Come to me. I need you.
It had words now, that urgent, demanding voice.
“I’m going crazy, Patrick,” Lana told her dog. “It’s inside me, and I am going crazy.”
Mary Terrafino woke up. She rolled out of bed. Morning. She should go back to sleep: she was exhausted. But she would not fall back to sleep, she knew that. She had things to do.
First things first, she stumbled to her bathroom and used her bare foot to pull the scale across the tile floor. There was a special spot for the scale: aligned with the center of the mirror over the sink, upper-right corner of the scale precisely in line with the tile.
She removed her sleep shirt and stepped onto the scale.
First reading. Step off.
Second reading. Step off.
Three times made it official.
Eighty-one pounds.
She’d been 128 pounds when the FAYZ came.
She still looked fat. There were still pockets of chubbiness here and there. No matter what anyone else said. Mary could see the flab. So no breakfast for her. Which was fine, given that breakfast at the day care would be oatmeal made with powdered milk and sweetened with pink packets of Sweet’n Low. Healthy enough—and much, much better than what most people were getting—but not exactly worth gaining weight over.
Mary popped her Prozac, plus two tiny red Sudafed and a multivitamin. The Prozac kept depression at bay—mostly—and the Sudafed helped keep her from getting hungry. The vitamin would keep her healthy, she hoped.
She dressed quickly, T-shirt, sweatpants, sneakers. Each was roomy. She was determined not to wear anything more body-conscious until she had really lost some weight.
She went to the laundry room and spilled a dryer full of cloth diapers into a plastic bag. There were still a few disposable diapers in storage, but they were saving those for emergencies. They had made the switch to cloth a month earlier. It was gross and everyone hated it, but as Mary had pointed out to her grumbling workers, the Pampers factory wasn’t exactly delivering anymore.
Down the stairs with the bag bump-bumping along.
Sam was with Astrid and Little Pete in the kitchen. Mary didn’t want to interrupt—or be nagged about having breakfast—so she let herself quietly out the front door.
Five minutes later she was at the day care.
The day care had fared badly in the battle. The wall it shared with the hardware store had been blown out. So now the gaping hole was covered by plastic sheeting that had to be retaped just about every day. It was a reminder of how close they had come to disaster. The coyote pack had been in this very room, holding these same children hostage, while Drake Merwin preened and gloated.
Mary’s brother, John, was already at the day care waiting for her.
“Hey, Mary,” John said. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be sleeping.”
John was working the morning shift, 5:00 A.M. to noon, breakfast to just before lunch. Mary was supposed to take over at lunch and work straight through until 10:00 P.M. Lunch through dinner through sleep time, with an hour at the end to work out schedules and clean up. Then she’d have time to go home, watch some DVDs while she worked out on the treadmill in the basement. That was the schedule. Eight hours of sleep and a few hours free in the morning.
But in reality she often spent two or three hours exercising at night. Going after those last few pounds. On the treadmill, down in the basement, where Astrid wouldn’t hear her and ask her why.
Most days she consumed fewer than seven hundred calories. On a really good day it would be half that.
She hugged John. “What’s up, little brother? What’s today’s crisis?”
John had a list. He read it off his Warriors notebook. “Pedro has a loose tooth. He also had an accident last night. Zosia claims Julia punched her, so they’re fighting and refusing to play together. I think maybe Collin has a fever . . . anyway, he’s kind of, you know, cranky. I caught Brady trying to run away this morning. She was going to look for her mommy.”
The list went on and as it did, some of the kids ran over to hug Mary, to get a kiss, to get an appreciation of their hairdo, to earn an approving “good job” for the way they had brushed their teeth.
Mary nodded. The list was about like this every day.
A guy named Francis came in, pushed rudely past Mary. Then he realized whom he had just shouldered aside, turned back to her with a scowl, and said, “Okay, I’m here.”
“First time?” Mary asked.
“What, am I supposed to be sorry? I’m not a babysitter.”
This scene, too, had been repeated every day since peace had come to Perdido Beach. “Okay, here’s the thing, kid,” Mary said. “I know you don’t want to be here, and I don’t care. No one wants to be here, but the littles have to be taken care of. So lose the attitude.”
“Why don’t you just take care of these kids? At least you’re a girl.”
“I’m not,” John pointed out.
Mary said, “See that easel? There are three lists on there, one list for each of the daily helpers. Pick a list. That’s what you do. Whatever is on the list. And you smile while you’re doing it.”
Francis marched over and checked the list.
John said, “I’ll bet you a cookie he doesn’t pick diaper duty.”
“No bet,” Mary said. “Besides, there are no cookies.”
“I miss cookies,” John said wistfully.
“Hey,” Francis yelled. “All these lists suck.”