Smoke (32 page)

Andy takes out his pocketknife and flips it open. He jumps down off the stage and walks to the window. He stabs a hole in the plastic and slides the knife down until it punctures the tent itself. He’s able to cut through a couple of inches but then gets stuck.

I drop down next to him and take the other end of the fabric in my hands.

“Rip in the other direction.”

We both start straining on the fabric. I lean back on the heels of my feet, putting my body weight into it.

The fabric lets go in one big roaring sound, and the release of tension tips me over onto the ground.

Ben is there to help me up.

“What are you doing?” he yells so I can hear him.

“We need to widen this. Can you help us?”

“Let me do it. You should get out of here.”

“I’ll never make it through the crowd. Where are your parents?”

“I can’t find them.”

“Let’s open this,” Andy says, “then you can look for them.”

They work quickly together, pulling back the fabric and cutting the bottom so there’s a second exit. Andy goes to the people nearest to us and directs them to turn around and follow him.

“Can you get them out of here?” Andy asks me, pointing to John Phillips and Kate, who are still standing on the stage, rooted to the spot.

“Where should we go?”

“Bring them to the arts building. We’re sending buses there.”

“Give me your knife for a sec.”

He hands it over. I hold my skirt away from me and slash at the fabric near my knees. I put my hand into the hole and rip with the help of the knife until the bulk of the dress has tumbled to my feet. I kick it aside so no one trips on it. I give the knife back to Andy and turn to Ben.

“You need to find your parents and make sure they’re okay.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stay here and make sure everyone gets out.”

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“Of course it is. Please, Ben. I’ll be fine. We’ll meet up after, okay? Just be careful.”

I hug him quickly as smoke flows through the opening in the tent like bellows are propelling it. I turn away from Ben and haul myself back onto the stage. I grab Kate with one hand and John Phillips with the other.

“We have to get out of here.”

I tug, and they follow me down the stairs to the opening. Andy’s standing to one side, holding onto the fabric, shouting at people where to go when they get outside.

Our eyes lock for a moment. “Be safe.”

“I will. Go.”

I pull Kate and John through the opening like toddlers. The flames are over the ridge now. I stop long enough to watch pink-colored water pouring from the belly of an aircraft. The smoke billows up from the doused flames. Then I turn my back to the Peak once more and give a tug in the right direction to my charges.

“Run!”

DAY SIX

CHAPTER 36

All Through the Night

Elizabeth

I leave Kate and John
at the arts center, then turn and run back to the tent. There’s a broken line of people hurrying across the lawn, and I stop to help an older couple. The man has a graze across his cheek. His wife’s hands are shaking. When I get them back to the center, there are two EMTs doing triage and three big yellow school buses in the parking lot. An EMT wipes the blood off the man’s face. He has only a small nick on his chin, so a quick bandage is applied and blankets are placed over both of their shoulders. Then I help them onto a school bus and into a seat.

“Where are you taking them?” I ask the driver.

“Mason,” he says, giving the name of the next town over. “Everyone’s being moved to the rec center.”

I climb off the bus and hustle back to the arts center to see if I can help. Orderly lines have formed now, and I don’t see anyone in need of immediate assistance. I lean against the side of the building to catch my breath. My ears are ringing from the howl of sirens and the near-constant air bombardments. The air around me seems tinged with the pink dye they put into the water drops to make it easier to see if they’ve hit their targets. There are small droplets of it staining what remains of my dress.

In all the chaos, I’ve lost track of Ben. His parents weren’t in the arts center. I’m hoping they were near the entrance of the tent and took their car home with Ben in tow. I reach into my skirt for my phone, but I don’t have a pocket anymore. The pocket of my skirt is somewhere in the tent.

The night air surrounds me like a furnace, my dress is in tatters, and my feet are swollen and bruised. But we got everyone out. We won’t likely know till first light whether the fire’s going to be held at the Peak. Everything that can be done is being done.

I try not to think about what that means for my house.

I look out across the field. A line of fire and smoke outlines the Peak against the night sky. The firefighters’ headlamps wink like fireflies. The wind has picked up again, rattling the tent against its poles like it’s sitting atop Everest. I tell one of the firemen I’m going to make a last check of the tent, and race away from the building before he can tell me no.

The tent looks like a speakeasy after Mardi Gras. Overturned tables, the air perfumed by spilled wine and burned-out votives. It’s a miracle, really, that no one was seriously injured and the whole tent didn’t go up in flames.

I walk tentatively through the space, sweeping for anyone missing, keeping my tender feet away from the broken china and glass. The rough edges of the tent flap behind me, snapping loudly.

I find the remains of my dress next to the side of the stage. I lift the skirt, but I know already from the weight that it’s empty. I get down on my hands and knees to search. A large gust blows against the side of the tent, pressing the fabric to my face. I push it aside and peer under the stage. Something shiny is there. I lie flat on my stomach and reach as far as I can. My fingers brush the edge of what I’m certain is my phone.

As if brought alive by my touch, it begins to flash with an incoming call. I stretch farther, but I can’t reach it. I flatten myself against the ground and inch under the stage. I can see the screen. Ben’s calling. I use my hands to inch myself forward as a large ripping sound fills the air. The wind shrieks, and I can feel the sides of the tent expand and contract like a set of lungs. My hand closes around the phone as my ears fill with sound. The stage buckles above me, thudding against my head, and I have just long enough to think about what a stupid idea this was before everything goes black.

“Ms. Martin?”

I blink awake, coughing, inhaling the smell of canvas and wine and smoke. It must’ve been a crazy night on the work site, celebrating the end of the fire. I can’t even remember going to . . . Hold up.

Where the hell am I?

“Ms. Martin? Stay still while I move this.”

I can’t place the familiar voice, but I obey it.

I open my eyes. I can see, but I can’t. Everything is black, and my eyes are stinging. Something also seems to be pinning my shoulders to the ground.

“Fire,” I say. My voice sounds loud in my head and swallowed outside of it. “Fire,” I say again.

“It’s okay. There’s no fire in here. You just stay still.”

“Ben?”

“No, ma’am. I followed you over from the arts center. Seemed like this was a bad place for anyone to come by themselves. Good thing I did, leastaways.”

I turn my head slightly to try to see who’s speaking, and that’s when the pain hits. My head is throbbing, my neck feels compressed, and a large cramp ripples through my abdomen.

Oh, God. Oh no.

“Need to get out.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’ll just be a minute.”

“Get . . . help.”

“I shouted, but everyone’s taking care of the fire and loading the last group onto the buses. I don’t have a phone.”

Something clicks.

I squeeze my hand. I’m holding a phone. I slide my fingers over the screen.

9-1-1

“State the nature of your emergency.”

“You saying something?” he asks.

“I . . .”

“Is anyone there? Do you need help?”

“You got a phone in there?”

“If you can’t talk, please try to press one of the keys on your phone. Press it once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand me? Once for yes and twice for no.”

I move a finger and press emphatically.
Yes
.

“Do you need help?”

A long beep.

“Is this Elizabeth Martin?”

Yes
.

“Our system indicates you’re near the base of Nelson Peak. Is that correct?”

I press a long note again, then say as loudly as I can, “Tent.”

“You’re in a tent?”

“Party. Tent. Collapsed.”

“A tent collapsed near the base of the Peak?”

Yes.

“Are you injured?”

Another beep.

“How badly are you injured? On a scale of one to five. One being low, five being high. Give me a beep for each.”

One. Two. Three. I pause. Four.

“Pregnant,” I manage to gasp. “I’m pregnant.”

“All right, ma’am. Assistance is on its way. Our emergency services are stretched tight this evening, but we’ll get to you as quickly as possible. Please remain calm. Someone is coming.”

The object pressing me into the ground digs into my back and then lifts before I can get the cry of pain out of my mouth.

I breathe in and out deeply, aware for the first time that I hadn’t been able to take a deep breath before. My stomach cramps again. I try to reach down, but all I succeed in doing is losing my grasp on the phone.

I know where I am now. Trapped under the stage in the tent because I went looking for my stupid cell phone. Because of Ben. I needed to call Ben. At least I know he isn’t in here. But if he got out, why didn’t he come find me?

“Ms. Martin?”

“Mr. Phillips?”

“Ayuh.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I followed you, as I said.”

“I thought I put you on a bus?”

“Got off it, didn’t I?”

“Why—”

“Let’s get you out of there.”

“Someone’s coming.”

“Maybe. You think you could push yourself on your stomach if I tug on your feet?”

I move my neck gingerly. Nothing seems out of place, though pain shoots down my back.

“Let’s try.”

He grunts and places his warms hands around my ankles. I push at the floor with the heels of my wrists. Pain shoots up the left side of my body, but I grit my teeth and ignore it. Push, tug, stop. Push, tug, stop. Nothing feels broken, just rattled, bruised. Push, tug, stop.

Time is a rubber band. I thought I knew what living in the moment was. All those forests. All those fires. Lost in the physicality of it.

But that was nothing. This is me being in my life. Right here. Right now. Inch by inch.

“That’s it. Keep on going, you’re almost out.”

I push myself to the limit, and now John’s hands are on my waist. After a couple more tugs, I am out from under the stage.

I roll onto my back and place my hands on my stomach. It’s warm to the touch.

The power is out in the tent. Although my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I can only see shadows and outlines, a child’s tracing of chaos.

“Can you sit up?”

I let him ease me up and against the edge of the stage. The tent has ripped completely open and is flapping out into the night. Two of the tent poles nearest the stage are lying on the ground, and the stage itself is tilted like a seesaw.

“We should get out of here,” I say.

“You think you can walk?”

“Have to try.”

I place my hands on his shoulders, and he levers me up. My legs feel shaky and my left arm doesn’t seem to be working right, but we can’t stay here.

I sling my right arm around his neck, and we shuffle out of the tent’s makeshift opening. The wind gusts, and the canvas flies back and slaps at my face. Another cramp shoots through my stomach, doubling me over.

“I can’t . . .”

“Just a bit farther.”

“Bathroom. I need to get to a bathroom.”

John Phillips nods toward the concrete bunker I used earlier. “That’s the closest place.

I straighten up and take a few more steps.

“I’d carry you if I could.”

“I can make it.”

The wind is spiraling around us, and the sky is so dark. There’s a thick band of smoke the wind can’t disperse. The air is full of noise, louder than any concert I’ve ever been to. I’ve never felt this disoriented in my life. How do soldiers at war handle it? The noise? The pain? The fear?

We get to the bathrooms, and I shuffle into a stall, holding my hurt arm against my waist. As another cramp hits me, I sit there, too terrified to look. But when I finally bring myself to, there’s nothing alarming. No blood. I need to get to a doctor, but I haven’t lost this baby.

Not yet.

A siren is getting closer. I pull my dress down and limp outside.

“There she is,” John Phillips says. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with her. She got a good bump on the head when the tent collapsed.”

“Ma’am,” the EMT asks. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

I look into his shadowed face and voice my fears. “I think I might be having a miscarriage.”

CHAPTER 37

Puddle of Grace

Mindy

Mindy and Peter went round and round
in circles into Sunday morning.

Peter had seen Angus, who’d repeated what he told Mindy. He hadn’t done anything, he couldn’t explain what was going on, they should just believe him because he was asking them to. And Mindy had found it convincing, but to Peter it lacked conviction.

Maybe Angus was spent from his surroundings. Maybe Mindy had been too willing to accept something that wasn’t true. Whatever the reason, she and Peter had switched places now. She was the believer, he the questioner. She was spoiling for a fight, casting around trying to find a new solution. Peter was trying to reconcile himself to a future he didn’t think he could change. Both of them were filled with guilt and anguish and questions.