He worried continually about his family, but never allowed himself to believe they were actually safe, despite Nathan’s words of assurance. He would get home as quickly as possible and see for himself. If only the workload would lessen.
Everett’s gaze rested on the buildings up and down the now-unfamiliar stretch of land that had once been The Strand. Buildings once grand and formal stood twisted and torn, windows shattered, roofs missing. Remarkably, The Courier building had fared better – far better – than most. For that, he was truly grateful.
He decided to check on the others inside. Thankfully, many of his workers had returned as the day wore on. Each entered with a remarkable tale of narrow escape – giving him more stories to write. They trembled with a mixture of fear and excitement as they relayed tales of nights spent in trees, on housetops and floating along at the water’s discretion.
Everett did not take any of their stories – or their lives, for that matter – lightly. He typed furiously as he pieced together the lead story for tomorrow morning’s paper. Downstairs, men worked to prepare the presses. Now that the waters had subsided, the possibility of going to print seemed more realistic.
And as for the headlines—for once, there was no need for yellow journalism. Any headline he could come up with would be inadequate to describe what the island had just been through.
"Some were perched on rooftops. Others were in trees, hanging on for dear life. Some of them were clinging to whatever the water threw their way," he wrote. “The victims remain nameless and faceless in the maddening mess of what has become Galveston Island.”
As he sat back, Everett noticed for the first time that his hands were trembling. He bore in his own body the depth of the words he was writing.
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday, September 9th, 5:22 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
Brent made his way through the maze of people at John Sealy Hospital. He hoped to find Sadie, the young woman he had carried into the hospital in the middle of the storm. He had to know; it had been gnawing at him all day. Had she survived? He had risked his own life to get her here, even given her his own blood. She had to be alive.
“Have you seen that nurse...? He asked an older woman.
“Which one? I’ve seen half a dozen, at least.”
“She’s about my age,” Brent explained. “I think her name was—” Okay, I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t remember her name. He could only remember her amazing green eyes as they had gazed anxiously into his.
Remarkable eyes – and a remarkable young woman.
He had become her hero in the night, and yet he didn’t feel much like a hero. Instead, he felt the oddest mixture of emotions—pain, agony, relief, joy, sorrow—almost too much to contain.
Emma. The nurse’s name was Emma.
“Excuse me,” he asked a doctor, “Is there a nurse named Emma here?”
“I think she’s up on the second floor.”
Thank God. “What about her sister, the young woman I brought in last night?”
The young doctor turned to look him squarely in the eye. “Oh, it’s you.” Brent now recognized the doctor as the one who had been eyeing Emma earlier.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said curtly. “Brent Murphy. I’m with The Courier.” He didn’t know what made him say the words, except perhaps habit. He followed them quickly with, “Where’s Sadie?”
“They’ve moved her to the children’s ward right over there.” The aggravated doctor gestured to his right, and Brent nodded as he headed off in that direction. He made his way through the maze of people in the hallway, some crying, others laying so still that he knew they must have already passed on. Surely Sadie had not suffered the same fate.
As he entered the children’s ward, Brent was overwhelmed with the amount of beds, the number of children here. In a room that should have housed fifteen or twenty, there were at least fifty or more. Mosquito netting covered many of the beds, though it did little to protect the injured from their pain. The cries of anguish never seemed to end.
He made his way to the first bed, looking down. A little boy missing an arm. God, help him! He moved on to the next – a tiny girl with battered face – barely distinguishable. He immediately felt sick to his stomach.
“Sadie?” Brent called out her name.
No answer. He made his way up and down the row of beds as he looked for the familiar angelic face. On and on through the web of terrified children he walked. He looked for the girl with great hope, trying to remember what she looked like. She would be the one with the freckles and pale skin.
Ah! She would be the one directly in front of him. Brent looked down at the young woman and breathed a sigh of relief. She appeared to sleep soundly. A bandage encompassed her head, and her eyes were black and blue, probably as much from blood loss as the beating she had taken out in the storm.
“I’m here, Sadie.” He squeezed her hand as he spoke. It didn’t matter if she knew. He needed to touch her—to know that she was more than a figment of his imagination. He had been used to save her, but Brent had a sneaking suspicion his job had only begun.
***
Sunday, September 9th, 6:10 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
Henrietta could barely function. Exhaustion gripped her, but the need to know – the need to have answers – kept her awake. She longed for rest, longed for assurance. Both seemed futile at this point. She stumbled down an unfamiliar hallway, fighting against the flow of people that pressed her in on every side.
“Where’s the chapel?” She asked a woman in white, a nurse. She had to get away from these people and into a room of solace where she could think... where she could pray.
“Down this hall to the right, but...”
There was no time for ‘buts.’ Henri took off in the direction pointed out, knowing she must get there quickly or surely explode with emotion in front of this crowd. There had already been enough public displays today. A public display of emotion would contradict everything she had been taught. She must learn to control her emotions. They should not be guiding her—especially not now—but she couldn’t seem to stop them.
Henri made her way to the chapel, the floor still muddy with water that had washed in during the storm. Candles stood perched atop an altar, unmoved by the storm. That fact brought an eerie sense of comfort. As Henri made her way to the front of the room, groans echoed on every side. For the first time, she realized she was not alone in the room. On the narrow wooden pews, people in abundance slept, cried, grieved. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t need the solitude. She didn’t need the privacy to cry out to God. These people were her equals. They were all one in this room.
“God?” Henri felt the word slip through her lips aloud. That had not been her intent. She would never have prayed out loud. “God, where are you?”
Overcome, she fell to her knees. The mud covered her gown. Frantically, Henri began to pray. She cried out for Sister Elizabeth, who had so bravely gone into town to fetch food for the children. She wept for Sister Grace, who had last been seen defiantly clutching children to her like a mother hen. She agonized over Sister Abigail, whom she tried so desperately to love. But most of all, Henrietta prayed that Lilly Mae’s blessed song would live on, far beyond this weekend of death and devastation – that the song, itself, would bring hope. It would keep Henrietta going.
She began to hum the simple melody, suddenly feeling strength rise within her. Pressing herself to stand, Henri turned to the people. They needed her. She would do what she could to help them.
***
Sunday, September 9th, 7:00 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
Brent entered the chapel, startled at what he found there. People, in every sort of distress, filled the room. He had come here, hoping for a quiet place to write. He had to write.
“Can I get you to help me over here?” a young woman about his age asked.
“What can I do?” He pressed the paper and pen back into his pocket.
“I’m Henrietta Mul
lins,” she said.
A beauty, even in muddy gown. But something about this one couldn’t be explained. She seemed to be set apart for the task at hand, well suited for the role she now played.
“Henrietta...”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She clamped a hand over her mouth. “That’s Sister Henrietta. I always forget to add that part!”
A nun?
“Could you see if there’s any food to be found?” she asked. “We’ve got to get something into these people, even if it’s just coffee or warm broth.”
Brent nodded lamely, torn between wanting to write and needing to help those in distress. Of course he would help. He sprinted from the room. “Excuse me,” he spoke to a man mopping the floors at a frantic pace. “I’m wondering where to find food for these people.”
“Food?” The elderly man shook his head. “Don’t rightly know if there is any food left. You need to go up to the kitchen and ask that question. Third floor—on the left.”
An agonizing twenty minutes later, Brent emerged with nothing but a pot of coffee, lukewarm, to offer the people below. A small offering, but one they would not turn away at such a dire time.
“Coffee? That’s it?” Henrietta asked.
Brent nodded lamely. “There’s nothing else. This will have to do until provisions are brought in...”
“From where?”
A logical question. If the Island is shut off from the mainland, we could all be without food for days. Without food and fresh water, they could all die.
“I’m not sure...”
“Well, we’ll just have to pray about that,” the young nun spoke gently. “Won’t we?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Not a praying man, Mr...?”
“Brent. Brent Murphy.”
“Not a praying man, Mr. Murphy?”
A rather blunt question—one that would have offended him greatly under different circumstances. Brent knew how to pray. From infancy, the nuns of St. Mary’s had... No, he wouldn’t think about that right now. “I know how to pray.”
The young nun smiled in his direction. “Well, get to it then.”
“You mean here? Now?” Surely she didn’t expect him to stop what he was doing and fall on his knees. That would be a bit absurd, all things considered.
“A little silent prayer never hurt anyone.”
Brent looked at her intently. She was a hard one to figure out. There were tears in her eyes, and yet she bore the glow of one who rose above such things. She seemed to carry an immeasurable strength.
For some time, the two worked side by side. Brent labored diligently, yet found himself glued to every word she said. Henrietta told a horrific tale of St. Mary’s. A tale of children and nuns roped together. A tale of a little girl who had sung her song against the backdrop of a ravaged sky. A tale of life, and death.
Brent listened closely, taking mental notes. He would write about this child, an orphan of St. Mary’s. He would write about the home, itself. He owed them that much. This was the story he had sought after and it had fallen directly into his lap. The article formulated in his mind, even as Henri unveiled the tale... “A Song in the Wind—a Story of Courage and Hope”
He would write about Lilly Mae. He would write about the orphanage. He would write about himself.
***
Sunday, September 9th, 7:17 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
“Emma?”
The exhausted nurse heard Rupert’s voice as she re-entered the hospital. She tried to steal past him like an invisible ghost. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to listen. She just wanted to find someplace to collapse. She had to forget all she had seen out on the streets. But how could she forget?
He grabbed her arm as her name rang out again. “Emma.”
She shook free and kept walking. “Not now, Rupert.” Her words were curt, but she didn’t care. Right now only one thing mattered – getting back to Sadie. Making sure she was all right. Then getting the necessary information about her mother and father. After that, he could annoy her all he wanted.
“I see how it is.” He let go willingly. “Well, I just thought you’d want to know that reporter fellow was back, snooping around your sister.”
“What reporter?”
“The one who brought Sadie in last night.”
Emma’s heart fell. That young man, the one who had played the role of hero—he was nothing but a lousy reporter looking for a story?
“Where is he?”
“Everywhere,” Rupert said, frowning. “Every time I turn around, he’s under my feet. He’s in the ward. He’s in the kitchen. He’s in the chapel. He’s in the lobby.”
“Where is he now?”
“Chapel. Spending time with the ladies, from what I hear.”
“Thanks for the information.” Emma turned toward the chapel and fought to stay focused. She would find this man and send him back out onto the street where he belonged.
She turned the corner and entered the chapel. There he was—in the corner. The pretty young woman who had come in with the little girl from the orphanage sat across from him, smiling.
***
Sunday, September 9th, 7:18 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
“Just who do you think you are?”
Brent looked up into the cold, green eyes of the young nurse he had assisted in the night. They were ablaze with anger. He fought to determine what he had done to cause such a look. Something must have happened, but what? “I’m... I’m...” he wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question.
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” She asked the question with a clear opinion on the matter.
“Well, yes, but...” He didn’t have time to answer. She wouldn’t let him.
“You think you’re really something, don’t you! You come waltzing in here, under the pretense of helping, and all you want is a story.” Here her eyes shifted to Henrietta. “Among other things.”
What’s that supposed to mean? I’m here to help. I am. She has some nerve.
“I think you’ve made a mistake, Miss,” Henrietta tried to come to his defense.
“There’s no mistake,” Emma said, eyes fixed on his. “And it’s pretty clear what he’s doing.”
“What do you mean?” Brent spoke angrily now, more confused than ever. He had suddenly turned from hero to villain, with no knowledge of how the transition had taken place.
“I mean,” she said sternly, “the party’s over. You’re leaving. You can get your story elsewhere.” She reached out to grab his arm.
“You’ve got this all wrong.” His own anger surfaced. “I’m just helping Sister Henrietta feed and care for these people.”
***
Sunday, September 9th, 7:20 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
“Sister?” Emma felt her cheeks flush. The pretty young woman was a nun?
“That’s right,” Brent said. “Emma, I’d like you to meet Sister Henrietta Mullins of St. Mary’s Asylum. She has taken it upon herself to care for these people, since there’s no one else available to do so.”
Emma’s heart sank to her toes. She looked into the young woman’s eyes. They were blood-shot from tears, and yet had a renewed strength in them. She had clearly made a mistake in judgment, but how could she undo it now?
“I thought you were...” she stammered. To be honest, she hadn’t known or cared who the young woman was. She had just been one of hundreds washed in from the storm, near-naked and scared to death.
But, a nun? That was the most improbable of all. Nuns were supposed to be older. Less pretty. Weren’t they?
“That’s all right,” Henri said, smiling. “It’s understandable, considering my attire. But I would surely hate to lose Mr. Murphy as an assistant.”
“But Rupert said...” she started. They all stared at her, waiting for an explanation. None seemed to come. Why bother? It all sounded so ridiculous now. And she was suddenly too weak to argue.
Overcome with emotion and exhaustion, Emma struggl
ed to stay on her feet. Nothing mattered anymore. She felt herself slipping away as the room began to spin. She was going down... going down...
***
Sunday, September 9th, 7:21p.m. The Murphy Villa
“Where is that son of mine?” Gillian asked, half-joking. “He comes home and then leaves again.” Not that she minded, really. Brent had been a huge help to her with all of their unexpected guests.
Of course, he was the most unexpected of all.
Together they had worked to feed nearly forty people – men, women and children. Afterwards they had gone through every room in the house, securing every available bed sheet and blanket. Most would sleep on the floor, but didn’t seem to mind. In fact, many had already drifted off to sleep, though the sun was just setting. Brent had disappeared quickly, planting a kiss on her cheek and assuring her he would return. Soon.
But where had he gone – and why?
Pearl gave her opinion as she dried the dishes. “There’s so much work to be done on the Island, Miz Gillian. And you know that son of yours. He was never one to slack off. No he wasn’t. He’s a worker, that one.”
Gillian mulled over Pearl’s words as she reached to put a platter into the cabinet. Douglas had always accused Brent of being lazy, unmotivated. His accusation was unfounded. Their son had always been a hard worker.
Why are you so angry at him, Douglas? Is it the fact that Brent is interested in different things? Your son isn’t like you at all, is he, Douglas?
Your son...
They were father and son, weren’t they? It didn’t matter that Douglas hadn’t actually fathered Brent. They were still father and son.
***
Sunday, September 9th, 7:26 p.m.
Brent gazed down at Emma’s pale face anxiously. Splashes of freckles covered her pale cheeks. He hadn’t noticed them before. Why were they so clear to him now?
Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads Page 15