by Gregg Olsen
With a cooking show playing in the background, she went onto the search engine and put in the words: Port Gamble + Daisy + Crash.
The host was talking about ways to cut calories out of her “nice spice” Indian cuisine, but as a former fatty, Moira wanted to fantasize about the real thing. Bring on the fat! She guzzled her sparkling water and looked longingly at a bottle of red wine.
Seventeen articles popped up. She clicked on the first one that had appeared on the Kitsap Sun site.
HOOD CANAL BRIDGE CRASH KILLS FIVE
A Port Gamble school bus being used by a Girl Scout Daisy Troop for an ill-fated picnic at Indian Island careened over the Hood Canal Bridge yesterday afternoon, killing the driver and four girls, ages 5-7. Three children and an adult were airlifted to area hospitals.
Motorists on the scene indicated that the draw span had been retracted when the bus crashed in heavy rain and wind. State engineers say retracting the span is done to relieve pressure on the bridge.
“They were right in front of me,” said Cindy Johnston of Bainbridge Island. “I was following them pretty closely because I could barely see. The rain was coming down so hard. In one second, the bus just disappeared.”
Sustained winds of 50 mph, with gusts of 65 mph, were reported in the region by the National Weather Service.
The Washington State Department of Transportation and the State Patrol are investigating.
MOIRA KNEW THAT THE CRASH had killed several people, but she thought it was only two. Four plus the bus driver … it was beyond tragic. She tried to process the depth of that kind of loss on a small town like Port Gamble. It had to have touched almost everyone who lived there.
She read the next article, which indicated that two children were recovered from the water as well as one child and an adult who’d been thrown from the bus to the bridge deck. The article also went on to say that the recovery of the North Kitsap School District’s short bus and the bodies would likely take several days as the depth of the water was three hundred feet or more.
She clicked on another article, one from the Daily Olympian.
ELECTRICAL FAILURE LED TO
FATAL HOOD CANAL CRASH
A spokesman for the Washington State Department of Transportation said today that the school bus crash killing five was a “tragic combination of the weather and an electrical fault that caused the span to open.”
It had not been opened by the bridge tender, as previously reported.
Among the dead were Christina Lee, 7; Sarah Benton, 6; Violet Caswell, 5; and Emma Perkins, also 5. Also killed was bus driver Margie Jones, 29. Jones, according to the North Kitsap School District records office, was an exemplary employee. She was completing her master’s degree in education and was working as an activity bus driver. She’d planned to teach next fall.
“She wanted nothing more than to do something for kids,” said Barry Jones, her husband of five years.
Three of the survivors remain hospitalized. One, a 30-yearold Port Gamble woman, has been released.
Moira activated a few more links, some showing photographs of a barge transporting an enormous crane to the crash site, another as it raised the short bus out of the water, and finally a close-up of an exhausted pair of state divers standing at the rail. Their haunted eyes and grim expressions said more than anything a reporter could write.
Another article highlighted the joint memorial service held at Port Gamble’s church.
She recognized Kevin Ryan in one of the photos.
Finally, she thought, as her eyes scanned the computer screen and the next article. The names of the survivors.
VICTIMS’ NAMES RELEASED,
TWO IN COMA
The names of the survivors of the Hood Canal Bridge bus accident were released this afternoon. Sandra Berkley, 30, and her daughter, Katelyn, 5, were thrown from the bus as it went off the bridge. Ms. Berkley suffered cracked ribs and abrasions. She and her daughter were treated and released from Harrison Medical Center, Bremerton.
The two other victims, 5-year-old twin girls Hayley and Taylor Ryan, remain hospitalized. Their parents issued a statement yesterday.
“Our daughters are fighters. Please keep them in your prayers. Believe in miracles.”
The parents indicated that the girls are still in a coma. Visibly shaken, Adam Larsen, 34, spoke to reporters outside his home in historic Port Gamble.
“We are grieving for the families who have lost their children and for the bus driver’s family too. This touches all of us here. I doubt many of us will ever get over it.”
Larsen’s daughter, Starla, also 5, was a member of the Daisy troop. She, however, did not go on the outing due to minor illness.
The last site Moira visited was one called Kitsap Kalamities, a forum devoted to—as its banner indicated—“happenings of the rotten kind, right here in our own twisted backyard.”
There was nothing really new on the site. In fact, after skimming it, it was apparent that all of the content had been copied and pasted from other websites. Moira sniffed at that. It was the fate of journalism today. Why do any legwork when you can just cut and paste? Not her. Not Moira. She was going to do whatever it took to create something original. Notice-worthy. Star-making. And if her tip paid off, the Ryan girls were going to get her just where she needed to be.
Kitsap Kalamities was created by someone named Maxi Taxi using a Word Press blog. Moira clicked on the comments field and scrolled through the missives people posted, mostly of the “that sucks” or “your blog is Maxi Stupid” ilk. A few were more thoughtful.
One was very, very intriguing.
Scary? Different? Babies? Moira looked at the name of the online commenter. Sweet Data File 31. She typed it into Google, figuring that whoever used that handle had done so on more than one blog. Finding a person on the Internet was no different than going door to door asking for one little piece of information at a time. She likened it to digital legwork. One thing always led to another.
Moira sipped the dregs of her sparkling water and twisted the top of its understudy. She tipped it back and drank while her eyes studied the results of her search.
Sweet Data File 31 also posted on “More Than Words,” a site about slanguage and how words are evolving faster than ever.
Comments were closed on that site, so Moira moved on.
As the hands on the clock whirred around on her computer, which searched for more Sweet Data File 31 entries, the thought filled Moira’s brain: What’s scary? Does it have to do with something I have been leaked?
A farm-to-table site popped up, and its feature article, “Our Valley Is Green,” was local, from the Kitsap Peninsula.
Moira thought about it a moment and then posted a follow-up comment on the same thread.
She added her e-mail address and waited. She figured anyone lonely or self-righteous enough to post a comment like Sweet Data did would answer her comment. People like that always wanted to be in the paper. It was only a matter of time.
She looked over at the TV and saw that the chef was making some deep-fried apple dumplings. They looked so good she could feel her stomach trying to eat itself. She got up, went to the freezer, pulled out two Lean Cuisines (Butternut Squash Ravioli and Apple Cranberry Chicken), and headed for her aunt’s obnoxiously large microwave.
Next, she looked up Sandra Berkley’s number. She’d waited long enough to make the call. With the microwave beeping that her meal was ready, Moira quickly left a voice-mail message.
“Mrs. Berkley, Moira Windsor calling from the Herald. I’m a friend of Kevin Ryan’s and I’m working on a feature story about the ten-year anniversary of the Hood Canal crash and its aftermath. Of course, my heart goes out to you because of your recent loss. I’d like to talk to you for my story.”
Satisfied that she’d sounded kind, authentic, and deeply concerned, she ended the call with her phone number.
I was made for this job, she thought as she pierced a piping hot piece of cranberry chick
en with a fork. Just made for it.
chapter 37
SANDRA BERKLEY HAD TAKEN HER LAST DRINK. There was no point in it anymore. She went around the house and collected the partial-empties from their assorted hiding places. She recovered a bottle of vodka from under a stack of old towels on the bottom shelf of the linen closet. She found two—rum and whisky—in the pantry behind the basmati rice bag that she’d purchased in bulk and doubted she’d ever use up.
There were six bottles in total, and she took them to the sink and poured out the remnants of each one until nothing remained.
Katelyn was gone. Harper was next door at the restaurant. She sat down and wrote out a letter. It was something that she’d wanted to do for almost ten years.
I want you to know that I’m so sorry … please forgive me …
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she finished and signed her name. She folded the slip of paper and put it into an envelope.
IT WAS AFTER SIX THIRTY WHEN KIM LEE finished her work in the mill office and began her precise and ritualistic practice of tidying up her desk. That was just how she was. Always the same, every day. Kim kept most things in order. As an accountant, that pretty much was her job. She closed her drawers, turned the locks, and got up to leave. In doing so, she noticed a small envelope in her in-basket. It had been addressed to her, care of the mill.
She used the letter opener that Beth had made in middle school, a red Plexiglas shark with a menacing jaw that cut through paper like a razor.
Kim started reading, and before she was finished, she was on her way out the door. Beth always complained that her mother was a slowpoke. If she’d seen her right then, she’d never dare to make that claim again. Kim’s winter coat was left in the employee break room, but despite the cold wind off the water she didn’t even notice. Four minutes later, she was pounding on her neighbor’s front door.
“Open up!” Kim cried. “Please!”
No answer.
Kim went around the house, looking into the windows. The lights were on, but she couldn’t see anyone home, yet she was sure Sandra had to be there or at the restaurant. Sandra’s car was parked in back.
“Please! We need to talk!” Kim called out as she pounded her fist on the back door.
Footsteps! Good. Sandra hadn’t done anything stupid. At least, not yet.
Finally, the door opened. Sandra Berkley stood in the doorway, her eyes outlined in red and her face blotchy. Her hands trembled as she let Kim Lee inside. She didn’t say a word at first. Instantly, she started sobbing—uncontrollably so.
“Sit down, Sandra,” said Kim, who was crying now too.
“I’m sorry,” Sandra said, “I couldn’t live with it any longer. I’ve never forgotten the screams.”
“I know,” Kim said, her own eyes welling with tears. “We all know.”
“I heard Christina cry out for me as the bus started to sink. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You were in shock.”
Sandra fought for some composure, but it was a losing battle. “I didn’t even try. I just …”
“No one blames you,” Kim said.
“I blame myself. I know what I did and didn’t do. I know how I felt after.”
Kim wrapped her arms around Sandra’s shoulders as she tried to console her. The sobs came in waves. Sandra tried to speak in the breaks between her tears.
“I was glad, Kim,” she said. “I was glad that Katelyn survived. I stood there listening to the screams, knowing that I had my daughter and that she was hurt but she was alive. She was going to live. And for what? She’s gone now too.”
“You’ve suffered so much, then and now,” Kim said.
Sandra stopped long enough to lock her crying eyes on Kim’s. “Forgive me, Kim.”
Kim Lee shook her head. “No, no forgiveness is needed. You did all that you could.”
“Did I? Really, Kim? Really?”
“I’m sure you did. No one knows how they will react in a moment like what happened on that bridge. No one. You did the best you could in a terrifying time.”
“I don’t know,” Sandra said, looking for something that maybe Kim could finally give her.
“I know you did,” Kim said.
The women talked a while longer. They cried; they hugged. Kim didn’t tell Sandra that she had questioned why Katelyn had been spared, when Christina was taken. And even so, in that very moment in the Berkleys’ house, no two women were ever closer, a bond so deep, borne of such tragedy.
The Port Gamble gossip line, thought by many to be sublimely accurate, had failed miserably when it came to the true trouble reverberating in house number 23. The Berkleys’ rows were not about a marriage crumbling because Sandra was drinking. It wasn’t about a restaurant failing, or settlement money that had been squandered. It was a marriage falling apart because Sandra Berkley could not face what had really happened on the Hood Canal Bridge and the shame and misplaced guilt that came with it. Booze had been her medication. Anger had been her weapon against a husband who had wanted to help her work through her guilt.
After she was sure Sandra was going to be all right, Kim Lee left for home, shaken and relieved by the meeting. She composed herself before ducking inside. Beth was watching TV, texting, drinking a sugar-free Red Bull, and reading a book.
“You look completely trashed,” Beth said, glancing at her mother. “What did they make you do now? Re-add everything five minutes before shift change? Your job so sucks.”
Kim had hoped the short walk in the night air would take some of the puffiness from her eyes.
“Nothing ever adds up,” she said, going into the kitchen. “Pizza tonight?”
Beth looked back down at her phone. “All right. I’ll call it in. You always get thick crust because you think it’s a better value because it weighs more. I like thin crust.”
“Fine,” Kim said, heading into the kitchen. She braced herself on the counter a little and steadied herself by taking in a deep breath. She unfolded the letter and read it one more time. After seeing Sandra, it no longer seemed like a suicide note.
I want you to know I’m so sorry that I didn’t save your daughter or the other girls. Sometimes, I wish I could go back to that day and do it all over. I’d do things differently. Please forgive me. I don’t know how much longer I can live with what I did.
Sandra
Kim shredded the note and stuffed it down the garbage disposal. She turned on the water and, as the noisy contraption did its thing, she wondered if it was worse to lose a child or live with the guilt that yours had survived. She was glad that she never had to face that. Sandra’s cross to bear weighed a million pounds.
Later, after a couple of slices of thin-crust pizza and some distracted conversation between mother and daughter, Beth excused herself to her bedroom and texted Hayley and Taylor.
BETH: MOM IS STRNGR THAN NORMAL 2NITE. BOSS PROB YELLED @ HER. WISH I HAD HER PROBS. HER LIFE IS SO EZ.
HAYLEY: TELL ME ABOUT IT. THEY KEEP SAYING THAT THINGS R HARDER IN THE ‘REAL WORLD’ BUT THEY HAVE NO IDEA HOW F’ED UP IT IS @ KINGSTON.
TAYLOR: DEF THE WORST.
As Kim Lee placed her head on the pillow, she was transported back to that day almost ten years ago, standing on the Hood Canal Bridge as the sirens wailed and all the mothers cried. Seeing Sandra hadn’t brought it all back, because it had never really left her. She, like all the other moms, hated that damn bridge. Just hated it.
chapter 38
SOME BRIDGES, LIKE THE NEARBY TACOMA NARROWS or its far sexier cousin, the Golden Gate in San Francisco, are a marvel for their stunning beauty, arching over dangerous waters or defying gravity as they connect two high points over a deep chasm.
The Hood Canal Bridge is a marvel too, though not for how it looks. It literally floats atop the water for which it is named as it carries Washington State Route 104 across Hood Canal and connects the Olympic and Kitsap peninsulas. At the time of its construction in 1961, depths of mo
re than three hundred feet made it impossible for a suspension bridge to be built there. So it floats. Concrete pontoons hold up the roadway just above water level.
Fifteen thousand cars cross it every day, its drivers and passengers thinking nothing more than how beautiful the Olympic Mountains are, with the eagles soaring overhead, and the occasional submarine cruising for the navy base in Bangor.
A few families cross the bridge and remember the darkest days of their lives. The Ryan family was one of those. Valerie Ryan in particular couldn’t stand driving over the span. It was the primary reason why she went back to school to complete her psychiatric nursing degree. All of those jobs were on the Seattle side of the bridge. She didn’t want to find herself crossing Hood Canal for the mundane reason that her job was there.
The girls knew about the accident, of course, but traversing the bridge on those rare trips to Port Townsend or Port Angeles brought the occasional questions about what happened that rainy, windy March 21 years ago. For some reason, the girls sought clarity of only one detail—not of what happened but of exactly where it had been.
Taylor, in particular, seemed to hone in on the spot where the draw span connected with the main bridge deck.
“It was here,” she said when she was seven and they were heading home from a visit in Port Townsend.
“Somewhere around here, yes,” Valerie had said.
“No,” Taylor said, “it was right here.”
Hayley looked at the water. It was glass that late afternoon.
“She’s right, Mom. Right at that spot where those birds are floating. That’s where it happened.”
Valerie glanced in the direction of gulls bobbing on the surface as their car sped past. She didn’t like to think about it at all. She wanted everyone to just forget it.
“I don’t remember,” she lied. “But yes, right around here.”