“Please reconsider,” Jessa beseeches me, her brows pinching together. “You’re still injured. It’s best that someone stays with you, just in case.”
Just in case I lose it again? No. I back up, shaking my head against her spellbinding calm. “There are people everywhere. I won’t be alone.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“I have a friend I can stay with,” I half-lie.
I do have a friend… but apparently she’s on Fernwood.
CHAPTER 9
The moment I’m around the corner, out of sight from their self-appointed outpost, I close my eyes.
That was weird. Like, conspiracy weird. Didn’t they have other survivors to attend to? Because it felt a hell of a lot like an intervention for a stranger. Of course, if I am hallucinating, maybe they weren’t there, either.
My breaths come quick and shallow, aching in my chest. Was Vincent real? Naveen? Gizmo? Maybe I never even made it out of the bar. I could be half-dead, buried under stories of rubble, and dreaming this whole thing while in a coma for all I know. There has got to be some way to tell.
I crack my lids apart and squint into the darkness. I’m on a curb, but it feels like I’m on a ledge. A breeze courses past, rank with the smell of tainted sea, and I almost lose my balance.
Almost.
A tear slips past my barrier.
This is stupid. I know I’m okay. A little banged up and shaken, maybe, but not compromised. The pain alone tells me that. Right? And Mama Jay… I sniffle and jut my chin forward, trying to keep my twisting emotions in check. I’ll find her.
As I step onto what feels like mulch, it’s a welcome reprieve for my scraped heels—until something wet splatters onto my bare foot. Before I can blame my water bottle, another droplet hits my cheek, and I freeze. This would be a bad time for rain. Everyone is so exposed right now, especially the wounded…
Unfortunately, Mother Nature pays me no mind. Again. Within seconds, a cool, unseasonably steady rain sets in. People shout their protests to the sky and, those who can, run for shelter. Trees, porches, anything at this point.
I keep going.
Having lived in Seattle for years, it’s going to take more than a passing shower for this tourist to abort her mission. I turn onto Hemlock and start trekking through squishy yards. The mud is an unexpected balm on my feet, and it’s the only good thing I have going right now, so I focus on that.
The earth has turned into a comforting sponge, relieving my weary joints as the rain washes away the dirt and blood caked onto my skin. I suck in a deep breath. The air is more ozone than debris stench right now, and something about it spurs me to move faster. Nightmares don’t just give way to dreams. I’m being lulled into a false sense of security.
I cross at Maple, hopscotching worms along the broken, pooling road. When clouds aren’t obscuring the full moon, I can see just enough to navigate the slimy little creatures like land mines. The rest of the time, I pretend they’re burrowing back to their fiery homeland.
Shudder.
Somewhere, beyond the droplets weighting my lashes, I can see a few flickering candles still illuminating mourners. They’re shielding the tiny flames with their hands, like it’s the last spark of life they’ll ever share with their loved ones. The rain has to be pelting them in the face. I don’t know how long they’ll be able to keep it up.
In this weather, I don’t know how I expect to find Mama Jay, either. Truth be told, I think I’m going in hopes of not finding her. That way, I’ll know she’s still alive and relatively well, riding out this rainstorm elsewhere. I can rest once I know that.
I approach the road with nervous reverence. Now that I know what’s going on here, I slip in quietly, careful to avoid drawing attention to myself.
Some people are trying to drag their lost off to the sides, under the canopy of trees, but it’s so slippery they struggle. I peer into the dark houses behind them and swear I catch a curtain move in one. It must be terrible for the residents on this end, trapped by mass casualties. Even if they’re able to recover from the disaster, they’ll always see the bodies lining their street. They’ll always remember the smell.
I shake my head. That is not what I need to be thinking about right now.
There’s no easy way to maneuver around bodies. Stepping over someone’s leg seems disrespectful, even if you need to get to a person lying in the middle of the street. I skirt where I can, trying to keep from focusing on the fact that these poor souls were walking around, living their lives, a few hours ago—before, out of the blue, the earth shifted, and a die was cast. Probability claimed them at random. It could have just as easily been me.
It still could.
“Just browsing?” A gravelly voice catches me off guard, and I turn around.
“What?”
A man steps out of the shadows, tall and thin, with flecks of moonlit madness in his eyes. “I’ve seen just about every one of these dragged in. So, if you’re looking for someone in particular…”
“Oh.” Well, that’s disturbing. “She’s middle-aged, skinny, has sort of a leathery tan. Her hair is really light blonde, almost platinum, and it’s short. Kind of spiky.”
The rain turns to mist as the man strokes his chin and looks over the still parade lining the road. He gestures in the direction of Hilltop. “I’m thinking that one ended up further down. Where that thick bunch of trees is.”
No way. He hadn’t really seen Mama Jay among the deceased, had he?
Rather than stick around with the helpful creeper, I opt to check out his claim, heading down the road with an appreciative wave over my shoulder. Men and women, the elderly and teens—even children—lie motionless at my feet. Some still have sheets pulled over their faces, the soaked fabric melted to every feature, but most lay exposed to the elements.
I count sixty-three.
A familiar tat sleeve pokes out from beneath a floral sheet, and I bite my lip to keep from crying. When that doesn’t work, I tense my behind. I read on the Internet that helps keep tears at bay, though it looks and feels ridiculous. Considering I’m a teetering mess, about to bawl over a bartender I knew all of twenty minutes, I’m willing to take all the help I can get.
It hits me then, the fragility of my own mortality. If I hadn’t noticed my missing ring so quickly, if Vincent’s antics hadn’t sent me on a terrifying misadventure, I might’ve ended up here beside her. It makes me want to say things happen for a reason, but what about for her? The cards didn’t fall in her favor, and now she’s gone. No more Sarabeth. Her legacy will forever be tied to a death toll.
I cross myself and keep moving.
The trees are, in fact, thicker the further west I get. They’re dripping so hard it seems like it’s still raining. My blanket mops the pavement behind me.
A heavyset man sobs into a handkerchief to my left, and I try to avoid eye contact. In fact, I’m mid-step around him when the sound of his voice stops me dead in my tracks.
“Oh, darlin’.”
That accent…
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” he goes on, cradling a woman’s lifeless form. “If I’d of found you sooner…”
I can’t look. It’s Mama Jay. I know it is. I just can’t force myself to see her like this. It’s going to cement all of the turmoil churning inside of me, and I won’t be able to move on. I clench my fists.
“You okay, ma’am?” He’s talking to me now. I see him shift out of the corner of my eye.
“Yes, I just…” Damn it. I look. I don’t mean to, but it’s instinct. That is Mama Jay in his arms. She’s much paler than I remember, and her eyes are closed. The image resonates with something I can’t place in the foggy part of my memory. Déjà vu. Something bad. “I-Is that your wife?”
He looks down, a soft smile playing at his lips while the tears continue to unabashedly fall. “Yes, my Quinn. We’re here celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Or, we were…”
Quinn? That’s not—
I tense, suspending the breath in my lungs. Oh, God. They were right. I invented her. Or at least, parts of her. I must’ve heard that accent at some point. Was she ever talking to me, or did I just overhear it? Did I overhear everything?
I am compromised. I can’t trust myself to discern what’s real and what’s not anymore.
“Ma’am?” he asks again.
I wave off his concern, rearranging my expression into a mask of normalcy. “Sorry, that’s just… so sad. Do you have kids?”
It sounds weird out loud, but I have to know if she was a Mama-anything. It could’ve been a nickname or a—
He shakes his head. “‘Fraid not. Just us and the animals.”
“Oh.” That settles it. Mama Jay is a complete work of fiction.
“Did you lose someone, too?”
I nod, unable to form a response.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he tells me, crumpling his brow. “Seems like the best of us was lost tonight. I wish you coulda met my Quinny. Hell of a woman.”
“Me too,” I choke out. “Sorry.”
I keep walking. I have to. It’s just masochism, at this point.
There’s another car with its lights on at the end of the road, where it dead-ends into the forest, so I force my feet to stumble in its direction. Numb. Fading into a spiral. I’m almost there when a woman darts into my path with wide eyes, backlit rain droplets spraying from her hair. She rubs a wild circle over her heart, taps a thumbs-up over her flattened palm, and then jerks the gesture toward herself. Please help me!
Oh man. I took a little ASL in college, but that was years ago. Then again, judging by her expression, she hasn’t come across anyone who can understand her yet. I shove my water bottle into my pocket and sign back, I will try to help. You hurt?
Her brows release their tension, and she lets out a deep breath, buckling her knees. Finally, someone understands! No, my husband is hurt. We…
I blink, missing the last part.
She makes flexed footsteps with her hands, almost signing number threes, and then points to the forest behind the dead-end guardrail.
Ohhhh, they were hiking. I understand now. Where is he?
Down there. She points over the bank and unleashes a flurry of signs I can’t keep up with.
Slow, slow! I quickly stroke up the back of my burning, bandaged hand, mouthing the words for emphasis. I am bad at signing.
The woman grimaces. Sorry. He is hurt… a tree… his leg.
I imagine a man running through the forest in a panic after the earthquake, tripping over a root and twisting his ankle. He fell?
No. She emphasizes the sign. A tree in his leg.
What the hell?
A tree, she repeats, wiggling her fingers again. This time, a forceful pointing gesture draws my attention to the middle of her arm.
Oh, a branch! A branch must have fallen during the shaking and impaled him. Shit. Come with me. I know where help is.
Thank you. My name is L-O-I-S.
I am E-L-E-N-A.
For the briefest of seconds, she smiles.
We venture up the road, sidestepping cars that were abandoned on buckled pavement. Hopefully, the triage volunteers can spare someone to help this couple. If I don’t claim a spot to settle soon, there won’t be one.
Of course, Jessa is the yellow vest we come across first. She looks up from her clipboard where Bob’s pointing a flashlight and raises her brows.
“Look, I don’t want to talk about earlier,” I start, before I begin signing to accompany what I’m saying. “She needs help. A branch impaled”—I substitute the sign for hurt, since it’s the closest thing I know—”her husband’s leg. He’s in the forest.”
Okay, I sign trees. Like I know how to sign forest.
Jessa puts her serious face on, nodding as she looks around. “I can send… Yumi. I remember her fundraising for her little brother’s cochlear implants, so she should be able to communicate. Yumi! Over here!”
A pretty girl with chin-length hair makes her way over. She’s young, maybe around Naveen’s age. “What’s up?”
This is Y-U-M-I, I tell Lois. She is hearing, but signs for her brother.
Lois nods, and then unleashes a torrent of signs at Yumi, who doesn’t miss a beat in responding. It’s beautiful and expressive and… makes my attempts look like an uncoordinated, interpretive dance. I could cry.
With a thank-you and a quick hug, Lois leads the way back to her husband. I pray Yumi and the other worker she took along will be able to help him. We don’t need any more loss tonight.
Like Mama… Quinn.
“Are you okay?” Jessa asks me, ducking into my line of vision. “I feel badly about the way things unfolded earlier. Everyone’s tired and scared and—”
I hold up a hand to stop her. “You weren’t wrong.”
Before she can offer to braid my hair and sing “Kumbaya,” I go on, “There’s another reason I sought you out, though. Someone at the registry thought you might be able to help me find someone.”
Her face falls.
“Someone else,” I clarify. “Someone I got separated from in the water.”
“Oh.” She lets out a deep breath. “Sure.”
“His name is Naveen. He’s probably eighteen or nineteen, and he suffered some pretty nasty burns on his side.”
Bob chooses that moment to chime in, “An Indian kid?”
My heart surges back to full throttle, and my cheeks flush in shock. “Y-You saw him? Is he okay? Please, God, tell me he’s okay.”
“Hold on.” Bob tucks the flashlight under his arm and reaches for a walkie-talkie on his hip. “Triage to House 3.”
The device screeches to life with a woman’s voice. “Go ahead, Triage.”
“Any word on the young man we brought you with burns up his side?”
Pause.
Jessa smiles and whispers in my direction, “We just got the walkie-talkies set up, so we’re still working out a few kinks.”
I nod, struggling to hold my breath.
“Airways, breathing, and circulation all looking good,” the voice in the box informs us. “Burns are pretty nasty, maybe second or third degree, but we’re guessing they total around ten—maybe twelve—percent of his total body surface area.”
“Where is he?” I ask Jessa, then turn to Bob. “Is he awake?”
“Is he awake?” Bob repeats into his walkie. “We’ve got someone looking for him.”
Another pause.
“Off and on,” the voice responds. “We got him dried off and dressed those burns. Now we’re trying to keep him warm. You can go ahead and send his friend over.”
“Got it. Thanks.” Bob lets go of the button before pointing to a house that seems to have fared better than the others have. “You heard her. Head on over.”
I bounce on my toes. I could run right now—pain and all, I could run. “Thank you so much. Thank you both.”
Jessa smiles, and as I turn to cross the street, calls, “Now get some rest!”
❇ ❇ ❇
Within minutes, I find myself kneeling beside Naveen, who has been propped up on a couch by the homeowners. He’s looking a little rough for the wear—scrapes along his forehead, burns down his arm and side—but he’s alive. He actually made it.
We’re not real friends, and I know I have no right to touch him, but I squeeze his hand anyway. “This is real, right?”
“I hope so,” he mutters under his breath, eyes still closed.
I jerk back in alarm, and a smile tugs at his lips.
“You are okay?”
“Mostly,” I admit, falling back on my heels. “Aside from that heart attack just now.”
He gives a breathy little chuckle. “Sorry. Have you seen Vincent?”
Unfortunately. “Yeah, he seemed pretty worried about you. We both were. How did you make it here?”
The smile fades. “I never thought I would. When the water came, it took me under immediately. I was carrie
d at a rapid pace, and then, the next thing I knew, I was washed atop a capsized boat. Some people threw me the end of a garden hose and used it to pull me up. Now here I am, blissfully numb and awaiting my helicopter ride.”
Wow. “They’ve been in touch with the world outside the disaster zone?”
Naveen nods. “The woman who took me in, her wife is a licensed ham radio operator.”
“So help is coming?”
He hesitates, and I take the opportunity to look around the living room. Lanterns, candles, and battery-operated LEDs provide just enough light to outline faces of the injured and their companions.
For the most part, they’re just a mass of hushed voices.
“She said many hospitals were damaged or destroyed,” he whispers. “The one they got in contact with is several hours from here, and they’ll only be able to make it in by air. It sounds as if most of the routes in and out of here are impassable. Highway 101, Interstate 5…”
Wait. If they’re impassable, that means no ambulances, no police, no firefighters, no relief workers…
He nods in agreement with my building panic, so it must be written all over my face. “Vincent will know more.”
“Vincent?” I knit my brows. “Why?”
Naveen presses his lips together. “I should probably let him be the one to tell you about his situation.”
“Yes, because he’s been very forthcoming thus far,” I deadpan. Vincent didn’t strike me as the scientist type. Maybe he works for an emergency management agency? Now I have to know.
Naveen mulls it over as long as my perceived patience allows, which isn’t long. “Very well, but only because I know he will need you once I am flighted out of here. You know he served, right?”
“Mmm,” I say, trying to avoid admitting anything that will make him clam up. In all honesty, I had no clue Vincent was a veteran, but it made sense. He had that capable, cool-under-pressure vibe going on—aside from the outburst.
“You might not have noticed, but he still has some… difficulties from his time over there.”
“And where was there exactly?”
“Afghanistan. He served four tours before coming home to Oregon, but in that time, his parents had taken an early retirement and moved south. They invited him to join them, of course, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to revert to that level of dependency. Instead, he crashed at his brother’s place in Portland while he looked for a job.”
As We Know It Page 7