T he anniversary of the bombing had a greater hold on Jenna this April. She wasn’t sure why, it just did. So on Friday after school when all her students were picked up and she’d finished her lesson plans for the next week, Jenna drove to Schiller Park.
The place had been one of her favorites since she’d moved to Columbus. Nicely kept with dozens of trees, all hundreds of years old. A path wound a little more than a mile around the perimeter, perfect for a walk. And today Jenna wanted nothing more.
She started near the statue of Friedrich von Schiller, the German poet. Clouds had gathered overhead, the air chilly for late April. She slipped her hands into the pockets of her rain jacket and stared straight ahead. Why was it so hard to move on? So hard to let go of what happened to her parents?
The answer was obvious. Healing was difficult. For nations and cities. But especially for people. She kept her eyes open, but gradually the images in front of her changed until she was no longer seeing trees and stretches of grass and park benches.
Rather she was seeing the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. After the bombing. Of course, Jenna didn’t remember firsthand what it had looked like. Neither her grandmother nor she had ever driven by the ruins of what remained that spring. Her grandmother had been busy planning two funerals, and no one would’ve considered taking Jenna by the place where the building once stood.
It didn’t matter.
On the fourth anniversary, Jenna’s teacher presented a slide show of the devastation. Jenna must’ve seen pictures before then. But the photos that day were the first time she understood the scope of horror involved in the explosion. Watching the images, Jenna had started to cry, and when she couldn’t stand to see another, she had gotten up and run from the room. After that, her grandmother never sent her to school on the anniversary again.
Staying home kept her safe from having to see reminders of the terrible reality of that day. It assured she wouldn’t be sitting in class when a photo of her parents buried under rubble might randomly appear as part of a classroom discussion. But staying home left her with no one to talk to about that day. No one except her grandmother. And since her grandma had lost her daughter and son-in-law, the dear woman had no desire to speak about the tragedy.
Not with Jenna. Not with anyone.
Out of sight, out of mind. That was her grandmother’s way of thinking. Which was why—when Jenna was seventeen—her heart had been nearly exploding for the chance to talk to someone about the bombings. The year she met Brady.
Jenna kept walking, slower now. She didn’t think about Brady all the time anymore. Only around the anniversary. Sometimes not even then. There were years recently when she’d been so busy processing her miscarriage and then her divorce that she’d barely made time to find a quiet place to remember the anniversary at all.
The clouds overhead grew darker and the wind picked up. Jenna didn’t care. She needed this time too much to worry about the weather. Besides, her coat kept her warm enough. She lifted her eyes to the sky as she walked.
The day with Brady had happened a month after Jenna’s birthday. At first her plan had been to sleep in, get up around noon and get ahead on her homework.
But school had always come easily for Jenna, and she wasn’t one to sleep late. She woke around seven that morning, took a shower and got dressed. By eight-thirty she knew where she wanted to go. The place she hadn’t been to since her parents were killed.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial.
Once in a while she’d think about going there, heading through the gates and seeing the place dedicated to those killed. But Jenna had never seen any reason why she should go. Better to remember her parents as they were. Happy and in love, sitting with her at the end of her bed, reading to her. Love you to the moon and back, Jenna.
As she headed out, her grandma had stopped her. “Honey? You okay?”
Jenna’s answer was the same as always. “I’m fine.” Then she hugged her grandmother and looked into her eyes. “What about you?”
And her grandma’s tears had come. Just enough to wet her eyelashes. She shook her head, and her lips quivered. She put her hands alongside Jenna’s cheeks. Her words took time to come. “I miss them. That’s all, I just miss them.”
Jenna used to feel jealous of her grandmother for that reason alone. She had more memories of Jenna’s parents. For Jenna the memories were so distant, so dim that she was denied even that. The chance to miss them.
That day as she drove, Jenna hadn’t even been sure how to get to the memorial. She got lost a few times, but finally she found the place. For thirty minutes she sat in her car and just stared at the entrance. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected it to look like.
Certainly not like a park. Yet that was how it looked. Trees and grass, open and inviting. Jenna hadn’t known where to start. She wasn’t sure she would do more than sit in her car and look at the place from a distance. But something about it drew her inside.
Jenna paused the memory. She was still walking, but now she stared up through the leaves of the trees overhead, and suddenly she remembered another detail. In those first few minutes at the memorial, she had been struck by something deeply profound. What had happened to her parents didn’t happen to her alone. It happened to the whole country. To everyone old enough to remember April 19, 1995. Of course, that had always been the case. But Jenna hadn’t registered the fact until the moment she saw the scope of the memorial.
The significance of it.
She kept walking along the Schiller Park path, still slower than before. And as she did she gave herself over to everything about that distant memory. How the air had smelled of sweet jasmine planted near the pathway. The way the bronze walls stood, reaching to the sky with their time stamps.
9:01. That was the one Jenna could see from the parking lot. The minute before the bomb went off. The last minute her parents were still alive. With every step she took, every breath, the memory of her long ago visit came to life a little more.
Until finally she wasn’t walking in Schiller Park at all. Rather, she was getting out of her car and crossing the memorial grounds. The sky had been cloudy that day, too, so Jenna wore a lightweight navy raincoat and a white knit beanie. She paid the admission fee and slipped through the gates unnoticed. The museum had displays with enormous photos of the horror.
Jenna didn’t want to see any of them. That wasn’t why she had come. She could go online anytime and see images of the bombing. No, she was here for one reason. To honor the memory of her parents. To stand where they stood in their final moments on earth.
The empty chairs called to her first. They were each lit, translucent almost, one for every person killed in the attack. But almost at the same time she was drawn to another part of the site. The spot where most people milled about.
A stretch of fence that bordered one side of the grounds.
Jenna wandered that way and only then did she understand why so many people were there. The chain link was covered with cards and letters, photos and flowers. Things left in honor of those who died.
The entire stretch was quiet and reflective. Here, the memories were a living, breathing thing. Until that instant Jenna hadn’t known the fence existed. That she could’ve brought letters or cards there in her parents’ memory. Or that she maybe should’ve been visiting the site every year.
Jenna stepped back and took it all in, just watched the people around her. Some of them stood in one place and didn’t move, not a step to the right or to the left, their gaze fixated on some object or photo, something written. Others walked slowly, reading the messages, caught up in the offerings.
Most people seemed to be by themselves. On pilgrimages of their own.
It was then, a few minutes after she’d found a spot near the fence, that Jenna saw him. She thought he was older, twenty, maybe. Twenty-one. He was tall, tan with dark hair and muscled shoulders.
What’s he doing here? she thought. Even now she remembered catching her breath as he walked
closer. His attention was on the fence, as if he were looking for something. Or reading the letters left by other people.
Just as he was about to pass by, their eyes met.
Jenna wanted to look away. She’d been caught staring at him, after all, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t break contact with the stranger if her life depended on it. He slowed and then sauntered toward her.
“You’re new.”
She pointed to herself. “Me?”
“Yeah.” He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. “You’re new. I’m here every year. I’ve never seen you.”
She shifted, captivated by him. “You mean . . . you know these people?” Her glance moved along the fence. The visitors were a mix of different ages. “Are you all . . . like from a club or something?”
He looked more intently at her. “You could say that.”
Jenna wasn’t sure what he meant, so she held out her hand. “I’m Jenna.”
“Brady.” His fingers felt warm against hers. He crossed his arms. “If you’re here . . . today . . . something tells me you’re in the club.”
She looked at the fence. “What is it? The club?”
For a long time he said nothing. He slid his hands into his pockets and stared at the people around them. Like he was studying them. When he turned to her again the walls in his light brown eyes were down. Just a little. “Why are you here, Jenna?”
“I’ve never been.” Her answer was quick. She didn’t just tell people her story. Not so soon.
He nodded slowly. “That’s it? You’ve never been?”
“Right.” She tilted her chin and looked at him straight-on. “Why are you here?”
That’s when he pushed up the sleeves of his cream-colored sweater. He held out his arms. “Look.”
She took a step closer. At first she didn’t see anything unusual. His forearms were as nice as his shoulders. Then she looked more carefully and there they were. Small lines etched into his skin.
“Touch them.” His voice soothed the raw edges of her heart.
This was crazy. Jenna wouldn’t typically touch strangers. But something about him drew her in. She ran her fingers lightly over the marks. Only then did she know the truth. They were scars. Her eyes lifted to his. “You . . . were hurt.”
The dots connected all at once. She turned and looked at the place where the federal building had stood and then back to him. “You . . . you were in the building?”
He pulled his sleeves down and took a long breath. “Walk with me, Jenna.”
She’d never met the guy. Never seen him before. But somehow he felt like a friend. Like she’d known him all her life. She walked beside him, both of them quiet. He led her up a set of stairs to a bench not far from a large tree. The image of the tree was familiar, its trunk and outstretched branches something she had seen before.
They sat on the bench and Brady sighed. “Me and the tree. We’re the same.” He turned and faced her. “We both survived that day.”
Jenna felt the connection between them grow. “What happened?”
“You first.” His eyes were kinder now. “Why are you here?”
From where they were sitting Jenna could see the field of empty chairs. She stared in that direction and took her time. If Brady had been here that day, if he’d been in the building when the explosion went off, then he would understand.
If anyone would.
She looked at him again. “My parents worked in the building. Different floors.” Her eyes welled up. She hadn’t expected to cry in front of him. “I . . . I lost them both.”
Slowly, deliberately, Brady reached for her hand. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. For a long time they stayed like that. His warm fingers around hers, his thumb soft against her skin. “Where were you?”
With her free hand, Jenna caught the first tear as it fell down her cheek. “With my grandma. I stayed with her while my parents were at work.” She tried to smile, but it did nothing to stop her crying. “I was five.”
That last part seemed to hit Brady harder than the rest of her story. “Five.” He squinted toward the sky, then back at her. “I was five, too.” His hand was still safe around hers. “I was here with my mom when . . .”
His voice trailed off. There was nothing rushed about their conversation. The silence was easy between them. Comfortable and achingly sad all at the same time.
Jenna waited. Brady’s story would come eventually.
And after a minute it did.
10
J enna had watched Brady, studying him. He was quiet for a long time, as if the train that held his memories only came by every so often.
He looked at the stormy sky again, or maybe to some far-off place he clearly didn’t want to visit. He filled his lungs. “My mom and I were in line at one of the federal offices.” He shifted his attention to her. “I was playing with this gray stanchion, this thick dirty cord that kept us in line, and my mom was telling me not to touch it. I’d get germs.” He paused. “And then . . .” His eyes glistened, the memory alive again. “She came down to my level and smiled at me. Straight at me.”
Jenna could picture it. Like a movie playing out in the space between them.
“She told me we were almost done.” He sniffed and looked to the sky once more. “That’s all I remember.” He was still holding her hand, but he held up his other arm. “I woke up in the hospital with these cuts. That’s it. My mom . . . she protected me from everything else.”
He didn’t have to say his mother didn’t make it. Jenna already knew.
Brady pointed at the tree. “You know the story about that?”
“Not really.” For the first time, Jenna wanted to know more about what happened that April 19. “I’ve . . . stayed away.”
The empathy in Brady’s tone was a connection Jenna had never felt before. Kind and understanding. The same hurt as her own. “I get that. Staying away.” He searched her face. “You’re still in the club. Whether you come here or not.”
She nodded. The club. “The people along the fence. They all . . . they all lost someone?”
“That’s what I tell myself.” He looked over his shoulder back to where the people still stood. Some of them gripping the chain link. “I see lots of them every year.” He turned to her again. “Why else would they be here?”
Jenna could think of a few reasons, but she liked Brady’s explanation better. Wanderers, broken people. All of them survivors, one way or another. She motioned to the tree. “Tell me about it.”
“The Survivor Tree?” Brady stood and helped her gently to her feet. Maybe because of the weather, there was no one else on the patio near the elm that day. Just the two of them, making their way to the tree trunk.
He still had hold of her hand. When they reached the tree, Brady put the palm of his other hand against the bark. “Every bit of this tree was ripped to shreds. Glass and metal. Who knows what else.” He paused. “Its branches were sheared off.” Brady glanced at her. “It even caught fire.”
“It did?” Jenna pressed her free hand against the trunk, too. “You could never tell. It’s so . . . strong.” That was what surprised her most. The tree was easily the biggest and most beautiful at the memorial.
“Which is why I love this place.” Brady pulled back and Jenna did the same. They faced each other. “If the old elm can be strong again . . . so can we.”
“Yes.” It was something Jenna desperately wanted to believe. But for that moment it was enough to be here with Brady.
For a second he looked like he might kiss her. But then he gave her the slightest smile. “Is it weird? That I’m holding your hand?”
“No.” It wasn’t just that he was the cutest boy she’d ever seen. Somehow holding hands here at the memorial with someone else who had lost his mom seemed perfectly normal. Better than normal. She felt the corners of her lips lift a little. “It’s nice.”
“Good.” They walked down the stairs to the pond and found a low-slung stone wall. He releas
ed her hand as they sat side by side, facing the water. Close enough that his arm brushed against hers. He waited a minute. “I can’t believe you haven’t been here.”
His tone didn’t hold any judgment. Just surprise. If she’d known she might meet him here, she would’ve come sooner.
She glanced at him. “I can’t believe you come every year.”
“It’s my way . . . I don’t know.” He breathed in, deep and slow, and leaned toward the pond, elbows on his knees. “My way of keeping her with me.”
“Mmm.” Jenna let that settle for a minute. “I don’t think about this place.” She hesitated. “When I think of my parents, I guess I think about heaven. They . . . went there together.” Jenna smiled at Brady through fresh tears. “That makes me feel better.”
“I get that.” Brady looked past her eyes to her heart. “If they were anything like you . . . I wish I could’ve known them.”
“Me, too.” Jenna lifted her eyes to the sky. “Sometimes . . . I’m not sure what I remember is even real.” She shifted her gaze and let herself get lost in his eyes. “Tell me about your mom.”
Brady sat up straighter and took her hand again. “She was beautiful.” He was in no hurry. “Her smile was like the sun.”
Jenna kept watching him. It was sinking in, the fact that she and Brady had both lost their parents when they were five. Right here. On the same day. “Do you remember her?”
“Not like I want to.” Brady sighed. “Maybe that’s why I come every anniversary. I don’t want to lose her. The part of her I can still see and hear.”
They got up and walked to another bench, one near a grove of trees at the other side of the memorial. The clouds were darker still, and a cool breeze had picked up. They sat facing each other this time. He didn’t reach for her hand, but it didn’t matter. Their hearts were still connected. Jenna searched his face. “What about your dad?”
“I never knew him.” The hesitation in Brady’s eyes was gone now. Completely. “After my mom died, I lived with a friend of hers. Then the state moved me to foster care and I stayed in the system. One house to the next.”
To the Moon and Back Page 10
