Red Sea by Diane Tullson

dozen cans left. The eggs are gone, of course. We only had a few loaves of bread and these I’m sure went out when I was bailing. We probably have flour. I could make bread. Emma showed me how she does it in a heavy pot on the top of the stove. Maybe I could make a chocolate cake. Oh yeah, no eggs.
    I lift the hatch that covers the fresh vegetable bin. We keep potatoes and onions in one, and it is still full. I peel open the plastic lid on another bin and find two heads of cabbage. Well, I’m not going to starve. The tomatoes we keep in a basket over the counter and these are gone, either by the pirates or the storm. Too bad. I find some apples but these have been rolling around inside a locker and already they smell sickly sweet with bruises. I pare the worst off one and eat it right down to the seeds. With the apples I find one of Mac’s lemons. I hold it up to my nose and inhale. It’s intensely lemon, far more so than lemons we buy at home, and bigger.
    I never had any of that lemon pie.
    I look over at Mom, on the dining bench. Her cheeks look flushed. Walking slowly, as if that will hide my concern, I take the lemon over to her. I hold the lemon under her nose. “You need to wake up.”
    I know what will wake her. But first, I pour tea into a water bottle and add a generous stream of sugar. If I’m hungry, surely Mom is too. At the very least she needs fluids. I shake the bottle until the sugar dissolves in the just-warm tea. Then I cut open the lemon and squeeze the juice into the tea.
    I know what will wake my mother, and maybe I’m twisted, or maybe it’s just what I have to do. I slip my arms under her quilt and yank her onto her back.
    As her gunshot leg hits the bench her eyes snap open, and her mouth, and she sucks a breath. Moving quickly, so I don’t have time to think too much, I haul her into a sitting position.
    â€œMorning, Mom.”
    Her eyes well, and she moans, a horrible grunting moan that seems to rise from her belly and lodge in her throat. I can’t stand the sound, the utter animal sound, but it comes and comes until I think I will cover my ears. Then she stops. Her eyes track vague circles around me.
    I put the water bottle against her cracked lips. “Drink.” She tries to close her lips, but I jab the bottle against her teeth. “Open your mouth and drink.” She blinks and her eyebrows knot, but she drinks.
    â€œGood.” I show her the half-empty bottle. “You did really well. Maybe I’ll make you some soup or something.” She seems to be looking at me, but I can’t be sure. “Would you like some soup?”
    Her eyes slide under her lids until all that shows is white. “Mom?”
    I put my hand on her forehead and snatch it away. “You’re hot. Too hot.” I rip the quilt away from her leg. The smell from her dressings makes me want to retch. The gauze fabric has crusted to her leg. I grab the teakettle and a towel that’s still folded in the drawer. I can only hope that it’s clean. Using a corner of the towel, I dip it into the kettle, then work it under the edge of the bandage. Carefully, a bit at a time, I remove the old bandage. The skin under the bandage is hot to the touch and red. Around one wound, the skin has puckered like a crater, and what was initially clear ooze is now yellow pus. It’s infected.
    My mouth goes dry, my mind goes blank. The first aid course I took echoes in my head. In case of infection, the victim needs medical attention. The victim needs a doctor. Call 9-1-1. I can’t do any of those things! I listen to my mother’s heart. It doesn’t seem as fast as mine, but I can’t be sure. Tears burn the corners of my eyes. I check my mother’s pads. Except for one with a small, pungent spot, the pads are dry. So she’s dehydrating too. I replace the one pad. With the cooled tea I clean the leg wound and cover it loosely with fresh gauze. I