After shared, restrained laughter, they drive in silence, passing through this new ghost town, where the ghosts are reflections of what was and projections of what might never be again.
The urge to say something, anything, to keep them talking becomes a compulsion. Ramola says, “This windscreen is rather large, isn’t it,” knowing Natalie won’t be able to resist commenting upon the Anglicism.
“‘Windscreen.’”
“Sorry. Of course, it’s a windshield.”
Natalie says, “I like windscreen better. And yeah, it’s huge. You can see the whole world. You can see everything.”
Ramola keeps her eyes on the road, afraid of looking at Natalie and seeing a ghost.
II.
Fill Your Knapsack Full of the Sweepings
Nats
Hi, I’m back. I love you.
It’s only been, like, thirty minutes since recording my last message and it seems like I did it two weeks ago. Rams says “fortnight” when she means two weeks and still can’t get over that no one in this country says the word unless they’re talking about a video game your dad and other children are obsessed with. Yes, I just called your dad a child. He would’ve laughed at that, and totally agreed. I can’t believe he’s gone—
Hey, you won’t be listening to any of this until years from now. From my now. So I shouldn’t talk about fortnights, weeks, and time. It’s too much. Time is too heavy. It really does have weight you can feel but you can’t measure.
Jesus, I’m talking in shitty riddles like I’m Rabies Yoda.
We’re back on the road. We’ve been forced to leave the hospital. It was on fire. And there were zombies—
“Natalie, they’re not—”
I know, I know. Okay, fine, they’re not really zombies. You probably already know that because the goddamn history of this will have already been written since you’re able to safely listen to this. I’m dreaming about you being safe right now.
So, they’re not zombies. No one is rising from the dead. Sounds silly to have to say because it’s so obvious, right? Dead is dead. There’s no coming back.
This is getting dark. And I’m getting way off track . . . .
I was kind of joking when I said zombies, but not joking at the same time. They’re sick people and they turn delusional and violent and they bite, but it’s easier to say zombie than “a person infected with a super rabies virus and no longer capable of making good decisions.”
I’m not making fun of this. I’m not. It’s either I say it this way or you get a recording of me screaming and crying.
Not for nothing, I hope you make good decisions in your life. It’s okay to make bad ones too, of course. No one makes all good decisions, and it’s often difficult to know if your decision was good or bad or likely somewhere in between, and you might never know. I mean, don’t sniff glue, right? Doing so would be an obviously bad decision. Don’t microwave a hardboiled egg. Don’t drink milk past its expiration date. The sniff test isn’t reliable enough on milk.
When I was in high school and going out with friends my mother used to say, “Make good decisions, Natalie.” She’d be so proud of herself for being different from the moms who said “be smart” or “be good” or “don’t drink and drive” or “be safe and don’t talk to strangers or get attacked by zombies.”
Can you hear Auntie Rams tsking me each time I say “zombie”? She’s here next to me, on the correct side of the road, driving us in an ambulance to another hospital that hopefully isn’t on fire. I’m not making any of this shit up.
So let’s say hi to Auntie Rams again.
“Oh, I’m to be Auntie Rams, now, am I? Don’t I get name approval?”
No. Say hi, Auntie Rams.
“Hi, Auntie Rams.”
Isn’t she so clever? You missed her calling me a dick, like, two minutes ago.
“I did not say you were—”
You totally did. Don’t lie to my kid.
Auntie Rams isn’t my real sister, but she’s even better than a blood sister because I got to choose her. We got to choose each other. That sounds cheesy but it’s true. She’s the best, and she’ll be an amazing auntie. You’ll be able to count on her. I mean, she’s risking her life and her driver’s license for me right now, driving a stolen ambulance—
“It’s not stolen.”
Totally stolen—and driving us—expertly, I might add!—through a Fury Road wasteland, only much less dusty and way more suburban. You can watch that movie when you’re fourteen. Or maybe twelve if you think you can handle it.
I have no familial sisters or brothers. I’m a partially spoiled only child. The full-on spoiledness inherent to being an only child was kept in check, mostly, because my parents were impossible to deal with. Maybe that’s not completely fair and I don’t want you to think your grandparents were mean or terrible people, because they weren’t. They were a little cold, not always there even when they sat in the same room as you, if that makes sense. They loved me sometimes and they tolerated me the rest of the time. Some of that was my problem too, and I’ll freely admit I was a bit of a monster as a teen. I ran away from home three different times my freshman year. My parents were older, in their mid-forties when they had me, and I don’t know if that was the reason for their distance. They tried their best, but sometimes trying isn’t good enough.
I shouldn’t be wasting what little time I have telling you this stuff, but what else am I going to say? I don’t have a lifetime to do this. No one does, I guess.
These recordings are me grieving for you and your dad, grieving for us, for the moments that won’t ever happen, the memories we won’t be able to make.
“Natalie, please don’t talk like this. You can’t give up—”
Sorry, Auntie Rams, I have to. I need to. And I’m
