~ Mom ~

Still seated in the kitchen, I think about my brief to Carl on the plane crash. Keep it simple, Sarah. Simple and concise.

My inbox pops open, and I view my emails within seconds: work, work, junk, coupons, junk.

Ah, this is interesting—an email titled “Sorry.” From Aunt Amy, no less.

Hmm. That’s funny. I ask you, is it a sorry that she’s butting into and ruining my life or a sorry that I need to apologize to her for some sinful act I’ve committed? Or a sorry about the mess happening worldwide right now? I’ll deal with Denny’s aunt in a while. I must get the email to Carl pronto.

After opening a new screen, I enter my employee ID number and a blank page appears.

I type “Granada Hills Plane Crash” into the subject line.

Then I write the date, approximate time, and location and mention that the accident happened next to the megachurch so most readers will know its whereabouts. I’m guessing one to two thousand people march hypnotically through its church doors every Sunday; their cars block traffic like you wouldn’t believe on the main outlet street. I’m glad the townhouse complex isn’t involved in its parking problems. Now that I think about it, the same field where the plane crashed is used for the church’s overflow parking. While it had burned during a fire years ago, it has now become a charred graveyard with strewn-out body parts.

My fingers type in James’s name and age. The Source is already uploading pictures (including links of those posted on social media), data, and even blood type into separate columns on my screen. In a new section, I add the name of the airport, airline, and estimated landing time, knowing the Source will supply the type of plane, flight number, and how many passengers and crew were aboard. The finely tuned database icon shows its search progression for James’s name along with any people involved, famous or not, for any pertinent data. I type in Eddie’s name, realizing I don’t have a last name. Without asking, the Source spits back any Eddie, Edward, or Ed options to choose from the passenger manifest. An Edward Halstead pops up on the screen, complete with his seat number, age, address, phone, relatives, employment, traffic tickets, et cetera.

Al/Albert King’s name is entered in the search list; hopefully, the Source will dig up some dirt on the guy who thinks he’s God’s gift to the universe because he rescued James. A quick scan shows he’s forty-eight years old, married and divorced three times, has a twenty-two-year-old son, owns a gym in Reseda, and rents his townhouse. He owes over eight grand in past-due alimony and back taxes. Oh, and he was arrested several years ago for drunk driving. Stellar guy. Not.

My phone rings once again. Picking it up, I hope with all my heart that it’s Denny, somewhere close by, with a reasonable explanation.

Mom.

Ugh. Not now. What’s with her?

I swipe the phone and growl without giving her any margin to speak. “Mom, give me a second; I have to finish something important.”

“Sarah!” She is not cheery. I hear her screaming something in the background. She’s majorly upset. Living in Oregon, my parents seem more demanding of me lately. I think they don’t like being far away from either of their daughters, yet they moved there three years ago so Mom could teach graduate geology classes at the University of Oregon.

Leaving my phone on the island, I return to the laptop’s keyboard and quickly type in more bullet points about the plane’s separated parts, the fire department’s arrival, James’s hand waving, and Al rescuing the only survivor. I don’t bother mentioning my participation or lack of it. After checking for typos and adding the Source’s searched data link, I hit the “Send” button.

Finished with the task, I pick up the phone. “Okay, done—whew! Thanks, Mom.”

“Sarah!” Her scream hurts my ear. I can tell she’s angry that I didn’t answer or return her previous calls.

“Sorry, Mom, there was this horrific plane crash in the field next to our condo, and I was one of the first ones on the scene and took videos. This man and I pulled out the only survivor, a teenage boy. I had to send my images to the portal and . . .”

Ignoring me, Mom continues shouting into the phone. “Sarah! You’re not listening to me, Sarah! Jack and Jasmine are missing! They’re gone!”

She begins sobbing uncontrollably, which turns into coughing. As an asthmatic, Mom knows her allergies have been worse living in the fertile, pollen-filled Willamette Valley, and her symptoms can be problematic.

“No!” I yell back. “Not them! They must be somewhere!”

“Silvia is beside herself. The kids were both asleep in their beds, and they are nowhere! They can’t find them.” Cough. “Just their pajamas, diapers, and blankets. What can we do?” Cough. “Where are they?” The coughing increases. “And poor Silvia—she’s home alone—Tom had to leave—trouble at the warehouse.” She squeaks the words out between coughs and shallow breaths.

I hear Dad offering her an inhaler, so I tell her not to talk for a few minutes. Meanwhile, I do my best to assure her that the babies will reappear, somehow. I tell her what happened to me and bring her up to date, adding that James’s mother came to get him minutes ago.

I hope to soothe her, get her mind on something or someone else, and let her relax the muscles around her agitated airway.

With Silvia being on the opposite coast of the United States, I remind Mom that there’s a time difference. She regains somewhat normal breathing without constantly coughing and agrees that there’s some logical solution to this puzzle—that the babies will be found, as will the others. I push away the thought of my child no longer being in existence.

“Well, I had a bit of a problem,” she stammers in short sentences with only a few sporadic coughs. “I was at Kohl’s getting a blouse for our trip. I was standing in line.” Cough. “And the cashier disappears! I didn’t see her because I was looking for my credit card.” Cough. “The lady in front of me was handing her card over, and it dropped to the counter because the clerk had disappeared.” Cough. “The gal’s loop earrings fell to the counter, turning and spinning, landing on a pile of fake fingernails, false eyelashes, and a nose stud. The lady behind me said she wasn’t waiting and left the store without paying.”

“Mom, I, also, keep hearing about all these weird happenings—it’s all over the Internet. I have no idea what to believe.” I tell her about the disappearance of John’s dead body, then remember the two girls on the swing set, the abandoned bicycle, and the dog with no owner. It’s true; people are missing.

Mom starts coughing again, but it sounds clearer; no doubt, her air passage has opened. She changes the conversation back to the children and Silvia and Tom’s emotional turmoil. She tells me again about Silvia finding their beds empty then adds, “Dad and I were talking to Gilda next door before we called you. Her granddaughter also vanished. She is only a month old. Marion was nursing the infant, and there, right in her mama’s arms, the child disappeared, leaving the onesie and a soggy diaper on her mother’s lap. I can’t imagine such a thing.”

I shake my head. What would I do if that happened to Denny and me with our baby? How would we manage the grief? How would you deal with it if you are a parent? A flash of Mark and Melissa’s Matty passes my memory. I see the faces of Jack and Jasmine in my mind’s eye, yet I don’t know them intimately; I’ve never held them.

“That’s horrible, Mom” are the only words I can offer.

“Have you turned on the news yet, Sar?” Her voice is no longer raspy. “It’s on every channel except for cartoons. Worldwide events, everywhere from New York, Seattle, and London to Hong Kong, Moscow, and Dubai. Our president is supposed to give a speech soon. What has happened? Will it happen again?”

“Don’t ask me. But on the QT, Carl got a report that it could be a new virus that eats away at your body instantly. Might make sense. It happened so fast; hopefully, no pain was involved. But is it contagious? Will or when will it happen again? And why them and not us?”

“A virus? That certainly seems logical. Wait a second. Let me tell Dad and see what he thinks.” I hear Daddy talking to Mom in the background, quizzing her about various aspects of the virus theory. Being a self-employed mechanical engineer, he will examine the idea methodically. He deals with problems better than my mother.

“Your father thinks the virus idea makes sense. But couldn’t we, here in the United States, have better precautions in place to avoid such a pandemic entering our country again? And he asks how it could happen at the same time everywhere, like instantaneously.”

“Don’t know, Mom. I don’t have a scientific mind like the two of you. Carl is convinced that they’ll figure it out. Everything will make sense after things settle down. Tell me, did you happen to hear a sound of some kind before it happened?”

“Why, yes. It was a sound I’ve never heard before.”

“Same here. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

There’s another pause as I hear her conversing with Daddy and his responding in the background.

“Dad heard the sound. He was working in the basement. He didn’t know anything was different until I came home and told him about my shopping experience. He wants to know what to do about the people missing. It may be insensitive for us to even discuss it right now, but we ponder what the insurance companies will do. You know—no body, no proof without a death certificate, and no payout. Like when a natural disaster hits and people die or can’t be found for months, how do you claim the missing bodies?” Her voice is back to normal; I’m thankful it wasn’t a full-blown asthma attack.

Before I can respond, my father is talking again, and Mom starts parroting his words. “Daddy wonders how to oversee the banks, mortgages, credit card payments, you know, regular monthly bills. If these people are gone, won’t that bankrupt the United States and perhaps the rest of the world? Will there be a run on the banks for our money? Will it be worse than the recent recession? Will inflation get worse? How will our president, our government, handle everything?”

“Good point,” I interject, finally getting in a couple of words. “I’ll ask Zoey when I get a chance. I’m sure she’ll have information about the banks. But we’ve no clue how many have disappeared or what percentage of the population is missing. Also, what if they reappear? Will everything go back to normal?

“But back to the topic,” I continue, “there are also people with pensions and auto loans and leases to manage somehow if they are gone. If I disappeared and didn’t pay my mortgage, what would happen to our townhouse? Who would get it? Who’d pay back our student loans? Would all debt revert to the next of kin? Yeah, let me run it past Zoey.”

We talk about Silvia again and mention the time is late in Florida, so I shouldn’t call her until the morning. I wouldn’t know what to say or how to comfort her right now, anyway.

“What does Denny think about all this?” Mom asks.

My eyes open wide in unbelief. I haven’t thought about him in the last several minutes. Is he still mad at me? Surely, he should be back by now.

“I can’t find him and haven’t heard from him. I think he may have gone out to the plane crash, but he didn’t take his phone, and his car is still in the garage. I’ve been too busy to think about what’s happened to him with all that’s been going on here.” My voice cracks—and not only because of the uncertainty of my financial future without him. Yes, it’s a real concern, I wonder: If Denny is gone, will I be able to survive? Will I be allowed to stay here in my home?

“Hold on a sec,” Mom says hurriedly.

There’s a long pause.

“Do you feel that?” I’m unsure if she’s talking to Daddy or me. “Wait.”

Do you hear those noises in the background?

The phone stays silent for about ten seconds. Finally, I ask desperately, “What’s going on there, Mom?”

“It’s okay; we’re okay. We’re having an earthquake, here in Springfield, of all places. It isn’t strong, but it’s still rolling under our feet. Oregon rarely gets them. I hope the epicenter isn’t anywhere near the Cascadia subduction zone. That one is to be a troublemaker someday.” With Mom being a professor of oceanography and having a passion for studying plate tectonics, she knows more than I do about earth sciences.

There’s a break in the conversation, then she speaks. “Let me check the kitchen to make sure nothing broke.”

“Okay, Mom. It’s great that you’re okay.” Relieved my parents are all right, I tell her I must get going, adding, “I need to find Denny soon. I’m getting worried.”

I want my husband. I want life to be regular again. Today has been horrible. The cramps are coming back; I should take another Motrin or two.

“He’ll show up, Honey, don’t worry. He can’t be one of the missing, and neither are my grandbabies; I know it in my heart. They can’t be. They’ll all come back.” She tries to comfort me, but we both feel no relief.

A “hope so” is all I can say without starting to cry.

“Don’t worry. Daddy and I are thinking of Denny and you. It’ll work out; it always does somehow. Let me know when you hear from him. Otherwise, I’ll call in the morning. I’ll let you go, and make sure you watch our president; he’s getting ready to speak now.”

“I will. Thanks, Mom. Hugs to Daddy. Glad you’re both safe and your asthma didn’t cause a problem. And we’ll talk to Silvia and you both later. We love you.” I hang up the phone with an empty feeling in my head, heart, and stomach.

Good grief—earthquakes now? I’m trying hard to remain calm. I’m caught up in the moment of all these missing people, but what’s coming next?

Are you hanging in there?