29. Call Mom
CALL MOM
GRACE
The comms console has a beige plastic handset and a coiled cord. The kind of phone that lives in government buildings, dentist offices, and places where aesthetics go to die.
Joel's been working the relay for twenty minutes by the time he nods and hands me the handset. "The emergency network relayed us as far as Brookside. The shelter answered. They're bringing her to their radio."
My lungs forget their job. I take the handset. My hands are shaking.
Joel returns to the door. Other people bring flowers. Joel brings structural positioning.
Beck's against the wall, to my left. Underneath the chaos grin and the too-good-a-time energy is a man who knows exactly what it costs to reach for someone who might not be there.
Grant's in the corner. Pepper's in his jacket. Captain's on the filing cabinet, glaring at the fluorescent lights.
I hold the handset to my ear.
Static. The same static as before, the cotton-and-distance sound, the sound of the world being too big and the signal being too small.
"Mom?" I say.
Static.
"Mom, it's Grace. I'm at WonderSphere. The theme park. On Route 9. If you can hear me, it's Grace."
Static that goes on long enough for my brain to open every bad tab, every terrible possibility, every version of this where the other end is empty and the casserole is cold and Mrs. Patterson's little dog is alone and Biscuit is...
"Grace?"
My body makes the executive decision that standing is no longer a service it provides.
I sit down on the comms room floor with the handset pressed against my ear, my back against the console, my knees against my chest, and the sound of my mother's voice filling up every room in my body, even the storage closets.
"Mom."
"Grace Elizabeth, are you alright?"
She's using my middle name. Which means she's alive and she's fully operational, all systems running, the most reliable machine in the universe. My mother.
"I'm alright. I'm at the theme park. We have walls and food and water and a whole system. The system is in crayon. It's a long story."
"Did you use the coupon?" she asks.
The coupon.
I'm laughing. I'm crying. The two things are happening simultaneously and I can't tell which one started first and it doesn't matter because they're the same thing. They've always been the same thing. The comedy and the crying are just two doors into the same room.
"I didn't use the coupon, Mom."
"That was a good coupon, Grace."
"Mom, there's a zombie apocalypse."
"I know there's a zombie apocalypse. I've been sitting in this shelter watching the news and worrying about you for days. Do you know what it's like to sit in a community center gymnasium surrounded by strangers and their blankets and wonder if your daughter is alive?"
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry. My phone died and the power was out and we just got the communications working. I'm sorry. I'm here."
"We. You said we."
My mother catches the we.
"There are..." I look at the door.
Joel's face is doing the thing where he's pretending it's not doing a thing and the pretending is so tender it's almost medical.
Beck's eyes are on me and his face isn't doing the grin.
Grant's looking at me with the full weather report on display: overcast clearing to brilliant, the sun coming through, everything visible, everything warm.
"There are three of them," I say into the phone. "Three... people. Men. Three men."
Static crackles. The signal flickers. My mother's voice cuts through it. "Three men?"
"It's not... they're... we're a team. A survival team.
Joel keeps the water running and the buildings standing and he does math about whether I'm going to fall off things and his face does a thing, Mom, you'll see when you...
and Beck, Beck has an axe and a fish vest and he gives me scores when I accidentally hit zombies with things and he laughs, Mom, he laughs like a person who forgot how and remembered.
And Grant, Grant has a wallaby in his jacket and he told me my brain was a feature and not a malfunction and nobody's ever said that before, Mom, nobody's ever... "
I stop because my voice did the cracking thing.
"Grace," my mother says. Her voice is the one she used when I was seven and I fell off the monkey bars and broke my wrist and she held me in the emergency room and said "I know, baby, I know" and the knowing was enough. The knowing was everything.
"Are they good to you?" she asks.
"Mom, they're... Joel made cardboard signs on every building in the park."
I'm fully crying into a beige government phone about cardboard signs.
"He sounds like a keeper," Mom says.
"They're all keepers. That's the situation. The whole situation, there are three of them and they're all... it's a thing... a group... we call it the group heart situation and I know that sounds... I know..."
"Grace."
"Please don't... I know it's unusual, I know it's not..."
"Grace Elizabeth."
I stop.
"Are you happy?" My mother, sitting in a gymnasium shelter surrounded by strangers, asking the only question that has ever mattered to her about anything I've ever done.
"Yeah, Mom. I'm happy."
"Do any of them cook?"
"Joel can make canned chili. Beck can operate a funnel cake machine. Grant feeds a wallaby with a bottle every four hours."
"The wallaby one sounds nurturing."
"You can't pick one."
"I'm not picking, I'm ranking. There's a difference. Mothers rank."
The static surges. The signal wobbles. Joel straightens at the door. His face does the operations shift.
"Mom, the signal's not stable. I need to tell you things fast."
"I'm listening."
"WonderSphere is safe. We have walls. We have food. We have water, Joel keeps the water running, he's very... the water is his whole thing. We have other survivors now too, fourteen new people. We have a system for letting them in. The system is in crayon."
"Of course it is."
"If you can get here. If there's a way. The roads might be..."
"Mrs. Patterson has a car."
"Mrs. Patterson is there?"
"Mrs. Patterson came to the shelter the first night with Biscuit in a carrier and Mr. Noodles in her lap and a tuna casserole that she insists is fine and has been fine for days. I'm not going to be the one to test that theory."
The static is getting worse. The signal is thinning, stretching, the sound of a connection trying to hold across distance and infrastructure.
"Mom, I need you to know something. I had a snow globe for you."
"A snow globe?"
"From the gift shop. Little castle inside. Glitter. It was going to go on the shelf between Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon."
"That's a good spot."
"I killed a zombie with it."
Static. Long static. "You killed a zombie," she says.
"Glitter went everywhere. The castle is cracked. I'm sorry about the shelf gap."
"Grace."
"I'll get you a new one. A better one. Two, actually. One for you and one for Mrs. Patterson. Does Mrs. Patterson collect snow globes?"
"Mrs. Patterson collects ceramic angels."
"I'll find her a ceramic angel. This park has multiple gift shops. Gift shops are my core competency. I'll find the best ceramic angel WonderSphere has ever produced and I'll give it to Mrs. Patterson and she can put it next to Mr. Noodles and everything will be fine."
"Grace," Mom says. "We're coming. Mrs. Patterson's car has gas and I have a map and I'll be there."
"The roads..."
"I drove through the ice storm of 2007 in a Kia Sorento with you throwing up in a mixing bowl. I can handle the roads."
"There are zombies."
"There are always obstacles. When you were four, the obstacle was a ball pit at Chuck E.
Cheese that you refused to leave for three hours.
When you were twelve, the obstacle was a science fair volcano that erupted in the minivan.
The obstacles change. The driving doesn't. I'll be there. I'm bringing the cat."
"Biscuit gets car sick. You have to..."
"I have been managing Biscuit for six years. I know about the car sickness. I know about the yowling. I know about the thing she does with her tail when she's stressed. I'll manage Biscuit."
"She's going to hate the carrier."
The static surges again. Louder. Joel takes a step into the room.
"Mom, I have to go. The signal's going."
"I love you. Don't trip."
"I love you. I'll try not to trip. I won't succeed but I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
The signal cuts.
I sit on the floor for a while.
The amount of time it takes for the tears to finish and the comedy armor to start rebuilding.
Which is usually about thirty seconds but today takes longer because today the armor wants to stay in the pile with the feelings and the cracked snow globe of my emotional infrastructure.
And maybe that's okay. Maybe the armor can stay off for more than thirty seconds when you're sitting on a floor surrounded by people who've already seen what's underneath it.
I put the handset back on the console. I wipe my face with the Wondie hoodie sleeve, which now has tears on it in addition to the powdered sugar and glitter. The hoodie has been through a hero's journey. The hoodie deserves a memoir.
I stand up. "She's bringing the cat," I say.
"And a neighbor. Who's nice. And a small hostile dog.
And a casserole that's been at room temperature for days, which is a food safety situation.
But Mrs. Patterson's casseroles are a food safety situation under optimal conditions so the apocalypse is honestly just a lateral move for the tuna. "
Joel nods. "Good."
"What kind of cat?" Grant asks.
"Maine Coon. Her name is Biscuit. She's enormous.
She weighs eighteen pounds and she's all fur and opinions and she gets car sick and she hates her carrier.
And she has a thing she does with her tail when she's stressed, which is always, because Biscuit experiences the world as a series of personal insults that she endures with the grace of a very large cat who deserves better. "
Beck grins. The sunrise grin. "I'm going to love Biscuit."
"Everyone loves Biscuit. Biscuit doesn't love everyone back.
Biscuit's love is an exclusive membership.
The application process is rigorous and mostly involves sitting very still and letting her sniff your hand for approximately forty-five minutes while she decides if you deserve to exist in her space. "
"Maine Coon," Grant says. "That's a large predatory animal in a park with a red-tailed hawk."
"Captain's going to have to deal with it."
"Captain isn't the one I'm worried about. Biscuit outweighs him by approximately fifteen pounds and has claws. They'll need controlled introductions and separate sleeping areas."
"Biscuit has been negotiating territory with a Roomba for three years. Biscuit versus Captain is going to be the diplomatic event of the season."
"And Kevin," Grant says.
"Biscuit will teach Kevin respect. I won't intervene because Kevin's had this coming since the pond incident."
I pick up the crayon plan and the periwinkle nub, which is now the size of a pencil eraser. I hold it between my thumb and forefinger like a precious gem because the periwinkle is a precious gem.
I write the last item on the crayon plan.
Not the last last. There will always be more items because the plan grows the way we grow, one crayon line at a time.
But the last item for today: MOM IS COMING. BISCUIT IS COMING. MRS. PATTERSON IS COMING. MR. NOODLES IS COMING. THE CASSEROLE IS COMING (PROCEED WITH CAUTION).
I add, underneath, in letters so small the periwinkle barely survives: We made it.
I fold the plan and put it in my pocket with the periwinkle.
Beck pushes off the wall. "I need to prepare the crime boat."
"You don't need to..."
"Your mother is coming to the crime boat. Where we live. The crime boat currently has an axe collection, a dolphin breastplate drying rack, and a sleeping bag that smells like a man who fights zombies for a living. I need to prepare."
"Beck, my mother once found a live frog in my dorm room laundry basket. She can handle the crime boat."
"She's going to judge the crime boat."
"She's a mother. Judging is her tertiary function after loving and worrying.
She's going to walk through that gate and she's going to see the cardboard signs and the friendship paddle and the goat and the three of you and she's going to judge all of it and then she's going to make everyone sit down and eat something with protein.
It's going to be the most aggressively normal thing that's happened since the wrong people. "
"We should clear the route," Joel says. "From the east gate to the big middle. If your mother's driving in, the road approach needs to be secured. I'll check the gate mechanism, make sure the vehicle access works. Beck, east perimeter. Grant, medical station prep, additional supplies for..."
"Joel."
He stops.
"Thank you for fixing the loud machine," I say.
It's not enough. The sentence is too small for what it means.
"The machine needed fixing," he says.
That's Joel's I love you.
"Okay," I say and wipe my nose on the Wondie hoodie because the hoodie has already absorbed every bodily fluid this week and what's one more.
"Let's clear the route. Let's prep the gate.
Let's get the food room ready because my mother is going to arrive and she's going to want to feed people because that's what my mother does. "
I walk toward the door. My foot catches the edge of the console desk. I stumble. I catch myself on the doorframe. I keep walking.
Behind me, I hear the triple twitch. Three men, three hands, three micro-movements toward me that stop before they start because I caught myself.
But they twitch.
All three of them.
Every time.