ALLUSIVE AFTERSHOCK (10 page)

“Mom? No, Mommy! Oh
God, no. Mommy, Mommy.” I yanked away particles of wood, shoving them away from
where I believed her body was. “Max, help me. We have to get her out.” 

Max crouched down
beside me, feeling around the area where we’d seen the sweater sticking out
from under the rubble. I stopped digging and stared at him, puzzled; why wasn’t
he helping me? What was he doing? 

“No Adela, she’s not
here. It’s just her sweater.”

“What? She was wearing
that sweater this morning. She must be under there. We have to get her out.”

“Okay. Let’s keep
checking, then.”

I went back to pulling
and shoving the muck away from my mom’s sweater, feeling around and under
boards and broken walls for an arm or a leg. If she was there, she had to be
alive. I just knew it. We searched just about every inch of the demolished
house, moving whatever heavy pieces of boards and broken debris we could. We must
have spent an hour looking and calling out for my mom, my brother, my sister, but
we kept coming up with nothing. After a while, Max walked toward me with his
arms outstretched. He stopped inches in front of me, took my arms, and pulled
me against him. “I’m sorry, Adela. We can’t keep this up. We don’t have the
strength to move any more of this stuff.”

“No!” I shoved him
away. “She’s going to be all right. All we have to do is get her free from all
this stuff.”

 “Adela, we don’t even
know if she’s in here or in Sacramento with your dad.” I went back to the
search and Max watched. He’d stopped helping me and anger crawled up my spine
as my face flushed hot with rage. “Max, don’t just stand there, help me!”

“Adela …”

I jumped up and lunged
at him; using both my hands, I shoved at his chest and he had to steady himself
as he took a step back. “No, don’t you say it. Don’t you dare say it!” I pounded
my fists on his chest over and over again. “Don’t you say it … she’s not dead,
she’s not!” I continued to swing my fists even as he stood stiff, letting me
hit him until I finally collapsed into him, sobbing.

“I’m so sorry, Adela. I’m
so sorry.” His soft voice barely registered in my ear while he stroked his hand
over my head, trying to comfort me. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted to find my mom.
I wanted her arms around me, rocking me the way she did whenever I became upset
or sick. My legs buckled under me, and I collapsed to the ground. Max held on
and sank down with me. We sat on the pile of my broken home. “I’m pretty sure
she’s not here.” He continued, “I think she went to Sacramento with your dad.”

I sniffled, hoping Max was
right. I knew we couldn’t search through this on our own. I just wanted to try.

I don’t know how long we
sat there while I leaned against Max’s chest—could have been a few seconds,
could have been a few minutes. It felt like hours. I dried my cheeks with the
sleeve of my sweater but couldn’t lift my head from the comfort of Max’s
embrace.

I thought about how I’d
just used my sweater to wipe my tears and nose and sighed as I sniffled.
Speaking softly into Max’s shirt, I said, “My mom would cringe if she saw me do
that. She’d say, ‘Adela, stop, get a tissue. You’re going to ruin your sweater.’”

“Ah, you’re right, she
would. Are you going to be okay?”

“No, but what choice do
I have? I can only pray she’s with my dad and they’re okay—and hope Ambrosia
and Aaron survived. We need to find them.”

“Right. First let’s
find something for your hand.”

“My hand?”

“Yeah, look.” He placed
his fingers around my wrist, turning my hand over; blood covered my entire
palm. I stared at my blood-soaked hand as if it belonged to someone else. “When
did I do this?”

“You fell when you were
running toward the sweater.”

“Oh yeah, right, I fell.” I
shrugged. “There’s a lot of blood, but it doesn’t hurt.”

“It will once the shock
wears off.” He found a small dishtowel under the ramshackle pile of debris in
the kitchen area and wrapped the soft cloth around my hand, tying a knot at the
backside. “That should be tight enough to stop the bleeding. Let’s go to my
house. My folks can help us.”

I didn’t want to say
what I was thinking; especially since I was pretty sure Max thought the same
thing. With so much damage here at my house, what were the chances his house
survived? What were the chances his parents were alive? Who knew? Maybe the
winery was still standing and they somehow managed to get down in the cellar to
safety. I grabbed hold of Max’s hand as we walked. He glanced at me and gave me
a quick smile.

I thought back to a few
minutes earlier when I took comfort in Max’s arms. Man, under any other
circumstance I would have been in heaven. I don’t know why I had that thought. I
supposed it was easier than dwelling on where my parents might be, if they were
alive. I considered what my mom might say. She’d warned me many times about the
dangers of falling for Max—a boy who only thought of me as one of his pals. She’d
made comments about me spending too much time with Max, saying other boys might
not think I was approachable because they always saw me with him. Perhaps she was
right. But Max and I had shared everything together since fourth grade.
Everything except sex stories, or lack of sex stories—that was a subject we
never discussed. I was a virgin and pretty much wanted to keep that to myself.
Was I really setting myself up for a world of hurt? Max was my best friend,
practically family—and now might even be the only family I had left.

God, I hoped my mom was
with my dad. My eyes blurred with tears again and I swiped at them as they dripped
down my cheeks. My mind was so full of jumbled emotions; I tried hard not to
think about where my parents were and whether Ambrosia and Aaron were safe. They
were so young. I had to find them soon.

We backtracked, cutting
through the woods again, and came out a little to the north. The road Max lived
on lay straight ahead, in a fairly secluded countryside. The few houses in this
area were spread far apart. They were all custom homes built at various times
in history, with wide stretches of land between residences, which, I supposed,
made more room for horses and wineries. A little way over the hill, an old
abandoned gold mine stood—at least before the earthquake—a leftover from the gold
rush days. On occasion, a busload of school kids from various cities around
this part of the state visited on field trips, exploring a bit of California
history. I wondered now if the earthquake destroyed it.

Smoke still lingered in
the air. I couldn’t tell which direction it came from. We finally reached the
road and headed up the small hill. Everything seemed too quiet, without even the
sound of birds chirping. I wondered if the eerie silence meant another
aftershock was about to happen. I’d read somewhere that animals sometimes showed
certain characteristics before a disaster struck. Did the same rule apply to
birds?

I recognized the area.
Courtland Reese’s house was a little way up the road, but the familiar rusted
metal rooster that usually sat perched on the roof wasn’t sticking up above the
hill like it normally did.

“Where’s the rooster?”

“Huh?”

“The rooster. We should
be able to make out the rooster on Court’s roof from here.”

Max didn’t say anything
as we continued to get closer. The rooster was gone. The roof, a collapsed heap
of shingle and wood lay among the rest of the crumpled and smoldering debris. I
worried that Courtland might have been caught up in the fire when I remembered seeing
him crouched over Shiloh at the school before we left. For some reason the
thought that he was alive comforted me.

As we got closer to his
house, something moving on the side of the road caught my eye—a hand rising up
from the ground. “Oh, no.”

I ran toward the hand
and froze inches from Courtland. My heart skipped several beats and my stomach
curdled. Courtland lay sprawled out in the dirt, his leg and arm badly burned. I
gasped at the sight of his clothing sticking to his charred skin.

I stooped down next to
him. 

“Courtland? Can you
hear me?”

“Yes ... my leg is on
fire!”

I looked at his leg.
Red, blistered skin peeked out from the singed dark material of his jeans. “The
fire’s out. You’ll be okay.”

 Court tried to sit up
but Max came and crouched beside us and gently pushed him back down. “Dude, don’t
move. You got some serious burns.”

“You’re going to be
okay. Your leg and hand are in bad shape, but we’ll take you to Max’s. His mom
and dad will be able to help you.” I looked to Max, hoping he agreed and to my
relief, he nodded.

“I don’t think I can walk.
I’m pretty sure I sprained my ankle trying to put the fire out.”

“You’ll have to lean on
us, then,” I said.

“Crap! Dude, do you
think you can stand?” Max asked.

Court nodded. We each took
one of his arms and tried to pull him up to stand, but Court slunk back down
and something slipped out of his hand into the dirt. “I can’t. Hurts too much.”

Max glanced toward the
rubble that used to be Court’s house and took off running toward it.

“Max, where are you
going?” I shouted before focusing on Courtland again as his hand groped out beside
him for the thing he dropped. I picked it up, studying the photo of his mom and
dad before handing it to him. “Here. I’m sorry.”

Courtland didn’t say
anything as he took the frame from me.

My eyes searched in the
direction Max went, trying to figure out what he was up to, when he picked up a
large flat board and carried it over.

“This is a little
charred but we can put him on this and drag him.”

“Good idea. Courtland,
can you shimmy yourself onto this?”

Court opened his eyes
and squinted at the board. “Yeah, I think so. Maybe if you help.”

Max grabbed Court under
the arms, I lifted his feet, and we pulled him onto the board.

Courtland let out a
loud groan with the movement, which startled me and I almost let go, but managed
to tighten my grip on the back of his calf muscles, steadying his legs.
Dropping his feet now would only make his pain even greater. It was hard but I
managed to lower his legs to the board before letting go.

I straightened and
stared at Max. “Now what? How are we supposed to drag him?”

“Wait,” Max said, and ran
off again, but came back lickety-split, straightening some sort of wire.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Not sure—probably part
of the construction in the wall. Here, hold this.” He took out his pocketknife
and picked up a rock from the road. Max placed the tip of the knife on the
board right next to Court’s shoulder ready to pound the knife into the board
when Court reached up with his good hand and grabbed Max by the arm.

“Better not miss, MacGyver.”
Court glared at Max.

Max’s lips curled into
a devilish grin, the kind he would put on when he knew he was being a brat. He
pounded the knife through the wood, twisting it so it made a little slit wide
enough for the wire to go through. He did the same on the other side of the
board and stuck the wire through the holes, twisting each end tight to keep
them from slipping back though. He then wrapped his jacket around the loop of
the wire. “Grab on and pull, Adela.”

We yanked the board and
Courtland almost fell off. “Hold on, will you? This is hard enough without us
having to pick up your sorry ass again,” Max barked out.

I glared at Max.

“What?”

I shook my head; Courtland
lay still with his burnt hand crossed over his chest, the picture clutched
under his arm. The other hand gripped the side of the board, his eyes closed,
his brows scrunched, and his lips together in a tight, straight line. I could
only imagine the amount of pain he must be experiencing.

I’d only been burned
once in my life, a minor burn, nothing like Court’s. About a year ago, the iron
skimmed my wrist while I was pressing one of my blouses, barely singeing me,
but it hurt a lot. I had to hold my wrist under cold water from the kitchen
faucet forever until the burning stopped. With the outside of Courtland’s calf
and his hand and fingers blistering, I didn’t think a kitchen faucet running
with cold water would do the trick, even if we found a faucet we could use. I
cringed at the sight of the fabric from his pants sticking to parts of the
burn. That was going to hurt like a son-of-bitch when it had to be unstuck. I
prayed Mr. or Mrs. Wendell knew what to do and would be able to help.

We walked on for what
seemed like miles. Max lived only a short distance from Courtland, but undertaking
the uphill journey weighed down by Courland made it seem like ten miles. With
each step I took, my fingers ached from pulling the wire connected to the
pseudo travois Max fashioned to transport Court. Max’s thin jacket didn’t
shield the wire much and I felt sure the indents on my fingers would become
permanent as I tried to keep the part of my hand with the cuts away from the
wire. The sooner we got Court some attention, the better off he would be and
the sooner I could search for my sister and brother. Confident that the daycare
center had a basement and an escape plan in place for the kids, I worried that,
if they had gotten out okay, where would they be now? I hoped the school would
find suitable shelter for any of the kids whose parents didn’t show up for
them. Then the light bulb switched on. It couldn’t have been clearer in my head
if someone had shown me a picture, and I smiled. That had to be where my mom
was. She’d gone to the school to get the twins.

We tugged Courtland
along until we reached Max’s long driveway. Two cars sat in it, one behind the
other, but the house didn’t seem to have fared any better than Court’s or mine.

“Both their cars are
here. Come on!” Max dropped his side of the wire holding the board and
Courtland tumbled off onto the ground with a grunt.