Finally she shoves the remaining papers in a folder and pushes them at Jacob. “Those are the copies I would usually send away or file for our records; you just get rid of them however you want.” She straightens. “Okay! That is that. Tell your mother ‘you are welcome.’ Tell her hello, and goodbye.” The woman says this matter-of-factly, like it’s neither tragic nor meant to be funny. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride and everything.” She pats them both on the shoulders and shuffles off down the quiet hallway, off to marry someone else, perhaps, or to file her useless paperwork.

  A very efficient wedding. Maybe too efficient. They don’t kiss, obviously; they can’t even make eye contact.

  Once again, Nora has the vague feeling that she has been cheated out of something. A wedding with a calm, present officiant, someone who cares about the correct paperwork. A wedding with a kiss at the end. But when Jacob turns to her, she senses his relief. “Thank you,” he says. “Again, I really appreciate this—my whole family does.” Such a charming line to deliver to your new bride.

  “No problem. Seriously.” She raises her half-finished latte. “Cheers, Mr. Schmidt.” She raises her latte again and he taps it with his.

  “And to you, Mrs. . . .” He shrugs. “I don’t even know your last name.”

  “I’ll take yours,” she says. “My parents are old school; they’d like that.”

  He nods, and they tap their paper cups together again.

  They drink to their strange union, and then they walk back out the doors of the civil registry center, down the stairs, through the arches. The sun is bending through the streets in a different way now, more pink than orange.

  “Now what?” Nora feels unmoored. This strange little civil ceremony had been, at least, something to look forward to. Now she’s staring ahead at twenty empty, lonely days. What’s she supposed to do with that much time? It feels important that she use it well, but she doesn’t know what it means to use time well. Would it be a good use of time to figure that out? Or has she already wasted her only two decades not figuring that out, and now it’s too late and she’s doomed to spend the last two months with the knowledge of what she should’ve done but without enough time to do it?

  “Now . . .” Jacob looks lost for only a moment. “Now I guess we plan the honeymoon?”

  “The honeymoon?” Nora stares at him.

  “Mrs. Schmidt! We’re going to need to book hotels, look online for good restaurants, things to do.” He starts walking back toward her apartment. “Then it’s Christmas right as soon as we get back. Busy season to get married. What were we thinking, right?”

  For a split second Nora thinks she’s lost her mind, that all her imaginary conversing with her absent roommates has finally pushed her off the edge of a mental cliff. Or maybe, she thinks, he’s lost his mind?

  He starts laughing at the look on her face. “Hey, I’m just trying to be optimistic here. Your idea.”

  And she understands: the only way to keep themselves sane is not to picture frying or sit around worrying about the best way to use their last days—it’s to throw themselves into those days with purpose, to construct a narrative that doesn’t include dying. To play house, to act like they have a happily ever after ahead of them, full of real-life responsibilities, stressful, busy weeks, and blissful, relaxing stretches of reprieve. A honeymoon. Christmas. Library books to return, a kitchen to clean, a bed to make. A marriage.

  As it turns out, the way to keep sane when the world is ending is the exact same as when it’s not.

  29

  Iver has never bought something online before, wild as that sounds. He’s never had to! He has everything he needs here in town—there’s a hardware store, a grocery store, and a gas station. His late wife bought him all the clothes he needed (she’d liked shopping online and going into the city), and sometimes his daughters bring him even more clothes. He has enough clothes for ten men, but only one shirt he actually likes to wear.

  He’s never bought plane tickets or . . . he can’t think of anything else you’d need to buy online that you couldn’t either find in town or get someone in town to find for you and bring into their store for you to pick up and pay for in person.

  His friend Arnold loves buying things online. He buys gum(!) online, even though he could get gum, in person, at the grocery store or the gas station or the hardware store. He buys clothes online even though he already has clothes. He buys toilet paper online.

  Toilet paper!

  But today Iver is following suit and making his first online purchase—and what a purchase it is: arcade machines.

  Yes, plural. A verifiable fleet of arcade machines.

  It started with the Arcade1UP Atari Legacy Edition: $599.96 from Walmart.ca. Free shipping, expected to arrive by the end of November! He’d thought it would cost a lot more than that, to have it come all the way out here, but no. Six hundred dollars (plus tax). He had intended to buy only the one, but he also thought he’d be able to afford only the one. But now—$600?!—the world has opened up to him. After all, he had a life savings to spend and years—years!—of missed birthdays to make up for. He added Ms. Pac-Man to the cart, and a Simpsons one, and a Ninja Turtles one, and a couple of pinball machines for good measure. And then he looked around his living room, wondering where to put it all, and thought, I’ll just throw all of this furniture on the lawn. The end of days is kind of a fun time in some respects! It’s not all dragons and brimstone.

  He’s entered all the numbers on his credit card, including the security code, which took him a few minutes to find, as well as his address and postal code, but right as he’s about to click the purchase button he thinks, Why not buy a few more things while I’m here and putting in all this effort? Socks, he types in, and behold, there are socks of all colors and styles and thicknesses and lengths. Cheerios, he types, and discovers with pleasure that Walmart.ca stocks more varieties of Cheerios than he knew existed. Strawberry Cheerios? Why?

  Why not?!

  Toothpaste, he types, and he buys one of every flavor, just for fun, Winterfresh and Aquagreen and Sour Apple and Bubblemint 4 Kids and so on. He’s going to brush his teeth with a different kind of toothpaste every day for the rest of his life. What an absolute luxury. Millionaires probably do this kind of thing!

  It’s the end of the world, he thinks, and my inheritance isn’t going to be useful to anyone anymore, so why not keep going? He thinks of Alfie first; what do you get for the woman who takes care of everyone and everything? How about this mug that says VVVVVVIP (VERY VERY VERY VERY VERY VERY IMPORTANT PERSON) on the side? For the grandkids—Monopoly and candy and some books to balance it out. For his daughters—watches and earrings and a dress in every size so they can try them all on and throw out the ones that don’t fit. His sons-in-law get new wallets and ties and noise-canceling headphones. For the neighbor who has never liked him and who ardently refuses to say hello if they are ever outside at the same time—a bird feeder. Because the neighbor does like birds; Iver knows that. He sees him out there smiling at birds all the time; birds are the only living thing he ever smiles at. For Arnold . . . well, what do you get for the guy who has internet access and can buy anything he wants already? A Walmart gift card? Sure!

  Iver is sad that it has taken him until the end of his life and the end of the world to experience the joys of online shopping. And when he finally pushes the purchase button, he has spent more than he thought possible, but he feels a rush of adrenaline; he hasn’t felt like this since the last time he went car shopping.

  This is the most fun he’s had in a long time. He feels like he’s smiling even though he knows he probably looks neutral, or even cranky. Hilda has told him this is a thing his face is often guilty of. He wonders if this is his neighbor’s problem too—maybe the neighbor has always really liked him; he just has a cranky face too! What a pleasant little thought.

  The door to his house creaks open, and he hears his son—his son! Not a dream, not a hallucination, not a postlife reality; he knows this because food is rapidly disappearing from his fridge, and he doesn’t feel more full than usual—removing his boots and jacket in the hallway. He hurriedly closes the Walmart window and shuts the laptop gingerly, feeling another jolt of excitement at the thought of what he’ll do when all this stuff gets here. He makes his way to the kitchen to boil a pot for elbow macaroni. For two.

  “Hi, son,” says Iver.

  “Hey,” says his son.

  What a week it’s been.

  Ole sits at the table. They eat macaroni for almost every meal—and Ole isn’t sure if this is an end-of-the-world thing or if this has been on the menu for his grandfather every day since his grandma died—but that’s okay. The predictability is nice. The meals are almost silent, a comfortable quiet that sits with them like a third party, like space being purposely held for his grandma, who would fill it easily if she were still here. Ole keeps thinking every day that he’ll call his parents; he wonders if they’re worried about him. But his father’s face looms in his head, angry—his mother’s, worried.

  These faces are supposed to be kind, comforting; they are supposed to help him contain his anger, calm his worries. He has a fuzzy recollection of being very young and visiting the city with them; his mother holding his hand as they used a crosswalk, pointing at the traffic lights and explaining how to safely navigate the city. That’s what he wants now—help navigating. Something is broken there, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, so he just waits, one more day, and then one more day, and then one more day. For now he crawls inside the memory of the city trip and holds his mother’s hand.

  His grandfather is standing at the stove, stirring the macaroni. His face is set in something that is not exactly a smile, might even be misconstrued as a frown, but which is still, somehow, full of joy. It has the comfort of Ole’s mother and the calm of Ole’s father. This is the one face doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.

  30

  Hank hasn’t been sleeping very much since Ole went missing. He stays up late and wakes up early, driving down back roads, shining flashlights into old buildings, calling hospitals, listening to podcasts about parenting and marriage and conflict resolution—because he knows he’s going to find Ole, and when he does, he is going to parent the crap out of that kid and fix this family. He’s going to be the best dad Ole could ever imagine, the best husband Irene could imagine; he’s going to do everything right, and it’s probably going to be a little annoying for everyone, but he doesn’t care, and his family won’t either. The last two months they have together are going to be perfect. And when the asteroid or the heat rays or the . . . whatever the thing is, when it comes, right before it hits them, there’s going to be a moment of beautiful, blinding clarity, where they all look at each other, and they’re proud of themselves and each other, and they have no regrets. Hank will think of the day Ole was born, when he fit on Hank’s forearms, when he was perfect in every way and Hank could not imagine so much as frowning in his direction. He’ll think of Irene, his beautiful wife, her hair all squashed flat on her head, her happy, tired, sweaty face beaming up at him from the hospital bed. He’ll think of Ole’s first laughs and steps and sentences and the way Irene held his tiny hands and walked him across the living room, and he’ll think of the way Ole watched him back then, the way his little eyes studied him as he tried to emulate him, something that was both amazing and terrifying. Maybe Ole will think of games of catch in the backyard and building stuff together and that chunk of time when he was five or so, when he used to get up every morning at about 4:00 a.m., crawl into bed with his parents, and talk their ears off until the alarm rang.

  Hank will think of that too. When had that stopped, exactly? He had wished it away at the time. He’d been so tired. He’d just wanted to sleep. Now it sounds like the best thing in the world: a dark room, a heavy comforter, reaching over to scratch Irene’s back as they lie there, and that tiny body snuggled into his side, that precious little voice floating through the haze of sleep, on and on, never ending. It had actually felt like that at the time, never ending. And now Hank knows better, only better is not the word he’d use.

  Today Hank is almost fifteen miles from home—he’s sweeping fields and abandoned yards in concentric circles, certain his son is hiding in somebody’s deserted house. The police may not have the resources to look for him, but the fields and farms are what Hank knows, what Ole knows too. If Ole is out here, and Hank is sure he is, Hank will find him.

  Hank knows the people who own this land. They were friends with his dad; he used to come here as a kid for harvest suppers. There’s an old farmhouse on the edge of it, where their parents lived a long time ago, which has long since fallen into disrepair, downright unsafe for anyone to wander around in. The front porch has fallen in on itself, so the front door is inaccessible, but the back door makes up for it by being gone altogether. Hank walks right in, careful to watch for rusty nails and rotted wood—if he falls into the basement, he’ll be the second missing member of the family. Irene doesn’t need that right now.

  The house smells musty; wallpaper hangs from the walls like vines. Things are growing in here; animals have been living in it. He creeps forward, testing each step, and calls for his son as he moves. “Ole! Are you in here, son? Please answer me if you’re here!” There’s a creak upstairs, directly above Hank’s head, and he realizes this is a sound that, to him, has come to represent Ole. Creaks and steps and shuffles. Slight movement, vague signs of life. Forgetting to be cautious, Hank bursts ahead, lunging for the staircase.

  His foot bursts through the bottom step, rotted wood disintegrating beneath his boot. He calls out again, “Ole! Is that you?”

  Silence.

  More carefully, he makes his way up the staircase, stepping as close to the baseboards as he can, heart pounding at the thought of arriving at the top, turning a corner, finding his son tucked into a sleeping bag. They could start fixing things right now; they could talk on the way home—on the way to the truck even. Ole might not want to at first, but that’s okay—Hank’s the parent, the adult. The podcasts he’s been listening to remind him of that often. It’s not the kid’s responsibility to initiate or nurture or maintain the relationship. He’s the dad. He can steer the ship, no matter how big the ship is or how stubborn the ship is or how much the ship seems to not like him.

  “Ole? You up here?”

  He reaches the top. There’s a hole in the roof, and birds have been flying in and out; the floor is many layers of white and black. Another creak, coming from the end of the hall. He moves toward it, swallowing hard, trying to step where the beams are. Ole hasn’t replied, which means he doesn’t want to be found yet. That’s okay. It’s not Ole’s job to want to be found; it’s Hank’s job to find him. It’s Hank’s job to reach out in love and respect. So sayeth the parenting podcasts. There are two rooms at the end of the hall. The right one has soft pink wallpaper, pink wood trim, a matching pink radiator; there’s still an old iron bed frame in the corner, yellowing lace curtains over the window, sunlight flowers shimmering on the floor. No Ole. Movement catches his eye as he turns into the other bedroom, and for a moment his sleep-deprived brain sees Ole sitting in the corner, waiting for him. Smiling.

  But it’s not Ole. It’s a dog. A huge brown dog.

  The dog and Hank look at each other. The dog whimpers.

  “Shouldn’t be in here,” says Hank, disappointment battering him like hail. He feels angry at the dog, like it played a trick on him. “You could fall through the floor.” When he heads back down the stairs, the dog follows him. It follows him right out the door and back to his pickup truck. When they get to the truck, Hank looks around. “Nearest farm is the Jensens’,” he says. “And you’re not their dog. Their dog’s half the size of you. Who do you belong to?”

  The dog cocks his head to the side, so slowly, like he’s saying, I’m too tired to have this conversation. He’s an old, old dog.

  “Hop in,” says Hank, opening the truck door, patting the seat. “Let’s find your family. At least someone’s going home today.”

  31

  Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt sit across from each other at the kitchen table, so still they could be a painting. Now that they’re here, in the quiet of this apartment, it’s occurring to each of them how intimate a thing it is to be married, even if the marriage is not completely real (though Mr. Schmidt is doing everything he can to nurture the illusion). How do you pretend to be married without the physical stuff? Or, worse, the emotional stuff? It’s like going door to door on Halloween, wearing your regular clothes, your regular makeup, telling people you’re a peacock. Your earnestness would make you look silly if you were not also wearing feathers.

  It doesn’t help that Mrs. Schmidt is attracted to her husband. She has been trying to deny this, but there it is anyway. The truth is the truth whether she admits it or not. It doesn’t help that he’s so beautiful, so sweet and unassuming. It doesn’t help that sometimes she remembers him putting his arms around her, even though she knows—she knows!—it has never happened. The truth, it turns out, is sometimes the truth whether it is even true or not.

  Mrs. Schmidt makes a french press just so she has something to do, a quick reversal of roles. Now he watches her measure and grind the beans, boil the water, let it bloom. Mr. Schmidt smiles appreciatively when the cup is set down in front of him even though it’s been less than an hour since he finished the coffee from Begonia.

  “So,” he says, staring intently into his coffee, as though she’s swimming around in there.

  “So?”

  “Now that we’re married,” he says slowly, “I don’t want to become one of those couples that stops getting to know each other. I don’t want to assume I know all there is to know about you and stop asking questions.”

 

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