Autumn in the City of Angels (5 page)

I leaned back on the couch, head swimming.  I stared out the window at the blue California morning sky, and a sudden realization crashed through me.  I’d forgotten to get his name.  And I’d never seen his face.  How would I ever find him again?

A strangled gasp escaped my lips as I heaved the heavy potted lemon tree over the top step and into the sunshine on the terrace.  Panting, I leaned against the interior wall of the vestibule covering the stairwell and stared in triumph at the plant.  Its leaves were slightly yellowed and there was no fruit growing on its branches, but I was going to remedy that.  The book said citrus trees need eight hours of sunshine a day.  Where it had been sitting on the landing of the stairwell, it got maybe half an hour of light as the sun sailed by in the afternoon.

The book was
Care of Tropical Plants
.  I had found it buried between two larger books:
Waterfowl of the American Eastern Seaboard
and
70 Years of the Oscar
.  My mother had an irrational love of hardback coffee table books as decoration.  She bought loads of them to stack haphazardly around the place, but I never saw her actually read one.  Ten minutes earlier, I’d begun paging through
Care of Tropical Plants
and a sudden urgency to save the one plant residing in our apartment surged through me.  It made me feel more alive knowing something else depended on me for survival.

Leaving the plant to hopefully flourish in the sunshine, I trotted down the stairs to tackle a project I’d been putting off: reassessing my food situation.  I was lucky my dad was a big fan of buying things in bulk: when the Crimson Fever struck, I had two dozen cans of tuna, three boxes of cereal, four containers of frozen English muffins, and so on.  I’d been good at rationing so far, but the cabinets were looking frighteningly bare.

I paused on the landing, catching a smell I hadn’t noticed before.  It was fresh, citrusy sharp and clean.  I looked at the corner where the lemon tree had stood.  It was strange I hadn’t noticed it before, especially when I was shoulder deep in the plant, hauling it upstairs.  But there was no fruit on the tree.

I sighed, wondering how long it would take for lemons to appear.  I could almost taste the lemon juice, how it sharpened a glass of plain water to a tooth-chilling freshness.  I could make lemonade.  I chuckled and muttered, “When life gives you lemons...” and continued down the stairs to the kitchen.

The sunshine filled the room to an almost unearthly brightness.  It must have been the light contradicting the darkness that made me notice a black shadow in the silhouette of a man flashing across the floor of the kitchen.  My heart seized in my chest, practically halting altogether, and before I could stop myself, I called out.

“Hello?”  My voice was small and childish and was met with silence. My breath stuck in my chest.  I blinked, and suddenly, the shadow was gone.  What if The Front had just found me?  I had to get out, now.

I ran to the front door at full speed, half expecting to see the owner of the shadow as I ran.  But when I reached the door, it was shut tight and locked, as always.  Why would they lock themselves in?  A cold chill ran down my back as I fumbled with the lock.  I was afraid to look over my shoulder.  My mind immediately ran down a mental list of possible weapons within easy reach.  The lamp on the table, my shoes at the door, an umbrella on the coat rack... the coat rack itself.  I grabbed the automatic umbrella and spun around to face the very empty kitchen.  I stopped and carefully looked around.  I could see into the living room, empty as well.  I looked at the front door again, reminding myself it was still locked and didn’t look tampered with.  To be sure, I carefully walked around the apartment, inspecting the halls and each room.

When I was finished, I realized I was still alone.  My heart wasn’t threatening to jump out of my chest anymore, but my hands were still sweaty as I tightly gripped the plastic handle of the umbrella.  I took a deep breath to further calm myself when a great, flapping noise caught my attention and something big and black jumped up in front of me.  I shrieked and leapt backwards, flinging my weapon at it, ready to run.

When I realized what had happened, I felt silly.  The opened umbrella rolled lazily on the floor where I’d tossed it.  My tight grip had accidentally triggered the automatic open, and I’d startled myself unnecessarily, again.  The surprise from the quick burst of the umbrella popping open was enough to shake my excitement over the shadow and bring me back to reality. I rationalized that the shadow was probably caused by a bird flying past one of the many tall windows in the apartment.

But the shadow was the shape of a person, I thought stubbornly.  And the silhouette was motionless for a brief moment before I called out, and then it disappeared altogether.  Maybe the loneliness was starting to make me go crazy.

It was a bird.  It had to be a bird, I told myself as I walked back to the kitchen and went back to my chores in an attempt to regain focus.  I’d been on the verge of looking at my rations, taking a list of my remaining food.  I started piling what was left of my meager store on the countertop, breathing deeply and reading each label carefully to force my mind back into the mundane task.

I learned quickly that food always looked like more than it really was when tucked into a cabinet.  I could never accurately keep track of what I had if I left it hidden away.  One day last week, I opened a cabinet, surprised to find an unopened box of crackers hidden toward the back.  I could have sworn they hadn’t been there before, but there they were, the yellow box of carbs shining like a beacon in the darkness.

So now I stood on a chair and chewed on my lip as I dug through the cabinet above the stove.  Where was it, I thought, shoving aside tins of cinnamon and allspice.  I was sure I’d seen a tiny bottle of honey in here just last night.  Crap.  This was why I needed to do inventory more often.  Did I down the rest of the honey like cough syrup while sleepwalking?  I didn’t sleepwalk... did I?  I perched on the counter, resting for a moment and tried to sort out my thoughts.

My iPod blared music in the living room.  In the interest of keeping myself from going insane, which didn’t seem to be working presently, I’d planned several projects.  One of which was listening to every album I owned, from beginning to end, three times in a row.  I used to have the problem of buying an album and getting hooked on a song or two and then never listening to the other songs.  My iTunes informed me I had nearly twenty-six days of music, the majority of these being un-listened-to tracks, so I figured it would be a good time to finally get familiar with my collection.  If nothing else, it kept my ears busy, which in turn, kept my head busy.

Listening to the music helped distract me from my thoughts of the boy who’d rescued me a month earlier.  I’d been unable to stop thinking about him since.  He had disappeared as abruptly as he’d appeared.  I often stood by the window, looking down at the cluttered street, imagining a boy striding toward The Water Tower, long legs and a soft wool sweater.  When it got to the part where I had to imagine his hair, eyes and face, I drew a blank and the fantasy shattered.

I wondered if he’d meant what he said about coming back for me to join him and the other survivors when it was safe.  I had no idea how long it might take to set up a secret camp.  What if he’d forgotten his promise?  Or what if he’d gotten hurt?  Or left Los Angeles entirely?  I tried not to think too negatively.  I needed to believe he was coming back.  It was sad, but it was the only thing I had left in the world to look forward to.

I rested on the counter behind me, then leaned forward, resting my head on my knees and letting my hair fall to my ankles like a red waterfall.  I sighed.  There were so many little mysteries surrounding the boy.  Not only did I not know his name, or see his face, but the question of how he’d gotten me all the way home and into the penthouse still puzzled me.  True, I had told him where I lived, and about the safety precautions my dad took.  I was slightly embarrassed, though, thinking about him carrying me multiple blocks while I probably snored like a mule on his shoulder.

Despite my embarrassment, I’d almost left a couple times to go to Hollywood High School to find him, but ultimately talked myself out of it.  He’d told me to stay here and that he would come get me.  So I stayed put, rationed my food and water, listened to my music three times in a row and tried to ignore the frequent dreams where I heard him call my name over and over.  In those dreams, I could never find him.  My chest ached when I woke up, but there was also a very blunt happiness from feeling near him again.  I didn’t feel alone.  I was warm and safe in those dreams.

Music echoed into the kitchen and around the mess I’d made as I sifted through both the food on the counter and my thoughts of the boy.  I sighed again, feeling the emptiness of the apartment press on me like Southern humidity.  The honey was nowhere to be found.

The collection of miscellaneous boxes, cans and jars didn’t add up to much: a couple packets of Ramen noodles, a box of instant oatmeal packets, a miniature tin of anchovies, a can of tomato paste and a nearly full jar of roasted sesame seeds.  Half of the box of crackers was left and also some random baking products I’d already tasted to check if they were at all edible.  I had nearly choked on the baking powder.  It burned the tip of my tongue, and I spat it out quickly.  The cream of tartar wasn’t bad; it had a tangy flavor.  I knew enough to not try to eat flour or baking soda.  I did like carrying the small square tin of cinnamon around with me.  Smelling it made me think of coffee shops and Christmas.

I decided to save the noodles, oatmeal and crackers for a treat and grabbed the jar of sesame seeds.  I opened the fridge and grabbed a full water bottle from the empty cavern, cool and white.  The refrigerator was bare now except for my water bottles.  When the plumbing quit working, I started using water from the pool to wash myself, clothes and dishes, and limited myself to two bottles of drinking water a day from the stash of Sparkletts jugs in our laundry room. But now there was only a jug and a half left. I would have to find a way to get more soon.

Carrying my lunch back to the living room, I sat down on the couch.  I pinched several seeds between my thumb and forefinger, sprinkled them onto my tongue and then crushed them between my teeth.  They had a pleasant earthy flavor.

I let my mind wander back to three days ago when I splurged and ate an entire six-ounce jar of maraschino cherries as a reward for finishing my first big project: watching every single movie we owned.  I watched them in release date order.  My mother’s films were sprinkled into the lineup.  I’d enjoyed watching her, her curly red Irish hair always featured almost as a character separate from herself, her kind, deep green eyes and that smile I knew so well.  She always smiled more with the left side of her mouth to hide a slightly crooked incisor on her right side.  I liked it most when she laughed and forgot about hiding her crooked tooth, her one flaw, perfect.

A smile stretched across my face as I thought about her.  My mind wasn’t strong enough to hold on to the happiness, though, and my face immediately began to crumple.  Tears welled up and overflowed down my cheeks, and I took a gigantic deep breath to calm myself.  Keep busy, I mentally repeated, like a parent telling a child on a carousel to hold on tighter.

I decided to refill the water bottles.  I swiped the back of my hand across my wet cheeks as I stood up and slid in my socks over the floor I had spent yesterday polishing.  Unable to stop skating across the floor in time, I crashed into the partially closed laundry room door and caught myself on the doorjamb when it didn’t open.  Confused, I pushed on the door again.  It seemed to be blocked.  I poked my head around to see what was blocking it.  My mouth fell open, and prickles streamed across my back like cool water.

Two full Sparkletts jugs were wedged behind the door.  I slid into the laundry room and stared at them, then looked behind me at the other two jugs sitting in their usual spot; one full, the wax safety seal still in place and the other, just under half full, the water slightly trembling from the vibrations of the clothes dryer running next to it.

I looked back and forth at the two teams of water jugs as if they were playing ping-pong.  I tried to sort out how I could have forgotten having two in reserve.  Sitting behind the door like they were, it was hard to imagine I could have missed seeing them.  Where did they come from?

I shook my head, irritated.  “I guess I really am going crazy.”  I pulled the door closed behind me and returned to the couch to think.  So I wasn’t as low on water as I thought, but I would run out of food soon.  I knew I couldn’t keep eating sesame seeds for lunch, but it was still too dangerous to go outside to forage food from what was left of the city.

From my eagle’s nest perch on the terrace, I had a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the city below.  The Front was running rampant through what was left of the marina, emptying stores, then burning them.  I watched one day last week as Karl oversaw a group siphoning gas from a station across the street.  Even at that distance, I could see the evil and beauty pulsing from him, weakening everyone around him until they were broken enough to submit.  Though I was a good distance away from him, I still felt the urge to get further away from him and was frustrated at my inability to do so.  I reminded myself that for the time being, I was safe in my tower.  Safe, but also trapped like a cat in a tree.

I sprinkled more sesame seeds onto my tongue.  I would just have to use the closest and safest source to me to replenish my stock: the thirty-six stories of condos below me.  I didn’t relish the thought of what might be awaiting discovery in some of them.  I wasn’t naïve to the fact that the residents hadn’t just disappeared in a puff of smoke after the Crimson Fever claimed their lives.

I felt slightly sickened and panicked at the thought of entering a dark, unfamiliar apartment, utterly still with secrets.  I unconsciously touched the silver Celtic knot charm I always wore on a necklace.  I heard Mamó, my Irish grandma, say to me, “Ye canna always be brev on the inside,
Fòmhair
¹
.  But ye ken be bold on the ootside.  "
Fortiter
²
,” she would remind me, shaking her wrinkled fist under my nose until I laughed.  “Boldly,” it meant in Gaelic.