day three four six

[320]

Day Three Two Zero

The three hundred and twentieth day of Lockdown is my birthday. That's how we quantify time, now; by numbers. Today, my 19th birthday, is day 320.

I am up, far before the alarm sounds. It is a blaring, monotonous sound, playing from speakers on every single street, twice a day. The first, at exactly six a.m.

There is movement, already, beyond the confines of my bedroom. I know, from three hundred and twenty days of this routine, that the movement belongs to my mother. She rises, as soon as the alarm sounds. We only have half an hour; and we know better than to be late.

The electricity runs for four hours during the day, and four hours during the night. I catch the water when its hot, and shower. Three minutes each, that's the rule. On Sundays, when there is no parameters to our day, we can shower for as long as we want. That is, until the water runs cold.

It's cold, when I step out, despite the hum of the heating. It is mid-February, and we are expecting snow, soon. I slip into extra layers; a tank top, beneath a tee, beneath a thin sweater, before stepping into the sterile, white hazmat suit, made of the sort of synthetic plastic that rustles with each movement you make; until the sound begins to grate at your eardrums. There is a respirator, and a hood - but until I have to leave, I keep them off.

And then, just before I descend for breakfast, and because it is my birthday - I find the deepest red lipstick I can find, and swipe it, languidly.

The lights are off downstairs. Strangely. I take careful steps to the kitchen, and when I open it, there is a candle, lit, throwing shadows on three faces.

I cringe. "Please don't sing."

And then they sing.

The lights click on, and they sing merrily. Mama, Dia, and Rai. I grimace through it all, but it's sweet. That my sisters are awake. That my mother used an entire candle stick, which she so sparingly uses, for this occasion. They grin, and Mama and Rai slow-dance, and Dia does the splits, for some odd reason, and I laugh out loud.

When the ordeal is over, Mama kisses the top of my head. "Happy birthday, Theo. You look beautiful."

"Thanks, Mama."

"I know it isn't much," she begins to say, producing a small can from one of the cupboards, "but..."

The can is yellow, and green, and it is filled with pineapple slices. I blink at her. "Where did you even get this from?"

Canned fruit went out of stock months back. The fresh fruit stopped coming after thirty-six days in Lockdown. The canned stuff lasted longer, but not long enough.

"Remember when I baked a fruit cake last summer? I've had it since then. It's in date, I checked, and I thought you could take it for your lunch."

"She sold a lung," Dia says.

Rai jabs her in the ribs. "That was my joke."

I laugh. The gesture makes it the most valuable gift in the world. I wrap my arms around her, and squeeze Mama tight. "We'll have it once I'm back."

"We?"" One of the twins says. I can't make out which.

"I'll have it once I'm back," I correct, immediately.

"Fine by me. Breakfast, girls?" Mama asks, moving further into the kitchen. "I'm making eggs."

Dia puts a finger down her throat. "I'd rather choke."

I don't like the powdered eggs, either. But there isn't much choice, anymore. "Yes, please."

Dia disappears upstairs. Rai squints at me. "There's something missing from your face."