over yet again.
Evelyn closed her notebook, tucking the pen between its pages and setting it beside her on the porch step. The days were blissfully longer now, and after a harsh winter with sunsets beginning before five o'clock, she reveled in the timid warmness of Spring. Movement to the left of the field sparked a thrill of fear, and her eyes darted to its source. She swallowed her sigh of relief and smiled at the sight of her husband and daughter coming out of the woods. Lee tipped his head toward the house and Regan followed his gaze. She waved, her hand high over her head, the same expression of joy across her face that she'd worn even as a baby. Regan was always happy to spend the day with her father. In fact, Evelyn thought she preferred spending time with him.
While Marcus, at eleven, was content to help his mother with hanging the laundry and preparing meals in the relative safety of the farmhouse, Regan was experiencing a post-apocalyptic world and adolescence at the same time, and often exhibited a fearlessness that worried her parents. She continually surprised Evelyn with her ability to problem solve and figure out the world by herself, but hers was an independence that could become dangerous if left to spread too far.
