This Is Not a Drill (13 page)

CHAPTER 27

EMERY

I push the lobby button in the
elevator and lean against the wall. My legs wobble a little as I walk across the lobby; I hadn’t realized how tired I am.

A sign above an archway says
C
HAPEL
. In the dimly lit room beyond it, a dark-haired woman kneels alone near the front, her head bowed.

I know instinctively who she is.

I step into the room, move quietly past the three rows of church pews, and kneel beside her.

She looks up at me. Her face is streaked with tears. A rosary is threaded through her long graceful fingers.

“Are you Silda?” I ask.

“Yes?” she whispers.

“I’m Emery Austin,” I tell her, not sure if my name will mean anything to her.

Before I can say more, she reaches out and takes my hand in both of hers. Her hands are cold, but her grip is strong.

“Thank you,” she says with a slight accent; she’s pretty and soft-spoken.

“I didn’t want to disturb you—”

“No, I wanted to meet you. My baby—my Patrick tells me you gave him hugs. I’m so, so sorry for what . . .” She begins to cry.

“Is Patrick okay?” I ask.

She nods, and when she can speak again, she asks, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“And the boy—”

“Jake. Jake’s fine, too.”

“I’m thanking God for sparing Patrick’s life. And I am praying for him to have mercy on my husband’s soul.”

“I’m so sorry you lost your husband.”

“I lost Brian months ago,” she says quietly, “in a place far from here. I wish . . . I wish I’d tried harder to help him,” she says. “I didn’t know . . .”

“No one could have seen what would happen.”

“No.” She shakes her head.

“It was obvious that he loved you very much,” I tell her. I’m not sure how much I should say. “Even the way he said your name . . .”

Her face crumples and she nods. “I wish you could have known Brian—in happier times. He was a good person.” She wipes her face with her hand and says, “I’m afraid Patrick won’t remember him. He’s so young. I wish he could remember what his father was like—before—”

“He will,” I tell her. And I know I’m right. “He’ll remember his dad. He’ll remember the good days.”

I reach out and hug her. There doesn’t seem to be anything more to say.

“Oh,” she says as I’m standing up to leave, “he gave me something to give to you or Jake—Patrick did.”

She reaches in her purse and hands me a small stuffed animal—Lamby. Lamby with a tiny bloodstain right across his heart. He must have made the trip to the hospital in the ambulance with Patrick.

“I don’t know how you did it,” she says. “Stayed calm for the children.”

“They’re great kids,” I answer, my voice cracking a little. “I couldn’t let them down.”

I dig in my purse for a Kleenex as I walk back out to the lobby.

Suddenly, my legs nearly give way and I drop into a chair near the front door, clutching the stuffed animal and trying to pull myself together.

It hits me—hard—that I saw two men die today. Witnessing Michael Higgins’s death and Brian Stutts’s death has changed me in ways I don’t even understand yet. And changed their family’s lives forever.

A line from a Dylan Thomas poem comes to me: “After the first death, there is no other.” Death can never again be an abstract concept to me. It feels like nothing else will ever have the same impact. Like Stutts said—I know things now I didn’t know before.

The tears flow and I let them. People walking past try not to look. They’re probably used to crying here.

The only thing that’s keeping me from coming completely unhinged is knowing I can talk to Jake about it.

My phone dings and I pull it from my purse.
need u
the somewhat blurry text says.

Apparently, Jake got his phone back.

I smile, blow my nose on the wadded-up tissue, and scroll back to an earlier message I’ve read three times.
Emery, call me. Worried sick. Please let me know you’re all right. Dad.
I texted him as soon as I got my phone back and saw his message. It’s a number I didn’t have, but one I plan to call later, when I have lots of time to talk.

And then there are the texts from Mom—a dozen or so—from panicked pleas for reassurance that I’m okay to more recent orders for me to come home and get some rest.

And then I make a decision, feeling for the first time in a while like the master of my own fate. Mom’ll just have to deal with waiting for me a little longer tonight.

I know I need rest. But for the first time in a long while, I’m fine.

Just fine, Valentine.

I tuck my phone back in my purse and my hand brushes the photograph. I take out the picture Jake took on the first day we talked in art class—now made up of a dozen jagged squares held together with Scotch tape. I smile at our unsuspecting faces—all happy and innocent and hopeful.

All the pieces were still there—ready to be put back together in the spaces where they belonged. I turn away from the door and walk to the elevator that will take me back to Jake.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I CAN’T BEGIN TO DESCRIBE HOW LOVELY IT IS
to work with my Penguin editor, Nancy Paulsen, who felt like a soul sister from our first conversation. I admire her passion for bringing great books to a diverse population of readers, and I respect her judgment in all things. Her expert guidance benefitted this book enormously; she is a writer’s dream editor.

Words are inadequate to convey my gratitude to Jill Corcoran, my wonderful agent at Herman Agency. I will always love her for announcing on Twitter that she’d just found a diamond in the slush pile—at a time when I was starting to feel like a writerly lump of coal. Her enthusiasm and energy inspire me to write more and better. Jill is the perfect blend of wit and wisdom.

My daily life is enriched beyond measure by my inner circle. I am so thankful for my husband, David; my mom, Martha Brigman; and my family, Drew McDowell, Emily McDowell Elam, Cason Elam, and the always entertaining Jack Elam, for their faith, enthusiasm, editorial advice, and technical expertise. They are the heart and soul of everything that’s good in my life.

My sister Susan Siniard’s delight in the accomplishments of others is generous and genuine; she’s an amazing nurturer of family talent—mine included. Her husband, Tommy, is “practically blood kin,” as we say in the South, and has done more for our family than I can say. My sister Julie Moreau shares the family writing genes; I’m grateful for her insightful suggestions and NOLA hospitality. My brother, John, knows how to do most anything and helps us keep our lives in order. Close friends Geoff and Emily Evans, Megan Mercier, and Hannah Cail have played key roles in my writing path and are loved and appreciated “family” members, too.

For this work I’m indebted to Christopher George for his generous gift of time and friendship in helping me understand some of the nuances of a soldier’s life. Many thanks are due to my cousin Jeanne Wilson, a beloved first grade teacher, for wonderful stories from the trenches. Thanks also to Wendy Stephens, dear friend and talented librarian. I hope I did half the job she does of matching kids to books when I was in the classroom. And Shari George deserves thanks for being such an enthusiastic force on the hometown team from the very beginning. I love her amazing energy.

Many friends have lifted me up when I needed it. Thank you, Jim Sherwood, Jerry Whitworth, Beth and Walter Thames, Lula Mae Martin, Mike Chappell, Mike Patton, Michael Walker, Nichole Liese, Dena and Barry Schrimsher, Jerry Barclay, Carol Dayton, Turner Moore, Ben Morehead, Shaw Bowman, Alice Evans, Michael Kamback, Andrew Cotten, Russell Goldfinger, and Aaron Byers. And thanks to Raymond Harrell, Zach Hagin, and Jordan Hall for the great work on NotRequiredReading.com.

I doubt I would have ever written a word without the encouragement of wonderful hometown mentors R. A. Nelson (
Teach Me
,
Breathe My Name
,
Days of Little Texas
, and
Throat
) and Hester Bass (
The Secret World of Walter Anderson
). And I owe much to the Southern Breeze chapter of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. “Join SCBWI” was some of the best advice I heard as a beginning writer.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

IF YOU SUFFER FROM POST TRAUMATIC STRESS
disorder (PTSD)—whether you’re a military veteran, victim of a natural disaster, sufferer from domestic abuse, or a survivor of an act of terrorism or other trauma—there are trained counselors in your area who can help you. You can access these professionals online or through your local doctor or mental health center. Please seek treatment; let others help you find the strength to rebuild your life.

Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome affects 1 in 100 teens. If you feel you may have POTS symptoms, seek medical help. Insist on a thorough examination for any physical or psychological problem you’re experiencing, and see other doctors if you don’t get satisfaction from your current ones. Trust your instincts when your body says something’s wrong, and be persistent in seeking answers. It’s a very manageable condition once you understand the symptoms.