Standing and taking one step back, the line between Tom’s eyes deepens. “Pale may be fashionable and cut down on skin cancer, but humans will die without natural light over time.”
At her widening eyes, he holds up a hand and retreats a little from the statement. “Not immediately and not you. You spent all your formative years getting natural light. You’re fine. For now. We do need to sort this out eventually, though.”
Miranda glances at the tightly sealed windows. The only light leaks through in tiny slivers of yellow around the edges or through the seams. “I don’t know if I can.”
She starts when Tom jerks, then snaps his fingers. He grins at her so widely that she can’t help but smile back. “I’ve got it!” he says, clapping his hands together once.
“What do you have?” she asks, delighted by his delight.
He waggles a finger at her. “Oh, I’m not telling. It’s a surprise. Plus, if I can’t find what I’m thinking of, I don’t want to let you down.”
Phone service returned in the fall, but it’s a limited thing. Tom spends a frustrating few days with a pad of paper and the phone, searching for a place where he can buy things. Like the phones, the internet is also back up, but it’s even more limited than phone service. Nationalization of communications is meant to keep things from turning into a mess of conspiracies and panic, but it’s often more frustrating than useful under those restrictions.
Eventually, Tom leaves to pick up his surprises, his plan requiring visits to several locations. Miranda will be alone for an entire day and she’s nervous about it. Walking her about the house, he shows her all the locks, the hiding places she can run to, the security of the blankets covering the windows. He’s patient and kind. Miranda is nervous, but the crippling sense of unease is gone.
She knows she’s becoming something other than the independent and strong person she was before Sharon died on her doorstep. She hates it sometimes. Sometimes she hates herself. This hateful weakness is comfortable and that makes it even worse. She’s turning her life over to fear and relying entirely on Tom to keep her safe.
But he’s doing just that and she couldn’t do it on her own. He’s keeping her safe and expects nothing for it. That makes it okay. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think it were as necessary as she does.
At the door, he seems to read her conflicting thoughts and holds out his hand. He never takes her hand, never presumes. He only offers.
Miranda slips her hand into his and he gives one quick, encouraging squeeze. Then he lets her go. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“By tomorrow?” she asks for the fourth time.
“At the latest.”
Then he’s gone. Miranda presses herself behind the big pantry door to shield herself from the light of the open door. Within a minute, he’s slipping into the car with only one smiling look back. She peers through a tiny gap in the window covering, flinching as the light touches her eye. She watches until the dust of the retreating car obscures her view.
The first minutes are fine. The first hours are manageable. By the time darkness falls, Miranda hears an intruder in every creaking timber or groaning roof joist. Sleep becomes impossible and she paces the hall, hurrying to check the locks every hour or so. As dawn breaks, she finally falls asleep at the big kitchen table, her head pillowed on her arms.
Later, after a fitful few hours that left her feeling drained and her neck sore, she resumes her pacing and worrying. When she finds herself standing in front of the camp stove with a pan in one hand and an egg in the other, convinced that if she uses the stove something awful will happen, she realizes that she’s gone too far into weakness.
Tears roll down her cheeks as she looks at the egg. How has she come to this? How is it possible that the idea of cooking an egg brings up a myriad of fears? Worries of a fire forcing her outside into the sun. Concern that she’ll not use the gas bottle properly and asphyxiate. Fear that without Tom nearby she’ll do something catastrophic she can’t even imagine the shape of.
It’s ridiculous.
Nevertheless, she puts the egg back into the refrigerator and settles for a slice of bread.
Night falls and Miranda nearly leaps for the door when she hears the sound of his car. Her hand doesn’t quite touch the handle, but it does hover near it. When he enters the house, bringing with him the smell of fresh air and life, she has to twist her hands together to prevent herself from leaping at him, from hugging him just to confirm he’s really there.
Tom isn’t blind. He sees the red eyes, the puffy face, the messy hair, and strained features. Opening his arms, he says, “Oh, Miranda. It’s alright. I’m right here.”
She bursts into tears as she nestles in and lets his arms enfold her in safety. There’s nothing at all sexual in the hug, nothing that hints of wanting more. Tom is good to her and has no expectations, or even any apparent desire, for more.
Soothing her with soft words and reassurances, she feels the fear of the day pass out of her. Eventually, she even feels foolish. The realization that her dependence is becoming almost clinical in nature has to be pushed away. That’s too uncomfortable to think about. Right now, the relief is foremost.
When she’s settled enough for him
