Out of the Ruins

by Karen Barnett

  Robert set down his cup and reached for her chart. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Much better. A little stronger every day, just like you promised.”

  I made no promise. He placed the back of his hand against her forehead. “I think the fever’s broken. It’s a good sign. We might get you down for some X-ray treatment today after all.”

  She sighed. “The good Lord’s smiling down on me.”

  Clearing his throat, Robert glanced at the woman’s charts. Her faith was admirable, considering what she’d been through so far. And perhaps misplaced, from the look of her tests. He thumbed through the papers.

  A faint buzzing caught Robert’s attention. Searching for the source of the sound, his gaze settled on his coffee cup, vibrating on the bedside table.

  Mrs. McCurty pushed up onto her elbows. “What is happening?”

  The floor pulsed under Robert’s feet and he clutched the headboard with one hand. His chest tightened. “Only a little tremor . . . usually lasts just a few seconds.”

  She glanced up at him, her green eyes widening.

  Abby’s stomach knotted. There had been several small quakes in her lifetime, and each time her heart raced. She let go of the bed frame, digging her hands into the covers and pulling them up to her chin as if they afforded some type of protection.

  The bed shook and quivered, shifting across the wooden floor. Abby braced herself as the tremors multiplied, the low table scuttling away from the bed like a spider running from a rolled-up newspaper. A row of decorative glass bottles on the bookshelf provided music for their own strange dance, shivering and glancing off one another in an awkward rhythm.

  With a sudden jerk, the bookcase teetered and the bottles crashed to the floor, books raining from the middle shelves. The rattling grew to a roar, like the sound of a locomotive puffing into the station. A deep groan cut through the air, as if the house complained about the movement.

  Davy whimpered, his eyes fluttering open.

  Abby grabbed him with both hands, hugging him tight to her chest, unable to tear her gaze from the alien spectacle.

  The wardrobe waltzed sideways. The massive piece of furniture tipped, hanging mid-air long enough for Abby to scramble up onto the pillows, tugging Davy along. It crushed the footboard, tumbling Abby to the floor, her brother landing on her chest with a screech. The doors sprang open, spewing clothing onto the ruined bed.

  Scooting backward on her rear, Abby pressed her back against the bedroom door, shoving Davy between her knees and covering his head with her arms. Deliver us from evil . . . Words from the ancient prayer jumped, unbidden, into her mind.

  The shaking slowed. Abby’s heart thumped as she lifted her head, surveying the scene in her room. She relaxed her grip on Davy, placing a hand on the floor to push herself up.

  A second jerk knocked her off balance, her brother’s shrill scream cutting through the air. She yanked him close, burying his face in her chest. Abby braced herself against the floor on elbows and knees, keeping him covered with her body and watching in terror as the furniture in the room began to rearrange.

  A massive crack crawled up the wall, chunks of plaster tearing loose. Like a chick pushing through its cracked shell, a cluster of bricks ripped through the ceiling and clattered down onto the floor and across the bed.

  White plaster dust mingled with black soot in a choking cloud filling the room. Abby coughed and gasped, pressing her brother against the floor. This house was going to be their grave.

  Robert bent his knees to absorb the shock as the vibrations accelerated into rhythmic pulsing. He gripped Mrs. McCurty’s reaching hand, hoping his touch could assuage her fear. Screams and cries rose from the nearby beds as the room shook and rattled, the noise deepening to a guttural roar.

  Plaster fell from the ceiling, grazing Robert on the shoulder.He spun on his heel, watching the room dissolve into chaos. The healthier patients clambered from their beds, cowering on the floor and crawling under tables. The infirm covered their heads with arms.

  Robert turned back to the woman shrinking in the bed. Scooping her up in his arms, he pulled her to the floor, covering her with his chest and shoulders. Cracks appeared, like some invisible child drawing jagged lines on the wall. The window glass rippled in its frame before the surface shattered, sending splinters dancing across the shuddering floor.

  In panic, Robert wove his hands under Mrs. McCurty’s arms and pulled her backward, further into the room as the floor surged beneath them. A vicious jolt knocked him off-balance and he landed hard on his backside, the terrified woman falling against him, pinning his legs.

  Her screams tore at his ears and he followed her gaze to where the outside wall undulated with the rhythm of the shaking. Robert yanked his leg free, a jab of pain burning through his knee. He scrambled backward, the motion unsettling his stomach. He reached for his patient’s arm just as the outer wall gave way and broke up before his eyes. Clouds of dust rose from the opening, the floor now angling downward toward the gap.

  Lunging forward, Robert snatched at her arm, as a cracking sound over his head drew his eyes. He lifted a hand to block the falling tiles, the crushing weight smashing him to the floor, pain bursting through his head.

  The movement slowed and an eerie silence descended, broken only by Abby’s ragged breaths and her brother’s muffled whimpers. One last book, teetering on the edge of a shelf, thudded to the floor like an exclamation point on the morning’s activity.

  “Mama?” Davy hiccupped the word in between whimpering cries.

  “Abby? Davy?” Mama’s voice wafted down the hall.

  Abby pushed up to her knees, trembling. She heaved in a couple of gulping sobs, but the motion seemed far away, as if it belonged to someone else.

  The door pushed against her hip. “Abby? Are you all right?”

  Scooting out of the way, Abby grabbed the knob and yanked. It opened about two inches and stuck against the frame. Mama’s face appeared in the crack. “Abby?”

  Stumbling to her feet, Abby pulled frantically at the knob.

  Mama shoved from the other side, bursting into the room.

  “Mama!” Davy scrambled up from the floor and into Mama’s legs, knocking her back into the hall.

  “David! Abigail!” Mama swept Davy up in her arms, a black smudge on her cheek. She reached a trembling hand, pulling Abby into the embrace.

  Abby’s strength crumbled as she leaned against her mother’s side, the terror of the past few moments settling deep into her bones. She gazed at the bed, a thick coating of plaster and bricks lying where she and her brother had been sleeping. The knots in her stomach matched the mess in her room.

  Mama settled Davy on her hip and squeezed Abby’s arm. “Are you hurt? There’s a nasty scratch on your cheek.”

  “No, Mama.” Abby’s voice cracked.

  Mama pulled Davy close, tucking his head under her chin as she swayed back and forth, rocking him like a baby. “Goodness.” A breathy laugh rumbled up from her chest. “I’m still shaking!” She held out her trembling hand.

  Her laugh scratched like sandpaper on Abby’s raw nerves.

  As the dust-filled air curled around them, Mama patted Davy’s back and sighed. “Thank you Lord, for Your mercy.”

  “What?” The word exploded from Abby’s mouth before she could catch it. “What?”

  Mama pushed back a lock of blond hair fallen across her face. “We’ve been shaken, Abby, but we are all safe.”

  Davy murmured into her shoulder, “Thanky God.”

  Mama squeezed him. “Yes. Well said, Davy.”

  Thank Him? Abby surveyed the broken mess of her room. You can’t be serious.

  22

  5:20 a.m.

  The pain searing through Robert’s head drew him to reluctant wakefulness. Where am I? He opened his eyes, grit falling from his lashes, his arm hidden under a mess of splintered wood and chunks of plaster. Groaning, Robert shifted his weight and wrenched the limb free, deb
ris clattering to the floor. His chest ached, but breathing didn’t seem overly difficult. No broken ribs, then.

  He touched the back of his throbbing head, his fingers smearing through warm, sticky blood. Not a dangerous amount. On the outside, anyway. He brushed away the thought of a possible intracranial hemorrhage—not much he could do until he figured out what had happened. Robert braced an arm under his body and pushed upward, the room spinning slowly. He shook his head once, ears buzzing like a mass of hornets.

  Robert wiped a hand across his eyes, gazing around the room. Bricks, wood, plaster and medical equipment lay in haphazard piles around him, illuminated by the weak sunlight filtering in—shouldn’t there be a wall there? He swallowed, fighting the nausea building in his stomach. The memory of the shaking trickled back into his mind, shivers coursing through his limbs. Chilled morning air poured in through the gap at the end of the ward. Another few feet and he would have been on the ground, three stories down.

  Twisting his head to glance behind him, a stab of pain gripped his neck. He lowered his hand to touch the vertebrae. Thank God, they’re still there. An unseemly laugh rose from the depths of his chest. I definitely need to get my head checked.

  The beds and tables lay scattered about in the room, but the patients seemed out of danger, though some were moaning or crying out in fear. He must have received the worst here by the window. Now, why was he there?

  Mrs. McCurty.

  Robert’s throat clenched, the taste of blood and dust mingling with sour acid surging up from his stomach. Thrusting upward to his knees, he dug his arms into the rubble. “Mrs. McCurty?” His voice crackled as if he’d swallowed fragments of brick. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, but continued raking through the jumble of debris.

  Voices cried out behind him, preventing him from hearing any sounds from the pile. Robert flung bits of brick and wood out of the way, sharp edges digging into his skin. He located Mrs. McCurty’s legs and worked upwards, pushing aside the rubbish covering his patient. Bruised and scraped, she stirred. He pressed two fingers under the angle of her jaw. Her carotid pulse seemed steady, and Robert sat back on his heels.

  But, what of the remainder of the hospital? The city?

  His breath caught in his chest. What of Abby?

  5:28 a.m.

  Abby’s teeth chattered as she dug through the pile of clothes in front of the fallen wardrobe, no longer trusting the floor beneath her feet. She pulled off her nightgown, holding it uncertainly with the tips of her fingers before dropping it onto the pile. She shivered in corset and drawers and poked about for clean stockings. Everything was covered with plaster dust and soot. She located a pair and gave them a few fierce shakes, sending fragments flying. With no place to sit, Abby balanced on one foot and wiped the filth from her bare sole before stuffing grimy toes in the stocking.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  She didn’t bother tightening the corset laces. Not even Mama would notice on a day like this. Abby shimmied into a petticoat, skirt, shirtwaist, and apron, the clothes gritty against her skin. She jammed her feet into her shoes, fastening the buttons in record speed.

  Grabbing her brush, Abby dashed into the hall, bumping against the splintered doorframe in her haste. The locket. Changing directions, she scampered back into the room. She crawled across the ruined bed, knocking off bricks and chunks of plaster. The nightstand stood wedged in the corner, resting on three legs, balanced against the walls. Abby settled it into place before pulling open the small drawer. Heart pounding in her ears, Abby’s fingers scrabbled around the empty drawer. With a cry, she yanked it from the slot. Cecelia’s locket popped free and flew through the air, landing in a pile of chalky white plaster.

  Abby stooped to retrieve the necklace. Blowing softly to remove the dust from its delicate gold design, she opened the face. Running a finger over the tiny, coiled braid, the golden strands of hair tugged and clung to her heart like ivy on a tree trunk. Abby closed the cover and pulled the chain over her head, tucking it inside her lace collar. She rested her fingers on the lump nestled against the base of her throat. The early morning sun filtered through the window, sending beams of light through the haze. A fevered trembling sank deep into her bones as the eerie silence contradicted the disarray in the room.

  Knees wobbling, Abby stumbled down the steep rear stairs and burst out the back door. She stopped in the yard and turned to face the house, her heart thudding. From where she stood, the house appeared little changed. Except for the missing chimney and a few broken windows, the outside of the house looked no different than the day they had arrived.

  Hurrying around to the front, Abby stared into the street. Neighbors wandered about like lost children, several wearing little more than dressing gowns. In the distance, a woman cried, her hysterics sending a chill through Abby’s body. Mama’s words about mercy took root—other families may not have been as fortunate. Had the earthquake been this severe back home? Could Papa be hurt? What about Aunt Mae and Gerald? Robert?

  She returned to the back porch as Mama came out, gripping Davy’s hand, both of them clean and dressed. Mama might have been ready to go to the market, except for her long braid and the tall stack of cooking pots balanced in the crook of her arm.

  “I think we may need to cook outside for awhile, since the chimney is down. Things are bad enough, I don’t intend to set Aunt Mae’s house ablaze.” She released Davy’s hand and he bounced out into the yard. She glanced at the neighboring homes. “I hope everyone else is well.” A shadow crossed her face.

  Abby swallowed. “Papa?”

  “I tried the telephone, but it doesn’t seem to be working.” She took a deep breath, blinking back tears. “We need to pray for him. I’m sure he’s just as worried about us, Abby.”

  Mama put the cooking pots down near the brick garden path. “Perhaps Gerald and Robert can come by later and move the stove outside.”

  The mention of Robert’s name sent a shiver through Abby. Where was he now?

  “I’m going to gather some supplies. Will you stay here and watch your brother, please?” Mama climbed the steps to the back door.

  Davy snatched his tin bucket of rocks, dumping the contents on the path and sorting them into piles.

  Abby laid a hand on the maple’s trunk, the tree’s deep roots providing an anchor should the ground begin to shake. The earth seemed much less solid and dependable than yesterday. Abby beat a steady rhythm against her leg with the wooden brush still clutched in her fingers, centering her attention on Davy rather than her runaway imagination.

  Mama bustled in and out of the house like a squirrel preparing for the winter, adding to the growing pile of items. She paused, her gaze skirting about the yard. “A few more things, I think.” She hurried back up the steps and into the doorway.

  Davy clambered onto the rocking chair, resting on the path. “What’s Mama doing?”

  Abby moistened her lips. “We’re going to stay outside a while, until we know the house is safe. She’s bringing out items we might need.”

  “We’re going to camp? Like the pioneers?” He bounced in the seat, setting the chair into motion.

  “Yes, like pioneers. Or gold prospectors.”

  A rumble and a distant scream alerted Abby before the dreaded motion began. She crouched down, grabbing at the ground as if to hold it still with her hands.

  Davy latched onto the chair with both fists, riding it like a boat in stormy seas.

  She lurched toward her brother, his wide blue eyes drawing her like a magnet. The earth shivered only for a few brief moments before settling again. Abby pushed out the breath she’d been holding. Even though she was certain he could hear her pounding heart, she tried to calm her voice. “All done now.”

  “Mama?”

  “Wait here. I’ll check on her.” She hurried to the back door. “Mama? Mama? Are you all right?”

  The house remained silent.

  Davy peered through the rungs of the chair.
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br />   Abby swallowed the lump growing in her throat. “Davy, why don’t you find some more stones? See if you can fill the pail. We can pretend we’re making soup.” Waiting until he turned back to the garden, Abby rushed inside.

  “Mama? Answer me!” Her throat grew dry as she searched. “Where are you?”

  Mama sat perched halfway up the grand front staircase, holding an empty kerosene lamp and staring off into the distance.

  Abby sighed, the knots easing from her stomach. But the vacant look in her mother’s eyes gave her pause. “Are you all right?”

  Her mother sat like a rock, her knuckles white against the oil lamp.

  “Everything’s fine, Mama, the shaking’s stopped. It’s okay, now.” Abby climbed the stairs.

  “Abby, where is your father?”

  Crouched beside her mother, Abby grasped the rail for balance. She swallowed, but couldn’t disguise the quaver in her voice. “He’s back at the farm. Remember?”

  Mama nodded, looking away. “Oh, yes, right.”

  “Come on. Let’s get outside where it’s safe.”

  Her mother stretched a trembling hand upward, like a seedling reaching for the sunlight. As Abby helped her to her feet, Mama released her grip on the lamp. The glass rolled down a few steps and shattered, the acrid scent of kerosene rising into the air.

  Abby tugged at her mother’s arm and guided her down the stairs, crunching across the broken glass and fallen plaster, and walking out the back door. She directed Mama to the rocking chair.

  Davy pattered over, grabbed fistfuls of his mother’s skirt, and pulled himself into her lap. Mama patted his back, her eyes staring off into the distance.

  Abby gazed at the items cluttering the backyard. What now? She retrieved the hairbrush and dragged the bristles through her tangled hair. Braiding it tightly, she coiled it into a bun at the back of her neck with some hairpins from her apron pocket.

  Mama rocked in the chair, her long blond braid spilling over her shoulder, glinting in the glow of the early-morning sun. Davy leaned against her chest.