Going Viral, page 2
She loosens her grip, pulls back to look at my face. Her eyes are red, and her face is splotchy, like she’s been crying. I’ve never seen her look so scared and sad at the same time.
She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get inside.”
Inside. Where I’ll spend the next two weeks.
We walk up to the second floor, to our apartment, and I almost trip over the grocery bags lining the hallway inside.
“What is all this stuff?” I ask.
My dad emerges from the kitchen. “All this should hopefully last two weeks. Mom and I started stocking up on things here and there at our offices, and we brought it home today.”
“Oh god, my office,” my mom says, and she looks like she’s about to cry again.
“Soooo, you guys will be working at home for the next two weeks?” I ask quietly, still trying to understand what’s happening. “I just … I thought you said this wouldn’t happen here?”
My thinking out loud seems to make my mom feel worse, and I see her lip trembling.
“Yep! We’re going to be spending a lot of quality family time together,” my dad says brightly. He comes over to wrap his arms around me, but I shrug him off, nodding my head at my mom.
“Oh, Mom is just upset, trying to figure out how this is all going to work. You know, working at home. All of us together.”
My mom looks at him, sniffling. “Do you seriously think that’s all I’m worried about? Do you even know anything about me, Joe? I’m worried about the fact that there is a rapidly spreading virus out there. That we don’t know how many people are going to get sick. How many are going to die. That I didn’t know where my only daughter—my only child—was until about five minutes ago.”
My dad grins. “I think it was more like nine minutes.”
“Dad!”
“Joe!”
My mom stomps down the hall to the bathroom. The water to the shower turns on, which we both know she does when she wants to cry. Loud.
“Good one, Dad,” I say. But I’m also replaying her words in my head. Rapidly spreading virus. Sick. Die. And I’m replaying how scared and sad she was. How scared and sad she is. How even if my parents said this virus wouldn’t come here, it did. How it’s here. How little they might actually know about this virus. How little anyone might actually know about this virus.
“What?” he says, still with the silly grin on his face.
“You’re unreal,” I say, and then go to my room and slam the door.
Posted by Clarissareads:
Well, here we are, a month into lockdown.
I know Babble is mostly supposed to be for book reviews and fan fiction, but I’m caught up on my reviews, and I feel like I want to write something. Anything. Maybe someday I’ll want to look back on this time. I can’t imagine why, but, here I am. Where I always am. Right here. A month into lockdown. It was supposed to be two weeks, and then it was supposed to be two weeks, and then spring break got moved up (not much of a “break,” though, since we couldn’t go anywhere), and then one week got added after that.
It’s the middle of April now, and we’re supposed to go back to school the first week of May. I’ve actually missed school, how weird is that? I miss how gross the cafeteria smells on chili days; I miss wondering which way the principal will have his hair combed over; I miss the sound of the crowded hallways; I miss sitting at a school desk and changing desks and rooms between classes; I miss seeing people other than my parents. I reallllly miss people in general.
The first week of lockdown actually wasn’t so bad. It was just kind of like a long snow day. Lots of snacks, movies, pajamas, reading; lots of time on Babble, writing reviews, reading all your great stories; lots of video chats. But now, a month into this whole thing, the novelty of lockdown is starting to wear off. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but I’m starting to get a little tired of yoga pants.
And it’s been getting harder and harder to ignore the news, which my parents always seem to have on. I can’t wrap my head around how many people have gotten sick, how many have died. How many people have lost their jobs. How many people’s lives have changed forever.
So I don’t let myself. It’s too much.
One sorta good thing I’ve picked up from the constant news is that the number of people testing positive is going down in the city. That this lockdown thing is working. I mean, it better be. Anyone who wants to enter New York has to quarantine for fourteen days. We’re not allowed out of New York unless it’s for “essential” business. I sit on my fire escape to read sometimes, but aside from that, I only go out of my apartment every few days, for quick morning strolls around the block with my mom. We never see many people, but it still feels dangerous somehow, like we’re doing something we aren’t supposed to, even with our medical masks on and keeping our distance from the few people we see.
So that’s something, at least. Lockdown works. Masks work. Social distancing works. It’s just too bad it couldn’t have been something for all the thousands of people who have already died. For their families. And it’s too bad more places around the country aren’t doing it, because cases are going up everywhere else.
Oh, another bad thing I’ve picked up, not from the news but from the living room: My mom might get laid off. She works as a graphic designer for a travel agency, and surprise, surprise, demand for travel isn’t very high during a pandemic. I’m not even supposed to know that, but turns out it’s hard to keep secrets when you’re in lockdown in an apartment. My parents keep telling me not to worry, that everything will be okay. But they also told me not to worry about the virus, that it wouldn’t happen here.
Look how that turned out.
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I watch Vanessa as she bends her head down over her math homework. She’s wrestling a precalculus equation, and I’m trying to come up with a good thesis statement for my English essay on The Book Thief. Vanessa whispers to herself as she calculates, erases, calculates again, and erases some more. She sighs, puts down her pencil, and rubs her neck. I reach out my hand instinctively to massage where she is rubbing, but my hand bonks against my laptop screen.
Vanessa looks up at me, startled.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. What was that?”
“Oh, it was my hand.” I shrug. “Old habits die hard or something.”
“No, not that. I heard a text. Like, maybe a few texts?”
And then I hear it too—the ping of text messages hitting our laptops. It’s not a sound either of us is unfamiliar with, but the pings keep coming, until it’s a hailstorm of incoming texts.
“I’ll see what’s going on,” Vanessa says. “Want to check yours, too, Claire?”
“Oh, right,” I say. Vanessa is perpetually a step ahead of me in everything. I click over and see that I have ten new messages. Weird.
“Oh, wow,” she says, a hint of disbelief in her voice. “No in-person school for the rest of the year.”
“What? How could that be?” I read the message from the school, but it doesn’t make sense. “I thought we were supposed to go back the first week of May? Next week?” My palms are starting to sweat, and I’m getting a tingly feeling in my fingers. I take some deep breaths. “Vanessa, what’s happening?” I ask, unable to hide the shaking in my voice. “When will I be able to see you in person again? It’s already been so long.”
But Vanessa doesn’t answer me. She’s reading the texts, eyes moving back and forth. I try to steady my breathing, to control my sweaty, tingly hands.
“Babe, are you reading all these messages and emails?” she asks. I can tell by where her eyes are that she’s still reading, not looking at my face.
“Um, I just read the one from school.” Not that I processed or retained anything that it said. Vanessa doesn’t seem to notice the shaking in my voice.
“Yeah, well, there are some others. From the superintendent. Oh, my parents …” I can hear her typing.
“Wait, who are you texting?” I ask shrilly.
“I was just writing my mom back. Silly, since she’s in the next room, but I bet she’s in a meeting or something.” And then she laughs. She actually laughs.
“This isn’t good, Vanessa!” I yell. “When can we see each other again?”
Vanessa finally looks at me and furrows her eyebrows. “I need to turn your volume down a bit,” she says, tapping at her keyboard.
“Aren’t you freaking out?” I ask, clearly freaking out myself. “I mean, this must mean the virus is really bad. We were supposed to go back next week! I’m scared. I don’t want anyone else to get sick. And I miss you! I just want to give you a hug so bad. Like, when can that even happen again?”
She looks at me calmly over the screen. “I miss you, too, Claire. But, I mean, none of this is really that big of a surprise, is it?”
“It isn’t?” I say weakly.
“Babe, haven’t you been following the news? Schools have been closed for the rest of the year all over the country. We knew this was a possibility.”
“We did? Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Um, because I didn’t think it was my responsibility? And I figured you were reading and watching the news?”
“I am,” I say defensively. “I just … I guess I didn’t think it would really happen.” I bite my lip to fight back my tears. “This is awful! And I … I just want to see you.”
“I wish I could see you too,” Vanessa says, still just as calmly as before. “But staying home, staying apart, is what we need to do right now. Sending us all back to school would just make the cases go up like crazy. Especially since they’re so high everywhere else. And we have everything we need at our fingertips. Between my laptop, my phone, my tablet, my watch, I’m always connected to someone, somewhere. So … I guess what I’m saying is that we should be thankful.”
“Thankful?”
“Of course,” she says slowly. “Plus, most important of all, we’re healthy. And young. It’s going to be okay. Stop freaking out, babe.”
“That seems easier said than done.”
I don’t think Vanessa hears what I just said. I can tell by her eyes that she’s looking at something else on her screen, and then I hear her fingers typing again. The panic I was feeling before is starting to become anger. But I’m not totally sure who it’s directed at, or why.
I stare at her, not sure what I’m supposed to do, to say, trying to calm the panicked anger I feel, when she finally looks at me again. “Well, I should go talk to my mom and dad. And Lucy. My parents keep texting me, and obviously we’re all in the same apartment!”
“Okay,” I say.
She looks like she’s expecting me to say more, so I say, “I should do that too. Talk to my family.” When in doubt, I’ve always followed Vanessa’s lead. Why stop now?
“Cool, talk soon.” She looks at me for a second and says, “I love you, Claire. It’s going to be okay.” Then she blows me a kiss and ends the call.
I walk out into the living room, expecting it to look different somehow, like I’ve entered another dimension, the dimension of no school for the rest of the year. But it looks pretty much the same as it did when I came out for lunch a few hours ago. My mom is on the couch, working on her laptop, and my dad is probably in their room, working on his own.
The TV is actually off, and it’s mercifully quiet.
“Hey, honey,” my mom says as I walk in. She looks way too calm to have heard about my school closing.
She goes back to her computer, tapping at the keys, sighing at her work, and I want her to have this moment, not the next moment when I tell her I won’t be going to school for the rest of the year. And then it dawns on me: If schools are closed, she and Dad might not be going back to their offices either. And this definitely won’t be good news for my mom’s job. I watch her working until she looks up at me.
“Sorry, do you need a snack?” she asks. “There’s fruit in the fridge, pretzels in the pantry. Which reminds me—I need to get started on our next grocery delivery order …”
“Mom, I don’t need a snack. I’m not eight.”
“Right, sorry,” she says, laughing. This lockdown has been the longest stretch of time our family has spent just the three of us since my dad’s paternity leave with me. Sometimes I think we all forget that I’m seventeen, and what stage of life we’re all in.
“You okay?” she says, looking at me more closely.
“Mom, there’s no more in-person school. Like, until fall. And I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t go back to work either. And like your job …”
She looks at me, confused.
“Don’t you get texts on your computer? Where is your phone? Wasn’t there a work email? Turn on the news! Check something!” I say, my panicked anger returning.
“Claire, take a deep breath.” She clicks some things on her laptop. “I’m trying to keep my phone put away while I work, and I had to take texts off my computer. I don’t know how you get anything done with those constant alerts coming in from every direction! I must have disabled the alerts on my work email accidentally.”
While she’s clicking, the door to my parents’ bedroom opens, and my dad comes out, smiling. “Looks like someone is starting summer vacation early!”
“What?” my mom and I snap at the same time.
“The governor’s orders?” my dad says. “Jeez, don’t you guys check the news, or at least social media? This is kind of a thing.”
He goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge while I watch my mom read her email. “Oh my god,” she says quietly.
My dad emerges from the fridge, holding a container of yogurt. “Honey, do we have a grocery order coming anytime soon?”
My mom is still reading email and doesn’t answer.
“Melissa? Did you hear me?”
My mom finally looks up, distracted. “What? Did you say something, Joe?”
“Yeah, I wanted to know if we had a grocery order coming soon,” he says as he digs a spoon out of the drawer.
“I don’t know, do we?” my mom says. “I told you before, I’m not the only one in charge of the grocery orders. It’s your responsibility too.”
“Okay, okay.” My dad spoons yogurt into his mouth. “Valid point. I’ll definitely add more of this to our cart. Cake-flavored yogurt might be one of the best food inventions ever.”
My mom and I are both watching him, frowning.
“What?” he says, his mouth full.
“God, Dad, how are you thinking about yogurt at a time like this?”
“She’s right,” my mom adds, crossing her arms. “Also, that stuff is loaded with sugar. You might as well eat a candy bar.”
“Great! I’ll add candy bars to our grocery cart online too,” my dad says, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap.
“Nothing is wrong with me. I’ve been in lockdown for a month, remember?” my dad says, winking.
“I can’t deal with him,” I say, looking at my mom.
“Joe, take it down a notch, okay? It’s not the time. Did you forget the part about our daughter not being able to go to school for the rest of the year? My company is working from home through the summer. What about yours? This is really, really scary.” My mom stands up and paces.
“Yes, of course,” my dad says, shrugging. “Got the email from my company while I was reading about New York schools. I mean, are you guys really surprised by this? Does anyone watch the news around here besides me?”
“You sound like Vanessa,” I say.
My dad bows. “I will take that as a compliment.”
I roll my eyes.
“Just because we knew it was a possibility doesn’t discount that this is still a shock for all of us. We were told two weeks, then two more weeks, and now we’re looking at months. Seasons passing, changing. A big chunk of our only child’s high school experience. Time when she’s supposed to focus on her studies, think about college. This is a lot to take in,” my mom says, breathing big, deep breaths.
“You knew it was a possibility too?” I say, turning to face my mom. I feel annoyed at yet another mention of college.
“Yes, honey. It’s not like any of this information was hidden from you, though. A total school-year closure was mentioned in the emails and texts that went out to students and parents. It’s been on the news. This definitely isn’t going to help the ‘possible temporary reduction in workforce’ thing at my job either.”
She says the last part distractedly. She’s got her eyes closed, and I can tell she’s trying to calm her breathing.
“Is your job going to be okay, Mom?” I ask. “I can’t believe any of this.”
“Yes, honey, don’t worry!” she says quickly, opening her eyes to look at me, and I see tears start to well up in her eyes. “I know high school can be a drag, but you still deserve to finish out your junior year in person. Deserve to see your friends, your girlfriend, in person. I just … hate this for you.”
Oh god, whenever my mom starts to cry about something related to me, I start to cry, so I quickly wave my hand, like I’m trying to fan the tears dry in my eyes, then give her a hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Looks like we’re about to have a whole lot more family time!” my dad says, rinsing out his empty yogurt container. He has a rainbow-colored yogurt blob stuck to his beard.
“Oh god,” my mom and I say at the same time.
Then we all laugh nervously, and I go to my room to cry.
I toss and turn all night. Every time I wake up, I check my phone, read news about the virus, about its spread, about school closures not just in New York, but other states too. I read about the people dying from the virus. All over the world, all over our country, all over our state, and all over our city. I find an online message board for our neighborhood, and I read about the virus here. I find out the old man who lives five blocks over, who feeds the neighborhood stray cats, died last week. I read about food shortages everywhere, lines to get in grocery stores, people being fired from their jobs, companies going out of business.
