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Jack ate some Cheerios and nodded. Everything was more fun on TV. Real life didn’t have commentary, and it didn’t have playback. Watching a storm beat standing in one while you waited for the school bus to splash water on you. It beat the smells of sixty soaking-wet kids on a crowded bus, and bumper-to-bumper traffic waiting for your driveway.
As if in response to that thought, there was a muffled honk from outside.
“Bus,” said Jack.
“Crap,” said Jill. She stood up. “Text me. Let me know what’s happening.”
“Sure.”
Jill began flouncing out of the room, but then she stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. She looked from him to the TV screen and back again. She wore a funny half smile.
“What—?” he asked.
Jill studied him without answering long enough for the bus driver to get pissed and really lay on the horn.
“I mean it,” she said. “Text me.”
“I already said I would.”
Jill chewed her lip, then turned and headed out of the house and up the winding drive to the road where the big yellow bus waited.
Jack wondered what that was all about.
3
Mom came into his room in the middle of the morning, carrying a tray with two hot corn muffins smeared with butter and honey and a big glass of water.
“You hungry?” she asked, setting the tray down on the bed between them.
“Sure,” said Jack, though he wasn’t. His appetite was better than it had been all summer, and even though he was done with chemo for a while, he only liked to nibble. The Cheerios were perfect, and it was their crunch more than anything that he liked.
But he took a plate with one of the muffins, sniffed, pasted a smile on his mouth, and took a small bite. Jack knew from experience that Mom needed to see him eat. It was more important to her to make sure that he was eating than it was to see him eat much. He thought he understood that. Appetite was a sign of health, or remission. Cancer patients in the full burn of the disease didn’t have much of an appetite. Jack knew that very well.
As he chewed, Mom tore open a couple of packs of vitamin C powder and poured them into his water glass.
“Tropical mix,” she announced, but Jack had already smelled it. It wasn’t as good as the tangerine, but it was okay. He accepted the glass, waited for the fizz to settle down, and then took a sip to wash down the corn muffin.
Thunder rumbled again and rattled the windows.
“It’s getting closer,” said Jack. When his mother didn’t comment, he asked, “Will Jilly be okay?”
Before Mom could reply, the first fat raindrops splatted on the glass. She picked up the remote to raise the volume. The regular weatherman was no longer giving the updates. Instead it was the anchorman, the guy from Pittsburgh with all the teeth and the plastic-looking hair.
“Mom—?” Jack asked again.
“Shh, let me listen.”
The newsman said, “Officials are urging residents to prepare for a powerful storm that slammed eastern Ohio yesterday, tore along the northern edge of West Virginia, and is currently grinding its way along the Maryland-Pennsylvania border.”
There was a quick cutaway to a scientist-looking guy that Jack had seen a dozen times this morning. Dr. Gustus, a professor from some university. “The storm is unusually intense for this time of year, spinning up into what is clearly a high-precipitation supercell, which is an especially dangerous type of storm. Since the storm’s mesocyclone is wrapped with heavy rains, it can hide a tornado from view until the funnel touches down. These supercells are also known for their tendency to produce more frequent cloud-to-ground and intracloud lightning than the other types of storms. The system weakened briefly overnight, following computer models of similar storms in this region. However, what we are seeing now is an unfortunate combination of elements that could result in a major upgrade of this weather pattern.”
The professor gave a bunch more technical information that Jack was pretty sure no one really understood, and then the image cut back to the reporter with the plastic hair, who contrived to look grave and concerned. “This storm will produce flooding rains, high winds, downed trees—on houses, cars, power lines—and widespread power outages. Make sure you have plenty of candles and flashlights with fresh batteries because, folks, you’re going to need ’em.” He actually smiled when he said that.
Jack suddenly shivered.
Mom noticed it and wrapped her arm around his bony shoulders. “Hey, now . . . don’t worry. We’ll be safe here.”
He made an agreeing noise but did not bother to correct her. He wasn’t frightened of the storm’s power. He was hoping it would become one of those Category 5 things like they showed on Syfy. Or a bigger one. Big enough to tear the house to sticks and let the waters of the river sweep him away from pain and sickness. Being killed in a super storm was so delightful that it made him shiver and raised goose bumps all along his arms. Lasting through the rain and wind so that he was back to where—and what—he was . . . that was far more frightening. Being suddenly dead was better than dying.
