The Other Life (2 page)

“Bobby?” Mia whined as she pulled at his sleeve. Disappointment filled her round face, because Ariel, the Little Mermaid, had just disappeared from the screen. Bobby wrapped his arm
around her shoulders and turned her so she wouldn’t see Mom and Dad arguing. Again. Then he raised his eyebrows at me in a silent demand.

Usually, I didn’t do what he told me. He was younger than me by two years and was supposed to listen to me – though he rarely did.

I returned my feet to the pedals and began cycling. Ariel reappeared on screen, happily swimming with her little fishy friends through the ocean. It had been so long since I’d eaten fish;
though it was better not to mention that to Mia – she loved Ariel’s undersea kingdom.

I couldn’t remember how the ocean smelled or how it felt to walk barefoot on the beach, the sand between my toes. I didn’t even know if any of my friends were still alive. What had
they looked like? They were nothing but a fading memory. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pedalled as fast as I could.

Mom still hadn’t moved from the pantry. “That’s all we have,” she whispered, looking down at the tin like it was our tombstone. Dad didn’t turn away from the wall
to look at her. His shoulders had stopped shaking, though. Mom lifted her face and stared at me. Her tears didn’t stop. Then she looked at Bobby and Mia, who were immersed in the movie that
they’d seen too many times before. Bobby hated
The Little Mermaid
– he only watched it for Mia’s sake.

The tin fell to the carpet with a dull thud. It rolled a few centimetres before it halted on its side. Every inch of this carpet was familiar to me. Every stain, every blemish. I looked up from
the ground. Mom’s hands shook. “That’s all we have left.” Her eyes were wide as she clapped a hand over her mouth. It did nothing to stifle the sobs.

My legs slowed. The TV screen flickered and I accelerated once more. Dad turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder at Mom. When sobs turned into gasps for air, I stopped pedalling and
jumped off the bike. Dad and I reached Mom a second before her legs gave way.

“Mom, look at me.” I took her hand and squeezed, while Dad lowered her to the ground. Her eyes flickered between Dad and me.

“Honey, breathe in and out,” Dad instructed, but Mom didn’t seem to hear. Her gasps grew desperate and pained, her eyes frantic.

Eight months ago Mom’s asthma medication had run out.

Tears burned in my eyes and I blinked them back. “Mom.” I cupped her cheeks and forced her to look at me. “Breathe with me, Mom.” I took a deep breath and let it out, my
lips forming an exaggerated “O”. “In and out, Mom. In and out.” Her eyes finally focused. She attempted to suck in air, her chest heaving. I nodded and showed her again.
“In and out.” Her breath was rattling, but at least she was breathing. Dad held her hand, their fight forgotten, and stared at us. His eyes were red, his cheeks sunken in, his skin too
pale. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen him eat something. He was starving himself for our sake. I looked back at Mom and repeated the breathing – in and out. In and out.

Grandma hadn’t stopped knitting.

Click. Click.

She hadn’t even looked up.

Click. Click.

“There’s still room next to my Edgar.” Grandma’s harsh Bavarian accent cut through the room. Every pair of eyes in the bunker flitted to the freezer. Every pair except
for Mia’s.

Thank God.

As far as she knew, Grandpa had spent the last six months happily in heaven and not rock-hard next to our frozen peas. Mom’s weak smile faltered and she swallowed visibly.

“Grandpa Edgar?” Mia turned, her eyes wide with curiosity. Grandma looked up from the half-finished scarf, but she didn’t stop knitting.

Click. Click.

“Yes, your grandpa, of course.” The clicking of the needles filled the room.

Click. Click.

“Do you want me to show you?”

The vein in Dad’s temple began throbbing. A warning sign. “Be quiet, for God’s sake!” he said under his breath. He never talked to Grandma like that.

“I don’t think we’ve taught you to be disrespectful, son.” Grandma’s voice remained a whisper. She didn’t stop knitting.

Click. Click.

Mia’s curious blue eyes moved between Dad and Grandma. “You said Grandpa was in heaven. Will we visit Grandpa in heaven?”

Mom turned and walked into the pantry, closing the curtain behind her. It didn’t muffle her sobs. Dad’s hands were balled fists as he glared at Grandma. Bobby sat down on the
exercise bike and began pedalling, his eyes closed. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful.

I took Mia’s hand and led her towards the kitchen table, where I sank down on a chair and lifted her onto my lap. “Will we visit Grandpa in heaven?” she asked again, looking up
at me with her clear blue eyes. I smiled. The muscles around my mouth felt like they might cramp from the effort. “No, Mia.”

Her smile fell and she pouted. “Why not?”

“It’s not time yet.”

I hadn’t been to a party yet, had never dyed my hair, never kissed a boy. There were so many “nevers”.

Dad glanced at me with approval and set his mouth in a determined line before he nodded, obviously pleased with my answer. I set Mia down and gave her a small clap on her backside. “Now,
go watch Ariel.”

Mia’s head whirled towards the TV that had flickered back to life and she hurried over to her earlier spot on the ground. She dropped down on her bottom, already glued to Ariel with rapt
attention. Every member of this family could recite the entire movie by heart. If I closed my eyes, the movie played out in my mind, only disturbed by the sound of Grandma’s knitting.

Click. Click.

Mom hadn’t emerged from the pantry yet, but her sobs had subsided. Or she’d finally found a way to muffle the noise. Probably the latter.

Grandma was knitting her sixtieth scarf. Bobby pedalled like a maniac. Both were busy ignoring Mom. Sometimes I felt like the only adult in the bunker. I ran a hand through my hair and winced
when my fingers met knots. My hair felt dull. We’d run out of shampoo and conditioner fourteen months ago. Our soap supply had lasted till three weeks ago. A short shower every three days was
all our water supplies allowed anyway. Sometimes the smell of sweat and Bobby’s feet became unbearable, but there was nowhere we could go.

I picked up a strand between my thumb and forefinger and inspected it. My red hair had been shiny once.

1,139 days ago I’d stopped caring about such things.

I dropped the strand and picked up the tin of corned beef. All that was left. It was obvious it would never feed six people – not even three. Actually, I doubted it would be enough to fill
the void in my stomach alone.

I lifted a pot from the cupboard, filled it with water and turned on the smaller burner before I set it down. The water only took a few minutes before it began to boil. After opening the tin, I
dumped the corned beef in.

“What are you doing?” Dad came up next to me and peeked in.

Stirring the brew with a wooden spoon, I looked up at him. “Making soup.”

His eyes lit up with understanding. “You are a clever girl, Sherry.” He stroked my cheek and gave me a smile. Sometimes he still treated me like a little girl, as if he hadn’t
noticed how I’d taken the role of an adult recently – or maybe he’d chosen to ignore it. From the corner of my eye, I saw the curtain being pulled back. Mom stepped out of the
pantry, her face cleaned of tears. She approached Dad and me with an embarrassed smile.

“I’ll set the table,” she announced. She grabbed soup bowls and spoons, and put them on the table. Dad hesitated briefly before he went to help her. I looked away when he
wrapped his arms around her waist and murmured something into her ear. Privacy was almost impossible in the bunker.

I stared down at the pot of reddish-brown brew. It looked like dog food.

1,139 days ago I wouldn’t have eaten it. But that was a long time ago.

Now, I couldn’t wait.

Everyone settled around the table, even Grandma. The smell of something to eat – no matter how gross – drew her in like a moth to the light. Food was the only thing that could stop
her from knitting continuously. In the last months of Grandpa’s struggle against cancer, she’d begun to knit obsessively – it was occupational therapy for her. Since his death,
she’d barely stopped.

While the clicking of the needles seemed to calm Grandma, it was slowly driving the rest of my family crazy. Right now, the
click-click
felt like the countdown to something. Time was
running out.

Click. Click.

I grabbed the pot and put it in the middle of the table. A scoop for each person. Not much.

Dad opened his mouth – in protest, I guess – when I filled his soup bowl. I ignored him, and silence settled over us as we ate what little we had.

Dad didn’t pick up his spoon at first. I glanced up and pleaded with him with my eyes:
Stop sacrificing yourself
. He dipped his head and stared at the soup. Then, finally, he began
eating, guilt radiating from his face.

Dinner took us less than two minutes. Mia was the last to finish. She put down her spoon and looked at the empty plate with so much longing that I wished I’d given my soup to her.

Minutes dragged by in silence. Not the silence that surrounds you like a warm blanket, but a silence that threatens to crush you.

Longing glances were cast at empty plates, resigned glances at the empty pantry.

1,139 days since I’d seen daylight.

Only 2 minutes since we’d run out of food.

The kitchen smelled of lebkuchen and apple pie. Grandma formed the dough into small crescents for the vanille kipferl.

Perfect.

I dipped my finger into the cream-cheese creme, brought it to my lips. The sugary taste filled my mouth, coating my tongue. The best pie filling in the world. Home-made. Grandma would never
allow convenience food into her house.

Just one more taste.

“Sherry, honestly, don’t eat it, you’ll be sick tomorrow.”

Nothing but a rumour Grandma spread so she had enough creme to bake her Bavarian apple pie.

“I’m just testing the quality.”

She tried to look disapproving, but pushed the bowl in my direction.

“One more taste, then wash your hands. And don’t tell your mother.” She smiled at me conspiratorially.

The cream-cheese creme melted on my tongue. The best taste in the world.

My eyes were closed as I listened to the sounds around me.

Click. Click.
Grandma’s knitting.

Swoosh
and the occasional click of a button. Dad trying to communicate via his radio receiver.

A long sigh. Mom losing her patience.

No chirping birds, no wind rustling the trees. No diversion. Never.

I opened my eyes and stared at the white ceiling. There was a tiny spot just above my head where Dad had swatted a fly a few days after we locked the door. Often I’d spent hours just
staring at it. I rolled onto my side, facing the room. Dad sat at his desk with the radio receiver. Microphone in hand, he turned knobs and pressed buttons with a look of despair. I’d seen
that look so often recently. It was carved into his face – ever since we’d run out of food. My stomach clenched and unclenched, but the hollow feeling remained.

“George. Richard here. George, are you there?” Dad asked.

Mia snuggled closer to me. Her eyes were closed and her red hair was all over the place, her curls twisted and knotted. She’d gotten used to sleeping next to me since we’d started
sharing a bed 1,141 days ago.

A long time.

We didn’t even have to share a bed any more – not since Grandpa had died and Grandma had decided to sleep sitting on the sofa – but Mia refused to sleep on her own. She’d
wake as soon as I did, her warm body pressed against mine, easing the crushing feeling of hunger. Her warmth seemed to fill the void. Mia was tough, much tougher than most kids her age. Not a
single word of complaint had left her mouth over the last few days. She’d lost a lot of weight – whenever I lifted her or she sat on my lap it was unmistakable. It worried me more than
my own weight loss and stomach ache did. She was the baby of this family and I wanted to protect her.