I collapsed onto a pile of old moving blankets and burst into tears openly for the first time. We were still connected to the world, even though the world was completely blind to us.
But while the radio hummed softly, a new, sour smell began to overpower the smell of concrete and dust. The smell came from the corner of the room where I had stored my groceries a few days earlier.
Chapter 4: The scent of redemption
I immediately implemented a draconian rationing system. The powdered milk was exclusively for Emily. The bottled water was mainly for her to mix with, and I myself was only allowed a few sips to soothe my dry throat. I allowed myself a single spoonful of cold, gelatinous canned peas only when I became dizzy and the edges of my vision became blurred.
I made an improvised changing station out of a clean piece of tarpaulin. I folded every dirty diaper with surgical precision and stacked them far away in the darkest corner to preserve the last vestiges of hygienic dignity. When Emily’s crying fits dragged on for hours and echoed off the concrete, I sang. I sang the exact same lullabies I had once sung for David. Every note tasted of ash. I had to squeeze the melodies out, swallow the sharp, abrasive bile of bitterness that threatened to suffocate me.
By what I estimated on the second evening – although my biological clock was rapidly starting to falter – the sour smell I had noticed earlier became impossible to ignore.
I shone my flashlight on the shady corner by the oven. There stood a wooden crate, overflowing with organic produce I had bought at the Saturday farmers’ market. Without the cool air from the fridge upstairs, the heirloom tomatoes had burst open and sour juices were leaking out. The cabbage was wilting into a pungent, slimy mass. The smell of rapidly rotting food was sharp, unpleasant, and penetrating.
I stared at the rotting mess, my stomach churning in protest. And then, like a spark stoking dry firewood, a wild, desperate plan flashed through my mind.
If I could raise that rotting stuff, if I could place it directly beneath the drafty seam of that narrow ground-floor window, the disgusting smell would inevitably seep out. Someone walking a dog might smell the odor. The postman might stop for a moment. Or perhaps Sarah, the bright-eyed student who ran the vegetable stall, the girl who adored Emily and had an eye for the little things, would wonder why the reliable Mrs. Johnson had disappeared.
I am going to build a lighthouse out of rotten wood, I decided.
It took me an hour to drag the heavy, splintering crate across the rough concrete floor. My bruised shoulder ached with every inch. With the claw hammer, I pried the rusted latch of the small window open a fraction of a centimeter, just enough to let in a bit of fresh air and let the stench escape. I grabbed the screwdriver and deliberately poked at the remaining vegetables, releasing a localized stench that made my eyes water and tightened my throat.
