by Cecelia Earl
"Your mother suffered a blow to the head and hasn't regained consciousness, but her vitals are good and we are hopeful she'll make a full recovery."
Her words are swimming in my ears and through my brain, all muffled and drowning. Suffered... hopeful...
She must see the question marks in my eyes. She adds, "She's in a coma, but it'll help her to heal. She may be able to hear you and feel you. It may speed up her recovery." She touches my shoulder. "Come on."
May. Speed. Up. Her. Recovery.
May.
Willing the brightness and black dots to disappear, I take the deepest breath and step through the door with her. Mom is lying as if asleep on a bed with white sheets, a tan blanket, and metal railings. There are machines beeping, liquids dripping. I rush in and take her hand. I lean over her and kiss her forehead.
"Mom," I whisper. "Mom, I'm here. I love you. Get all the rest you need and I'll... I'll take care of everything else."
The nurse scoots a chair up behind me and I sit, never letting go of Mom's hand.
"When you wake up, Mom, everything will be okay."
Looking at her, I know I have to take care of the diner and our home. I'll get money from the insurance company, money from my savings account, and I'll restore it, make it even better than it was. I won't touch her savings. She needs that money for Noah and for her retirement, though there's not enough there for both. I rub my temples with my fingertips. I'll take on extra hours at the bowling alley, or get a second job somewhere else. Now that the diner will be closed for a while, I'll have time. I won't be able to take Mr. Star's internship, but I’m sure Mom didn't want me to anyhow. I'll build my savings back up somehow until I can start adding to Mom's.
"I can do this, Mom." I kiss her hand. "Just please, don't leave me alone. Please, after you rest, wake up."
After dropping her hand, I run from the room and lean against the wall outside it, heaving great breaths, unable to control the tears. I crouch down into a ball and cry into my knees. When feet arrive next to me, I stand, wipe my eyes, and tell the nurse, "I'm ready to see my brother now."
She takes me to another room and, once again, stops.
"His injuries are complicated." She scrutinizes me, maybe wondering if I'm strong enough to handle what she's about to tell me. "He has broken ribs and a crushed lung. His right leg was broken in two places. He's also in a coma, but again, we believe limited mobility will help him to heal more quickly. He'll need several surgeries over the course of the next few days." She adjusts her clipboard. "He is stable right now. So, once again... we're hopeful."
I throw my chin up then nod. She opens the door, and my little Noah is lying on a bed. He looks so much younger. His face is bruised and cut up. His leg is wrapped, but the worst is all the machines, the tubes attached to him, to his nose and mouth, to his chest. I gasp and cover my mouth.
"Talk to him. Let him know you're here. I'll be outside the door when you're ready to leave."
Ready to leave? I can't leave my baby brother here alone!
I rush to him, kiss him anyplace there isn't a bruise. I stroke his little hand. Speaking is difficult. I wait until I have myself under control, so he won't hear the fear in my voice.
"Noah." I swallow, breathe. "Muffin, I love you. Take a nice long nap now, but then you have to wake up and play ball with me. I've been learning some new coaching techniques, so you have to be ready to play in the spring. Your eyes can't follow the ball right away. Wait before you look up from your swing. And your lower arms needs to get to the ball faster. Otherwise, you'll never hit it past the infielders. Plus, your flag football team needs you to come and cheer them on in a weekend or two. You know how they lose it in the last half of the game. They need you to keep them strong." I swallow again. "Noah, I'm going to make sure you have everything you need. So just rest easy. Don't worry about anything." I smooth his hair away from his forehead. "I love you. I'll be here if you need me."
I rub the stone in my necklace between my thumb and fingers, wishing the angels' songs and protection were real. Wishing Dad was around to help me, to help them. But of course, he abandoned us. Would he even care how hurt we are?
But I'm alone. We're alone.
I stoop over, lay my head next to Noah's arm, and hold onto his hand for dear life.
I'll never let go.
-15-
I can't win at this, can't have my goals and money. I may have to stay in school and work more jobs on the side. Though I don't even know how I'll have time for my original classes, since I want to be at the hospital as much as possible, to hold their hands, to be here for them. Everything I've planned, everything I've worked toward, doesn't matter now. I'll never make enough money to renovate, much less move or build elsewhere. I have to be at the hospital with my family. They could be here for weeks... months, maybe. I'll never have time for extra classes. This is what I get for making nice with someone outside my family. Cole. The only thing I've ever let get in my way. Then I followed him out to that bench and saved myself while everyone else was in danger. It was a selfish thing to do. And now... now we have no diner, no home, and my mom and brother's lives are in jeopardy. I'll have to make even more money to get back to square one.
That's it. I don't have time for school. I won't be able to graduate early, or even graduate at all. College is no longer in my future.
I'm going to drop out. I'll get a full-time job. At the bowling alley. Or waitressing somewhere. Or some other job where I can move up without a degree. I'll have to work on my small talk, make amazing tips for now.
I'm going to head to the apartment to see what's left. Mom kept a "fun money" box and folder with insurance information, her lawyer's number, bankcards, and who knows what other stuff. I'll get it and see where we're at. Go from there.
I must have dozed off while planning and holding Noah's hand, because someone is nudging me awake.
"Dear, your friends are asking to see you," a new nurse tells me.
Friends? Oh, Cole. I forgot about him, and he was kind enough to wait for me. There's a kink in my neck I try to rub out while silently willing Noah to open his eyes.
"He'll be okay if you leave him for a few minutes. Or even an hour, if you need to get a bite to eat." She squeezes my shoulder. "I'll keep an eye on him."
My back is so tight it's hard to breathe, but I will take that pain and more if it means alleviating some of my brother's. If only.
I look at him, his breathing labored and echoing through the oxygen tube. His fingers are cool when I squeeze them. Leave for a few minutes. It's what I told myself before I stole those minutes to kiss Cole. Maybe I could've done something, rescued him before the blast did this to him. I squeeze my eyes shut and tears drip down my cheeks. I didn't then, so I have to now. It's up to me to fix things for my mom, to save Noah's future.
"Be right back, Muffin."
I get up and follow the nurse down the hall and into the elevator. Both Mitch and Cole stand when I enter the waiting room.
The nurse tells me, "I'll be in by your brother. Just let the receptionist know when you're ready to come back."
"Mitch, hey, thanks for coming." He's not the hugging kind, but I walk in for one anyway. He puts his arms around me.
"H-how are they?" Mitch asks. "Molly wants you to call her as soon as you can to update her."
I pull my head away from his shoulder. "Molly?" I step back.
He shifts his weight between his feet and puts his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, I w-was at the bowling alley w-when you called. Sorry I m-missed you. I came as soon as I realized I h-had a m-message."
"Oh. Well, they're not good. It's not good news." I look to Cole. "Sorry you've been out here waiting forever. You don't need to stay."
"I c-can stay with her, so you can, you know, go," Mitch tells him.
Cole reaches a hand out to me. It's warm, like he's taken a bite of the sun and let it dissolve on his tongue so that it's digested and has infiltrated each of his pores. He pulls me
in and rests his chin on my head, letting some of that heat seep into me and melt the frigidity of my fear. "I want to be here for you." Sure. Confident. No waiver.
"Thanks, but your parents will be upset. I'd hate for them to dislike your homecoming date before they even meet me." I offer a dry laugh. Homecoming, what a joke. I didn't want to go before, and now, even with Cole taking me, there's no way I'll be attending. But I don't want him in trouble. He hardly knows me, and this is my family problem. My family.
"I'll do whatever you ask, whatever you say."
"Thanks. Mitch'll stay. You should go."
"I won't be far."
He walks off through the glass sliding doors, where night has fallen. Shocked by the darkness, I snap my wrist over to check the time. Ten. "Mitch, it's so late."
"M-mom says to bring you home for a meal, a shower, and a g-good night's sleep."
I shake my head. "I don't want to be gone that long."
"She m-made food as soon as I c-called her and told her. She'd b-be here, but she thinks food is the answer to every problem in the w-world."
"Actually, Mitch, I want to go to my apartment, see how it is. Then I'll swing by and eat your mom's food on my way back here."
"These chairs d-don't look very c-comfortable."
"I don't think I'll actually be able to sleep much anyway."
"I'm n-not going to argue."
"Good."
Maybe his mom, Frankie, will help me figure out who needs to be called to start fixing our lives. I'm still in my dirty work shirt and apron, covered in dust and the smell of smoke. There is a scratch with dried blood running up my arm, and my muscles ache.
"I have some calls I'll have to make in the morning. I need to grab information. Maybe use your laptop?" My voice fails me and cracks. I want to be here in the morning when my mom and brother wake up. I need to be here when Noah goes into surgery, talk to the doctors about what's going on.
"Of c-course. Anything you n-need is yours. Let's g-go," Mitch says.
"Actually, I'll meet you at your house in about half an hour." I want to see how bad the damage is alone.
I tell the receptionist to let the nurse know what I'm doing, that I'll be back in an hour or two.
Mitch keeps shooting me worried looks as he slips into his car. I shake off his worry. The Lord knows I've got enough of my own. I hop in behind my steering wheel, weariness weighing down my shoulders. I can't let despair get to me already. I have a long road ahead.
I'm searching for strength on the radio, when I drive by Mom's church. Really, it's all of ours. I mean, she makes us all go every Sunday, but Noah and I drag our feet. Tonight, however, I pull in willingly. Though the sky is starless and black, the church is lit up. I park and get out. The echo of the car door across the empty lot puts me even more on edge. There's a chill in the air. My shivers almost convince me to jump back in my car and race to Mitch's. For whatever reason, I run farther away from where I really want to be and into the church. The narthex is dark, save for some kind of emergency lights that must never shut off. I hurry through, arms wrapped around myself, and swing open a heavy door. As soon as I enter the church, a calm overtakes me. It's as if the air is a cool lake and I've submerged my burning body. I slip into the last pew, eyes on the glowing red glass behind the altar. I need to believe I'm not alone.
I can't do this alone.
I bow my head, but no words come. Between the hushed silence, the flickering of the candles, and the relief from pain between my shoulder blades, my thoughts are ribbons wandering and weaving their way back to the hospital. Noah is lying there, hooked up to tubes that help him breathe, help him live. Mom is in a bed of white, resting her swollen brain.
Tears and whispered words pour forth, pleading. "God, save them. Let them come back to me healthy and strong. Please, I need them with me. They need to finish their lives." I mumble an, “Amen,” and rush away, back to my car before I break down in sobs. It's been years since I've really prayed, and today I can't seem to stop.
Gripping my steering wheel, I lay my head on it and heave great breaths. When I'm certain I've gotten the tears under control, I reverse and then drive.
I'm not ready to see what's left of our home, not in the darkness of night, not under the light of the moon. I may never be ready to see my life for the new reality that it is.
I pull my purse from the passenger seat into my lap.
This car and my purse may be all the possessions we have left.
-16-
Three minutes later, parked on our little patch of gravel, my heart is undecided as to whether it wants to drown in my stomach or be thrown up. I have to swallow to keep it down.
I don't bother to close my car door once I emerge, looking up. The smell of smoke and fear choke me. I circle our building, following the charred lines where the fire stopped devouring the walls. There's no glass crunching beneath my feet. Someone must have swept it away. Once I return to where my car is, I grab a flashlight from the glove compartment and tread up the stairs to our apartment. This part of the building, at least, is relatively undamaged.
I hold my breath with each step, waiting for the floor to break away. Two steps into the room that opened into living space and kitchen, I stop to swing the flashlight's beam around. Debris is everywhere. I squint, trying to see, until a moment later, more light shines on the apartment's casket than what my little flashlight can provide. Clouds have broken apart, clearing a path for the moon and stars to shed their light on the catastrophe. This half of the apartment has no ceiling, but the floor is intact. I can, however, see into what was my bedroom. No walls. The two rooms in back and the bathroom are gone. Gone. I sidestep to my left along the wall, too scared to move out farther. Mom kept important cards and files in the buffet she used as a sofa table in the living room. I step around to it and pull open the wooden door. The plastic bin with all our important information is there. Relief weakens me for a minute and I close my eyes. Tears form but I blink them away.
Looking up at the stars, I shout, "How, God? How could you do this to us? If I lose my mom and brother..." Anger simmers, singeing the edges of my despair.
I don't bother to check for any salvageable clothes, but I do make my way to a kitchen drawer where we stash cash tips. I always thought it was dumb not to deposit them, but we worried so much about saving, saving, saving. Mom wanted this to be our fun money. She spent her free time sharing her daydreams about all the places she'd like to travel with us. She was probably right; if it'd been put in the bank, it would have been long gone on bills or groceries or lunch money.
Now, it's our survival money. Our square one. I'm reminded of the movie It's a Wonderful Life. After the man's business of building the poor houses and loaning out money during the Depression folds, he has only $2 of his own money left. He kissed the money and dubbed them Momma Dollar and Papa Dollar. Once he put them in the safe, he hoped they'd have many baby dollars. I kiss my stack of bills, too, before slipping them into the bin of paperwork. Our only belongings.
How could this happen to us? Why not some family with a house big enough to fit the entire city in it? A family who could afford to build another home without batting an eye? A family whose income didn't also depend on the same location? Anger flares, burning my fear in its entirety.
I'll do whatever it takes to get my family out of this horror, no matter what.
I think about that blasted robber. Maybe this is what did him in.
I stand and face the door. Three confident, long strides and I'm ready to step out on the stairs and reclaim my life, my future. Ready to move forward from this point.
Only there's somebody else standing there, and he's blocking my way. I'm almost too mad to be surprised at his presence at midnight. Midnight! What, is he coming to steal from the already impoverished?
"You again?" I say to the boy from my run, the one I later saw fighting with Cole. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
"You shouldn't be here," he t
ells me in a toneless, deep voice.
"I live here."
"It's not safe. Where's Cole?"
"I'm fine. I have no idea," I say, and try to push through and around him. He doesn't budge. "Excuse me. I'm in a hurry." I didn't like him when I saw him fighting with Cole, and now I'm really not a fan.
"Simmer down, Angel," he says. His voice is no longer toneless, but his face still has that stern, responsible, stoic look. He holds me by my shoulders. He's nothing like Cole. How are they related? There's no resemblance, except for maybe a similar air of confidence and arrogance. On Cole, it's attractive, but on this guy, it's frightening.
"It's not angel. It's Julia, remember?"
"And remember I told you to be more careful?"
"Well, I'm not the one in intensive care, am I? My family is, and I need to get back to them." He acts as if I've not spoken. "So, move."
"Look. I'm not kidding about the danger."
"The danger is over. In case you missed the news this time, our place exploded."
"That robber—"
"I don't even care about the robber anymore. Look at my home!"
"Oh, now you call it a home. Before, what did you call it, a hole in the wall?"
I gasp. "How did you know that? Who are you?" I snap, stepping back where he can't touch me, because he looks like he's about to grab me and carry me out of here.
He gives me an annoyed look, one that makes it clear I'm barely worth his time. He looks around, tensing his jaw and fists a few times.
"What I was going to say, before you interrupted, was that he wasn't a robber. He's a demon. Taking your money was a trick, a way to watch you squirm, to get you to play into your greed."
"A what?"
"A demon. Here to do Lucifer's bidding."
I’m shaken, shocked by his words, but compose myself. I won’t show fear. A second later, I decide I don’t believe him anyway. "What. Ever." I push forward, determined to barrel into him or slip past him, whichever works best. "You're crazy."
