Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas

by Janice Thompson

  If only she could find something, anything, to grab hold of. Lord, help me! Many times Henrietta tried but failed. Numb and uncooperative, her flailing fingers failed her. A sudden pain in her right thigh rocked her as she came to an abrupt halt. It took a moment for the truth to sink in, but miraculously, Henrietta found herself lodged on a rooftop, wedged near a bricked chimney. Somehow this home had gone untouched. But how?

  Every bone, every muscle in Henrietta’s body felt bruised or broken. Little strength remained. Frantically, she pulled at the rope to see if Lilly Mae could be aroused. Groping through the darkness, she found the child still and cold, her hands as limp as wet rags, her breaths stark and shallow. Henri was too numb to tend to her, too weak to even roll the child over for a look at her face. Everything in her still moved, still flowed. And yet she sat quite still.

  After what felt like hours of silence, Henrietta now found herself free to weep.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 8:00 p.m. The Murphy Villa.

  Gillian sat in the closet, listening to the storm outside and fighting an even bigger storm in her heart. She had spent some quiet time in prayer as Pearl dozed, but couldn’t seem to find the peace she sought on one issue. It haunted her and she must find some resolution.

  She lightly tapped the older woman on the arm, waking her gently. “Pearl?”

  “Um hum?” A groggy Pearl responded to her touch.

  “Where do you suppose he is, Pearl?” Gillian asked the question carefully, thoughtfully. She could feel her own heartbeat against the flow of the words. “Where is my son?”

  “Why, Miss Gillian!” Pearl spoke as she stifled a yawn. “I haven’t heard you talk about Brent in years.”

  Gillian’s heart raced at the mention of his name. She had tried, so valiantly, to pretend his absence hadn’t tormented her, but the truth now surfaced. “He’s been on my mind so much tonight.” Tears begin to well up. “I can’t stop thinking about him. If only...” Her voice faltered.

  “There are no ‘if only’s’ when you love someone, Miss Gillian,” Pearl said softly.

  “But Mr. Murphy—”

  “Pooh on Mr. Murphy!” Pearl said stubbornly. “You just never mind what he’s got to say about all of this. That boy is your son, and you’re hurting for him. No sin to admit that.”

  Gillian pulled her knees up to her chin and broke into huge, unstoppable sobs. She felt Pearl’s strong arms reach across her shoulders and clutch her tightly.

  “There, there now, Miss Gillian. You just let it all out now.”

  “Don’t you see, Pearl?” Gillian raised her voice as the wind outside increased in intensity. “I’ve always cared so much about things and so little about the people in my life. I’m so ashamed.”

  “That boy is a jewel in your crown, Miz Gillian – and you’ve always known it. Even Mr. Douglas, he knows it too.”

  “I don’t know, Pearl. He’s never really forgiven me for the fact that…”

  “I know, I know.” The older woman patted her arm gently. “But that wasn’t your fault, Miz Gillian and in his heart he knows it. That boy is as much his son as if he’d been born to the man. They’re two peas in a pod, those two.”

  Gillian managed a smile as she thought about the stubbornness in both of the men in her life. Brent was the softer of the two, no doubt about that, but he was like Douglas in so many ways – so very many ways. Perhaps Pearl was right, after all. Maybe her husband really did love Brent.

  Maybe, when this awful storm blew over, they would all be reunited and there would be a chance for unspoken words to be spoken at last.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 8: 03 p.m. The Courier

  Brent shivered through the layers of wet clothing. What he wouldn’t give for a change of clothes and a cup of hot coffee. Neither looked like a possibility. With only the light of Everett’s cigar to guide him, he tried to take a good, long look at the young woman. She lay silently in a nearby chair, strength clearly given out. She had barely muttered a word since their arrival at The Courier and he had not forced her to try. No point in taxing her anymore. He felt bad enough that he hadn’t been able to make the trip to the hospital. Not yet, anyway.

  Instead, he had spent a few dry moments inside the familiar office of The Courier, the paper where he had gotten his start as a reporter. He and Everett had shared information in choppy, ill-fated sentences.

  “What did you see when you…?”

  “Have you heard anything about…?”

  “What do you think about the fate of…?”

  After a few moments of bantering back and forth, silence enveloped them. There were no words to convey what either felt, so why bother? Brent finally decided to make his move – to get this young woman to John Sealy Hospital just a few blocks away. He stood. “I’m going to try to make it now.”

  “Brent, that’s crazy. You’ll never get through the water with the girl in your arms. It’s not worth the risk and you know it.”

  “I don’t have any choice. She’s in bad shape, Everett.”

  “I know, but…”

  The cigar tip glistened in the dark and Everett shook his head back and forth. It would have made Brent smile under any other circumstances.

  “Regardless, I’m going to try to make it now. If I don’t get her there soon, there’s no point in going at all.” The young woman had lost a lot of blood. Even in the dark, he could tell the situation grew darker with each passing moment. He must get her to the hospital, but did he dare leave with events outside escalating?

  “It’s not safe.”

  Everett clearly wanted him to stay, but Brent would not be swayed. “It’s as safe as it’s ever going to be and I don’t have any choice.” He picked up the young girl, cradled her like a small child, and headed for the door.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 8:10 p.m. Galveston Island

  Lilly Mae stirred slightly, and for the first time a very shaken Henrietta began to hope. She held the little girl tightly against her and sang a gentle lullaby. The child remained silent, but began to shiver uncontrollably. Henri wished for a blanket – a piece of clothing – anything to cover the youngster with. There was nothing but her arms, which she wrapped as tightly around the little one as she could.

  On and on she sang, though it made little sense to do so. Henri prayed fervently in between verses of the song, unwilling to allow any negative thoughts – about Lilly Mae, about the others at the orphanage – about anyone or anything. Her faith would keep her strong. Everything else could crumble, but she had to remain in control. Soon this would all be over and she would be on a train to Virginia.

  Soon Lilly Mae would be well and…

  “Sister Henri?” The youngster spoke suddenly, with a clarity that shocked her.

  Henrietta gathered her wits about her before responding. “Yes, darling?” She squeezed the little girl’s hand tightly.

  “We’re not alone, Sister.” The young voice rang out above the din below.

  Henri’s heart swelled within her. What a remarkable child she held in her arms. “Yes, Lilly Mae. I know.” A lump rose in her throat and she could not speak, so Henrietta gave herself over to the silence.

  “We’re not alone,” the youngster repeated, her voice beginning to drift off again. “The angels are singing over us. They’re coming close now.”

  Yes! There was a sound from the heavens above—a rush of wind, as if angels’ wings held them in place. Henrietta heard it clearly.

  But, no. It was just the roar of the water below.

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 9:17 p.m. The Courier

  Everett puffed on his cigar and typed like a madman. For over an hour he had chronicled the stories as they came in. People had drifted in off The Strand for some times now. The upstairs offices of The Courier filled rapidly with wet, terrified Islanders.

  Many of his unexpected guests were tourists – shaken and anxious to get off the island a
s soon as possible. He didn’t blame them. Most came with stories that sent a shiver up his spine. Still others were injured badly. Many hadn’t made it beyond their first few moments out of the water. Their bodies had been transported to the room at the farthest end of the hall. Women grieved and children wept openly. The whole thing gave him a sick, queasy feeling.

  Of course, he hadn’t eaten for several hours. That wasn’t helping, either. His stomach growled loudly as he typed. He tried to ignore, focusing on the stories at hand. The most current one, the one that held him captivated at the moment, involved a young boy who had lost his life trying to save the family pet from the high waters. The dog had survived and now sat cradled in the arms of the boy’s mother in the next room. Her heart-wrenching story had managed to bring tears to Everett’s eyes and he knew it must be written.

  So many to be written. Could he manage them all? He pulled one piece of paper from the machine and quickly shoved in another. The wind shook the window with fervor, startling him, but not swaying him. He had a job to do.

  His fingers moved swiftly across the keys. His fingers knew them well. They were his best friends, his closest allies. They would not betray him now – not when he needed them so desperately.

  “The Storm of the Century,” he typed.

  The truth of that statement hit him like a ton of bricks. At that very moment, the tiny office window suddenly shattered into bits, ribbons of glass flying across the room. Everett felt the pain as a large piece sheared into his left thigh.

  Everything after that became very dim.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday, Sept. 8th, 10:11 p.m. Galveston Island

  Brent moved forward, step by awful step. He pressed against the torrent of rushing water. The hospital should be just another block north. For over two hours, he had fought the good fight—against the wind, the rain, and the weight of the child in his arms. The trip up The Strand had been bad enough, but beyond there—beyond there, the city lay in ruins.

  Escaping the flying debris had proven to be half the battle. Brent’s thighs took a continual beating as bits of lumber, glass and other items forced themselves through the current and pressed into his flesh. Snakes appeared, as if by magic. They floated on the water’s surface, in search of potential victims. Brent’s eyes darted to and fro as he took it all it.

  He fought to maintain some sense of sanity, of clarity as he inched his way along in the darkness. The girl in his arms would stir upon occasion, seemingly aware of her surroundings, her situation. He would console her, the best he could. Sadie. Thirteen. She had family—somewhere. Or at least she once had.

  In the distance, the hospital loomed. Glimmers of lamplight, or possibly candlelight, drew his attention from inside, along with the shadow of people moving about on the second floor. The building, itself, remained intact, with only roof tiles missing in places.

  The last few feet toward the door of the hospital were the hardest Brent had taken all night. It had nothing to do with the depth of the water, which seemed considerably lower here. For the first time all night the exhaustion and the sheer magnitude of what had happened finally caught up with him.

  This was no story. This was the real thing.

  ***

  Saturday, Sept. 8th, 11:06 p.m. John Sealy Hospital

  Against the flicker of candlelight, against the backdrop of the storm of a lifetime, a child made its entrance into the world. Emma stood nearby, watching over the mother as a final push ushered the youngster out of the safety of the womb and into the madness of the storm.

  Mother and newborn daughter had no privacy, no quiet moment to themselves. The ward had filled quickly with refugees, some sick or injured, others looking for shelter. But Chloe didn’t seem to mind. With Dominique now safely pressed to her breast, there was no storm. Nothing but peace lay wrapped in her arms.

  Emma left them alone to share the moment. There were other, more overwhelming tasks. All around her, people shouted in fear and grief.

  “My wife needs help over here!” An older man cried out. She made her way to the corner where his wife lay, huddled, hands clutched to her chest.

  Are you in pain?” Emma asked, kneeling beside them.

  The woman nodded, face frantic.

  “Rupert!” He came at Emma’s beckoning, and checked the woman’s blood pressure.

  “She’s in shock,” he whispered. “We’ve got to find a place for her to lie down.” He looked about, frantic. No place. The corner would have to do. “This is absolutely ridiculous. We’ve got more coming in, and there’s no sign of any of the night shift doctors.”

  “How many have we lost?” Emma whispered the words.

  “Too many to count, and I’m afraid we’re about to lose another. They just brought a girl in with a head wound. She’s critical.”

  “Can anything be done?” Emma peered anxiously at his face.

  “She’s lost a lot of blood. If we could get some blood into her, maybe...”

  “That’s an idea!” Emma practically shouted. “We could round up the ones who aren’t sick or injured and draw blood.” She jumped up excitedly.

  “Emma, that’s not going to be possible. You can’t be serious.” He continued working on the older woman as he spoke.

  “I’m serious, Rupert. We can do this. I’ll get some of the ones who aren’t injured to help. When this is all over, we’re going to need blood—lots of it.”

  “I’m busy here, Emma – and it has such a short shelf life – even if we took the time…”

  “I know all of that,” she said, almost defiant. “I’ll take charge. I can do this.”

  “If you think so, be my guest.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Emma said. “I want to do what we can to save her.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Rupert shook his head sadly. “She’s a lost cause.”

  She looked about, overwhelmed with the ocean of bodies in the room. “Where is she?”

  He nodded toward the hallway. “Out there—on a stretcher. There wasn’t any room in the ward.”

  She sprinted toward the stretcher, her mission clear. She would take care of this girl first, and then she would form a brigade of sorts—to collect blood for others who might yet need it.

  “Hello.” She nodded politely to a soggy gentleman who stood at the foot of the stretcher. The young man, soaked to the bone, looked to be in his mid-twenties. He clung tightly to the hand of the young woman on the stretcher. Emma handed him a blanket and forced a smile. She would do what she could to lift his spirits. “Is this your sister?”

  He shook his head and pulled the blanket around himself. “I don’t know who she is, to be honest. I found her down on The Strand. She’s in pretty bad shape. I got her here as quickly as I could.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do to help,” Emma said. Glancing down at the young woman on the stretcher, she suddenly felt her knees give way.

  No. It wasn’t his sister. It was her sister.

  ***

  Saturday, Sept. 8th, 11:45 p.m. The Courier

  Everett wrapped the cloth around his thigh and pressed his hand against the largest wound. He paused only long enough to type a few more words. For two and a half hours he had worked like this. He had managed to keep the blood loss to a minimum, but found himself fighting light-headedness. Might as well get some work done while waiting for help. But who could help? Where the others on the island in worse shape?

  In the rooms up and down the hall, people had begun to doze. Many still cried out on occasion, but, for the most part, the only obtrusive noise came from outside the window. The wind blew with a vengeance.

  Everett strained to hear something from downstairs. For awhile now things had been painfully quiet below. With his leg in such bad shape, he had not been able to make it down the stairs. Now he felt he could wait no longer. Something had gone terribly wrong, but what?

  He inched his way down the steps in the darkness, the pain in his leg overwhelming him an
d causing him to stop on occasion to rest. At about the halfway point, he stopped in his tracks, startled at the eerie silence that greeted him below. Things should not be this quiet – even if the men had stopped to rest. The silence was interrupted only by the occasional sound of splintering wood as desks and shelves gave way to the weight of the water.

  Everett’s worst fears were now confirmed. His workers had all disappeared, though he couldn’t be sure when or where. The windows had disappeared, as well and water now stood chest-deep.

  His heart raced as he thought about each of the men and their level of commitment to the paper. And to him – their leader. Had they stayed to work at his bidding or of their own free will? Was he responsible? His heart twisted with the weight of this revelation and a lump formed in his throat. He pushed it down and swallowed hard.

  Everett painfully eased his way back up the stairs and waited. What he waited for, he had no idea. A miracle, perhaps?

  No. It was certainly too late for that. He thought about Maggie and the children and his heart began to ache as badly as his leg. If he lost them, nothing would matter anymore – not the paper, not his reputation. Nothing.

  When the sun came up, he would make his way home, pain or no pain. He would sweep his wife into his arms and tell her how desperately he loved her.

  Right now, with the darkness wrapping him like a shroud, Everett had to wonder if the sun would ever come up again.

  ***

  Sunday, September 9th, 12:01 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  “Where do you suppose Mr. Murphy is, Miz Gillian?” Pearl’s voice pulled Gillian from a tremulous sleep.