Jennifer Brown - Torn Away

“I don’t know what to do,” I said, but Kolby didn’t answer, which made me unsure whether I’d said it out loud. “Kolby, what do I do?”

Kolby used his foot to scrape some shattered glass out of the way, then came over to where I knelt on the ground. “I don’t know,” he said.

I turned my eyes up to him. “What if they’re dead?” I asked. “What if they all died?” The question felt like a punch to my stomach.

Kolby knelt next to me. He didn’t try to tell me they weren’t dead. I guessed that was because he knew this looked as bad as I thought it did. They might be dead, or they might be injured or in comas or God knew what else. Telling me they were anything other than that would be a lie, and we both knew it. If they were alive and fine, they would have come home. Mom would have come for me.

The food I’d wolfed down in the tents roiled in my stomach as Kolby’s silence sank in. I scrambled clumsily up to my feet and thunked as far away from him as I could before bending at the waist and vomiting on a bare spot of dirt. I heard shuffling sounds as he stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said between retches. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and when I finished and came back to him, he clumsily patted my back between my shoulder blades. “Let’s go to the church,” he said. “Maybe they’ll know something.”

We scuffed away from Janice’s and toward the Lutheran church. The woman we’d talked to was right—they had set up a tent full of supplies. Kolby and I grabbed water bottles from a bucket of ice as soon as we reached the tent. I opened mine and began sipping it while Kolby downed his. The tent was stuffed with people who looked just as homeless and dazed as we were.

“Can I help you?” a woman in sandals, a tan vest, and a safari hat said, hurrying to greet us.

“Do you have lists?” I blurted out, getting to the worst before I tried to talk myself out of wanting to know.

“What kind of lists are you looking for, honey?” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder and pulling me toward a table, where she eased me into a folding chair.

“I can’t find my mom or my sister,” I said. “They were at Janice’s Dance Studio?” The last came out as a question, as if part of me was hoping that the woman would tell me I was wrong—that my mom and sister had never been at the studio, that they’d ridden out the storm safe and sound in someone’s basement instead.

The woman’s face fell a little, but she recovered very quickly. She leaned to the side and picked up a clipboard. “You want to add them to the list of those who are missing?” she asked.

“Is there… another list…?” I asked. “Of people who didn’t make it through?”

She shook her head. “It’s too early, and I’m afraid we haven’t been getting many updates about that,” she said. “The power’s out all over Elizabeth, which is making communication a challenge. But we’re compiling a list of the missing, so families who aren’t in contact with one another can at least see that someone else in the family is looking for them.”

“Is her name on there?” Kolby asked, pointing to the list. “Jersey Cameron?” He looked at me eagerly. “Maybe they’re looking for you, too.”

The woman scanned the list, running her finger down the names, her lips moving. At last she looked up and gave a rueful head shake. “No, honey, I’m sorry, it’s not. But we’ll add your mom and sister to this list—”

“And my stepdad,” I interrupted miserably. I felt my chin shake. “Everyone.”

“Okay, we’ll put their names down on the list, and that way when they get their bearings and come looking for you, they’ll know you’re fine,” she said.

I gave her my information, along with Mom’s, Ronnie’s, and Marin’s, but my voice got thick and tears welled in my eyes as I talked.

The woman put down her pen and stared at me sympathetically. “Honey, do you have somewhere to go? Someone you can try to get ahold of? We’ve got some cots we’re setting up in the sanctuary and the basement, and we can work with you to get in touch with any family you might have outside of Elizabeth. Or Child Protective Services.”

Fear wracked my body. I couldn’t go sleep on a cot in a church basement and wait for a social worker to show up and send me off to foster care. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I wasn’t going to do that. I eyed Kolby, who had gone over to another table, where a woman was pouring peroxide over his cut.

“I’m staying with his family,” I said. “Until we find mine.” I tried to smile, though it felt counterfeit on my face. Kolby was going to be leaving town to stay with his aunt, he’d said. He wasn’t going to take care of me. His mom wasn’t going to take care of me. They hadn’t offered, and even if they had, I wouldn’t go. What if Mom came back after I left?

“Okay,” the woman said. “But our doors are always open. We’ve had donations of clothes coming in all morning. You might go through those boxes over there and pick out a few things. Also, feel free to take any food and supplies you may need. We expect we’ll be getting lots more donations by tomorrow. Plenty of folks have already been coming in with truckloads of stuff.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I didn’t take anything. My stomach was still sour with nerves and exhaustion, and the last thing I cared about was my clothes. I still had water in the mini-fridge in the basement. I wanted to get out of there before I ended up having to stay.

The woman who was tending to Kolby’s arm slathered some cream on it and rewrapped it, telling him about the cots and the clothes and the food as well.

“You going to stay?” he asked when we were alone again.

“No. I’m going back. I don’t want them to freak out if they somehow make it home and I’m gone.”

My words felt hollow to me. Like something I didn’t really believe in.

But Kolby must have known how much I needed to say them. He didn’t question me, just started walking back the way we had come.

We got a ride back to our street from Jerry, the husband of the woman at the tent on Kentucky. He filled us in on details, what the radio newscasters were saying about the tornado. At least one hundred people dead. So many more injured.

But Kolby only answered him in grunts and thoughtful humming noises. He didn’t add anything of his own. And I didn’t respond, either. I watched out the window as the destruction rolled into view and thought, Home. This is my home.

And wondered if three of those one hundred dead belonged to me.

And how soon I would find out for sure.

It rained again that night.

I sat outside on what used to be my front porch and watched the rain fall. Let it soak into the skin of my forearms and drip off my earlobes. I took off Ronnie’s boots and wriggled my toes in it, the closest I could get to feeling somewhat washed.

Kolby’s mom tried and tried to get me to join them in Mrs. Donnelly’s cellar.

“Honey, your mama will find you there,” she promised. “You can leave her a note.” I stared at the raindrops, which landed in heavy splats on the toes of Ronnie’s boots, washing away the dirt and dust that had gathered there during our walk. “Sweetheart, you need to take care of yourself. The last thing you want is to get sick now. Come into the cellar and dry off. Get yourself something to eat. We’ve got canned pickles and peaches down there. Mr. Fay brought over some crackers as well.” I blinked slowly and shook my head. “Honey, nobody’s gonna be staying here much longer. You’re gonna have to go someplace, too. It’s unsafe. It’s unhealthy.” A drop of water slid down my nose. Finally, Kolby’s mom said a quick prayer that I was too numb to listen to and picked her way back to Mrs. Donnelly’s cellar, her big hips shaking with every step.