Cathy pokes her head in. “Anything?”
“Not yet.” Every unanswered ring is a punch to my gut. I can’t look at Nurse Cathy. I can’t look through the sliding glass doors. Or at the woman in the yellow shirt. I can’t look at any of the things I’ve been looking at since I woke up here. I can only focus on the pile of white sheets covering my legs. I grab a handful of the soft cotton and squeeze. I channel all my frustration into that bunched-up heap in my hand while my other hand grips the phone.
Our home phone rings endlessly.
I let it keep going.
I rock. Back and forth. The sheets move with me.
I want some part of my old life to answer. To pick up. To be alive.
To be okay.
Nurse Cathy watches me rock. “Is there someone else, maybe?” There’s an underlying note of worry in her tone. The way Charlie sounded when he got nervous in the rubble.
I should try to call someone else, but I don’t know any numbers from my contacts list. Who does? I’d seen Leo’s name light up my screen thousands of times in the last seven months, but it didn’t show his number. And the landline numbers of any of my friends? No way. How did I not pay attention to any of this stuff before?
I want to call Coach, but I don’t know his number by heart, either.
I remember being told during an earthquake drill at school that family members should all check in with a designated family member living out of state. I’m sure my mom would call her mom, but I don’t know my grandma’s phone number in Seattle any better than I know Leo’s.
I want to pull my hair. I’m so mad at myself for not knowing anything that can help me.
Emergency plans assume something. They assume you’re in a place where you have access to everything you need. Food. Water. Phone numbers. A change of clothes. Your mom. Your house. They assume family members are all together. That the car has a full tank of gas. That you have a pocketful of cash. That you have tampons and a toothbrush. They assume you have a plan.
Or maybe it’s me who assumed.
I rack my brain for something else to do or someone else to call.
I actually do know Mila’s number by heart because I’ve known her since before we were allowed to have cell phones. I’ve called Mila’s house a million times.
I don’t care if the only words she’s said to me since New Year’s Eve have been mean ones.
I dial her and wait. It rings and rings with that same old-timey sound our landline had. I hang up. Try again. Repeat. What if Mila isn’t okay? What if we don’t get a chance to talk again?
Stop. I can’t go there.
“A lot of folks couldn’t get back into their homes,” Nurse Cathy says. “Too much damage. It’s hard to know exactly where everyone is. Shelters. The street.”
My insides bubble. I’m frantic and helpless at the same time. A volcano ready to combust.
This is useless. I’m useless. I remember that moment in the rubble when Charlie said he was useless and I promised him he wasn’t. But now I know how he felt. Now I get it.
I’m here because of luck.
And Charlie. My new friend helped keep me alive.
“Maybe you can try again later,” Nurse Cathy says.
I want to yell at her even though it isn’t her fault. I’m her patient. She doesn’t want me to freak out because it’s her job to help me get well. I understand all of this. But right now, all I want to do is throw this phone into the sliding glass doors hard enough to make them shatter. Maybe it will make the woman in the yellow shirt turn around. Maybe she’ll see me. Maybe she’ll comfort me since my own mom can’t.
I sink back into the bed. Nurse Cathy refills my cup of water. Holds it out to me, lets me take it in my own hands this time. I suck down half of it without taking a breath.
“Is everything gone? Outside of here. Is it all gone?”
“It’s bad.” She winces. “Unrecognizable, even.”
I regret asking.
“We’re one of the few hospitals still up and running since we’re farther away from the epicenter. The closer hospitals are too damaged to take patients. So the injured keep coming here. Like you.” She shakes her head like she’s had a hard time processing it all. “Days later and they keep finding people.”
“Where were you when it happened?”
“Grocery store.”
“Is your family okay?” Is she working at the hospital, helping other people, when her own family needs help? Are they missing, too?
“My people are all good. You’re sweet to ask.”
“Do you have kids?”
“I do. Twins. Kindergarten.”
“What would you do if one of your kids was missing?”
She takes my water cup. “The same thing I’m sure your mom is doing: move mountains to find them.”
“If she even can.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. I want to shove them back into my mouth and swallow them. What if saying them out loud could make them real? “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know.” Nurse Cathy smiles at me. “How about this? How about you do what Doc Patel asked and work on getting better. So you have the strength to find your mom. To help. Cool?”
“I can do that.”
“That makes me real happy to hear, Ruby. Your mom will be proud of you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
8:58 P.M.
I told Nurse Cathy and Doctor Patel I’d stay in bed. To get strong. Get better. I still hate hospitals, but I realize the reason I’m alive is because of this place. And these people.
I wish Charlie had gotten this chance.
In the rubble he told me we’d get out and find a nice hospital where people would fix us up. I didn’t want to go. He’s the one who deserves to be here.
He deserves to have a better story.
I know the way his family will have to push through the murky waters of healing. Feeling guilty about the things they’d said or the things they wish they would’ve said. I want to meet them. Say how brave he was. How hard he fought to live.
I want to live.
Really live.
The way my mom says my dad did.
I want to shove aside all the petty things that were weighing me down when I walked into the laundromat last Friday. I want my mom to be happy. I want her to be happy with Coach. It doesn’t matter if it’s weird or if Mila makes fun of me. None of that matters anymore. Because I’ve spent the last six days fighting to stay alive.
That’s way bigger than anything else. The most important thing in this world, the only one that matters, is being with the people you love.
Like the woman in the yellow shirt across the pod. She’s here because the person in that bed is important to her. Every person in this hospital is another person’s person. All of them going in and out, visiting other people in other rooms with their hands and faces clenched tight with worry. Covered in dust and blood and stitches.
I have to find my mom. It repeats like a mantra.
I imagine getting up out of this bed, pulling the tubes out of my arms, and pushing through the sliding glass doors of my room.
I won’t falter this time.
I’ll stay coherent.
I won’t slip into the dark.
I will wave goodbye to the pod people in their spaceship workstation and walk away. They’ll wish me luck because I will be confident in my leaving. I will pull on my sweatshirt and feel like myself again. Familiar. Comfortable. I don’t care if it’s dirty. I won’t even care if my hospital gown pops open behind me. I will push forward down the hallway, moving toward the stairwell door, with Charlie’s journal in my arms. Down I’ll go to the front doors of the hospital. I will exit through them and drag cool air into my lungs. I will breathe in the fresh, bright smell of the big, wide world. I will search every inch of that big, wide world until I find my mom.
I will find her.
She will be okay.
I am her daughter. I need her. She needs me.
We’ll be reunited. And then we’ll go home and live our life.
Coach Sanchez can come, too.
If that’s what’s meant to be.
I will appreciate the sunshine and smaller mundane things. I will eat burritos. Swim in the ocean. Read good books. Travel. Hug Leo. Leave flowers on graves. Let my mom love Coach.
And I’ll never stop paying attention to the big things. Telling people that I love them. Trying to help Mila. Fighting for what I believe in.
Because we’re all just trying to survive. Day to day. Year by year. In big ways and small.
I will remember and honor Charlie. Live a life of truth. Let go of blame. I wish I could’ve known him. I wish he could’ve been a part of my life forever.
Nurse Cathy walks in as I’m swiping at my tears with my bedsheets.
She hurries to my side. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I’m thinking about my friend. Charlie.” I knot the sheets in my hand like a tissue.
She sits on the edge of my bed. “Tell me about your friend.”
ONCE UPON A TIME
Once upon a time Charlie came home to start over.
Once upon a time Charlie had laundry and I had a plan.
Once upon a time it was a Friday in February and my day was the same as always.
Once upon a time there was a shift and a shatter.
Once upon a time there was ducking and covering and holding on tight.
Once upon a time there wasn’t enough air.
Once upon a time there was a fear so deep in my gut that I can’t believe I survived it.
Once upon a time Charlie and I had to talk each other through the rubble. And the fear. And the devastation.
Once upon a time we were each other’s distraction.
Once upon a time Charlie had stories to tell.
Once upon a time it gave me peace to listen.
Once upon a time Charlie had guilt to reconcile.
Once upon a time I made a new friend in the most unexpected way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
2:38 A.M.
Everyone has gone to sleep. But sleep in a hospital isn’t really sleeping. People come in to poke and prod throughout the night. I roll over when the night nurse arrives. I give her my arm and she straps the Velcro blood pressure cuff around it. It squeezes tight then loosens as it lets out a breath to deflate.
Earlier, when I sweated through my gown and my sheets, Nurse Cathy knew how to change my bed without my getting out of it. Like those magicians who can pull tablecloths away yet leave all the dishes and knives and forks and glasses in place.
When she covered me up again, she left the sheets loose at my feet. Squeezed my toes to let me know she remembered.
Right now, the night nurse tries to tuck them in again.
I kick them free. “No.”
“Okay,” she says with a hint of sarcasm. Okaaaaaay. She sounds like Mila.
I take a cup of water and two pills from her. Nod. Do whatever she needs so I can go back to sleep. And wake up strong.
I’m already shutting my eyes again, letting my head hit the pillow, when a beeping sound jolts us both. It blasts through the ICU and between the crack of my sliding glass doors. Is it me? Is it my monitors? Am I okay?
The nurse leaves the cup in my hand. Ditches the blood pressure cuff by my bed. She rushes from my room and scrambles through the workstation to the room across from mine. There are too many doctors and nurses in there. I don’t see the woman with the yellow shirt as bright as the sun. Her chair is empty.
Someone hovers above the bed. Holds two paddles from a defibrillator. Calls out, “Clear.” The body bounces on the bed.
The beeping doesn’t stop.
They do it again.
I remember Charlie telling me about his friend at the frat party and the defibrillator that came too late.
Did he watch them do this? Did he see?
The woman in the yellow shirt comes rushing in from the hallway. She cuts through the workstation to get to the room faster.
She screams, “No!” and drops the cup she’s holding onto the floor. Splat.
She presses her hand to the sliding glass door and screams some more. She pounds on the glass.
She tries to shove her way into the room but a nurse pushes her back.
“Let them work,” the nurse says.
“I was only gone for a minute.”
That’s how fast it happens.
One minute. Everything changes. Like Charlie. Like my dad.
Seconds tick by. On and on they go, while everyone tries to save whoever is in that room. I wish Charlie had gotten that chance. I hope this person can be saved since Charlie wasn’t.
But then quiet settles in like fog. The beeping stops. The light flicks off. The darkness takes over. The doctors and nurses walk away. The woman in the yellow shirt crumbles into the arms of a nurse. She says no over and over and over again. I watch the nurse try to collect the pieces of the woman that are spilling out all over the floor.
I shut my eyes and instantly picture my mom in a random bed in a random room in a random hospital.
A midnight rush to save her life.
And then I picture her not there but somewhere worse. Someplace unknown.
I picture myself crumbling.
I push the thought away. I can’t let it in.
I have to find her.
She has to find me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the woman in the yellow shirt outside the door of the room across from mine. It’s not a prayer. It’s an offering. To let her know I see her pain. I understand her pain. Even if I don’t know her, I know her loss.
And the way she’s breaking.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
9:00 A.M.
For breakfast, I’m given lukewarm oatmeal that tastes like cardboard. I want real food. Something that will sink into my stomach and stick to my insides. I want a cheeseburger and french fries and a Coke from the Belmont Diner across the street from school. But I bet the diner is gone.
Nurse Cathy, in another pair of soft pink scrubs, the hem of a purple T-shirt peeking out, comes into my room while I’m eating. The bun on top of her head droops lower today, as if it’s tired like her eyes. She looks like she’s been working for a week straight. It’s possible. Probable. I take another bite of oatmeal. It struggles down my throat before it sits like a rock in my stomach.
“Good news.” Nurse Cathy turns to me, hands on her hips. “You’ve been cleared to get out of here today.”
I shake my head. “I have nowhere to go.” Is there still a home to go home to?
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. Not the hospital. Just here. The ICU.” She looks around my private space. “They’ve designated a special ward a couple floors up for kids like you.”
“Like me?”
She pats my shoulder like she senses my distress. “Minors who still need medical attention and their parents.”
“Parent.”
“Our outreach team will meet with you and get all your information. They’re working with FEMA to reconnect families. They’ve had tremendous success over the last few days.”
If they’re so successful, why can’t they find my mom? Is it because she can’t be found?
“But you won’t be there?” I ask.
“Chin up. You don’t need me, Ruby.”
I can’t help the way my eyes dart to the room across from mine. The one that went dark last night. Moving to another unit means it’s not my turn to die. As much as that brings me peace, the thought of going somewhere else, with more people I don’t know, makes my stomach hurt. But I can’t give in to that. Because leaving here means I’m one step closer to getting out of the hospital. I didn’t come here to die.
“When am I going?”
“After breakfast.”
I set my spoon to the side of the bowl. Push it across the tray. “I’m ready.”
Nurse Cathy comes to my side. “You’re a fighter, Ruby Babcock.” S
he unwraps my arm bandage and dabs on a fresh coat of ointment. I dare a glance at the rack of stitches. My cut is red and angry. A reminder of the rubble. “You’ll have a scar.” She fastens the self-stick tape at the end of the bandage, rests her hand above my elbow. “Let yours remind you of how brave you’ve been. How brave you are.”
“I’ll try.”
She takes off her gloves. Drops them into the red hazardous-waste bin. Heads back to the workstation and into my room again with clothes in her hands.
“I found a clean sweatshirt and sweatpants and some sneakers in the donation box. You can change before you go.” She sets them down on my bed along with a T-shirt for a 5K marathon I’ll never run and a big pair of clean white underwear like my grandma might wear.
“Like the first day of school,” I say. She laughs.
She gives me privacy to change, then helps me into a wheelchair. She puts my dirty team sweatshirt and Charlie’s journal into a plastic bag and sets it on my lap. I look down at myself and instantly remember a photo of my mom and dad leaving the hospital with me after I was born. She’s sitting in a wheelchair like this one, but instead of holding a plastic bag with a dirty sweatshirt, she’s holding me. I am pink and tiny and wrapped in a blanket. My mom looks unsure. My dad looks proud.
“Ready?”
I nod.
The pod people stand and wave farewell as we go by. Even though they’re strangers, they’re happy for my recovery. The Big One has connected all of us.
Nurse Cathy pushes me toward the elevator. Punches the button with her knuckle. “Good news: the elevators are running again. Progress.”
I remember the way the men from the ambulance brought me through the stairwell, passing the bodies piled up. I remember the stench and my being afraid I’d be one of them. Because of Nurse Cathy and Doctor Patel and the man with the big hands and the calm voice, I’m not.
The bright lights inside the elevator make Nurse Cathy look extra tired.
“Do you get to go home after this?”
She shrugs. “Unlikely. The work is endless. I’ve been catching a couple of hours of sleep at the hospital when I can.”
Aftershocks Page 13