When I finally calmed down, he said, “Look, baby. Yes, I wanted to do that and, yeah, it sucks. But this is a big deal. You were always going to be a part of my life. After the Marines, you were still going to be there. You’re the thing that’s most important. And now, with this, well… I’m not leaving so you can deal with it on your own. I’m definitely not missing the birth of my kid. Fuck that.”
And on that note, he asked me again to marry him, and I said “yes.” Not exactly the way I expected my proposal to go but, all things considered, I still felt pretty great about it. We said a lot more to each other out there on the swing set, but I’m keeping that conversation for me.
He insisted we tell my parents first, maybe because he wanted to get that part out of the way. I was dreading it but having told Eddie, I felt like this would be easier and it was. My parents did and said all the things you’d expect. I will say that my dad never tried to get physical with Eddie. He didn’t have any illusions about us; he knew we’d been sleeping together. There were no big blow-ups. But there was the shock, the disappointment, the usual run of unhelpful and pointless questions. My dad tried to talk us into terminating, and we both told him that wasn’t happening.
“I want to marry her,” Eddie said. “I want to take care of her. I want the baby to have a dad.”
“We’ll see,” my father said, and Eddie showed him.
He saw, alright. We had a couple of months to finish high school, but Eddie started taking all these night classes and got himself set up in an apprenticeship to become an electrician. He got a job up in Sandy along with a little two-bedroom apartment. We got married at the courthouse in this tiny, non-event. Both of our mothers moaned over our lack of big, traditional wedding but they calmed down after I explained that we needed to save money and, given my childbearing condition, the whole big-ceremony-thing with a pure white gown seemed kind of ridiculous. My one concession to my mother was a veil. A veil with a faded, old English Beat t-shirt (I loved my ska), some jeans, and a pair of Chucks. I still have the picture from that day back inside the cabin, here.
We moved up to Sandy together, Elizabeth came shortly after, and we did okay. We weren’t rich, or even really comfortable, but we kept getting better. Eddie was relentless with his work. He was serious and focused. He plowed through his apprenticeship and, by the time Lizzy was three, he was making enough money that I could quit my job at Starbucks and stay home with her. As soon as Eddie made journeyman, he was right back into night classes getting all these specialized certificates. Certificates in fire alarm systems, national code, you name it. Anything he could get a slot in that was relevant. He knocked them down one after the other like he was bowling and, over time, his take-home pay showed the results.
He wasn’t getting so much that we could buy a house, but he was making enough that we were able to save money. All of our needs were handled and even some of our wants and, though it was some time out, our own home was on the timeline.
I didn’t notice it while it was happening but, one day, I realized that everything had become certain. Don’t get me wrong, there were still plenty of question marks, but I was at least certain of my place in life. I was certain my husband would be there. I was certain we loved each other. I was certain Lizzy would be okay and that she’d have everything she needed. I was certain I could go to the store whenever we needed something (whether it was food, clothes, or other things) and, when I swiped my card, there would be money in the account to cover it. I was certain our cars would run and, if there was a problem with them, I was certain Eddie could fix it. I was certain the bills were always going to be paid on time. Things were very, very good.
When the Plague took Eddie, Lizzy and I had to leave our apartment and relocate to one of the quarantine tents just outside the city. Losing him was… hard. I’m a strong girl. I’ve been a strong girl for a long time. But I was mostly strong because I knew he’d be there behind me. Eduardo was the love of my life. I didn’t want to continue to “be” without him. And they wouldn’t let me bury him or anything. A couple of soldiers came in, gave me a bunch of “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” and hustled us right out of there. The last time I saw my husband alive was over the shoulder of someone named Sgt. Alvarez as he picked me up and carried me out of my own home, saying, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m so sorry,” the whole time.
We were told we’d be safe in the quarantine tents; what was being called Cedar City (not to be confused with the actual Cedar City further south) because it was just off the 73 on the way to Cedar Fort. But we weren’t safe. Or actually, most of us weren’t. The flu rolled through Cedar City just as hard and fast as it rolled through Sandy. Lizzy and I watched as everyone around us died off in a period of weeks, no longer than a month and a half at most.
How can I describe what it was like sitting there waiting to get sick? There was something like eighty thousand or so people living in Sandy. I know that probably doesn’t sound like a lot, but it was one of the bigger cities in Utah. Sandy was also stacked right next to other cities like South Jordan, Draper, and Riverton, plus it was just south of Salt Lake City itself. Cedar City had to be big enough to support the people from all of these areas (it wasn’t, of course, but they did the best they could to keep up with the number of infected). I don’t know how many people passed away before Cedar City was constructed, but even half of all the cities just north would have required a massive amount of area and staff. None of us ever got an official count; communication had been reduced to nothing in those days.
By the time the Plague was all done killing us off, there were just little pockets of people left, mostly on their own but in some places they were in two’s or three’s.
The soldiers who were out there with us were all kind, but they weren’t helpful in any way. The best you could get out of them was “I’m sorry, we’ll update you as soon as our command tells us” or “I’m sorry, we’re expecting new supplies to arrive any day now.” Everything they said to us always began with the words “I’m sorry.” Despite my situation, I felt bad for them. They all looked like they were just a few minutes away from panic. They all had this universal deer-in-the-headlights look when you talked to them. All they knew was what they’d been told which, from what I gathered at the time, was to guard the camp, distribute food and medicine, put down looters, rioters, or resistance, and await further orders.
The actual medical staff seemed to be a lot better off in this regard. There were any number of Army combat medics and nurses in constant motion between the cots; they had all been either bused in or flown in while Cedar City was being put together. At least, they were all there by the time Lizzy and I arrived on our school bus. They all moved from place to place with purpose. They looked like they had a mission. In those days when there were still many of us to care for, there was always one more thing to do, one more task to accomplish, one more battle to wage by the bedside. They had it together and spoke with certainty. They were resolved.
Then, as people kept dying at the same rate despite their best efforts and especially when the soldiers and medics themselves began to find themselves on their own sick cots, we all saw that certainty and resolve erode away. Despite everything that was going on, despite the never-ending fear I had in waiting for Lizzy to get sick, watching the medics and the nurses crumble was heartbreaking. We all loved them—loved them for how hard they fought for us. When they finally found themselves down on the cot among the sick, it was the sick who were reaching their hands out between wracking coughs to soothe and comfort them. Those medical people who were still on their feet began to carry the same expressions as the soldiers and the rest of us understood: there wasn’t much left to do but wait to die.