Zombie

Your husband says to stay inside and lock the door.

“Take cover!” Your boys shout and dive behind the couch. When they emerge their shirts are off, because zombie breath is toxic and clings to clothes.

In the kitchen, you empty the dishwasher and listen to the news, one airpod in. They said the laws would hold, but it’s mayhem outside. You need to keep it together here. Put dinner on.

“We got one!” the boys shout. Your oldest explains that if they punch the zombie ten times it will disappear. The boys swing and thrust at the air, arms pumping and voices caterwaul whooping.

You put a lasagna in the oven and raise the volume in your ear. How did this happen? The female reporter discussing the breakdown of rights and protections keeps her voice even, despite the horror of her words. You understand. No one likes a nag.

“Hide!” the boys holler. They’re under the table now, scanning the perimeter for danger. They talk in hushed tones between heaving breaths. They won’t be safe until all zombies are wiped out.

You wince at the noise, the chaos in your ears. You thrust swirly straws into the cups of milk and set them on the table. This news can’t be real. Can’t be happening here. You chop apple slices with percussive thuds on the cutting board, thinking again of the neighbors who were taken last week. Your husband says they were dangerous, but they organized the food drive at the school. You try to reconcile all you’ve heard with what you know.

It doesn’t add up.

You grip the knife handle and apple slices fly.

“Run!” The boys dart down the hall, banging the walls as they dodge toxic laser beams streaming at them from zombie eyes. They’re in the front room now, building a fort out of the couch pillows you try to keep clean for guests. Not that anyone visits anymore.

The neighbors used to come over all the time, their kids wound together with yours in a sea of tangled limbs and tossed pillows. They ran in and out of your house like an easy summer breeze through an open door.

You stare at your locked door now. How could they just disappear? Where were they taken? You find yourself moving toward the door, peering out the window.

You reach for the knob.

“They got Mom!” You hear the holler from behind you. “She’s one of them now!” The boys launch their assault, flinging pillows at the latest enemy.

You let go of the knob and close your eyes.

Stay inside.

The boys race to the kitchen table now. They’re ready for their milk with the special straws, the apples with the little cups of peanut butter. You’re thankful for the relative quiet as the boys settle into snack time. You should go to the laundry room. The towels need folding.

But through the window next to the front door, you see her again. That older woman from around the corner whose kids are grown and gone. She stands on the sidewalk holding up yet another sign. Batty old cat lady, your husband says. She’s always out there with her signs. Yes! to this, No! to that. She’s unsettling. You’re not sure what to make of a woman who stands on the street with her beliefs on blast. Especially these days.

Still, there’s something about her. Her firm gray eyes. And she’s looking your way now. She holds her sign a little higher. This one says: Wake up!

Your fingers turn cold.

The boys call for you from the kitchen table. One needs a napkin. Another asks for more milk. Across the street, the woman stares. She sees you. You can feel those gray eyes locked on the front door, on you, as if she knows something you don’t.

“Mom!” the boys’ calls grow louder, more insistent.

You can’t go outside. You can’t do anything about what’s happened to the neighbors, about any of this, because of the kids. They need you. Your place is here.

But…the woman. She’s been out there. Watching everything. Maybe she knows what happened to the neighbors. Maybe she knows what to do.

And, what if you’ve had it backwards?

What if it’s because of the kids that you must do something?

When your hand finds the doorknob again, you turn and pull quickly this time, the door swinging open on hinges that creak from disuse. You stand in the open door, staring across the street at the woman. A flutter of wind picks up a few leaves and lifts them into the house in a spiral, just as the words you’ve been afraid to speak swirl in your brain.

Justice. Freedom. Truth.

These words have been abused and trampled like leaves underfoot, but maybe you can claim them again. Maybe that’s what this woman is doing out here with her homemade signs every day: writing the words that matter most in big block letters until they mean something. You don’t know exactly what to say or do, or if it will change anything in the end, but you step out anyway.

Your husband will be angry. He says it’s dangerous. Maybe he’s right.

But is he threatened by what’s happening outside, or who you’ll become if you see it yourself?

You cross the street, leaving the front door open behind you. And when you stand before the woman, you find your first question is as crisp and clear in your mind as the wind on your bare arms.

“What can I do?” My voice sounds different out here. Louder than I expected.

“Finally,” the woman says. “You’re here.”

“Yes,” I say, holding the woman’s gaze. “I’m here.”