by Sharon Sala
Gracie had a vision in her head of how she wanted it to look—having the multi-colored clusters of hanging Wisteria evoke the images of Spanish Moss dangling from Live Oaks and hot steamy days in the south.
About halfway through, Reba jumped down from the table and stepped back to look.
"Oh, Gracie, this is glorious!"
Gracie paused and smiled. "I need some more Wisteria vines here. Bring me a few bunches, will you?"
Reba dug through the boxes on the floor, then came back with an armful, and the work continued.
Noon had come and gone, and Gracie's arms were aching from reaching up so high. Despite the air conditioning, a river of sweat ran down the middle of her back. She was doing final touch-ups, covering up the bits of base structure with flat pieces of dried moss and pinning it into the wiring and Styrofoam with floral pins.
She was on her knees now, working around the base when she reached back for another piece of moss and realized there wasn't any.
"Hey, do we have anymore dried moss? I just used up the last of it, and I need at least another three feet."
Reba looked, then frowned. "No. All of the boxes we brought in are empty."
Gracie rolled over and sat down, rubbing her aching knees.
"Does this hotel have a flower shop?"
"No. Just a gift shop, but there's plenty at the Majestic. I'll just run and get some. It won't take me more than thirty minutes to get there and back. Go get yourself something to eat and drink. I won't be long."
Gracie nodded and slid off the table. "Okay, and thanks. While you're at it, go ahead and take a picture for Donna. Then we can take another one after it's in the lobby."
"Ooh, good idea," Reba said, and snapped a couple of pictures, then left on the run.
Gracie thought about going to get something to eat, and then didn't want to leave the piece alone, but there was nowhere to sit. She had the floor, or a table, so she got back up on the table, pulled out her cell phone, then sighed.
No cell service at all up here, and the two-way radio wasn’t going to serve her purpose, when all she wanted was to call John, so she rolled over on her back, pillowed her head on her arms, and looked up at the piece she'd just finished. It was floral elegance at its finest.
The Weather Channel was already issuing weather bulletins for Branson and surrounding areas. Tornado warnings in some places; tornado watches in others.
John had called in his crews and was waiting for the last one to come in so he could lock up. The longer he waited, the more antsy he became. Clouds kept piling higher and higher, with a tinge of green to their color—a sure sign hail was in them.
He tried to call Gracie more than once, but the calls kept going to voicemail, which was worrying. She always answered when she was at work, but then he told himself it was just the weather messing up the cell service in the mountains.
When the last crew finally came wheeling into the yard, John ran out to meet them. They unloaded tools and mowers for servicing and headed home. He locked up everything, and then jumped in his truck. The need to check on Gracie got stronger. By the time he hit Main Street, the sky looked worse. Wall clouds were rolling over the mountains, bringing low, airborne rotations threatening more than rain.
"Shit," John muttered, and sped up. All he needed was to see her face and know she was okay.
He pulled up to the Majestic and got out on the run. The Open sign was still on, but the streets were almost empty. He came inside yelling Gracie's name. He could see Reba crying, and then Donna met him at the register.
"Where's Gracie? I've been trying to call her all morning."
"She and Reba have been working in a banquet room on the second floor at the Wisteria Inn all day. The room is soundproofed, which makes cell service spotty."
John grabbed Donna by both arms. "But where is she now?"
"She's still there," Reba said. "We ran out of some stuff. I came back to get it, and now Donna won't let me leave. We tried to call the hotel, but no one is answering the switchboard."
Donna waved toward the windows. "You can't! Look outside!" The hail was falling like bullets. "Listen! They're already blowing the storm sirens. Do you want to die in that?"
"No," Reba wailed. "But Gracie..."
John's heart sank, and then a calm came over him.
"Gracie isn't going to die. She'll get herself to a safe place, and when it's over, I'll go get her. It's okay. It's okay. All of you. You're doing the right thing."
"And so are you," Donna said. "Get in the cooler with us and don't argue. It's the safest place to be."
John had talked a good game, but he was scared. Walking into that cooler with all of the other women, without knowing if Gracie was safe, made him sick to his stomach.
And then Donna shut the door, and the decision was made. They began moving canisters of flowers so they could get up against the walls and into the corners, huddling together to wait out the storm.
Gracie was flat on her back and half-asleep in a soundproof room. She didn't hear the wind, or the sirens that were now blowing in the city. But when the walls began to pop, and the table she was stretched out on began to shake, she sat up with a jerk, jumped off, and ran out into the hall.
The moment she stepped out of that room and began hearing screams and sirens, and seeing people running, she knew something terrible was happening. She started to go back to get the two-way radio, then looked out across the second-floor lobby to the massive glass windows on the other side, and all the hair stood up on the back of her neck.
Hail was hitting the glass in rapid-fire motion. The sky was black, and the tornado spinning out of the belly of the storm was on the ground and coming this way, chewing up and spitting out everything in its path.
Gracie panicked. Not only was she not underground, she was on the second floor, facing a wall of glass, and she needed to move. She jerked as if she'd been slapped, and bolted for the stairwell, knowing her life depended on getting down.
Glass was already shattering behind her as she reached the Exit—the roar around her so loud she couldn't hear her own screams. She leaped into the stairwell, then began vaulting down steps, two and three at a time. Even within this windowless tube, the roar of the storm was deafening, but she couldn't slow down.
She was almost to the first-floor landing when the power went out, leaving her in a complete absence of light. She fumbled for her phone, trying to get it out of her pocket to light the way when the walls came down around her.
Chapter Nineteen
The tornado plowed through the north side of Branson, leveling homes, damaging buildings, and leaving downed trees and broken power lines in its wake.
As soon as the sirens stopped blowing, John and the women left the cooler and ran outside.
All the windows in the buildings on the opposite side of the street were shattered because they'd been facing the storm. But it had come in from behind the Majestic, and by a stroke of fate, their storefront was sound. The hail damage on roofs and vehicles were a whole other thing. They had been hammered by the hail, and it showed.
"I'm going to find Gracie," John said, and jumped into his truck, quickly leaving the old part of the city and heading north.
He kept calling her as he drove. All he needed was the sound of her voice, but she never answered.
Twice he had to stop and take a longer route because of scattered debris, and the closer he got to the hotel, the more frantic he became.
The damage here was worse. Many homes and business were total losses. They'd had enough warning. Hopefully, everyone had taken shelter. Things could be rebuilt, but people were irreplaceable.
He was still a couple of blocks away, but he could see roof of the Wisteria Inn now, and it didn't look right. It took a few seconds for him to realize that both the roof and the top floor of the hotel were completely gone. The sight and the shock were so startling, that for a few seconds, he couldn't breathe.
Then he began to drive faster, coming up behind fire and
rescue vehicles, then stopping to let ambulances pass. It was a nightmare. He drove up in full sight of the hotel, not knowing if she was still there, or if she was even alive.
Forced to park almost a block away, he got out running, then once he reached the location, joined the gathering crowd already combing through the exterior wreckage for victims.
"Gracie. Wake up, darling. It's time to wake up now."
Gracie groaned. "No, Mama. Not yet. My eyes don't want to."
"You have to, Gracie Jean. John is looking for you."
John? John was now. Not from before. Mama didn't know him.
"Gracie! You need help. Wake up now!"
* * *
It was the phone ringing in her pocket that yanked Gracie back to consciousness. She was opening her eyes and trying to reach for the phone when she realized she couldn't move.
The first thing she saw was debris all around her, then the sky above her. After that, pieces of walls, broken concrete, and twisted rebar—and water dripping somewhere near her head.
This is a dream. This isn't happening.
But it was happening because she wasn't in bed. She was lying on her side on stairs, wedged beneath some kind of debris, unable to move.
Panic hit, hard and fast. She began to shout for help—the sound echoing back to her in the stairwell, until something wet rolled down her face and her mouth.
What the hell?
Something coppery—salty on her tongue.
Blood! Her blood!
And then it hit her!
The tornado!
She was trapped...but she was alive.
"Help me! Help! Help! I'm here!" Gracie cried, and then everything around her started spinning, and she was spinning with it, and the world went black.
Rescue was barely underway when John reached ground zero. Utility crews were frantically turning off the power so searchers could get inside.
Firemen were hosing down a few hotspots that had sparked up after the storm, and people had started to emerge from the hotel. Some staggering, others walking out with a look of shock and disbelief on their faces.
John ran up to each of them, asking, "My girl...Gracie Dunham! Did she take shelter with you? Do you know her?"
But they just shook their heads and kept walking, and he kept searching among them, asking the same thing over and over until no more came out, and he was still standing, staring at the hotel.
When the firemen got the okay to go inside to search, John stopped them.
"My girl, Gracie Dunham, was working on the second floor. She hasn't come out. Call her name. She might be trapped. Maybe she will hear you."
"Yeah, will do, buddy," the fireman said, and gave John a pat on the shoulder.
After that, he was sent back behind the roped off area. All he could do was keep calling her number. Praying she'd eventually hear it—or that a rescuer would hear it ringing in her pocket and find her that way.
Gracie drifted in and out of consciousness. No dreams. No sound. Just going in and out from dark to light.
Then that sound woke her again. Someone's phone was ringing. It made her head hurt, but it finally stopped.
She was starting to feel pain. Her head. Her shoulders. Her arms. Her legs. She kept telling herself that had to be a good sign. As long as she had feeling, she was good.
When that phone began to ring again, she was conscious enough this time to know that it was hers.
In her pants pocket.
Just beyond the tips of her fingers.
She could feel it now, vibrating against her leg as it rang, but she couldn't lift her arms—she couldn't reach it. And so it kept ringing, and ringing, and in a moment of sanity, it hit her.
John. It was John.
He was looking for her. She needed to let him know she was trapped. He would get her out.
Her left arm was folded across her breasts, completely immobile. But her right one was flat against her side. She could feel the seam in her pants, even the edge of the pocket where the phone was. Maybe she could pinch just enough of the fabric to tug it upward—to pull the pocket closer to her. It was worth a try.
The phone rang again as she began pinching at the fabric and pulling it up. Pinch then pull, pinch then pull. Hoping to get it high enough to get her fingers in the pocket.
She was making a little progress, but not enough. When the ringing stopped again, she burst into tears.
"Don't quit me," she sobbed.
And just like an answer to a prayer, it began ringing again, and this time, she was pinching and pulling harder and harder, inch by inch pulling the fabric of her pants up her leg until her fingers were in her pocket, and she could feel the surface of her phone.
"Don't stop ringing. Don't stop ringing," she cried, and began swiping, and swiping as far as she could reach. But it kept ringing, and then she screamed.
"Dammit all to hell! I will not die this way!" she said, and swiped all of her fingers across the face in a last-ditch effort to connect.
Then the ringing stopped, but this time, she could hear a voice—John's voice.
John had been calling for so long that he about to lost hope. A part of him knew she could have blown away in the storm, but he kept thinking of all she'd survived before and couldn't believe God would let this happen. So, he kept hitting redial and praying.
When her Caller ID suddenly appeared on his screen, and then he couldn't hear her, his heart stopped. He forgot he was standing in the crowd and began shouting.
"Hello? Hello? Gracie! Gracie! Can you hear me?"
And then he heard her voice. It sounded faint and far away. He started running to get away from the noise and put the call on speaker so he could hear her better.
"Trapped. Can't move! Don't hang up. Don't lose me!"
"I hear you!" he kept shouting. "Are you in the hotel? Do you know where you are?"
"Yes. Hotel. Stairwell...between first and second floor. Can't move."
"I hear you! I hear you!" John said. "The firemen are in there now. I'll tell them. Are you hurt?"
"Yes."
"Are you bleeding?" John asked.
"Yes...head. Hurts."
"Don't quit on me, baby. I'm here. I'm going to find some rescuers right now so I can let them know where you are."
"Don't leave me. Keep talking," Gracie begged.
"I'll never leave you. Just hang on. I need to tell the men where you are."
Gracie moaned. "Dizzy...can't focus."
"Gracie?"
She didn't answer.
"Gracie!" he shouted...but she was silent, and he was already running toward the nearest rescue crew.
Within minutes, they had radioed a search crew inside the building, directing them to begin searching stairwells between the first and second floors.
It was the longest fifteen minutes of John's life before the fire chief turned, giving John a thumbs up and a grin.
"They found her. Trapped, but alive. She's covered in debris. It might be slow going getting her out, but they'll do it."
"Let me be with her," John said.
"I'm sorry, son. There's barely enough room for the rescuers. Just hang in with us. Let us do our job."
John's heart sank, but he wouldn't argue. She was alive.
The fire chief saw the look on John's face and relented.
"If you stand on the tailgate of my truck, you'll see us bringing her out." And then he was gone.
Grateful to be this much closer to her, John crawled up in the back of the truck, his gaze fixed on the front of the hotel, the phone still clutched in his hand, waiting for her to wake up again. Waiting for the sound of her voice.
"Ma'am! Can you hear me?"
Gracie opened her eyes. She was surrounded by firemen. The relief was overwhelming.
"You found me," she mumbled, and then started to cry.
"Yes, ma'am. Just lay really, really still for us. We're going to start removing debris so we can get you out."
"Yes, I will," G
racie said. "Did John send you?"
"Yes, ma'am. He told us right where to look, and we found you."
Then she remembered the phone. They'd been talking. She could still feel it beneath her fingertips.
"John! Are you still there?"
And then she heard him.
"Gracie! Gracie! I'm here, baby!"
"They found me, John! I'm not lost anymore."
"I'm just outside. I'll be waiting. I love you, Gracie."
"Love you more," she said, and then the noise got too loud to hear him any longer.
They covered her face to keep dust from falling into her eyes, and then they began her extraction.
Outside, John could hear everything—what they were saying, the sounds of their tools—but he could no longer hear Gracie. The sky that had been so dark and deadly was now bathed in sunshine, easily marking the path the storm had taken.
Thirty minutes passed...and then more. He was starting to worry when the fire chief walked up to the truck.
"They're bringing her out. She's banged up, but she's talking."
John was on his feet in seconds. Watching. Waiting. And then he saw them coming out, and the stretcher they carried.
"Thank you, God," he whispered, and started running toward it.
His first sight of her was shocking. She was covered in some kind of white powder and blood. But her dark eyes were flashing, and he could see her lips moving.
He reached the stretcher, grabbed her hand, and ran with them as they hustled her to a waiting ambulance. Her gaze was fixed on his face, her fingers clutching his hand, and then they were putting her in an ambulance.
"Stay with me," she begged.
"I'll be right behind you. Don't be afraid."
She blinked, then they closed the doors and she was gone.
John turned and ran back to where he'd parked his truck. It felt like a lifetime ago since he'd driven up on this scene. He plugged his phone into a charger, and then called the Majestic as he drove to the Medical Center. He wasn't sure if they'd still be open, but it was the only contact he had for any of them. It rang and it rang, and then Donna finally answered.
