Over the Rainbow

by Brian Rowe

“Mom?” I said. “Are you all right?”

  The plate dropped to the floor. Shattered.

  “Oh… oh no,” she said.

  She tumbled forward and struck her head against the silverware drawer.

  “Mom?” I jumped out of my chair. “Oh my God! Mommy?”

  #

  Saturday, June 12, 1999

  I snapped out of my daze, just in time. The roof above me crumbled and crashed toward the kitchen floor. I jumped backward and smashed my head against a cabinet, as I watched a dresser drawer, nightstand, and king-sized bed, all fall through the second story of the house. Dust shot up into my face like a mini-sandstorm, and I covered my head with both arms.

  When the destruction subsided, I peered up to see the nose of the airplane sticking through the upper bedroom, and I returned to my feet. I found the staircase, still intact, and marched upward, two steps at a time. Despite the silence I kept an eye out for survivors. Maybe one of the little boys?

  “Is anyone in the house?” I said. “Hello?” Still nothing.

  More disconcerting than the missing family, though, was the chilling silence from the aircraft. My heart stayed lodged in my throat as I tiptoed across the little that remained of the bedroom floor, which was a small stretch of carpet on the left side. I needed to get close enough to see if the pilot was still alive.

  I reached the edge of the room, tried not to slip. Before me was a nonexistent wall, an elephant-sized airplane nose, and a long drop down. I stood up on my tippy-toes to get a proper look inside the cockpit, but I was still—surprise, surprise—too short to see anything.

  I stepped to my left and pushed against the plane. Tried to find my balance. I had to get inside the aircraft, find other survivors. I couldn’t have been the only one who lived, right?

  I turned around and noticed the long drainage pipe that ran alongside the back of the house, all the way up to the small chunk of roof that hadn’t been destroyed in the crash.

  The pipe was wide and black, and indented on the sides. I pushed my feet off the wall and wrapped my hands around it, amazed at how much I could assume the abilities of Spider-Man when the occasion presented itself. I grasped the shaky gutter and hoisted myself up, kicking off the pipe and rolling up onto the roof.

  I looked inside the cockpit. Empty. No pilot. I didn’t see any blood, any smoke, any SOS symbols scribbled against the walls. The glass surrounding the cockpit had shattered on impact.

  I kneeled down at the edge of the roof and prepared for the leap of my life. I didn’t think about my heroic jump for long; I just had to do it.

  “One… two…”

  I rested my feet on the edge of the gutter.

  “Three!”

  I jumped. My stomach slammed against the control board, and my back struck the cockpit floor.

  I coughed. Sat up. Some dizziness took hold of me. I pushed against the pilot’s chair, got up on my feet, and entered the first class section of the aircraft.

  I stopped. Glanced to my left and right. The seats were empty.

  “No,” I whispered, before I yelled, “Can anyone hear me?”

  I continued farther down the plane. The closer to the back I walked, the thicker the smoke. I walked up and down the aisles, reaching out and petting the seats for people as if I were blind. An elderly man lay on the floor, his arms sprawled out in front of him. Dead. A young man in a business suit had his head smashed against the large movie screen. Also dead. I stepped over twenty more bodies. Nobody was breathing or moving. Everyone had died on impact. I looked for the old lady who had helped me in the airport bathroom—but she was nowhere to be found.

  I crept toward the back of the aircraft, coughing, trying not to panic or vomit or burst into tears. Where were the other passengers? More than twenty people had to have boarded the plane.

  “Will someone answer me?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Will someone please—”

  “Help!” someone shouted, from behind me.

  I whipped around. “Who said that?” I stepped forward, waited for a response. “My name is Zipporah! There’s been a crash—”

  “I’m stuck! My head! It hurts!”

  I was so thrilled to hear a stranger’s voice that I looked past the fact that he was injured. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the bathroom!”

  The voice sounded like a young man. “Hold on, I’m coming!”

  I stumbled down the aisle and almost hit my head against the lavatory door. The smoke was thickest in the back so it took me a few seconds to find the handle. I pulled. Nothing happened. I pulled again. The door was jammed.

  I pounded it with my fists. “Are you in there?”

  “Yes! I’m scared!”

  “Don’t worry! I’ll get you out!”

  I leaned back against the wall and started kicking the door. I gritted my teeth and kicked again, harder.

  “Get back!” I shouted.

  “Get back where? I can’t move!”

  “It’s okay! Just hold on!”

  “Hurry! I can’t breathe!”

  I kicked on the door again and again, five times, ten times, until it finally came crashing down on the man inside. I waited to catch my first glimpse of him, but all I saw was smoke. I was so scared that for a moment I imagined the man, any man—my own father even—jumping out and lunging for my throat.

  #

  Saturday, June 12, 1999 (earlier)

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, as my father’s hand grazed my neck.

  “I’m just reaching for a CD, for Pete's sake. Calm down.”

  He inserted the CD in the player, and some old-school tune called “Here’s That Rainy Day” started to play. I glanced at the speedometer. My dad was going 25 in a 30 MPH zone. We were minutes away from the Kansas City International Airport, and I wasn't sure if I wanted him to slow down even more to delay the inevitable or pick up speed to free me from the increasing tension.

  He glanced at his pager, then scratched his thick moustache and kept the car on course for the airport terminals. “Listen. I know you’re mad at me, that you’re dreading this trip. But I promise you, Zipporah, when this is all said and done, you’re going to thank me.”

  “Am I?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and veered into the other lane. “Because. Your sins will be cleansed, and your cluttered mind will finally be cleared so you can see the righteous path—”

  “Please, Dad,” I interrupted. “Not that again.”

  His face turned red. He wanted to yell at me—it was obvious—but his pager beeped, diverting his attention.

  He looked down at it, sighed. “I hope there’s no delays with my flight back tomorrow,” he said. “I have so many meetings my head’s gonna pop off.”

  I closed my eyes. I liked that image. “You didn’t have to fly with me, Dad. I’m a big girl.”

  “Yeah, but you’re a mischievous one, too. I’m not leaving you until I know you get to that camp.”

  “What, you think I’m gonna board another plane or something?”

  “Anything's possible.” He looked into the rearview mirror and smiled at his own reflection. “It's clear to me that you don't think it now, but this is going to be a good summer, honey. For all of us.”

  I wanted to lash out. Break something. I considered punching my father in the face. Instead, as Terminal O came into focus, I leaned over the cup-holders, grabbed the steering wheel, and jerked the car to the right.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” my dad shouted. “Oh my God, what are you doing?”

  Three cars honked behind us as I pulled my dad’s Lexus across two lanes and up over the curb. He slammed on his brakes and in the same movement backhanded me across the face, hard.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he yelled. “You made me use the Lord’s name in vain, and you almost got us killed!”

  I kicked open the passenger door, and jumped ou
t into the blinding sunlight. My dad had hit me before but never like that.

  “Hey!” My dad pushed his door open. “Get back here!”

  I opened the trunk and grabbed my small purple suitcase, an appropriate size for a weekend trip but not so much for an entire summer. My dad tugged it away from me.

  “When did you become such an annoying little brat?” he said.

  The words hurt even more than his vicious slap. I reached for my suitcase. “Can I have my bag, please?”

  “No. I’ll hold it.”

  “But I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Then go to the bathroom. I’ll park.”

  “Hey!” A security guard approached us and blew his little gold whistle. “You need to move your car!”

  “I know, I know,” my dad said. “Give me a second.”

  The security guard darted his eyes to me, just as I wiped a tear from my right cheek. “Are you all right, little one?” he asked.

  I shrugged. I contemplated telling him about my dad’s little slap. But too late—the man was already blowing his whistle at other passers-by. He disappeared down the road, as did my father. I was alone. I was free, and not free.

  I walked toward the terminal and searched for the nearest bathroom. It was hidden over by baggage check. I passed by two little girls, and a large woman dressed all in pink.

  I opened the door.

  #

  Saturday, June 12, 1999 (later)

  The bathroom at the back of the plane was so tiny that the guy barely fit inside. I pulled him out, down the aisle, away from the smoke, and took my first good look at him.

  I noticed his hairy legs, then his green, bulky sweater. His hair was short and spiky, one side black and the other side blond. His ears were pierced, and a nose ring protruded through his left nostril. I couldn’t decipher his age—he could have been as young as fourteen or as old as twenty-one.

  “You’re not my dad,” I said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  I helped him up to his feet. He towered over me by at least eighteen inches.

  “Whoa. You’re tall.”

  He wiped the dirt from his face and rubbed the back of his head. “Is anyone in the plane hurt?”

  “No. I mean... yes. As far as I can see, everyone’s dead. Except you and me.”

  “What?” His jaw dropped a few noticeable inches. He stepped past me and entered the coach area. He surveyed the bodies. “Oh God, this is terrible. But this can’t be everyone. The plane was packed.”

  “What? Really?”

  He nodded. “Didn't you notice? Every seat was taken.” He turned to his left and yanked on the red emergency door handle.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. I noticed a thin trail of blood on the back of his neck.

  “Maybe the survivors are already outside,” he said.

  He pushed again on the emergency latch, and the door jolted outward.

  “Oh no!” he shouted.

  “Oh my God!” I yelled as the door pulled him forward. He lost his footing and dropped to the ground. I leaned against the doorway and peered down. “Mister? Are you hurt?”

  “I…” He sat up, brushed himself off. “I don’t know. I don't think so.”

  “Hold on, I’m coming down.”

  I could have run back to the cockpit and leaped into the house, but I didn’t want to let the only living person in the vicinity out of my sight.

  I bent my knees. “Here I come!”

  “Okay. Just don’t jump on top of me—”

  I landed right on top of his chest.

  “Oww,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry, are you all right?” I rolled off him.

  “I was feeling better before you landed on my guts. But yeah, I guess so. It’s my head that hurts.”

  He jumped up and faced me. I came up to his belly button. “Where are we?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  He blocked the sun from his eyes with his huge hands, and looked toward the house. “And where are the survivors? There’s no one out here.”

  “I told you. It’s just us.”

  “But that’s impossible. There must have been 100 people on the plane. How many bodies were up there? Thirty?”

  “I… I don’t know.” Now I had a headache coming on. He pressed his hand against my back. I was surprised when I didn’t jump from his touch.

  “I was in the bathroom when it happened,” he said.

  “When the plane crashed?”

  “Yeah. I hit my head and blacked out. I’m surprised I’m alive.”

  “Really? The same thing happened to me.”

  He pulled me toward him, locked his eyes on me. “What happened to the other passengers? Do you know?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I know as much as you.”

  “Were you in first class or coach?”

  “Neither.”

  He paused. “What?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  He looked away from me and said, “Well, thanks for getting me out.”

  “Of course.” I pointed to the house. “We should call 9-1-1, right? Just in case someone hasn’t already?”

  “Umm, it doesn’t look very safe in there.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Shouldn't we search the house for a phone?”

  Like an answer to my question, flames exploded out of the house’s kitchen windows, and roared toward the nose of the plane.

  We both stopped. I grabbed the young man’s arm and buried my head in his chest. “Oh my God. Oh my God, what do we do?”

  “We need to get out of here,” he said.

  I peered up at him. We had just met, but he already felt like a friend. “All right. But where?”

  He glanced in every direction. “I don’t know. Should we see what's on the other side of the plane?”

  I shook my head and pointed to the left, at the dirt trail with the daffodils. “I say we head that way.”

  “You think?”

  Before we had to make a decision, a dog started yapping.

  “Wow,” I said. “I don’t believe it.” The little dog from the cargo hold came rushing toward us.

  The young man bent over a little, and, for the first time, smiled. “I guess we have another survivor, after all.”

  “Absolutely.” I leaned down, petted the mutt. “Hi doggie, aren’t you a cute little doggie?” She was a gorgeous white terrier, with the slightest shade of black on her paws. I looked at her collar. Her name was Judy. “Which way, girl? Let’s have you decide! Which way should we go?”

  The dog barked three times at my face, then started prancing like a little princess toward the dirt trail.

  I shrugged. “I guess we’ll go that way.” I put out my hand and said, “I’m Zipporah, by the way. You can call me Zippy.”

  He shook it. “Nice to meet you, Zippy. I’m Frankie.”

  We followed after the dog, no real destination in sight. I had no idea where the path was going to take us.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Saturday, June 12, 1999

  When the sun disappeared over the mountains, a cold breeze cut through my dress. I wrapped my arms around my chest, as my teeth started chattering. I was enraged I didn’t have my suitcase.

  “My coat was in there,” I said. “I hate that all I have on is this dress, this stupid dress!” I tore at the white shoulder ruffles, ripping them off with three hard tugs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Something I should have done a long time ago. There.” I tossed the ruffles to the ground.

  “That was stupid,” Frankie said. “Now you’re gonna be even colder.”

  “I don’t care. Shut up.”

  “Here.” He pulled off his sweater and handed it to me. “Take it.”

  “Really? It’s probably gonna be a little big for me, isn’t it?”

  “I think more than a little. For you, it’ll be like a nightgown. Here, let me help.” He wandered behind me and dropped the swea
ter over my head. The XXL went all the way down to my knees.

  “Oh my God, it’s so warm,” I said, and smiled up at him. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” We continued on our walk. “So why were you going to Seattle?”

  I hesitated telling him my story, but I needed to get it out. My story was too good not to.

  “That’s awful,” Frankie said, when I finished. “But good for you for standing up to your father like that.”

  “I didn’t stand up to him. I ran away from him.”

  “You took off in the most fantastic way possible. Do you think I could fit in a suitcase?”

  I didn’t have to think too long on that one. “I’m the size of one of Snow White’s dwarves and I could barely fit. I think you’re out of luck.”

  He laughed, but then frowned as he brought his hand to the back of his head.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “It’s just my head. It’s fine.”

  Judy barked up ahead. Every time she did I hoped a third human would show his face, but so far Frankie and I seemed to be the last people on Earth.

  “Maybe she’s hungry.”

  “Are you hungry?” Frankie asked.

  “Starving.” I walked up to the dog. “What is it, girl?”

  Judy set her paws against the trunk of a tree. I glanced up in the hopes of seeing fruit dangling from branches. Instead I found something better: a backpack.

  I dropped to my knees and confiscated it. Not much was inside. A half-eaten ham sandwich, an unopened bag of tortilla chips. I ripped the bag open and started eating the chips like a ravenous wolf.

  “Leave some for me,” Frankie said. He shoveled the chips into his mouth like they were buttered popcorn. Then we split the sandwich—it was watery, but still fresh.

  “I was so hungry,” I said, when we finished devouring the food. Frankie picked up the last object from the bottom of the backpack, a large unmarked bottle.

  “What do we have here?” he said.

  “Is it water?”

  He smiled, and kicked the empty backpack away. “I don’t think so.”

  Frankie tipped his head back and drank, then made a goofy, pained expression. “Whoa. Now that’s good stuff.”