Aftershocks

by Marisa Reichardt

  “I’m glad you took care of me.” I need to say the words because I want her to know them. I want her to know I’m thankful for her.

  She smiles. “I am too.”

  The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and Nurse Cathy wheels me through some big doors on another floor. It doesn’t even look like a regular hospital corridor. It’s just a big room, like an auditorium, full of cots and people. Young people. Little kids. Kids who are whimpering. Some curled into their own bodies, sucking their thumbs. Others my age, sitting in corners or gathered around the big window in the back. There’s a crack through the middle of the window. A jagged and uneven scar like the one on my arm. A reminder that this building shook but didn’t break.

  “I have Ruby Babcock for you,” Nurse Cathy says to another nurse who wears white scrubs with teddy bears on them.

  “Nice to meet you, Ruby. I’m Nurse Yvette.”

  I’m holding Nurse Cathy’s hand even though I don’t remember reaching for it. “It’s hard to say goodbye to you.”

  She crouches next to me. Meets me eye-to-eye. “This is a happy goodbye, Ruby. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

  I hope she’s right.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  9:45 A.M.

  I set my sweatshirt onto a cot to claim it. It’s sandwiched between two other cots, one with a little boy, his arm in a sling, the other with a little girl. They can’t be more than five years old. Kindergartners. Like Cathy’s twins.

  “Hi,” I say.

  They look at me with big eyes. Do they even know what’s going on? Why isn’t someone sitting with them? Holding their hands. Hushing their fears. I want to know how long they’ve been here but I don’t want to ask questions that could scare them. Make them miss their moms in the same way I miss mine.

  “What’s your name?” the little girl asks. “I’m Valentina. That’s Gregory.”

  “I’m Ruby.”

  “Are you a grown-up?” Valentina says.

  “Not quite.”

  “Oh. I hoped you were a grown-up.”

  “You’re tall,” Gregory says. “I’m tall too. For my age.” He stands up straight. Puffs his chest. “See?”

  “Yep. Super tall.”

  I smile. Valentina smiles back at me. Her mouth is like a little heart. She has the perfect name.

  I should stay with them. Comfort them. Be like Nurse Cathy. But I want to look out the window. I want to run to it. See outside. Know what’s there.

  “I’m going to go peek out the window.”

  “Can we come?” Gregory asks.

  “Please?” Valentina begs.

  I wonder how long they’ve been here. Is this room the only thing they’ve seen?

  “Okay,” I say.

  I walk to the window, wringing my hands, nervous to get closer to the glass. Afraid to see. It hits me too late that I probably shouldn’t be taking two little kids anywhere near it. As I get closer, I’m offered a view of the building next door. Another hospital tower with mirrored windows and people inside. Patients hooked up to machines. More doctors and nurses and static radios and blue-gray lights. More stairwells. More hallways.

  I finally get close enough to see the ground below. I expect chaos. I expect everything to look like the laundromat. But from up here, the white tops of triage tents in the parking lot almost look peaceful, like beach towels spread out on the sand. The edges of them flap in the wind like kites. I remember Nurse Cathy saying this hospital is far from the epicenter. That it didn’t sustain as much damage. Maybe the crack in the window in front of me is the worst of it. Because I don’t see broken buildings and piles of cement on the ground. Here, there is only the horror of after. Empty triage tents. Rolled-over cots. Piles of trash. Hundreds of scattered folding chairs. Cars parked askew, like they’d arrived in a panic.

  And then.

  In the distance.

  Tucked along the edge of the building and away from the front door, like they hoped nobody would notice, are rows and rows of bodies covered in sheets. I’m sick. Frozen.

  Valentina pulls on my hand. I’m glad she’s not tall enough to see. I hope she doesn’t ask me to lift her up.

  Instead she says, “Look at that bird over there.” My gaze follows to where she’s pointing at the window ledge on the building across the way. She never even thought to look anywhere else. “Is it a toucan?”

  Gregory jumps up and down. “I wanna see!”

  Valentina shows him where to look.

  “Is it a toucan?” he asks me.

  I want more than anything for it to be a toucan. I want Valentina and Gregory to witness something extraordinary today. But I also can’t lie about reality.

  “It’s a pigeon,” I say. An everyday bird doing an everyday thing.

  I brace myself for their disappointment.

  “Oooh! I love those!” Valentina coos.

  “Me too!” Gregory pretends to take a photo using his hands as a camera.

  I smile to myself. Because in that moment, I wish I could be five years old.

  “Who wants to play Go Fish?” Gregory points at a nearby table and its collection of cards and board games.

  Valentina flutters her fingers under her chin in excitement. “Will you play with us, Ruby?”

  “Sure.”

  She drags me by my hand to the table.

  As Gregory sorts the cards, I glimpse the cover of a worn-out LA Times newspaper sticking out from underneath a Monopoly box. It’s dated from two days ago, and a wave of nausea washes over me as I read the headline: Southern California Rocked by Catastrophic 7.8-Mag Quake. And then the photos. Gutted buildings. Fires. Collapsed freeway overpasses. Firefighters running through the streets with the broken bodies of children cradled in their arms.

  I grab the paper. Read the details.

  The quake started near the US–Mexico border and threaded its way along hundreds of miles of the southern San Andreas Fault, leaving damage from San Diego County to the Salton Sea and Los Angeles County in its wake. The death toll is currently at eleven hundred but is anticipated to double. An estimated eighteen thousand have been injured, with new victims flooding hospitals by the hour. The water supply is limited due to damage to a main aqueduct. Multiple wildfires and structure fires have burned throughout the southern portion of the state, and many are still burning. Property damage is in the hundred billions. Southern California’s infrastructure has basically collapsed as aftershocks continue to rock an already-fragile situation.

  There isn’t a safe space anywhere. Not on a freeway or a bridge or in a house or an office building or at the beach.

  I’m instantly there. In that cold, dark space. With Charlie barely breathing. And the tiny sliver of light that came and went.

  I can’t look anymore. I shut the paper, toss it on the floor next to my feet, and focus on the cards Gregory hands me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  2:10 P.M.

  After lunch, I have a visitor. She’s a caseworker from the hospital and she’s here to help. That’s her greeting: I’m Miriam and I’m here to help.

  Her words are a relief. My shoulders decompress. I’m at a hospital far from home. A whole hour away. Far from the laundromat. Far from school. Far from my mom’s office. But Miriam is here to help.

  She pulls out a clipboard. “What’s your full name?”

  “Ruby Elizabeth Babcock.”

  She asks for my address and date of birth. And a whole bunch of other basic stuff. But I only want to know one thing.

  “How will you find my mom?”

  She asks me where my mom works and if we have the same last name. “When did you last speak to her?” Miriam asks.

  “At dinner. The night before the earthquake.” I don’t tell her the details. I don’t want Miriam to know one of the last things I said to my mom was that she’d ruined my life.

  My eyes fill with tears. What if I never get to take it back?

  Valentina sits down next to me. Pats my knuckles.
“It’s okay.” I squeeze her hand. She shouldn’t have to comfort me. She’s just a little kid. “Can you give her one of your candies?” she asks Miriam. “It’ll make her feel better.”

  Valentina already knows the drill. How long ago did she talk to Miriam? How many days have they been looking for her mom?

  Miriam reaches into her pocket. Pulls out two Tootsie Pops. One grape. One orange. I’m suddenly on the bleachers at the football field with Leo, looking out at the earthquake drill we did on campus. I choke on a sob because I want to be there now. Where things were simpler. When I knew where my mom was.

  Miriam hands me a tissue. Smiles sympathetically. “I know it feels like a lot. I’m asking you to please be patient. Things are taking a long time because everything is haywire right now.”

  Haywire is an odd word. Something you say when you’re frazzled. Like when your backpack rips and your internet goes down so you can’t send your AP English paper through Google Docs and you can’t find your phone all at the same time.

  Haywire is a simple problem. Haywire isn’t what you call this.

  But Miriam is here to help me, so I say, “Okay. I understand.” Because at least it’s something. At least it’s hope.

  “Trust me, I want you to find your mom as much as you do, Ruby. We just have to take it one step at a time.”

  ONE STEP AT A TIME

  About six weeks ago, on the first morning back at practice after New Year’s Eve, we were stretching on the pool deck before getting in the water. Mila groaned in protest every time she had to move her body, and the team laughed it off like she was merely doing it to entertain us.

  I knew better.

  I recognized a Mila hangover when I saw it.

  But we’d had a best-friend breakup a few days before, right? And she hadn’t made any contact with me since then. Not a single text, or Snap, or heart on Instagram. Still, I was worried she could get in trouble showing up to practice the way she was. On top of everything, she was our star goalie with an all-league status and we needed her. We didn’t have a shot at the championship without her.

  I tried angling my body in front of Mila when Coach walked over to give us our usual two-minute warning that it was time to get in the water.

  My position was awkward. Uncomfortable. Too obvious.

  Coach looked at me funny, tilting his head to the side and squinting his eyes. “You okay there, Babcock?”

  “Yep.” I stretched my arms behind my back and looked the other way.

  Just then, Mila lost her balance, stumbled into me, and took us both down to the ground. It was New Year’s Eve on the beach all over again. I pictured Robert hovering above us. Leering. Creepy. I scrambled to untangle myself from Mila and she kicked me in the stomach. Hard.

  “Oh my god!” I shouted. “Stop!”

  “Get off me,” she said, flailing her arms. “I’m gonna barf.”

  How many times in my life had I watched Mila get sick from drinking? Too many to count.

  She jumped to her feet and ran to the nearest trash can in time to hurl up her breakfast. Her liquid breakfast. I could smell the alcohol from ten feet away. Coach must’ve smelled it, too.

  “What the . . . Have you been drinking?!” he yelled.

  Mila shook her head, but the effort of it must’ve hurt because she pressed her thumbs to her temples.

  Juliette piped in. “She’s sick, Coach. It’s going around. My mom had it over break.”

  Lie. Not true. But I wasn’t the only one on the team who’d spent the last year covering for Mila. It was in our blood. Teamwork.

  Coach turned to Juliette. “Nice try, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Mila leaned over the trash can and threw up again. We all turned our backs, trying to tame our gag reflexes.

  “Mila,” Coach said, “go sleep it off. I don’t want to see you on my pool deck like this again.” He grabbed her duffel bag to hand it to her, but one of the handles slipped from his grip. The unzipped mouth of the bag opened wide and out rolled a half-empty glass bottle of tequila. We all froze as it tumbled across the concrete, coming to a stop against the bleachers.

  Coach bent down. Picked it up. Spun it in his hand.

  “It’s not mine,” Mila whimpered, still clutching the edges of the trash can to steady herself.

  Coach didn’t tear his eyes away from Mila. “You. Come with me.” And then, “The rest of you. Get in the water.”

  “Oh, god,” Mila mumbled. “It’s not mine.”

  We all stood there, mouths agape, watching Coach Sanchez march Mila off the pool deck and to the principal’s office.

  Before they passed through the gate, Coach turned to us again. “I said get in the water!”

  We scrambled, tucking our hair into swim caps and securing our goggles across our faces. I was the first one in, moving up and down the lane for warm-up laps, staring at that black line along the bottom of the pool as a million thoughts ran through my head.

  She’d said the bottle wasn’t hers.

  But it was in her duffel bag with her name embroidered on it.

  She could be in a lot of trouble.

  But it’s her first offense.

  She’ll likely only be suspended.

  Coach returned alone about halfway through practice and didn’t say a word. Didn’t give us any hint of what had happened in the principal’s office. We finished our workout, showered, and headed to class. I lingered at my locker, waiting to see if Mila would show up in the hallway.

  She didn’t.

  By lunchtime, it was clear she was gone.

  And by the end of the school day, right before afternoon practice, her one-word text came through to Iris:

  Expelled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  8:30 A.M.

  There’s a crash. And a bang loud enough to silence the murmurs that fill this space. A wail erupts from the hallway. I jump back when the heavy wood doors swing open and a woman about my mom’s age shoves herself inside this auditorium that’s been filled end-to-end, cot-to-cot. She has haggard hair. She is frantic and frazzled in mismatched clothes. She looks like someone who has been walking and searching for days.

  “Matthew! Are you here?”

  Nurse Yvette shouts for help.

  Valentina and Gregory whimper and pull the blankets up under their chins. I reach a hand out to each of them. Try to comfort.

  A nurse attempts to calm the woman down with gentle hands and quiet shushes.

  It doesn’t stop her.

  The woman pushes past the nurse, her eyes darting to empty corners and closed doors. Spinning around in desperation.

  “I was told there are unclaimed minors here. Is Matthew here? Where’s my son?” The woman fists her hands against her thighs, raises her face to the ceiling, and yells at the top of her lungs. “Matthew! Are you here? Matthew!”

  An orderly moves in to try to calm the frantic woman. She shakes him with desperate strength.

  “Stop it! I need to find my son!”

  She is a mother who wants to tear down walls and scream in the middle of hospital corridors to find her kid. Even if it terrorizes every other kid who isn’t hers.

  The woman runs around the room, tearing blankets off the cots to see if Matthew is underneath them. So many kids are crying, and nurses rush around trying to console them. Shushing and telling them, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” even though it’s not.

  Finally, a security guard wrestles Matthew’s mom away, holding her tight with thick arms and a vice grip.

  Someone else hurries to the woman. Raises her clipboard. “What’s his name?” Another social worker like Miriam.

  Matthew’s mom’s eyes are wild and unfocused. The woman says something closer to Matthew’s mom’s ear. It makes her stop fighting. The security guard loosens his grip. Matthew’s mom puts her hands out to take the clipboard.

  “What’s his name?” the woman asks again, handing over the clipboard.

  Matthew’s mom hunches above i
t, blocking it with her whole body so nobody can take the clipboard from her. She pores over it methodically. Slow and deliberate until she gets to the end. And then she starts over again, ripping through the pages faster, running her fingertip back and forth.

  Looking. Hoping. Wishing.

  And when she’s done, she tosses the clipboard. It lands with a clang against the floor of the room. The papers go flying.

  “Where are you?!” she shouts, and falls to her knees. “My baby!” She rolls into herself like a ball. Clutches clumps of her hair and pulls. Her jacket bunches up around her feet like a petticoat. And then she lets out the most primal howl. It’s a painful, wretched sound that I feel deep in my bones. It is the sound of a mother who has lost her child.

  She rocks.

  Back and forth she goes.

  Pounding her hand against the floor. Boom, boom it echoes. A drumbeat. A plea. Repeating one word:

  Matthew.

  Matthew.

  Matthew.

  Her pain is too much to witness. It convinces me I have to go. I tuck Charlie’s journal against my chest, pull my crusty sweatshirt over my head on top of the other sweatshirt I’m already wearing, and make for the door.

  Another orderly turns toward me. Makes eye contact. Scrunches his brow. “Where are you going?” he says.

  Matthew’s mom howls again while kids stand frozen with fear.

  There is only one thing I can do.

  Run.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  8:40 A.M.

  I will not take no for an answer today.

  I can’t stay here and do nothing anymore.

  I won’t.

  If Matthew’s mom can find her way across the city to look for her son, I can do the same to find my mom. Nurse Cathy and Miriam and the newspapers made it seem impossible to find people, but there has to be a way. First I have to get out of here. So my mom doesn’t get lost like Matthew.

  I round several corners and end up in a hallway like the one I waited in when I got here. My skin pulsing with heat and fever and fear. It seems like years ago. I wade through the muddled masses of cots and people. I can’t help but see their burnt, dirty faces. Their arms and legs scratched and torn. They are bruised and broken. They cry. Bleed. Groan.