Free City of Savages by Lee Kelly

“Stop at the subway.”
    *   *   *
    Once Mom is asleep, Phee and I sit together in the large marble tub in the bathroom, where the firelight is brightest. We waited until we could hear Mom’s trademark wheeze of a snore, and then I pinched Phee’s arm, as we’d agreed, and we snuck into the bathroom together. I don’t know about Phee, but I’m planning on staying up until I finish the whole journal. I want Mom’s words, her old life, to wash over me like one big wave.
    “This tub is uncomfortable,” Phee whispers.
    “Well, the light over there is terrible,” I say. “Did you get to the part where Mom and Mary are taking me to the zoo, and they’re stuck on the subway?”
    “And Dad’s out making art or something with his friend?”
    I nod and open the book again. The firelight dances across the crinkled pages, and we jump back into Mom’s world of long ago.
    March 3, later—Still haven’t moved, and it’s been at least two hours. My claustrophobia started to kick in about thirty minutes ago, so Mary, Sky, and I moved to an empty bench in the corner. “Just breathe,” Mary keeps telling me. “Someone will open the doors soon.”
    Sky’s been asleep against Mary’s chest, rising and falling with her breath, like she’s on a life raft. Where’s my life raft?
    There aren’t many people in our car, maybe ten—a few Spandex-clad cyclists. A homeless guy wrapped in trash. A willowy teen with a cover-girl face, who could plunge even the securest of women back into the mires of high school insecurity.
    But it feels like there’s not enough room for all of us. Like we’re all expanding, stretching, hoarding air into our mouths and bags and purses.
    “No one’s stealing your air,” Mary said. “Just breathe.”
    Mary rarely humors me, and I kind of count on her not to.
    March 3, later—We heard muffled, empty assurances from the train conductor, garbled through the speakers.
    Silence.
    And then darkness.
    Sky started to cry and pass out intermittently, so Mary and I took turns dozing off against each other. While Mary was sleeping, I found her lighter (I knew she hadn’t quit). I managed to locate my nursing cover at the bottom of my bag, and draped it around myself to feed Sky for a little.
    Ideas have been thrown around of prying the doors open, or breaking the windows if no one opens the emergency exit soon. The man dressed in trash bags suggested pooling our brainpower and using mind control, while the teenager, Bronwyn, played with her hair and told us just to call MTA.
    But no one’s doing anything. We’re just talking in circles, providing ourselves with a quiet soundtrack.
    March 3, later—I swore we were going to die.
    “We’re not going to die.” Mary rolled her eyes. “Please.”
    But she grabbed my hand anyway, and my heart slowed down just a bit.
    It’s funny how different she and Tom are. Tom’s such an artist, frazzled, impetuous. His sister’s always been the steady one. And even though I wished so desperately that Tom was with us, holding my hand, Mary’s the one who knew what to do and say to calm me down.
    “Mom’s never mentioned this Mary chick, has she?” Phee sits up and asks.
    “Never.”
    “And she’s Tom’s—I mean Dad’s—sister. So she’s Mom’s sister-in-law.”
    “Right . . . but this journal was written before the war started,” I think out loud. I fan the pages quickly. “There’s no mention of soldiers, Dad’s family firm was up and running, Mom was taking me to the zoo. Mary probably died during the attacks, and so Mom doesn’t talk about her.”
    I think about all the people, like Mary, who didn’t survive the attacks. All of Mom’s ghosts, and how many there must be. Ghosts who haunt her thoughts, who leave her screaming in the night. And for the first time, I sort of understand Mom’s mantra, maybe even sympathize. Sometimes the past should stay in the past .
    “Don’t you still think that’s weird?” Phee asks. “For