West

by Michele G Miller

  “Yeah, ready to get out of here though.” His eyes move to Jules who is snuggled close to me. “She’s been out of it for a while now, Dad. We need to get her checked out.”

  “Almost there,” he assures me as his face moves out of view.

  The rescue team pulls a few more pieces of wreckage away from us, then we’re free. Our hours in this coffin come to an end as they pry an unconscious Jules from my arms. There’s a whirlwind of activity now. They place Jules on a backboard, a precaution, Dad assures me as I watch them lift her from the basement.

  Our friends—Mark, Ruben, and the others—have already left the site, taken to whatever shelter authorities have set up. I climb out of the basement on my own, swearing I’m fine and not in immediate need of medical care.

  I emerge to a sight I will never be able to erase. Grier field is dotted with torn trees, cars, and other objects. Red and blue lights flash everywhere. Teams of people scour the field for survivors, flashlights lighting their way through the black field. Rescue dogs bark as their handlers follow behind them. It’s a disaster scene resembling those I’d only ever seen in a movie or on the news, and it’s here in the town where I’ve lived my entire life.

  Shoving my hands into my matted hair, I breathe in the fresh air and look up at the stars I thought I might never see again.

  “West.” My dad grasps my shoulder as he pulls me roughly into his side.

  I haven’t hugged my father since Mom’s death. Not this way. Not like a small boy who’s just woken from a nightmare. I hold onto him as though I never want to let go. Because, honestly, I don’t.

  “Where’s Jules?” I ask with my face buried in his shoulder.

  “They’re loading her in an ambulance.”

  “I want to go with her. Will they let me?”

  “There’s no room; they have other injured kids with them. They’re about to go.”

  From the moment the warning sirens sounded I’ve been on a roller coaster. My thoughts are all over the place and I have no idea what’s up or down. I can’t think straight, but I know I can’t let her go without me. She’s my one grounding force on this ride. We may be out of the wreckage, but our ordeal is far from over.

  “Go? Dad, no. We have to go with them. I need to stay with her. I need to know she’s alright” I argue, pushing out of his embrace when I spot a fireman slamming the doors to an ambulance shut.

  “West, she’ll be fine. Let’s get you home and—” My eyes lift to his and he stops speaking. I don’t know what he sees, but whatever anxiety I’m dealing with must be written all over my face.

  He frowns at the ambulance before he nods. “Okay. We can follow them in the truck.”

  He plies me with question after question on how I’m feeling on the ride over.

  “How’s your head? You didn’t hit it, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Your breathing sounds shallow. Did anything hit your chest? Are you having trouble breathing?”

  “No.”

  He must realize all he’s getting from me right now are one syllable answers, so he stops asking. We listen to an emergency radio broadcast giving details of the storm. They mention names of landmarks—a street, the high school, a restaurant—that have damage or destroyed, and I hear something about the storm radius, but my brain is too numb to process anything. My eyes focus on the silent, red lights swirling ahead of us and the silhouettes moving around in the back window. In my lap, my fists clench and unclench as I wait to reunite with Jules again.

  By the time we arrive at the hospital, find parking, and walk through the Emergency Room entrance, we’ve already lost sight of Jules. An emergency protocol is in place; the entire floor is set up for triage, and after looking at my shoulder wound once more, my dad insists on me getting medical attention. I relent, only after he promises me he’ll locate Jules and stay with her until I’m taken care of. I join the others waiting to be seen with three words repeating in my head over and over. She needs me. My chest physically hurts at the thought of Jules waking up expecting me to be next to her.

  “You’re good to go.” My nurse pushes her rolling stool away from me as she returns my soot and blood covered shirt. Her hair is pulled up in a haphazard ponytail, her eyes weary as though she’s seen too much tonight.

  “Thanks.” I tug the shirt over my head, flinching at the tightness in my shoulder blade from the liquid glue she used to close the wound caused by a falling nail-covered two by four.

  Her reply is a worn out smile as she moves to the next patient. The hospital is full of people waiting to be seen by her, and others. Head wounds, gashes in legs, dangling arms. There’s blood and ruin everywhere. I don’t have a particularly weak stomach, but I have to suck in a deep breath to curb my dizziness at seeing this much physical destruction in one place. This hospital is a war zone. Much as Grier field was.

  I leave triage and make my way through the waiting area. My eyes bounce around the room, touching on the stricken faces. A dark head nods as I pass by someone from school, but I can’t recall his name. He’s holding his arm close to his body, and a second glance reveals his shoulder isn’t where it should be. Bowing my head, I rush by, heading toward the last place I saw my dad. There’s a semi-circle of curtained-off beds before me with a nurses’ station in the center. The desk is three deep with people asking for help finding loved ones, but waiting isn’t my strong suit.

  “Dad?” I call out once, then once more, louder.

  A hand pokes out of a curtain, then an arm, as my father’s voice reaches me. “Over here, son.”

  Weaving through the crowd, I duck behind the curtain. “This place is crazy. Did you find—” my voice cuts off as a pair of baby blues stare at me, “—Jules.”

  “Hi,” she sniffs, wiping tears from her face with her palms.

  Shit. Heat rushes up my body as my eyes water. Shit. I have no idea how to contain the emotions coursing through my veins. I might as well be a twelve-year-old boy going through puberty all over again with the way I’m reacting at the sight of her. My thoughts go haywire. What have you done to me, Jules Blacklin?

  Thankfully, I’m spared the need to speak by the arrival of a doctor.

  “How are we doing here?” she asks with a bright smile. “I’m Dr. Metzger. I examined you when you were brought in. How are you feeling, Jules?”

  Jules captures her upper lip between her teeth as her eyes flit around the small space between Dr. Metzger, my father, and me. “I guess all right. Um, my vision’s a little blurry and my head hurts.”

  “Yes, that’s to be expected. You have a concussion, so you’re going to have problems with feeling dizzy, as well as spotty vision for a week or so. The good thing is you will heal, and you’ll be okay. You’re very lucky. From what I hear, you were buried under a lot of rubble.” Dr. Metzger looks my way, as though to confirm the story.

  “Doctor?” Jules’ voice is uncertain. Her hair, tangled and speckled with debris, falls across her face, and my fingers itch to push it away. “Um, I can’t remember any of it. Is that normal with concussions?”

  Can’t remember any of it? Of what? Tonight? I draw a long breath. My father’s arm drapes around my shoulders, his hand giving me a reassuring squeeze as I attempt to understand what Jules is saying.

  The question doesn’t faze the doctor. She pulls out a pocket light and moves to examine Jules. “Can’t remember, huh? Okay, tell me what you recall last?”

  “The last thing I recall is West,” Jules sends me a small grin as she meets my eyes, “pushing me down and dropping on top of me as the house started to fall. It’s all a blur from there. I remember my friends, and screaming, and I heard a siren and voices yelling, but nothing is clear.”

  Dr. Metzger flashes the light in Jules’ eyes before picking up the chart on the end of her bed. She jots down some notes then looks at my dad. “Are her parents here?”

  He shakes his head. “They’re not here yet. I don’t know if they’ve been contacted. The line
s are down.”

  Jules’ bottom lip quivers. She inhales. “Where did the tornado hit? What’s going on out there?” she asks, covering her mouth.

  I hurry to her side, then pause. My body is primed for pulling her into my arms, but my brain isn’t so sure anymore. We’re no longer trapped. The intimacy of holding her hand, of her body pressed against mine, is no longer appropriate. I stuff my hands deep into my pockets as I look at her small frame lying in a hospital bed and attempt to console her.

  “Hey—don’t do that, Jules. Don’t freak out before you know anything. Don’t worry; we’ll see if we can get to your parents.” I turn to my father; certain he can help. “Dad?”

  Dr. Metzger issues her orders before he can reply. “I’d like you to stay for a while longer, Jules. Just to observe you since you were in and out of consciousness for so long. As for your lack of memory, let’s try to stay calm and not worry too much right now. Amnesia is common with concussions. Sometimes people forget a few hours, and sometimes they lose a whole day. Usually the memories come back after a few days, at the most.” Jules nods. The good doctor switches her attention to my father and I. “As for you two, I would suggest you stay off the roads and let the emergency crews do their jobs. We’ll take care of Ms. Blacklin until her family can get here.”

  She’s giving us the okay to go. I should be grateful, but I don’t want to leave. I can’t. Not yet. I stare at a streak of dirt on Jules’ upper arm as Dr. Metzger and my father exchange words before she leaves, but I hear none of it. Kicking at the leg of a bedside chair, I tug it closer with the toe of my boot before lowering my body into it, all the while my eyes remain pinned on Jules’ arm.

  “How about I grab something hot for us to drink? West, how’s your back, son?”

  It takes me a moment to process what’s happening around me. My dad said my name. What? Oh, my back.

  “It’s fine. They used that liquid glue like they said they would,” I assure him as I look at Jules. “Coffee would be great right now. Jules?”

  “Hmmm?” She’s as lost as I am right now.

  “My dad is going to get some coffee. Do you want some?” I repeat.

  Jules frowns, her nose scrunching up in distaste, but she nods anyway. My father excuses himself, closing the curtain behind him. Once he’s gone, Jules’ shadowed eyes roam over me, searching for something. Something more than the physical sight of me. She’s looking past me—through me—and I recognize she’s not all here. A part of both of us is still partially buried beneath the rubble. I can feel it—the strange absence of something within me.

  “What’s wrong with your back?” Jules’ eyes scan over my torso. “Did you get hurt?”

  The worry in her voice shakes the darker thoughts, the weakness, from my mind. “Oh, it’s nothing. I guess something took a nice slice out of it, but they glued me back up and I’ll be fine. They did have to give me a mammoth tetanus shot, though.” I hold my hands wide in exaggeration. “I swear that hurt like a mother.” She shivers.

  “I hate needles. Be glad you didn’t need stitches,” Jules points out, her face morphs into a look of mock horror. She’s rallying, making light of an anything but light situation, and I admire her for it.

  “Your dad seems nice.”

  “Yeah. You know he’s my dad and all, but he’s cool,” I admit.

  Her pale, dirt streaked face alters before my eyes. The joking act is exactly that—an act. It’s as though the blinds closed and now she can let everything out while she’s alone inside her head. The tip of her nose tints red as her eyes fill with tears. This time I don’t stop myself. My hand bridges the gap between us and I touch her arm as I lean forward in my seat.

  “Please don’t cry. I hate it.”

  “Your dad kinda freaked out when I started to cry on him. He must hate it, too.”

  She has no idea. “It’s been five years since my mom died. We’ve been a house full of guys and guy things. So yeah, he’s not good with emotions.”

  “And you?” she asks quietly.

  “I just don’t want to see you cry.” The question makes me uncomfortable. I smooth my finger over my brow nervously.

  Jules shivers, goose bumps covering her skin beneath my hand. The hospital air is thick with humidity and the scent of medicine and chaos, but she’s clearly chilled in her tiny cheerleading uniform. Swiping at her face, she leans forward, tugging at the hospital blanket covering her lower legs. Standing, I help her. I tuck the white material around her shoulders while she settles back and rolls to her side facing me. I return to my seat next to her bedside, leaning forward over the bed and resting my arms on the bedrail. I have to clasp my hands together to keep from reaching for her. It’s torture. I want to hold her hand again.

  “Does that thing move?” Jules’ hand slips out from under the blanket and points to the metal rail.

  “Uh, I would think so.” I jiggle the railing, searching around for a lever to remove it. There’s a button on the side and I press it, sliding the rail out of the way. Without the rail to lean on, I tuck my hands under my arms across my chest, leaning back in the chair as Jules gives me a smile.

  “Thank you. Do you know what’s going on outside? What condition the town is in?”

  “My dad said from what he could tell, the twister went straight through town. Apparently where we were, at the Shack, that might have been its last direct hit. It’s still chaos out there, though.”

  Her face loses what little color it had. Voices erupt on the opposite side of her curtained room and I rush to cover the sounds of panic to ease the alarm on Jules’ face.

  “Oh, I didn’t tell you. We were rescued by Rossview EMS and Fire. They were closer to us obviously, so that’s why we’re here instead of at Memorial.”

  Her eyes roll around the area as she shrugs. “I didn’t think about it. I’ve never been to Memorial, either. So they’re bringing a lot of injured here?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure they’re bringing people wherever is fastest. It’s bad out there.”

  Idiot. I stop myself from saying anything else damning and study her instead. There’s something so incredibly tiny about her as she lays here. She picks at the blanket, her fingernails black with debris. Uncrossing my arms, I look at my own hands. They wear the markings of our night as well. I rub them against my jeans in vain. As though ridding myself of the grime will rid me of the memories.

  Jules stills and focuses on the ceiling. Air rasps in her throat as she breathes deeply, and I join in.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . deep breaths.

  “Hey, West? Do you pray? Like, to anyone or anything. I’m not saying it has to be God, but—”

  “I have been tonight.” I cover her hand with my own as moisture collects in the corners of my eyes.

  Stretching nearer to the bed, I rest my arms across the top as Jules laces her fingers through mine and shifts closer. Once our faces are inches apart, she closes her eyes. I don’t pray often. Since my mother’s death, talk of God and prayer are far and few between in our house. It’s not that we—my father, brothers, and I—are mad at God. We simply didn’t understand, and we sort of fell away from religion. But now, sitting here with Jules, after having my life—and hers—spared, I wonder if prayer could be the answer. My mother believed strongly in her faith. She was the one who made us give blessings at meals and dragged us to church when Dad was out of town playing ball on Sundays.

  Tonight, I return to prayer. I pray for Jules’ family, for our friends, and for the town of Tyler. It’s awkward hunched over this hospital bed praying silently when, all around us, people are talking and machines are clicking and beeping. Yet when Jules’ grip loosens as she attempts to pull her hand from mine, I squeeze tight not willing to let her go. I’m not willing to lose this moment between us yet.

  “I brought you hot chocolate. I hope that’s alright. I saw the face you made when West mentioned coffee,” my father offers softly, interrupting my silent vigil. My eyes snap ope
n and I find Jules’ tear-streaked face watching me. She’s back into her former position, sitting up, but I have a feeling she was studying me as I prayed.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Rutledge,” Jules says, wrapping a free hand around the cup my dad sets on the dinner tray to her right. He hands a brown cup to me as well, and something about the way he looks at me brings me to attention. I sit straight, dropping Jules’ hand, and wait for whatever news he has.

  “So listen, they’re bringing in a lot of injured people. I ran into Chris out there and he said they could use help doing search and rescue. Since I have a four-wheel drive truck, I can get over debris.”

  I nod, of course he would want to help. That’s always been his nature—something he’s passed down to my brothers and I—similar to his love of football.

  “Go then, if you can help others. Do you mind if I stay here? I’ll—” I look to Jules for permission. “I mean, do you mind if I stay with you?”

  She shakes her head, giving me a smile that clearly says I’m ridiculous for feeling the need to ask. “Of course not.”

  “I’ll stay here. Then you don’t have to worry about me.”

  I wonder if I’m being selfish, not going out and helping people in whatever way I can, then I look at Jules as she sips her hot chocolate, and I look down at myself, covered in debris and blood. I’m exhausted, both physically and mentally, and can’t imagine seeing further destruction tonight.

  “I think that’s a great idea, son. Try to get a hold of your brothers if you can. They said the lines here are going in and out due to so much traffic right now.” I nod, thinking of Austin and Carson. Surely they’re completely out of their minds right now wondering if we’re okay.

  Dad asks Jules for her address, promising to see if he can get in contact with her parents, and Jules breaks down as she thanks him. Using the back of her hand to brush the tears from her cheeks, she mutters, “I swear I only cry like this at chick movies.”