And then, finally . . .
After forty-seven interminable days, around eight o’clock at night, the lights and TV blared on. The lights were so bright, the sound so loud, they set Mom to screaming. Emily and I froze, not quite knowing what to do. How to live.
Then we cheered.
I hurried to comfort my mother. “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay. You can listen to your music again.”
She stopped, mid-screech. “I can?”
When she calmed, we held hands and stood in a circle, thanking God for bringing us through.
Mom clasped her hands and put them near her chin. “Can I dance now?”
I smiled. “All day and all night, if you want.” Emily took her into the bedroom to put on a Lady Gaga CD. It was the sweetest sound we’d ever heard.
The next day, with TV news and radio and all our phones working again, we began to hear what the rest of the country had been hearing. The extent of widespread violence in all the states plunged into darkness. The cost in untold billions to our country with the economy hit. The unfolding account of FreeNow anarchists and their plot of insanity. The amazing story of three women in one family who’d saved the bulk of the nation—
Wait.
Were they talking about us?
Epilogue
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
“Here comes your turkey, Mom.”
She’d been asking about it for the last two hours. Holding the large platter, I swept from the kitchen to our dining area and set it on the table with a flourish.
Mom clapped her palms together. “Oh, it looks lovely. Doesn’t it, Margie!” Mom’s cheeks were rosy, and she wore a pretty outfit of purple pants and shirt to match her hat. Which she’d insisted on wearing to the table.
My aunt grinned. “Sure does.”
“I do so like turkey. And potatoes.”
Emily patted her grandmother’s arm. “We have potatoes for you, Grand.”
Did we ever. Aunt Margie had brought sweet potatoes as well as mashed russets. Plus green beans and a dessert. Added to all Emily and I had made, it was a real feast. I wouldn’t have to cook again for a week.
Emily caught my eye, and we exchanged a look—one that spoke of remembered rationing, and dark, cold nights.
I shivered.
We settled at the table and held hands to pray. I thanked God for the food, and the electricity, and the heat in our house. For our health, and Emily’s healed leg. For our very lives.
We took none of those things for granted anymore.
Emily helped Mom fill her plate. As my mother picked up her fork, her face took on that blank look that came more often these days. Her fork poised midair.
“What is it, Mom?”
“Why are we eating all this food?”
“It’s Christmas. Remember? See all the red and green?”
“Oh.” She looked around the table. “Yes.”
She scooped some mashed potatoes into her mouth.
It was about two in the afternoon. We would have eaten earlier if not for the piles of presents we’d needed to open—most of them from strangers. There were even some for Aunt Margie. And these were just the most recent. Ever since the lights came back on in April, the whole country seemed to want to thank us—in any way they could. We were so humbled by all the gifts, especially in an economy in which people were fighting to regain what had been lost as a result of the attack.
And the attention didn’t end there. Emily and I had been inundated with requests for interviews—on every major TV talk show and channel you could name. We hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, but Sergeant Wade persuaded us. “Just do one or two. The country deserves to hear your story.”
We’d done a full hour on Sixty Minutes. And another on CNN. The stations asked that Mom participate too. I said absolutely not. She remembered nothing of our ordeal. And she would likely be far too confused in front of the cameras and hot lights. While Emily and I traveled, Mom stayed with Aunt Margie.
For the most part, Mom had been delighted with the “new friends” who would stop by to say hello and thank us. If the conversation turned to That Day, she would frown. “What are you talking about?” And I’d have to steer the discussion to another topic. But then Mom would offer to play her music for our guests—and that would make her smile again.
In July, my mother received her most cherished gift of all. A signed CD from Lady Gaga herself. With a note of thanks on behalf of the nation.
Mom had played that CD every day since.
“Grand.” Emily cut some of the turkey on her grandmother’s plate. “Guess who’s coming over in a few hours to see you. Sergeant Wade.”
“Oh, good.” My mother beamed. “He’s such a nice young man.”