although I knew the answer from the state of the
room.
Rachel shook her head. “Aunt Helene has lost it.”
“No kidding.”
“I mean her mind,” Rachel clarified.
42
Astrid Amara
“I believe you.”
In the kitchen I found my mother in a state of near hysteria.
“What am I going to do, Jonah?” she whispered, rushing around in panic. “How are we
going to survive? How am I going to feed everyone?”
I opened the pantry. Clearly the one hundred cans of food there provided my mother
no solace.
“It’ll be fine, Ma,” I assured her, rubbing her back. “They’ll plow the roads this morning
and everyone will be gone by the afternoon.”
“I can’t even heat the food,” she lamented. “I told your father I wanted a gas range but
he refused! Now I’m going to have to serve cold breakfast.”
“It’ll taste great.”
“And your uncle is refusing to talk to anyone, even your father.” She sighed and looked
at me.
“I didn’t take it, Ma, honestly.”
She gave me a small smile. “No. Of course you didn’t.” She reached out and touched my
shoulder, and for a moment, I froze, shocked by the gesture. I couldn’t remember the last
time she had done such a thing. She turned back to her sink, staring blankly. “What am I
going to serve?”
“We should probably consume the perishables first, since they’ll go bad faster. We can
put most of them outside to keep cold. Do you have cereal?”
She shuffled to the massive pantry and pulled out ten boxes of cereal, one of which I
recognized from high school.
“Were any of those purchased at least during the Clinton Administration?”
“Ha. My son the comedian.” She frowned at them. “Actually…only the muesli.”
Holiday Outing
43
“Okay then. Muesli and milk and lukewarm orange juice and bread and butter and
jam.” I help her prepare breakfast, and the act of setting the table seemed to lull her into a
calm focus.
By seven everyone was groggily awake, except for Aunt Goldie, who appeared
conscious one moment, and then snored at the table the next. Matthew sat beside his mother
and repeatedly nudged her. He looked a lot less charming in the morning. His eyes seemed
baggy and his hair pressed flatly against his head. His stubble was uneven and he looked pale
and unhealthy.
God, less than twenty-four hours in this house, and I was beginning to sound like my
mother.
Ethan, on the other hand, looked fantastic. How he managed to shave with cold water
baffled me. He seemed far from chipper, however, and as he glanced over the table settings
he frowned.
“No coffee?” he whispered forlornly.
“Not until we rig something for the fireplace,” I told him. He grunted in response and
sat beside me, pouting.
Matthew, Daniel, and I shared our favorite Donner party stories and tried to keep the
tone light, but the older generation seemed genuinely nonplussed by the missing pushke and
did little more than grunt at each other.
As we stared at the remnants of our meal, my uncle cleared his throat.
“It’s clear that someone” -- he turned his gaze to me -- “has taken the pushke. Maybe it
was just a joke. But now that there’s enough light, I think everyone should go to their rooms
and search thoroughly, in case it got lost during the power outage.”
At once, a great exodus exploded from the table, everyone seemingly relieved to be
given something to do other than glare surreptitiously at each other.
44
Astrid Amara
As we split up to search our rooms, I discovered my uncle, and not Ethan, behind me.
Uncle Al followed me into my room.
“I’m searching your things,” Uncle Al informed me.
“Go ahead,” I snapped, “but I expect an apology once you realize I’m innocent.” Last
night his accusation merely compounded a miserable day. But today I refused to humor him.
Uncle Al rooted through my carry-on, my sleeping bag, my dresser drawers.
I leaned against the wall and glared.
Having not found what