by Dan Kolbet
They were active in their church and rarely spent more than a few hours apart except when Harold would watch baseball games on TV, or listen on the radio to Ernie Harwell, calling the games on WJR.
In 2009, Ruth passed away from complications of heart disease. Harold never loved again. No woman could replace his Ruth, and they certainly tried. He was still a fit and handsome man in his late 60s and beyond. He’d walk five miles each morning, along the beach path that Ruth loved. On the unbearably cold winter days, he’d dress in several layers, but he’d never miss a walk. Ruth would have wanted it that way. He’d watch the Tigers on his new high definition TV and drive alone to Detroit for several games a year.
On that chilly November afternoon in 2020, Harold put on his jacket, cap and leather gloves, to clean up the yard before a pending storm dumped several inches of snow. He had completed most of the yard, tying up the bags and placing them beside the garage for disposal.
But on that day, his last day, something felt off kilter. So, when he fell to his knees, he knew he might never get up again, and he certainly didn’t know what was coming next. His last thoughts were of Ruth and the eleven years he’d been waiting to see her in the next life.
Chapter 3
“I’m ready.”
His words echoed as he stepped out of the white room and through the oak bedroom door.
#
Harold woke up in a daze, but didn’t immediately open his eyes. He was on his back, covered in a heavy blanket. The smell of glue wafted over him. His nose was cold. He opened his eyes to see the image of a beautiful woman staring seductively back at him. Judi Monterey, Miss January 1963. The bubbles of her bath obscured the most provocative parts of this image pinned to the underside of his bunk bed. He’d gone to sleep for years looking at Miss January, but that was a faded memory, unlike the smiling face above him at that moment.
Harold sat up with a frightened start, ramming his head right into Judi’s tantalizing bathtub, and the top bunk of his undersized bunk bed. Immediate pain surged at his forehead. He would certainly have a goose egg above his left eye. Harold squinted at the bright light streaming in the half-closed curtains on his childhood room. The tree outside was frosted, a light snow having accumulated on its bare branches.
Harold stood, and noted with particular pleasure the absence of aches in his joints. He felt loose and nimble. For decades he had dreaded the alarm clock and the slow response his body had to any sort of morning activity, but today he felt fantastic. The radiating pain from his lower back down through his hip and left leg—his pesky Sciatica—was gone. His hearing was better too. He listened to the drip of the bathroom sink from across the house. He’d somehow been cured.
Is this what happens when you die? All the pain and ailments go away?
He jumped up and down on the floor. The only rattling and creaking came, not from his joints, but from the wood floors beneath his feet. He felt great, like he was 50 years younger. Like he could run a marathon, when just the day prior he had felt winded just lacing up his shoes. He felt the top of his head and found actual hair. Thick, wonderful hair! This was not the thin, silver comb-over he’d perfected to mask his male pattern baldness.
The oval mirror nailed to the wall confirmed he looked as good as he felt. No liver spots or puffy bags under his eyes. His face was smooth, with tight skin and colorful cheeks. Gone was the slight double chin and the shoulder stoop he’d gained from years on his feet at the inspection line at Ford.
He tried to guess his age, thinking of what he looked like in the black and white photographs he had saved in an old shoebox in the closet. To feel this good, he’d have to be in his teens. No question. But what year was it? Was he supposed to be in class at his high school right now? He didn’t want to waste a minute more in his room. He only had one day. He decided he wouldn’t go to school, even if his mom insisted. Why waste a day there?
Harold dressed as quickly as he could. He put on a pair of corduroy trousers and a yellow and brown checkered shirt that had likely been put out the night before by his mother.
Mom might be downstairs making pancakes for breakfast. She used to do that most weekdays in the winter. Gail will be in the kitchen, smothering her pancakes in syrup, before heading off to school. Seeing Gail again, after all these years. Simply amazing.
He finally noticed the source of the acidic smell he had awakened to. A puddle of glue had collected on his desk, under the partially open window. Harold recalled he used to leave the window open a crack so the glue from his plastic model cars and planes wouldn’t make him dizzy, but he rarely kept it open all night.
The glue, Revell Cement for Styrene Plastic, was in a blue, yellow and red tube next to his model car. Sitting on top of one of his mother’s favorite white placemats was a half-completed 1:25 scale model of a 1955 Chevy Bel Air Sedan. The same car his father drove. The engine was glued in place, as were the street rod wheels. The pool of glue had encircled the wheels of the little car. Other delicate parts and customized pieces lay scattered about the desk.
But something wasn’t right. His mom threw away the Bel Air model the day after he finished it. It was the day that Gail was killed in the bus accident.
#
Harold jerked open the door to his room, only to stop cold in the hallway. He was looking into Gail’s open room. After Gail died, mom wouldn’t allow anyone into Gail’s room. It sat untouched for years, exactly as it was the day she died. A red, braided rug covered most of the floor. In the center of the rug lay a worn pair of black Mary Jane shoes, with a single strap and silver buckle. Gail had argued with her mom that morning about wearing her favorite pair of shoes, but mom insisted because of the snow, she wear boots. Her shoes never left the rug.
On the nightstand were new, unread copies of Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Beverly Cleary’s The Mouse and the Motorcycle, and Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh. Her father was in the habit of buying her popular young adult books, even if they were too mature for a nine-year-old. The books would wait for her until she was ready to read them, he would say. She never got the chance.
A knot pulled tight inside Harold’s stomach. Why did he come back to today?
Harold raced downstairs to the kitchen, only to find it empty. A plate of cold pancakes and a glass of orange juice sat on the counter waiting for him. A handwritten note lay next to them.
Harold,
Don’t sleep in all day. I know you’re tired from your first semester at college, but please do not waste your entire time away sleeping in your room. I would like you to come down to Frankie’s Auto Shop this week. They could use a hand for the next few weeks, and you could use the money when you go back to Pullman for school. Promise me, OK? I’ll be at the church most of the day and dad’s working. You can stop by Frankie’s shop anytime. They’ll be expecting you. Oh, and Gail’s on that big end-of-year field trip, so dinner will be late tonight.
-Love you, Mom
Harold flushed with excitement and concern. Today was the day of the bus accident. A horrible day that he’d long tried to forget. Of all the days he could have been returned to, this day had not made his desired list. But now that he was in it, he knew exactly what he had to do.
Chapter 4
As Harold quickly put on his boots. He again marveled at how easy it was to lace up his own footwear. He dug into the recesses of his brain to remember every detail about the accident that killed his sister. He knew that Wallace T. Hopkins Elementary students would always take a field trip of some kind on the last day of school before winter break started. Students would look forward to their grade’s field trip for months as a reward for making it to the mid-point of the school year. When Harold attended the school, he recalled ice skating field trips or sledding at a closed golf course. But the traditional fourth-grade trip to Cider Farms on Heritage Bluff was, hands down, the most popular.
Cider Farms was an apple orchard, but in the winter the farm would take guests on sleigh rides i
n the snow around the bluff. It wasn’t exactly a sleigh since it had wheels. It was just a wagon, but the kids didn’t care. The two horses would be decked out in silver bells and evergreen garland. They would cram dozens of kids into the sleigh and wind them around to the North Pole (storage barn), where Santa (farm foreman) would read their names off a list. If they were good (they always were), they appeared on the Nice list.
Both buses of students made it to Cider Farms, and every child got to ride the sleigh and meet Santa. It was a lengthy process since they only had one sleigh and dozens of fourth graders needed to meet the big guy. The kids would wait inside the apple-processing barn, drinking warm cider or hot chocolate, until it was their turn to visit the North Pole.
The snow began in earnest mid-morning on the drive up the bluff, and no one could have predicted that by day’s end, nearly five inches of new snow would have fallen across the region, covering the steep and icy roads to Heritage Bluff. The two school bus drivers, Sam Harris and Elmore Walker, had reportedly conferred with each other before embarking on the trip home. Sam was worried about the road conditions and thought it best to wait for a plow, while Elmore just wanted to get home for dinner. The plow never materialized, so with two busloads of tired students and no other choice, they risked it.
Elmore Walker drove the first bus, and in his haste to get home for dinner, sailed his bus through a hairpin turn at an unreasonable rate of speed. He locked up the brakes, and the bus slid off the edge of the road, rolling several times down a cliff. Harold would surmise later, while working at Ford and studying the exact specifications of the bus and road conditions, that it wasn’t only operator error that caused the bus to slide. Sure, chains should have been affixed to the tires before the trip, but the braking system also wasn’t responsive in the snow, leaving the drivers little room for error.
Gail and seven other children died in the crash. Nearly every other child on the bus was treated at the hospital for various physical injuries. No one could measure the mental toll such an accident would have on the children, either. Several students chose to never return to Hopkins Elementary, hoping for a fresh start at another school. Winter field trips were banned. The bus drivers were fired and lucky to avoid being arrested.
The impact on Harold’s family was deep. His parents stayed together, but never recovered emotionally from the tragedy. An icy gap developed between them. They tried a traditional Christmas that year, but Gail’s gifts were already under the tree, and no one could bring themselves to remove them.
Every year the holidays were a standing reminder of her death, and all that could have been. Eventually Harold stopped staying at their home during winter break from college. It was just better that way. The holidays were the worst of times for the family. He instead stayed in a guest room at Ruth’s parents’ house on the South Hill.
He thought of Ruth in her nurse’s uniform. Young, beautiful, and full of life. He longed to see her, but knew there would be time. He needed to find Gail first. She was the priority.
Chapter 5
A mix of eagerness and fear rushed over Harold as he grabbed his winter coat from the rack by the front door and bounded down the front steps. Snow was already falling as he ran across Corbin Park, down three blocks to Wallace T. Hopkins Elementary School.
This will be simple, he thought. All he needed to do was stop the field trip from ever happening. If the bus never goes up the bluff, it can’t possibly crash on the way back down. Easy. As he turned the corner, he could see 13 buses lined up and idling in a turnout next to the school. Over the rumble of the diesel engines, he could hear the muffled sounds of excited children waiting to depart for their designated field trip. The entire student body was inside these buses.
But which was Gail’s bus?
The cold outside air mixed with the warm humidity inside caused most of the bus windows to fog over. Several children had wiped the windows clear, or made smiley faces in the moisture. The snow was falling heavier now, making it even more difficult to see Gail, especially if she was snug in her seat, waiting for a trip to the bluff.
Harold raced to the closest bus at the back of the line. He pounded on the door. A startled driver pulled the crank, and the doors hinged outward.
“Is this the fourth-grade bus, going to Cedar Farms?” Harold asked.
“Sorry, son, we’re headed up the road to the Broadview Dairy on Washington. Going to show these kiddies how they bottle the milk there,” he said.
“Do you know which bus is going to Cedar Farms?” Harold asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t…”
Harold didn’t wait for any further explanation. The bus at the front of the line had just pulled out of the parking lot. Harold prayed it wasn’t Gail’s bus. He sprinted down the snow-covered walkway and reached the bus at the front of the line just as it was exiting the lot. He pounded on the door.
“What’n Sam Hell are you doing,” the driver demanded. “I almost ran over you.”
“Is this the bus going to Cedar Farms?” Harold asked, breathlessly.
“Kid, get out of here,” the driver said, wrenching the door closed and pulling away.
The next bus didn’t wait for him as he banged on the door.
As he tried to flag down the next bus, he could see someone waving out of an open window several buses down. Losing his footing, he slipped in the snow and the bus line kept moving. They wouldn’t stop for him anymore. His coat and pants were soaked, and now his hip was aching from the fall.
The waving hand out the window was getting closer. Gray peacoat, blue mittens. It was Gail, even after all these years. He had no doubt.
“Harold, what are you doing here?” she called out the moving bus window. Her voice was young and beautiful and so innocent. “We’re going on a field trip!”
Harold’s heart was beating out of his chest with an excitement he hadn’t felt in decades. Despite all the years, his memories of Gail had never faded. Frozen in time. Her tight blonde curls framed her narrow face. A face that wouldn’t age, but only exist in the memories of those who knew her.
Gail used to build things with wooden blocks for hours on end. Most little girls her age would play with dolls or play house, but Gail would build arches and towers over a toy railroad track. This was always a source of frustration between her parents. Her mother said it was inappropriate to be a tomboy, while her father supported the effort and saw how her young mind was using math to create sturdy structures. If she wasn’t building, she was reading one of the many books in her room, or writing in her cherished diary. Harold’s memories boxed her into a place and time. He could see her sitting on that red carpet in her room and remembered hearing her play alone while he stayed in his own room building model airplanes or cars.
Oh, how he regretted not spending more time with her, never knowing their time was so limited. Today was his chance to fix it.
“Gail, the bus is going to crash,” Harold shouted. “You need to get off the bus!”
“What?” she asked, as the bus picked up speed to exit the parking lot.
He was waving his arms and running after the bus, trying to get the attention of the driver. It was no use. The only attention he attracted was Principal Monroe, who blocked his path.
“Son, I don’t know what sort of monkey business you’re doing here, but…”
Harold pushed his way by Principal Monroe and sprinted after the bus.
“Gail, get off the bus!” he shouted.
“What? Bye, Harold! We’re going on a field trip! See you at dinner!” Her voice was distant as the bus rounded the corner. She waved and then was gone.
Harold’s knees felt weak and his body tingled. Something was changing in the past.
Two buses crash into each other, heading back from a school field trip. Both buses tumble down a snowy, ice-covered road on Heritage Bluff. The students yell a chant at the bus drivers, “The bus is going to crash! The bus is going to crash! The bus is going to crash! They were copy
ing what Harold had said. Eleven children are killed. Harold’s parents are at the hospital. Gail is gone.
Harold’s head was spinning. Two buses? No. The second bus saw the first bus roll over the edge and safely slowed down. It never crashed. Eleven children killed? That’s not possible. Harold had made it worse, by just showing up at the school? How? The new memories flood to Harold.
At the hospital Harold is told the children yelled and cried in fear after Harold had chased after the bus, telling them to get off, because the bus would crash. Gail was teased for her crazy brother. They told everyone that she was on Santa’s Naughty list.
Harold thought back to what he was told before he agreed to come back to this day. Everything you change will stay that way forever. Harold not only failed to stop the accident, he had just killed three more children. Why in the world would he be brought back here, but allowed to damage the past? He couldn’t let it go. He had to keep trying.
Chapter 6
Harold tried to explain to Principal Monroe that the bus would crash on the way back from the field trip, but the principal just mumbled something about teenagers smoking grass and bringing shame to their country. He just assumed Harold’s frantic behavior resulted from some sort of mood-altering drug.
No wonder we rebelled against authority in the 60s.
“Why don’t you come inside? I’ll call your parents. You’re the Emery boy, right?” Principal Monroe said. “They can get you the help you need. Admitting you have a problem is the first step.”
Harold looked at the principal like he was a genius and sprinted out of the parking lot in the direction of the high school. No, he wasn’t on drugs, but going to see his parents, specifically his father, was exactly what he needed to do.