The man looks at me closely. Closer. He shakes his head like he’s clearing it.
“No way,” he says.
“What?”
“Were you at. . . a laundromat?”
I freeze. I am frozen. “Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.” I watch him. Because now I know. “It was you.”
“It was me.” He shakes his head again like he can’t believe how small and real and astonishing the world actually is. “I’m so glad you’re okay. We don’t always know if the people we help end up okay.”
I clench my fists. Look at him as my eyes fill with tears. “I’m not okay. I’m breaking. I need to find my mom. She’s all I have.”
He looks around. Watches the dog. Stares at the emptiness. Scratches his head. “Wait here.”
He walks up and over and through the wreckage to a tent in the distance. His big boots thump against the ground as he goes. The same way they did when he carried me out of the rubble. I remember his big hands and his calm voice.
Stay with me, he’d said. Stay.
I want to say the same thing to him right now. Stay with me. Don’t leave me to figure this out alone. Because seeing him, someone familiar after so many strangers, makes me feel like he’s someone I know.
Someone I’m meant to know.
Like Charlie. And Nurse Cathy.
The man comes back. Offers his hand to help me up.
I take it.
His grip is instantly comforting.
“Come with me,” he says. “I’m Mitchell. I think I can help.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
12:25 P.M.
The inside of the tent Mitchell takes me to is filled with food and water and phones and computers. And people doing things. Helping. Organizing. It’s a finely tuned machine in the middle of chaos.
“How are you running all of this?” I ask.
“FEMA. We’re set up for search and rescue and triage. And those emergency cell towers make communication possible by phone and computer.”
“Your phones work?”
“That’s why I brought you here,” Mitchell says as his dog sniffs at my feet. “Call your mom.”
“I thought none of this stuff was working. Like anywhere.”
“Until last night, it wasn’t. More towers went up this morning. Phones are finally getting reception. Go ahead. Try.”
I can barely dial because my hands are shaking. What if I call my mom and she doesn’t answer? What if I get that old-timey ring again? I feel like I’m being set up for failure here. But on the second ring someone answers. A man. I almost hang up, convinced my shaky fingers dialed the wrong number. Or the temporary phone towers are making wires cross.
“Mom? I’m looking for my mom.”
“Ruby, is that you?” The voice crackles through the line. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
I recognize him this time.
“Coach? Where are you? Are you with my mom? Is she okay?”
“Where are you right now?”
My words come out in a rush. Telling him how I got here. About the hospital. The van. The devastation at my mom’s office. The tent. Mitchell.
“Don’t move. I’ll come to you.”
“Is my mom there? Are you both coming?”
But he’s already hung up.
Mitchell assures me it’s the unreliable reception, but I worry it’s something more. That Coach is coming because my mom can’t. Why did he answer her phone? Why didn’t he reassure me that she’s okay?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
1:21 P.M.
I down the rest of my water and refuse a browned banana while I wait for Coach to arrive. My stomach coils. Helpless.
There’s a chair and a blanket and people who are okay with letting me sit here. Someone from the triage tent unwraps my arm bandage, checks my wound, reapplies clean gauze. I’m glad when he tells me it’s healing okay. No sign of infection. But I also want to tell him to help someone else instead of me. Or take to the streets like Ava and Luke. He could be busy finding people who are trapped like I was instead of changing out my gauze. Checking on me doesn’t matter right now. My mom is the only thing that matters.
Where is she? Is she okay?
It’s an eternity before I see Coach, but when I finally do, I run to him. I’m so relieved to see him wearing his team sweatshirt and his Pacific Shore High School hat as if he were standing on the pool deck before practice instead of outside a triage tent. His clothes are clean, like he’s been someplace safe. Like he can keep me safe. Like he’ll protect me. How did I not realize that until now? I fall against him. Everything hits me at once. How long I’ve been alone. How I had to claw my way out of the rubble and fight for my life in the hospital. How I had to escape this morning and walk so far to find help. The thoughts make me crumble. I go down like the walls of the laundromat until I’m a heap on the ground. Bent over. Bunched up. A heaving mass of sobs and relief. Coach holds me up. Tucks me in. Lets me cry.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says.
“Where’s my mom? I called her phone from the hospital. I couldn’t get through.”
“Nobody could. But she refused to let go of her phone.”
“But where is she now? Why isn’t she here?”
“She’s okay, but she’s in a hospital. She has some injuries. They’re serious, but she’s going to be okay.”
“Take me to her.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
HERE
I am here.
I am feet on the pavement.
I am blood in my veins.
I am muscles and nerves,
and sinew and bones.
I am fingers that wield pens like swords.
I am legs that kick through doors.
I am today.
I am tomorrow.
I am toes in the sand.
I am air in my lungs.
I am a walk in the woods.
I am a boat on the ocean.
I am push.
I am pull.
I am real.
I am here.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
3:33 P.M.
Inside the hospital, there’s a desk and there’s a person. She has a list and she has names. She can say who’s here. And who isn’t.
Coach walks over to her. Smiles. He pulls something from his pocket. He has credentials. A badge. Something official. Something that says he can be here.
I stand.
I shift.
I need them to hurry. I need to see my mom now.
Coach motions me over. He hands me a pen and points to a line on a piece of paper. I sign my name. Then we write our names on stickers that we fasten to our chests.
The woman at the desk points straight ahead and we walk that way. Down a hallway and to a door. Coach says something else to somebody there. They open the door.
And there she is. My mom.
She is tubes and beeps and bruises. Broken. Bundled. But she is also arms and legs. She is here and now. She is breath and air. I can see things aren’t perfect. I want her to move but she won’t. She can’t. It’s clear she has to heal.
She isn’t awake.
But she is alive.
My old fear creeps in. Hospitals are where people go to die. Is this how my mom felt when she came to see my dad? Am I going to have to say goodbye to her and watch someone sign papers to let her go?
Stop. I shake my head. This is where she needs to be. This is where people can help her. Being here is her best chance at getting better. The same way I did. There are Nurse Cathys and Doctor Patels here. People who can help. People who can heal.
Behind me the doctor explains that my mom has a concussion and some internal injuries. Broken bones. Dehydration. An ambulance brought her here earlier this week. He tells me how my mom was trapped. Buried. Stuck. Crushed. Just like I was. And Charlie. But she made it out.
“She’s going to be okay,” the doctor assures me. “She ju
st needs time.”
Coach braces his hand on my shaking shoulder. Talks to me in his calm voice.
“Go see her,” he says. “She needs you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
9:09 A.M.
I have a crick in my neck from sleeping on the floor next to my mom’s hospital bed, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Not that I have anywhere else to go. I hear a rustling. Imagine the gentle smoothing back of my hair.
I look up. See my mom’s eyes flutter. Focus.
She’s here.
The smell of her. The softness.
I reach out to touch her. To know she’s real. I stand up so I can reach her. My hands hold her cheeks like a mug of hot tea. The vision of her blurs through the tears in my eyes. Like she’s swimming in me. I’m swimming in her.
“Ruby.” Her own eyes go blurry with tears. “Oh, Ruby. I was so afraid I’d never find you.” She looks at me. At this bed. At this room. At how serious it all is. At how close something bad seemed. “I was so afraid I’d lose you, too.”
“Never.” She has loved me fiercely, but been too afraid to let anyone in since my dad. Until Coach. Because loving too hard meant accepting the risk of losing it.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “Where have you been?”
“I was hurt. I was in the hospital.”
She gasps. Reaches out for a hug. I go to her and she pulls me in. “The hospital? This hospital?”
“A different one.”
“How did you get there? Who took care of you? How did you get here?” Her voice is muffled against my hair.
I tell her everything. About the rubble. About Charlie. My rescue. Nurse Cathy. Luke and Ava. “But I’m okay.”
“Ruby,” she says, “you were so mad at me—”
I lean back. Look her in the eye. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I should’ve listened. I should’ve explained how I was feeling. I think you’re brave. It must be scary to fall in love after you fell in love once and lost everything.”
“Oh, sweet girl. I didn’t lose everything. I got you.” She tears up. Puts her hand to my cheek. “I was so afraid I wouldn’t find you again.”
“I found Coach,” I say.
“We found each other,” he says.
I can see the peace on my mom’s face. Like she has all she needs right here right now. And I can see how much Coach cares. About my mom. About me. And I’m okay with that. I’m okay if he’s in our living room on Sundays and on our couch on Christmas. I’m okay if he’s in our house and in our lives. I’m okay if he comes with my mom to drop me off at college and meet at the airport when I fly home in the summertime.
I’m okay.
We’re okay.
I have only a little bit of time left before I leave for college. I don’t want to spend that time fighting with the people I love. I don’t want to fight with my mom and I don’t want to fight with Leo. I don’t want to fight with Mila, either. I hope I get a chance to tell her that.
I wish Charlie would’ve had the chance to do the same with his parents.
I need to focus on spending the time I have with the people I love because I’m meant to go away soon. To move on. And after that, my mom is meant to be here with Coach.
MOVING ON
Last fall, my mom and I went on a college tour. It was about what I’d expected: an enthusiastic student, currently enrolled, walked us around campus, pointing out landmarks and bestowing us with breathless stats of everything the school had to offer.
I could see myself there.
Walking along the pathways strewn with the bright reds and oranges of fallen autumn leaves.
I could see myself living in the sleek and modern dorm building and eating in the dining hall.
I could see myself crossing campus to get to the pool, before the sun came up, for a morning workout. And heading to class afterward with wet hair and coffee.
I could see myself sitting in the back row of a lecture hall for an English literature class or in the front row of a biology lab.
I could see everything in such clear focus that my body buzzed with the excitement of it all.
We met the water polo coach, who seemed enthusiastic about my high school athletic career. They told me to stay in touch and that they’d try to catch one of my games in the upcoming season.
I was so taken with the campus, with the vibe and the energy and the students being free and on their own.
“Can I get a sweatshirt?” I asked my mom. “From the student store?”
“Sure.”
At the store, we sifted through sweatshirts, so many different designs for one college, and picked out one that felt classic. Timeless. I had the clerk at the register cut the tag off for me so I could wear it home.
When we got back to the car, my mom was slow to start the engine. She simply sat and looked out the window at the crowded parking lot. At the buildings in the distance. And the students walking by.
I was sold.
Cal was where I wanted to be.
My mom gripped the steering wheel, still not starting the car.
“Mom?” I asked. “Are we going to sit here all day?”
When I looked closer, I saw that her eyes were shiny. Her quiet took over the car. It was too much. Too silent.
“Mom?” I said again.
She swiped at her eyes. “Yeah. Yes.”
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Nothing.”
She started the car. It grumbled. Like it didn’t want to leave, either.
My mom looked over her shoulder, ready to back out, but settled her gaze on me as the car idled in its parking space. I noticed a student in a beat-up maroon Toyota waiting for our spot, their blinker flashing in order to claim it.
My mom pressed the palm of her hand to my cheek and said, “All your life, I’ve been working on preparing you to be ready to go. But maybe I should’ve been preparing myself.” Her voice faltered. Her lip wobbled. “You’re leaving. And I won’t be coming with you.”
“Mom—”
“It’s okay, Ruby. It’s how things are meant to be. I love you and I know you’re going to be okay. And I’m going to be, too. But I’ll miss you a lot and I’m going to be a little sad. What can I say? I’m a mom. It’s what I do.”
“I’ll miss you, too. I will.”
She smiled. “Oh, sweet girl, no, you won’t. You won’t have time to miss me. But that’s okay.”
The driver of the maroon Toyota honked their horn, making my mom and me jump in our seats.
My mom checked her eye makeup in the rearview mirror, swiped at the black smudge of mascara that had leaked from her lashes. And then she put the car in reverse and backed out. We didn’t say anything else as we drove out of the lot and onto the road toward home.
Quiet.
Together.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
11:45 A.M.
Coach turns his car onto my street. There have been stories of people looting and squatting at damaged and abandoned homes, so my mom sent Coach and me to not only see if our house is still standing, but to retrieve her Parental Box of Important Papers along with some other must-haves. I tick off the houses as we go. The Richardsons. The Chens. The Storeys. The young hipster couple with the year-round Christmas lights. Nobody is walking dogs or riding bikes or bringing in their groceries in reusable Trader Joe’s bags.
Nobody is here.
Nothing is normal.
Our house is literally sagging sideways. Off-kilter. Like some suburban Leaning Tower of Pisa. And the magnolia tree from our front yard has fallen straight across the driveway. Coach pulls to the curb and I’m out of the car before he’s even put it in park.
“Stop!” Coach yells. “It might not be safe to go inside!”
I don’t care. I turn the knob of the front door, somehow expecting it to swing open even though we always lock our doors, but the dead bolt is in place just as my mom would’ve left it when she went to work the day of the earthquake. I jiggle the doorknob
again, like I can unlock it by sheer force of will.
“Slow down. We need to be careful,” Coach says.
I twist the knob again. Try to break it. Kick the wood. Pound with my fist. All of these things make my whole body hurt. I push past Coach to kneel down and sift through the dirt and flowers by the front door, trying to unearth our hidden key. I work around the broken remnants of terra-cotta flowerpots, slicing my finger on one of them. I don’t stop to check the cut. I don’t even care. Soil pushes up underneath my fingernails as I tear the garden apart. I finally find the key and turn it in the lock. I push the door open with such force it bounces against the wall of the entryway and swings back in Coach’s face. He stops it with an outstretched arm.
Inside there’s nothing. Only silence. And the remnants of what was.
Pictures have fallen off the walls, their frames shattered. I lunge forward as broken shards of glass crunch underneath the bright white sneakers Nurse Cathy gave me at the hospital. Coach puts his arm across me like he’s stopped short at a stoplight and wants to protect me from hurtling through the windshield.
“Goddammit,” Coach says, making me wait while he gingerly takes a step forward. “Hold on, Ruby. This is serious.”
I stand still for him and look around.
I want this house to feel like home. For my mom to emerge from the kitchen to ask about my day. For Leo to be sitting next to me on the couch, our hands in a bowl of popcorn, the movie too loud. All the little things I’ve taken for granted.
But home is broken.
The shelves have toppled over. The books are spread across the living room like bodies. Spines twisted. Pages bent.
Like Charlie in the rubble.
Securing our bookshelves was one of those weekend projects my mom kept talking about but never did. One of those things you’re supposed to do to be earthquake ready, but then a weekend matinee or sleeping in or a sunny day at the beach sounds better.
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