Survivor Song(34)

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 not giving up.

You need to know that too. I am not and have not given up. No way. These recordings are the break-in-the-event-of-emergency glass, just in case I become a zombie.

Doesn’t that sound better than saying “just in case infection blooms and I die a horrible, painful death”?

I am sorry to do this to you. Maybe this is selfish of me. See, I’m a typical only child. You have my permission to fast-forward past any of this if you want to.

Yes, I realize odds are you are an only child. Maybe I am a dick.

You’ll be my only child no matter who you live with. But I think I can confidently say that you won’t be spoiled. I mean, how can you be, knowing that your dad and I are gone? I’m sorry you’ll never meet him. He would’ve been great at dadding.

Hey. Took a moment to regroup. And we passed through the same rotary checkpoints we were at, like, an hour ago. The police were confused by our new ride and Auntie Rams threatened to run them over if they didn’t let us pass.

I’m joking. Ha-ha, right? My jokes are usually better and I’m way more fun when we’re not navigating the zombie apocalypse—that was for you, Rams.

“Thank you. Please stop saying ‘zombie.’”

Za-om-bay, Za-om-bay, Za-om-bay-ey-ey-ey!

You’re kicking me like crazy right now. You do that when I sing. Or when I try to sing.

What else? I’m trying to think of stuff that no one else will tell you about me. I’m five-eight and I was that height in fifth grade. That wasn’t fun. I wonder if you’ll be tall or short. Sorry if you’re either and, um, you’d rather the other? Middle school was worse than fifth grade, but middle school is worse for everyone. I had a dog named Pete when I was a kid. He was a sweet, slobbery goof, as big and soft as a beanbag chair. My first job was scooping ice cream at a dairy farm. I love driving with the windows down, even when it’s cold out. I hate flying. To distract myself during takeoff I make up names and stories for the people around me. It’s weird but I remember a few of those random strangers because the stories got so big. Not big like action-movie big, but big in the . . . I don’t know, human way; the people they knew and loved, and the secrets they had to keep. I miss music being as important to me as it was when I was in high school and college. And I do and I don’t miss everything being as important to me as it was when I was in high school and college. I’m a terrible dancer but I loved dragging Rams to Stupid Dance Party on Thursday nights when we were sophomores. Rams had moves. The best night was when my Chuck Taylors exploded and the toes on my right foot were sticking out. Someone had a Sharpie and I got as many people as I could to draw on the sneaker and my toes. I would rather eat cookies than cake, or pies. I don’t really like pies. I wish I could draw better than I can. I read for at least twenty minutes before bed each night. If I fall asleep with the book on my face (which happens a lot), I’ll read two pages when I wake up to make sure I meet the reading goal. I’m agnostic but I have this fantasy of me as a cute old lady going to all different kinds of churches, mosques, temples just to hear people talk. If you couldn’t tell I like to talk and to listen to others talk. I don’t believe in ghosts but I’m afraid of them, or the implications of them. Maybe I’m more afraid of being wrong about ghosts. I initially kind of hated the house Paul and I bought. It was expensive and I was freaking out and it was too quiet and I just wanted to stay in Providence and live in an apartment. Neither one of us was very handy, and we knew nothing about home improvement and upkeep that didn’t come from a YouTube video. There was one fall weekend we pried the hideous wooden paneling from the porch walls and put up clapboard all by ourselves. I was so proud of us and it was our house after that. I never told Paul or anyone else that. So that belongs to you now. And Rams, too, since she’s eavesdropping.