Swarm by Jennifer Lyle

Author:Jennifer Lyle [Lyle, Jennifer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

After I take my pills with another monstrous glass of water, I set them on the counter and open the Days of the Week container. I meticulously put the pills into their individual compartments, and then set the container in the cabinet next to the coffee. Away from Little’s prying fingers, but in a place where I will not forget them again. I try not to wonder if the ninety-day supply, already half-empty, is enough. Nathan watches, fidgeting the whole time, arms crossed, uncrossed, crossed again. Shifting. Maybe he needs some pills too.

“I just wanted to see if it was…like…solid,” Nathan says after I’m silent for several minutes.

“What if it wasn’t? What if your foot went right into it?” I hiss, trying to convey my alarm without waking up everyone in the house. “What if something came out of it?”

“It didn’t happen,” he says.

“It could have.”

Nathan sighs. “Okay. I’ll be more careful. I promise. Anyway…I set up the basement. I couldn’t sleep. I knew you wanted it done, so I kind of…you know. As a good will gesture? Do you want to see?”

“Sure,” I say, accepting this peace offering.

He leads the way down the stairs and says, “When I volunteered to help with the basement before, I thought it was a nice thing to do for you. To show support? Now I’m thinking you’ve been right all the time, about prepping. Hearing my Mom… We might need the basement for real.” Whether he means to protect us from people or butterflies, he does not elaborate.

The basement is a transformed space. Nathan has set up our old tent, pinning the ropes in place with a bunch of heavy boxes. An air mattress is inflated inside it, and he’s rolled out a few sleeping bags. Next to the tent, which takes up a solid quarter of the basement, he’s made another bed out of Little’s gymnastic tumble mats. He’s gotten resourceful, unearthing Mom’s collection of semidiscarded quilts and afghans made by various relatives over the years, which can never be thrown away or donated. The laundry table has been set up with folding chairs, and the green camp stove is on it. Jar candles are scattered here and there as would-be light sources.

“This is the best part,” Nathan says, and he sounds nervous and proud. “I mean, there is not a best part because really I hope we never have to use any of this, but I set up a private area. It took me forever to get the clothesline to stay up.” He guides me to the other side of the stairs, where he has repurposed the tarp as a curtain.

I say, “So it’s for changing?”

“No! Look, I found the camp toilet. So, if we need to…we can go.” He’s even set up one of Charlie’s old litter boxes.

“That’s actually kind of awesome,” I say.

“Yeah. It’s my way of saying I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t need to apologize.”

“I do. I was…am…upset about my mother, and I probably would have gone out if you hadn’t said what you said.

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