Somewhere in the distance, the talk-radio host ranted on about some foreign policy. Water sloshed around her elbows as she struggled with the seat belt. How many times had she clasped and unclasped this buckle with ease, never stopping to give it a second thought?
She jabbed the button with her thumb. She yanked the straps, trying to make them release. With water to her neck, she remembered the tiny pocketknife in the glove compartment. She had found it in the parking garage and pitched it in there a few months ago. As her face sank underwater, she took one last, frantic breath and reached for the dashboard.
Sarah’s personal data assistant wafted in front of her hand. No more memos or alarms or schedules. Its screen had gone dead.
She couldn’t reach the glove compartment no matter how hard she stretched or how long she tried.
She tried to kick herself free. Somewhere in the past moment, the XM channel had dissipated into silence.
One last time she tried to unfasten the seat belt on her own, holding her breath, bubbles escaping her mouth. The bubbles moved away from her face at an odd angle; she was losing her bearings fast.
I’m in trouble. Her last thought. I’m in trouble.
The icy river closed overhead, leaving no trace of where she’d been.
Chapter Eleven
Mitchell Harper could tell you how a kid could find ways to get in trouble in class, especially a restless kid like him. The day had barely started and, for some reason, he couldn’t stop squirming in his seat. Ever since the bell had rung and Mrs. Georges had announced they wouldn’t have math as scheduled today but would jump directly into their assigned oral presentations, he’d been feeling anxious. He couldn’t have felt more fidgety if he had centipedes in his pants.
First of all, he hadn’t exactly finished his oral presentation. He’d planned to work on it last night, copying down interesting facts from the Internet about the rainforest jaguar. But he’d forgotten his homework the moment his dad showed up with those Cubs tickets. If Mrs. Georges asked him to stand and give his presentation now, the only things he could tell the class about jaguars were that they had four legs and maybe spots. (Did all jaguars have spots or just some?) He could also tell the class that jaguars weren’t afraid of anything.
The first time Mrs. Georges singled him out for disrupting the class that day, he hadn’t meant to be spinning his Cubs pencil. He’d been admiring it secretly behind the ledge of his desk, thinking he’d never seen an eraser this color before, examining the tiny wrap of red tin, thinking how it looked nice with those red Cs and the blue shiny paint. Sometimes when Mitchell worked math problems, especially a particularly complicated column of subtraction, he chewed his erasers. He hoped he wouldn’t get nervous and chew this one because Mrs. Georges didn’t like it when he did.
Mrs. Georges interrupted his thought. “Mitchell Harper. Would you step to the front of the class please and share that item with us? The one you insist on playing with? Is it a toy?”
His face went hot. He felt the tips of his ears burning. “No, ma’am. It’s a pencil.”
He felt everyone watching as he traipsed up the three rows of seats toward the chalkboard. Mrs. Georges made him deposit the pencil in her palm, closed her fingers around it, and informed him she would return it at the final bell if he would make an effort to remind her at the end of the day.
The second time Mrs. Georges singled him out, he hadn’t meant to be squeaking his shoes against the floor. His teacher asked, “Mitchell Harper, are you making that frightful sound?”
Until that second he hadn’t noticed the squeaking. But when he froze in embarrassment, the sound stopped.
“Is it you?”
Who knew rubber soles could screech and squish like that when they got wet? His sneakers had gotten soaked clear through when he’d made the mad dash out the door to the school bus. His mom was going to have a fit when she found his rain boots shoved under the table, right where she’d dropped them.
He nodded.
It horrified him to imagine that Mrs. Georges would make him walk forward to give up his shoes the same way she’d made him give up his pencil. Thankfully, she didn’t. She eyed his feet with distaste, her mouth pursed as tight as if she’d been eating lemons.
“Absolutely no more squishing your soles, young man. Do you hear me?” she said. “Mitchell, I certainly don’t know what’s gotten into you today!”
He slouched in his seat, stared at gum stuck to the floor, and tried his best to be invisible.
Now Mitchell couldn’t help being torn about whether he wanted Kyle Grimes, who stood giving his presentation in front of the blackboard, to speed up or slow down. Mrs. Georges had announced her intention to call on them in alphabetical order, and Mitchell had the roll book memorized. He knew he was next in line.
At Mitchell’s right elbow stood a fish aquarium, a twist of limp ivy, and a bookshelf filled with tattered-spine chapter books and easy readers. At his left elbow sat Lydia Smith, who gnawed on the ends of her hair and threw spit wads at him when no one was looking and put out Elmer’s glue to dry in little globs, only to peel them off and stick them to her fingers and brag she had fake nails.
Kyle Grimes finally finished his address on poison-dart frogs and sat down. Mitchell pulled off his glasses and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He swallowed hard. When his left sneaker squeaked again, he wanted to smack himself on the forehead for being klutzy.
Just as Mrs. Georges ran her finger along the list to see who was next, a knock came at the door. She glanced up, surprised. She scowled at her students and shrugged.
“Bear with me, class.” She boosted herself from her chair. “This shouldn’t take a minute.”
As seven-and eight-year-olds will do, they strained forward in their seats to eavesdrop. Their teacher lowered her forehead, giving the distinct impression that whoever waited outside had better have an excellent excuse for causing this untimely interruption. Even after she stepped into the hallway, her hand curled around the doorknob, holding it open so she could keep track of her pupils.
But Mrs. Georges exited completely after a moment of murmured conversation, letting the door swing shut behind her. When she returned something had changed. With her wrist she swiped at the underside of her nose, which seemed a little drippy.
“Mitchell,” she spoke almost under her breath. “Would you come here, please?”
Was she calling on him to start his presentation? He didn’t know what to think. She didn’t say Mitchell in that sharp way that meant, as she always reminded him, he was “getting on her last nerve.”
“Mitchell. Oh, honey. Mr. Nagler would like to speak with you in the hall.”
Mitchell stumbled from his chair and, with wet shoes squishing and his chin hanging and his heart uncertain, headed in the direction Mrs. Georges pointed him. With each step he took, his feet felt heavier.
“ Uh-oh, the principal wants to see you,” Lydia singsonged. “Now you’re really in trouble.”
The last thing he heard was Mrs. Georges informing Lydia she would not tolerate that sort of reproachful behavior in her classroom. Which might have been the biggest surprise of all. Lydia Smith never got in trouble for anything.
Mr. Nagler, the Deer Path Elementary principal, had let them throw pies at him during the spring carnival. He’d promised he’d shave bald if the Cubs made it to the World Series. At the last school assembly, he’d carried a trash can around the gym, coaching the student body to yell when he yanked off the lid and go silent when he slammed the lid in place.
But Mr. Nagler wasn’t smiling now. Mitchell stood tall, clasped his hands behind his belt, and confessed the guilt that kept gnawing at him. “I know I’m in trouble because I didn’t finish my report.”
Mr. Nagler laid large hands on Mitchell’s shoulders. “Oh, Mitchell. I’m sure Mrs. Georges will understand.”
“I was going to do my homework last night, but I forgot.”
“That’s okay, son. I don’t think there
’ll be any problem working that out.”
“There won’t?” Mitchell touched his glasses, stunned by the sudden generosity. “Why not?”
The principal pinched the bridge of his nose and didn’t offer any explanation. After Mitchell joined him in his office, Mr. Nagler told him that his grandparents were coming to pick him up, that they were already on their way.
“Nona and Harold?”
The principal nodded.
“But Nona and Harold would never come to school,” Mitchell argued, his heart sinking, finally understanding something had to be bad, bad wrong. “Nona says too many kids in one place gives her angina.”
Mitchell was relieved when the principal walked him outside and waited with him until his family arrived. Mitchell recognized the car as it pulled in at the curb. He told Mr. Nagler goodbye and skipped forward the minute Harold came tramping up the front walk.
“Where’s Nona?”
“Nona’s in the car waiting for us.” Harold held out a hand. “You’re coming to our house for a little while, okay?”
Mitchell wouldn’t take Harold’s hand. He felt much too skeptical and left out. Why wouldn’t anybody tell him what was going on?
“What’s wrong, Harold? What is it? Why wouldn’t Mr. Nagler tell me?”
When they got to the car, Nona waited in the front seat while Harold gripped the boy in an anguished embrace. “It’s your mother.” Harold choked on the words. “She got in an accident, buddy. A real bad one.”
“But she’s okay, right?” Mitchell heard his own voice, thin as a grass whistle. “She’ll be okay, won’t she? She’s in the hospital, right? When she comes home, me and Kate and Dad can take care of her. She’ll get better, right?”
But the look on Harold’s face told Mitchell the answer was no. Harold said that nobody knew for sure yet, that his father had phoned and had wanted to be the one to tell him, but everyone needed him to answer questions and sign things and make decisions.
Mitchell felt his face flatten. He thought, I should have worn my galoshes. Mom wanted me to wear my galoshes.
“Sometimes things happen, Mitchell,” Harold said, swiping tears from his own face with his thumb. “Any minute, life can change.”
Mitchell stared at him.
“We think we know how life will turn out, but it doesn’t always work that way,” Harold said, trying to prepare Mitchell without coming right out and telling him that the police had said there wasn’t much hope after his mom being in the water that long. At least, that was what Joe had said between sobs when he called.
“No,” Mitchell repeated. “No. No,” he said, pummeling Harold with his small angry fists, shoving away both the man and the devastating news.
An armada of rescue vehicles lined the riversides, lights spinning and flashing and shimmering, reflecting red, gold, and blue confetti on the water. Boats patrolled the river too, slipping in and out beneath the bridge in silent vigils. Divers in wet suits sleek as seals surfaced and headed down again. Their cohorts hoisted them onto a platform only long enough for them to report they’d found nothing, only long enough for them to change to fresh air tanks before they leaped off and disappeared.
Flares burned, reflecting long, pink flames on the wet street. Gapers had slowed traffic to a near standstill. Joe Harper stood numbly on the bank, alone, watching. Everywhere he turned, people babbled on two-way radios. An EMT team waited at the ready. The ambulance stood poised nearby.
When Joe had first arrived at the scene, he’d yelled in desperate anger, stripping off his shirt, popping off buttons in his haste to leap in and swim. He didn’t have any idea who finally managed to stop him. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the fireman in the blinding coat, the reflective yellow stripes, who’d restrained him and kept him from going in.
“You have kids, don’t you?” asked a gruff voice, the owner of which kept his hands in handcuff grips and buckled his elbows around Joe’s arms while he thrashed. “You’re not thinking straight. What good would it do those kids if you jump in and don’t come back either?”
“I’ve got to get to my wife.”
“What good would it do if you jumped in?” the voice asked in his ear. “What good would it do if you got lost in the river too? Think about it.”
But Joe couldn’t think straight. This was the hardest thing he’d ever done, waiting here with nothing to do, feeling this helpless. It was the worst thing he could have done, driving here by himself, but he hadn’t had any choice.
His stomach had already retched itself inside out until there wasn’t anything else left to come up. Joe struggled to break loose, fighting the man’s grip even though it was futile. He twisted one arm free and flailed. “Please. My wife—”
“We have dozens of professional rescue workers looking for your wife. We’re not going to leave her down there, sir.”
Everything was a blur as Joe wheeled. “But she might still be alive,” he shouted.
“We’ll bring her up, sir. I promise.”
But after too much longer, Joe knew they’d eventually switch from rescuing a live person and start efforts to remove a body.
One after another, squalls passed over the waterway, raking it with driving rain. The accusations Joe had flung at Sarah the night before resonated in his head, as immense as claps of thunder in a Midwestern storm. I want this to work, Sarah, but I can’t take much more.
Maybe she’d gotten trapped with some air and could still breathe. Maybe she swam to safety. Maybe she was lost and disoriented somewhere. Joe couldn’t let go of even the most remote possibilities. God, how could you let those be the last words I ever say to my wife?
Just like that Joe’s grief ignited into rage. Rage at crews that took so long to find her. Rage at the hands on his watch that kept ticking forward as if this were any other hour, any other minute, any other day.
“It’s a beige Lincoln MKX,” he repeated to an officer for the umpteenth time. “Crème brûlée is the color. Why can’t you figure out where she went down?”
Joe didn’t see the police captain glance at members of his squadron. “We got sludge. We got water about as clear as Shawnee Hills swamp. Sunshine would help, but, as you can see”—one of Chicago’s Finest peered overhead, not wanting to tell this guy about shipwrecks and aircraft that had never been found—“that’s in short supply.”
A diver emerged, sending widening circles riffling across the surface. Every team member straightened to attention. They each waited for the whistle, the shout, anything that might signal success. And when the signal didn’t come, when the diver swam with regular strokes past the diving bell, when they lifted him onto the platform and, even from this distance, saw him shake his head, dozens of shoulders drooped in disappointment. Dozens of steps became more dogged.
“I’ve got to do something.” Joe sprang toward the water and was up to his knees before a paramedic restrained him. It took precious minutes trying to wrestle everyone off. When they finally overcame him, he couldn’t stop the violent trembles. His teeth chattered. The harder he tried to clench them to make them stop, the worse they got. He waved off the offer of a blanket. “Tell me what I can do,” he begged them. “Please let me do something.”
“You have to keep safe for your kids. That’s what you have to do.”
“This is our chaplain.” A police officer whose name badge read Patterson doffed his cap and stepped into Joe’s line of vision. “Would you like the chaplain to say a few words? Would you like him to stay with you?”
“No.” Hopelessness seeped into Joe’s bones, obscuring the sharp outlines of everything he cared about, absorbing everything in its ominous, soggy gray. “No, I don’t think so. Please go.” Joe could have said, I know a pastor. I can notify him if I need anything spiritual. But he’d been desperate enough to pray a few days ago and look where it had gotten him. He had said words to his wife they’d never be able to work through. Words he’d never be able to retract, even if he wanted to. It had been so long sinc
e he’d even thought of reaching out to God for help that now he felt betrayed because he finally had and Sarah was dead. He turned away from the chaplain and said, “No. Nothing. There is nothing you can do now.”
“You’re sure? It isn’t good for you to wait by yourself. You need someone with you. For support.”
“I have a friend coming.”
Ever since they’d notified him at the shop, Joe had been on the cell with Pete and Gail. Harold had agreed to pick up Mitchell. Mrs. Pavik had said Kate was fine; she’d do anything she could to help.
Pete kept calling to check on Joe and report their progress. They inched along at an excruciating pace. Because of the rain and morning rush hour, the highway was clogged for miles.
“How you doing, man?” Pete asked again, desperate to keep Joe on the line.
“We fought last night,” he said. “Did you know that? You should hear some of the things I said.” Soon Joe might list every word in a litany of grief. But for now, the shock numbed him. His emotions had shut down.
“Don’t think about that now. You’ll go crazy. You have to think of happier times.”
“She drove off the bridge, Pete,” Joe said. Now that his anger had dissipated, his voice had gone flat. “Isn’t that nuts? She drove off the bridge.” The police had told him they’d talked to people who had witnessed it. “I don’t know how I can face this.”
“We’re on the way,” Pete kept repeating. “We’re creeping along, but we’re making some progress.
“Joe. Joe? Say something. Are you there? Listen to me, Joe. Sarah was probably just in a hurry like always.”
But Joe couldn’t speak. He dropped his forehead onto his arms.
“You hang in there, Joe. You hang in there. We’ll be along as soon as we can.”
Chapter Twelve
Bright light! A light so bright Sarah couldn’t even look at it at first, but then it seemed to be drawing her. The light was warm, and the closer she got the better it made her feel. She felt safe for the first time in as long as she could remember. She felt totally safe, and it was wonderful.
Any Minute: A Novel Page 11
