As for those of us who remain, we are live corpses, wandering blindly in a fog of smoke. The ashes of our friends and loved ones float through the air like storm clouds, rising and falling like the tide, itself. We wear them as a second skin.
We are afraid to breathe. We are afraid not to.
We are weary with the process and rest has been hard to come by. Many of the Island’s men would rather forego the ordeal, but are urged at bayonet point to assist. I’ve seen two shot on the spot for their unwillingness to participate.
There are hundreds of stories here – more than any decent reporter would dare hope for. I will write their stories – and the stories of those who lost their lives more valiantly. There will be many tales to come from this nightmare, and someone will need to record it for posterity’s sake.
For the sake of our children and grandchildren, who will want to know.
Brent closed his eyes and listened to the voices of the children playing in the next room. Somehow, in the middle of the tragedy, their voices rang out in joy. They seemed oblivious to the pain and destruction.
At least for the moment. Brent smiled and decided to join them.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wednesday, September 12th, 8:47 a.m. The Courier
“Two days in a row, Sir.”
Everett looked at Nathan curiously. “Excuse me?”
“Two days in a row we’ve beat those suckers at The Daily to print. That’s the best we’ve ever done. People are fighting each other to get their hands on The Courier. They want the news.”
“And we’re giving it to them,” Everett mumbled. He turned away from the young reporter, unable to share his joy. In the past, it would be been excellent news. Now, it just seemed futile. What difference did it make if the story made it to print in one paper before another? It was still the same story, regardless of who printed it first.
He threw the window to his office open, seeking air. The overwhelming smell from outside nauseated him immediately. No breeze in the world was worth that. He slammed the window shut with a vengeance then turned back to face Nathan, who rambled on about a breaking story on Bolivar peninsula. This was not a conversation Everett wanted to participate in.
“Let’s just skip that, shall we?”
“Are you kidding me?” Nathan looked stunned. “Skip a story that big?”
“I’m just saying too many lives have been lost already,” Everett spoke quietly, unable to muster up much energy for the task. “That’s all. I don’t want to risk any more.”
“So you don’t want me to head over to Bolivar for a few photos? Is that what you’re saying?”
Everett shrugged. He knew the story. At Bolivar Point, forty-six people had drowned. More than a hundred others were saved in the lighthouse. Their tale of heroism was unique and heartfelt. It would make a great headline.
If he had been interested in headlines.
“So I shouldn’t go?” Nathan shook his head in amazement.
“Not this time,” Everett sat and stared placidly out of the gaping hole that had once been a window. “Not this time.”
Nathan left the office in a huff, not even trying to hide his anger. Everett didn’t blame him. This was the news business. They were supposed to be tracking down stories.
It’s just that Everett Maxwell didn’t feel like doing that anymore.
***
Wednesday, September 12th, 10:46 a.m. At the Shore
Brent gazed out onto peaceful waters in the gulf. How strange to think that all the devastation surrounding him had come at the insistence of the once-angry waves. They were angry no more. The cool salt water eagerly lapped the shore. It seemed to dance against the tepid morning sun. Reaching to pick up his tablet, Brent began to write.
So you have won at last. You have captured the soul of this island and buried it beneath your current. What you have taken, we give back to you... bodies of those who have no breath left in them will be yours once more. We carry them out on boats and weigh them down, as if, in doing so, we could offer them as sacrifices. And yet you give again. Their bodies wash up on shore, a grim reminder that you are, indeed, more powerful than we. It has always been this way, and will forever continue.
He stopped writing to think—think about the father he still had not seen. Think about the reasons his life had been spared. Am I still here for a reason? Perhaps someone, somewhere, knew his life meant something. He could make a difference.
Brent could not help but think of Sister Henrietta. She had lost much, but her countenance was golden – at least most of the time. She seemed to rise above it all. Clearly something greater than ordinary courage or tenacity drove the young nun. Could he obtain such courage? Where did it come from?
For the first time in years, Brent Murphy bowed his head to pray. He prayed for those who had lost loved ones. He prayed for his family and the situation with his father. He asked the Almighty to forgive him for years of neglect and apathy. He prayed until he was genuinely satisfied there was nothing left to pray about.
After some time, he lifted his head, refreshed. Now he would make the trip to John Sealy to seek out the young nurse he had assisted just a few short nights ago. Why he had to see her, he couldn’t explain.
Brent made his way through the maze of rubble, pausing only long enough to assist a team of people as they struggled to pull a broken piano from a pile of debris. Underneath it all, buried several layers down, they thought they heard a voice crying out for help.
They were wrong.
He pressed a cloth over his mouth to keep from breathing in the soot. His lungs were already full of the nasty stuff. As he came within a block of the hospital, he picked up the pace and began to run.
Brent couldn’t help but stare as he made his way through the front door of the hospital. This place is a wreck. Outside, men of every color worked alongside one another to shore up the building, which had been knocked off its frame a few inches. Inside, workers scrubbed frantically at the walls, trying to wash away any trace of mold they might find there. They worked diligently at the near-impossible task, seemingly unaware. They wore crude masks over their faces, but still struggled against the smell of the mildew that now seemed to almost overwhelm the building.
He wound his way through the halls, looking for Emma. I need to be here for her. He couldn’t explain what suddenly drove him, but his mind wouldn’t rest until he found her.
***
Wednesday, September 12th 3:01 p.m. John Sealy Hospital
“Are you Emma Sanders?”
Emma turned to face the stranger, knowing in her heart he brought bad news. “Yes,” she half-whispered, half-spoke.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Miss.” He removed his hat.
Her heart at once began to twist within her. “No!” she cried out, not even waiting for his words.
“Your parents—”
She heard the rest through the numbness consuming her. Her father’s body had been found the afternoon before, washed up onto the beach. Her mother’s body, he informed her, had been located by neighbors just this morning. Both of her parents had been carried out to sea for burial. There would be no opportunity for goodbyes.
“I’m so sorry.” He seemed to be speaking in slow motion. “Is there anything I can do? Anyone else I can help you locate?”
She shook her head back and forth and drew in a deep breath. “There is no one else,” she whispered. She quickly realized that she, alone, remained – to care for herself, and to care for Sadie.
“One of the fellas thought you might like to have this.” He pressed something into her hand. The room spun madly.
“Thank you, sir,” Another voice, a familiar voice, spoke. Through the haze, Emma saw Brent Murphy. He spoke kindly to the man who had brought the awful news. She never heard or saw anything else. With her back pressed against the wall, she felt her knees give way. She slid all the way down until she sat in a curled ball on the floor, where she wept openly.
“You go ahead and cry,” he whispered. “If anyone ever deserved it, you do.”
She had been through so much over the last few days, and now this. This news. It was devastating. Brent held Emma’s tear-stained face against his chest for several minutes, and she felt her heart beat against his.
“I… I’m so sorry.” Emma looked up at him thankful for his presence and his kindness.
“Please don’t be.” He offered her a handkerchief, which she took willingly. “I’m just glad I got here when I did.”
She brushed a lock of hair from her face. “Why are you here?”
“I came to check on Sadie, of course.” He mustered up a smile.
“Sadie.” The tears began to fall like torrents rushing toward the floor. “She doesn’t know yet – about Mama and Papa. We have no one now,” Emma said, looking up at him, completely defeated.
“You have each other. God has spared both of you, Emma. And Sadie needs you.”
“But I have nothing to give her! I don’t even have a home to take her to. What am I going to do?” What, indeed? For days she had been shut up at this hospital with little but the uniform she was wearing and a grueling schedule to keep her company.
“Emma,” he said, squeezing her hand tightly. “I think I have an idea.”
She looked up at him through tearstained eyes, praying for an answer she could live with. “What?”
“Come home with me. My mother is there. She’ll know what to do. It makes perfect sense.” He began to discuss the possibility in detail and she hung on his every word. This man – a total stranger—offered hope when she really had none of her own to spare. He also offered a place to stay, food, a family… How could she possible say yes to such an offer?
Then again, how could she possibly say no? She looked up into his eyes. They were kind, compassionate. This was a man she could trust.
“By the way, you dropped something,” Brent said, pointing to the ground.
Emma looked down curiously. “What?”
“I don’t know.” He reached to pick up something shiny and silver. “That man gave it to you.”
“He did?” Emma barely remembered taking anything from him.
“Looks like…”
“A ring.” She grabbed it out of his hand. A tiny cluster of diamonds sat perched atop a shining silver band. She had looked at it hundreds, if not thousands of times before. “It’s my mother’s wedding ring.” Emma clutched it tightly, barely able to breathe.
***
Wednesday, September 12th, 3:13 p.m. The Academy
“I need to get off of the island.” Henrietta spoke the words forcefully, hoping to somehow convince herself. She felt the pangs of home calling out to her louder than they ever had before. It was no longer an issue of whether she would stay or leave. The minute she could go, she would go. No looking back.
“Miss Henri, I just don’t rightly know…” Big John tried his best to reason with her, but Henrietta’s mind was made up. She would go home.
“Just tell me right out, John,” she said stubbornly. “Can you take me to the station?”
“I can gets you there, Miss,” he said hesitantly, “but you’s gonna be waitin’ a long time before you gets off the island, that’s a fact.”
“They’re ferrying people across the bay, John,” she said firmly. “And I’m going to be one of them. Now, can you get me to the station or not?”
Just as he opened his mouth to answer, Abigail interrupted… “Sister?”
“Yes?” She answered abruptly, turning to face the older woman. “What do you need?”
Abigail’s face fell, and immediately Henri was sorry she had spoken so abruptly. “I, uh… I was hoping you could help me dispense some medications.” Her eyes shifted downwards. “But I can see you’re in the middle of something.”
“No,” Henri said impatiently. “I’m not. Really. It can wait.”
“Are you sure?” Abigail asked, “Because I could ask one of the others. You’ve been on your feet non-stop for days.”
“I guess it goes with the job.” Henri turned away from Big John and moved toward the older nun.
“Does that mean you’ll be stayin’ on, Missus Henri?” Big John looked at her curiously.
She shrugged. “At least for the moment,” she said. “But don’t go very far. I’ll be sending for you shortly.”
***
Wednesday, September 12th, 5:18 p.m. The Murphy Villa
“Mother.”
Gillian heard her son’s strong voice, and her face lit up. She needed him – today of all days. It seemed like an eternity since the storm. She had done little but care for strangers and pray her husband would return safely. She had slept little and worked much. But Brent was home now. Just having him here would make everything all right.
Gillian rounded the corner into the entryway, prepared to throw her arms around him. She stopped just short when she found that he was not alone. A young woman, probably near twenty, stood beside him. Her long, brown hair was matted, and her white nurse’s uniform appeared badly stained. Still, she’s a pretty, young thing. Next to her stood a rather weak-looking young woman, barely a teen, if that.
“Mother,” Brent said with a smile. “This is Emma.” He gestured to the young woman in the uniform. “And this is her sister, Sadie.”
“Emma. Sadie.” She repeated the words, extending her hand toward the older of the two. “How do you do?” It hardly seemed a fair question, since they both looked so weary-worn.
“I’m… fine,” came Emma’s forced response, though Gillian noticed her eyes shifting toward the floor.
“Emma and her sister are needing a place to stay.”
Gillian’s eyes lifted and looked into his. So that’s what this is all about. More wayfaring strangers to be cared for. “But…” she tried to interject. Her mind began to calculate how they might accomplish the feat. The guest bedroom is already taken, and every square inch of space in the parlor is being used, too. That only leaves my room and Brent’s.
“Do you remember me telling you about the girl I carried all the way to the hospital the night of the storm?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Well, this is the young woman and her sister,” he explained.
“Yes, of course,” Gillian said, her heart softening immediately.
“Have you had any word about your parents?” She wished at once she could take the words back by the look on the young woman’s face.
“Yes, Mother. Brent looked at her with concern. “And, um… I’m, uh… I’m afraid the news wasn’t very good.”
“Oh, you dear girls!” Gillian wrapped her arms around Emma first, and then Sadie. “I’m so sorry.” She took the time to comfort each of them as she spoke. “You’ll stay here with us, of course. You will take my room. You are welcome to it for as long as you need.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that,” Emma said nervously.
“Pooh! Of course you can. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Emma smiled in gratitude. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Murphy. I don’t know where else we could have gone. There’s no one left… no one.”
“Well, we’re here,” Gillian reached for the young woman’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “And life is going to go on. Just you wait and see. Now, are you hungry?”
***
Wednesday, September 12th, 5:20 p.m. The Murphy Villa
“Am I hungry?” Emma’s stomach rumbled at the very thought of food. For days, she had eaten little but tea and crackers. “I’m starving.”
“What can I get for you, then?” Mrs. Murphy looked her squarely in the eye. “I’ve got a bit of ham left over, but not much in the way of bread. I do have yeast for rolls, but that would take some time. Oh, and I have a large kettle of
beans cooking for the others. Pintos. Does that sound at all tempting? And I believe Pearl could rustle up some cornbread, if you’re interested.”
“Oh, yes ma’am,” she said, trying not to sound too excited. Just the thought of hot food made her feel better already.
“Now,” Mrs. Murphy said, scrutinizing her. “Let’s see about getting you into some decent clothes.”
Emma looked down at her nurse’s uniform in shame. Once crisp and white, it was now a dingy gray with splatterings of dried blood everywhere. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled with a shrug.
“Don’t give it another thought,” the older woman said with a smile. “Just follow me upstairs. I daresay I’ve got something that will fit you – that is, if you don’t mind this old woman’s taste in clothing.”
Nothing was further from Emma’s mind at the moment. Just getting into clean clothes would be great.
“And what about a bath?”
“A bath? That would be heavenly.” She couldn’t help but notice Brent’s grin as she squealed her response. She was suddenly embarrassed, though she didn’t know why. He had been very kind to her, to be sure, but beyond that, there was nothing in their relationship to warrant embarrassment.
“Pearl,” Mrs. Murphy called out.
A large black woman entered from the kitchen, her hands loaded with a mixing bowl and spoon. She stirred frantically as she spoke. “Yes, Miss Gillian?”
“Pearl, this is Miss Emma, and this little one is her sister, Sadie.” Pearl’s eyes shot back and forth between Brent and Emma, as if trying to figure the relationship out. “She’ll be needing a bath drawn with fresh towels. Oh, and be sure to pull out some of my honeysuckle soap. I’m sure that would make it nice for her.”
“Yes’m.” Pearl turned back toward the kitchen and returned moments later empty-handed. She made her way up the stairs, shooing children right and left as she went. Her voice sounded firm but kind as she scolded the youngsters. Emma’s eyes followed her, curiously.
Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads Page 18
