That was the day my whole world went black. Air looked black. Sun looked black. I laid up in bed and stared at the black walls of my house. . . . Took three months before I even looked out the window, see the world still there. I was surprised to see the world didn’t stop.
—KATHRYN STOCKETT, THE HELP
Six of us were going to the youth rally in Council Bluffs. Austin and I were going for Teen Mania, and Garrett invited himself “just to hang out,” he said, but Austin had told me it was so he could spend time with me. Besides the three of us, Austin invited his roommate from ORU, Stephen Luth, whom he had just recruited for Teen Mania’s marketing team. He brought along another classmate, Stephen’s housemate, Luke Sheets, who was our pilot. Austin’s girlfriend, Elizabeth, was coming, too, and she was supposed to fly with us, but at the last minute her dad asked her to drive instead.
Before we decided to fly, we had all discussed driving to Iowa together, but when Stephen offered up the plane and Luke’s services we accepted the offer figuring it would save time. On the drive from Texas to Tulsa to meet up with everyone, I felt anxious about the flight, but I told myself I was just being silly and pushed aside my fears.
We planned to take off from Jones Riverside Airport in Tulsa at one o’clock in the afternoon. I’d arrived in town late the previous evening. Early the next morning Austin and Stephen met me to help pack things still in storage from my college days that I would take back to Texas after the trip. When the U-Haul was loaded, the boys dropped me off at Stephen’s apartment and then took the rented van and Austin’s pickup truck to ORU to park for the weekend. Once back at the apartment, Austin realized he was missing his wallet. He didn’t want to travel without it, which meant retracing all of his steps—the storage place, the campus lot, and McDonald’s. I thought he’d be right back, but he was gone so long that I finished getting ready and was bored enough to take pictures of myself on my iPhone. Garrett called while I was waiting to ask if I needed anything from the store before we left. I giggled, excited about the idea of our trip, and told him to surprise me. Austin finally called and asked me to check his travel bag one more time and, sure enough, there was his wallet, tucked into a zip pocket. By then it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon.
Luke was waiting by the plane when Austin, Stephen, and I finally got to the airport. I watched from the tarmac as Luke did a preflight check on the airplane, a twin-engine Cessna 401. Luke was only twenty-four, but had already been flying for five years and had earned his commercial pilot’s license two years earlier. Garrett was the last to arrive. I’d been texting him all morning with updates about our delayed departure. He pulled up in his shiny red Hummer just in time to board with us.
We were all dressed to impress. The boys wore button-down shirts and pressed trousers. I was in my mom’s lacy burnt lavender blouse and chic red Lips sunglasses. “Ladies first,” someone said. I climbed on board and headed to the back of the plane, to a seat facing forward. I’d flown in plenty of small planes during trips for Papa’s ministry, and I didn’t like facing away from the cockpit and looking down as the plane rose into the sky. Garrett and Austin climbed in behind me and took seats facing me, with their backs to the cockpit. Stephen climbed in the front beside Luke. The engines rumbled to start, and Austin and I broke out the snacks we’d bought at the Whole Foods market on the way to the airport. We toasted with shots of “Dragon’s Breath,” an organic concoction of ginger root, lemon, and cayenne pepper. We had so much to celebrate. What better way than to spend a weekend with your best friends?
“Oh, my gosh!” I cried. “We’re on vacation together! We’re in the same hotel! We’re going to have a blast!”
As excited as the rest of us were, Garrett was awkward and aloof, and I knew him well enough to sense that he was tied in knots about the idea of ending his relationship with his fiancée. I knew he felt bad for lying to me, too. He couldn’t even look me in the eye. Austin had told me that Garrett only decided to join us when he heard I’d be on the plane. Perhaps he thought that being away together was a good opportunity to try to continue to mend our fractured friendship. I was hoping that once we were on our way, he would relax enough that we could talk about what was next for us, whatever that turned out to be.
As we waited to be cleared for takeoff, I tried lightening the mood. “I just realized we don’t have any pictures together,” I said, pulling my iPhone out of my purse. “We’ve got to have pictures.” Austin and Garrett obliged, and we all leaned into each other and smiled. I snapped four shots. In each picture, we are all grinning from ear to ear.
It was three-forty-five when we finally took off, two hours and forty-five minutes later than our planned departure. The route would be a straight shot north, and around two hours long, so we would still make it to Council Bluffs in time for the Teen Mania youth rally at seven o’clock that evening. Austin and I could barely contain our excitement. We couldn’t stop talking about our ideas for Papa’s ministry and how much fun it would be working together.
About thirty minutes into the flight, just as I had hoped, Garrett began loosening up and looking at me when we were talking. When I pitched an idea for marketing the ministry, his eyes lit up, and he praised me, saying, “Hannah! That’s brilliant!” The plane was chilly, and I was thinking about grabbing my jacket from behind me, when, just then, he switched seats to the one next to me. He said it was because the plane was loud and he wanted to be able to hear me better, but I knew he was trying to regain our normal closeness again, and I was happy about that.
Seeing Garrett that day made me realize how much I’d missed him and our long, intimate talks. I was so looking forward to our weekend together. I couldn’t wait to land and get started. We were making good time to Council Bluffs. The weather was beautiful. The sky, blue and clear. As we flew over the patchwork quilt of Middle America, I leaned into Garrett and thought about how excited I was to be on this adventure with him. Everything felt so right.
Then something went terribly wrong.
• • •
Up front in the cockpit, I see Luke turn a knob on the control panel and I think it must be for the heater. At first, there is a terrible burning smell, and then a blast of scorching hot air shoots from the vents. I watch Luke fiddle with the knob again, but the heat still comes fiercely and relentlessly. The hot air blowing from the vents turns an ashy gray. The smelly swirls of smoke remind me of the Fiendfyre in Harry Potter. It’s coming for us. I can see Luke at the controls, with his headphones on, talking to Stephen, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. The smoke is blowing directly into Luke’s face and I wonder how he can see anything. “What’s going on?” I shout. I’m holding my blouse up to my mouth, trying in vain to stop myself from breathing in noxious fumes. No one answers.
The air in the plane is now stifling and grimy. My eyes burn and water and my cheeks are on fire. Garrett yells at me, “Get the water bottles!” There are eight bottles of water in a cooler behind me and I grab them, one by one, and toss them to Garrett and Austin. They fling the water from the open bottles at the heating vents, but smoke continues to pour into the cabin. Garrett runs to the back of the plane, grabs the fire extinguisher, and sprays it toward the cockpit. The scene is chaotic. Surreal. How can this be happening? The smoke is so dense in the cabin that I can barely make out Luke and Stephen up front anymore. Garrett and Austin are trying so hard to save us. And I have never felt so helpless.
Minutes feel like hours. There’s a lot of shouting and screaming. Garrett pops open the door and tries to suck in some fresh air. For a moment, I think he’s trying to jump out of the plane, and I consider following him out, but we’re still really high in the air. We are all getting tired. I can barely keep myself awake. My temples throb. Bile rises in my throat, and I fear I may throw up. Even with my foggy head I know we are being poisoned. So this is it? This is the end of our lives? We’ve hardly lived. I hear Luke shouting into the radio, asking for permission to descend. We’re dropping fast. Stephen crawls back from the cockpit and sits on the floor facing me. “We’re going to crash!” he cries. The plane banks right and then left. I look out the window, and my skin prickles with terror. We are headed straight down. The earth twirls below, a kaleidoscope of doom.
The strangest things pop into your mind when death intrudes on your life. I remember that I’d had Lucky Charms for breakfast. Lucky Charms!
The taste in my mouth is bitter. My nose is packed with soot, and I’m too short of breath to cough. We’re all getting exhausted from inhaling filth. I imagine what the smoke would say if it could talk. I am going to put all of you to sleep. Heh heh! I know I am fighting unconsciousness. We all know we are going down. “Lord, You are one. We are three. Have pity on us,” Paulo Coelho wrote in By the River Piedra I Sat and Wept, one of my favorite novels. I look from Garrett to Austin, but the smoke is now so thick it swallows us up and as close as they are, I can barely make out their faces. If the fumes don’t kill us we will die in the crash. I’d prefer the fumes. I begin to pray. “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” I don’t even know what that means. I remember hearing it from one of my best friends, Carlos, who is Catholic and gay. He told me it is a universal prayer, the kind you say when you don’t know what else to pray. It has been so long since I really prayed, and I’m surprised how easily it comes. “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
I peer out of the window again and see the earth rushing up to meet our falling plane. I can’t explain the feeling of powerlessness, of utter fear. If only I can spot a landmark, something so that if I survive the impact I will have my bearings and can try to find help. There is no landmark to see, not a house, or a barn, or a well-traveled road in sight. There is only a spinning blanket of sameness. The plane’s engines are screaming, and the noise is deafening. The earth moves closer and closer to our plummeting plane. I brace myself and bury my face deeper into my blouse. I can’t bear to see my friends as we crash. Closer. Closer. Closer. Closer. We are all about to die. Where are You, God?
Garrett!
Austin!
I fight the urge to close my eyes for fear of losing consciousness and the plane hits the ground and skids across fields of crops. I see the tree line just before we slam into it. Boom! I close my eyes, but I can feel things (bodies?) flying and bumping around the cabin. I am constrained by my seatbelt. When I open my eyes again, the plane is mangled and spitting flames. The roof is sheered off, but the blue sky is partially obscured by billowing black smoke. Garrett is to the left of me, hunched forward, too still. Deadly still. I recognize him by his black, collared shirt. I look up and see a body, a human torch, flailing and writhing around the cabin. I can’t tell who it is, but I know he is a dead man walking. I feel like I am in some gruesome horror flick. The roar of the spreading fire, coupled with the sickening groan of the engines, drowns out my screams. My lungs beg for air. No mercy. I try unbuckling my seatbelt, but it doesn’t budge. I manage to slip out of it, I don’t know how.
The door of the plane, what had been the door, behind the left engine, is flapping open, and I crawl over Garrett’s body and lunge for the gap. I’m climbing over my lifeless friend, my sweet friend, to save myself. It is already too late for him. The palms of my hands sizzle on a hot metal rod I grab to try to hoist myself out of the plane. I am half in and half out, draped over Garrett’s back, but something is stopping me from propelling myself any farther forward. The fire in the plane is spreading. Flames are lashing my legs. If I don’t get out now, I will burn to death. I try pulling myself forward again, but I can’t budge. What is happening? I look back and see that my legs are crossed and wedged underneath the seatbelt. I am stuck, but I am so weak I can hardly move, and my screams are as good as silence. It dawns on me that I am the only survivor. Everyone else is dead. How can that be? Those boys are all so strong, so much physically and mentally healthier than me. Not only that, I need them. We have so many plans together. I can’t bear the thought of my life without them. How easy it would be to just go to sleep. My eyes flutter, and I fight a wave of nausea. I taste death, and it is sweet.
I am about to let myself slip away. My lungs are betraying me, and my heart feels faint. But then I think about Mom and Papa and Charity and Cameron. What will my family do without me? How will I face my loved ones in the next life if they know how easily I gave up? This is not just my fight. It’s about fighting to honor my dead friends. It’s about fighting to spare my family and my friends the painful grief of my death. My face strains with determination as I begin to prepare for the battle before me. The battle to live when I know I am dying.
I’m thinking that, by the sheer force of my strong will, I can probably extract one trapped foot from the wreckage. Eventually, the other foot will burn off and, if I live, I will still have one working leg. A burst of adrenaline surges through my body, and I feel a tiny glimmer of hope. I look back to see which foot seems most likely to come free. I am wearing my mother’s favorite gray wedges, and the rubber sole on the right shoe is melted, like candle wax, literally fusing my foot to the plastic seat. My left foot has some wiggle room, so I start moving it in tiny, jerking motions. Back and forth. Up and down. After four or five tries, my energy is thoroughly spent, but I decide to make one final attempt to save my life. Using every ounce of force I can muster, I lunge forward, and my left foot comes unstuck. Then, with my newly emancipated left limb as leverage, I push as hard as I can, trying to free my right foot, but it won’t budge. Not even a smidgeon. What’s left to do? I reach back with my right arm. Maybe I can yank my foot free with my hand? But my arm comes up short, and then the sleeve of my blouse catches fire.
This is a fool’s game. I feel as if I’m fighting some unseen opponent who is taunting me, knowing that in the end I am going to die. I seethe with rage. I don’t like being played. I am not going to die like this. You are not going to win. Using my good foot, I kick so hard I am airborne. Pain sears my groin, my abdomen, my chest. My vision blurs and narrows, and all I can see are darting white stars. I am losing consciousness, I know. No! I won’t pass out. Not now. I push past Garrett and land on cool grass, a salve for my burning body.
I am out of the plane.
I curl up in a ball on the grass, still within reach of Garrett. I feel too tired to move. My eyes are heavy. I need to rest, just for a minute. I am drifting off to sleep when loud, popping sounds shake me awake. The plane is about to blow us all to smithereens. A battle rages in my head. If I don’t move, I will die. But I don’t want to leave, not without my friends. The heat radiating from the melting aluminum fuselage is staggering. My will to live wins out, and I stumble to my feet, but my legs feel like jelly, and I crumple to the ground again. My adversary. Jeering. Mocking. Not so fast, I say.
I dig my burning hands into the earth and crawl, dragging my limp body behind me, but I’m moving too slowly. If I’m to get away, I have got to get up. I pick up one limb, then the other. This time, my wobbly legs support me, but I look down and see that my clothes, what is left of them, are still smoldering. Stop, drop, and roll. I remembered that from my childhood. I try pulling off what’s left of my pants, but I can’t tell where the melted black spandex material ends and my blackened, bloody skin begins. The idea of ripping off my own skin makes me gag. I am half-naked. I need to try to make it to people, to civilization, if I am to survive, so I stumble forward, through rows of knee-high corn. No one knows I’m here, wherever I am. My scorched skin is shedding off in sheets, and my lungs feel heavy, as if I’m trying to breathe through mud. There’s no way I can make it much longer with all of this damage. I have to live long enough to get help.
I love survival shows. My favorite is Man Versus Wild, in which the host, a rugged guy named Bear Grylis, is left stranded in the wild and has to find his way back to civilization. Bear would know what to do. He knows all kinds of survival tricks. What I know is that I need a drink. I am parched and choking on the junk clogging my nose and throat. Bear would dig beneath the plants for water, but that will take too long, and I don’t have enough strength for digging anyway. Panic sets in. My breathing is fast and shallow, and my heart is skipping wildly. Calm down, Hannah. Panicking will only make things worse. I hear an explosion, and I fall to my knees. Holding my face in my hands, I think I scream, but my voice is barely a whisper. “Help me! Please! Is there anybody there?” I don’t know where to turn, what to do, and I look back at the plane. That’s when I see him.
At first I think it is a stranger, some random person who was hit by our crashing airplane. What are the chances of that? I know I’m thinking crazy. He has emerged from behind a tree and is standing near the fiery plane, brushing himself off. I call out to him. “Hello? Who are you? I need help!” As he walks toward me, I realize this is no stranger. I would know Austin’s cocky soldier’s stride anywhere. He marches toward me and stops when our noses are just inches apart. He is covered in blood, his hair is burned off, and a slice of the right side of his head is gone. Except for his dress shoes and a piece of one sock melted into his leg, he is naked. In a desperate act of modesty, he holds his hand over his genitals. I have never seen Austin so vulnerable, and I choke back sobs.
“Austin?” I cry. “Austin? Is that you?”
“Yeah, dummy, it’s me,” he says.
Austin, my wonderful friend. Somehow, he is calm, and that calms me. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid of hurting him.
“Hannah!” he says, staring into my eyes, his manner deadly serious. “I want you to tell me the truth. Do I look okay?”
“Yes, yes Austin!” I lie. “You look fine. Do I look okay?”
“Yeah” he says. “You look fine.”
We both smile and, for that brief moment, we are just two vain college kids reassuring each other about their looks.
“Now, c’mon,” he says. “Let’s go.”
• • •
Austin takes off walking. I know he is afraid, but he is determined and completely in command of himself. I am willing to follow him anywhere. Not only is he the most trustworthy person I know, he is a Marine, trained for war, and we are in a fight for our lives. As we make our way through the field of waist-high corn, the coarse stalks gouge my raw, bleeding burns. We are acting on pure adrenaline. And Austin is in worse shape than me. I know he needs water and, at this point, I would drink sewer water to wet my parched throat. “Austin!” I cry out. “Eat grass! Eat grass!” But he keeps walking. I follow along, trying to keep up with his swift pace. Finally, we reach a hedgerow and beyond that a gravel road. I look both ways. The road looks endless, a road to nowhere. I can’t imagine it is very well traveled. I begin to lose hope. If we don’t find help, and soon, we will die out here in this no-man’s-land.
My mind is going to the darkest of places when, suddenly, I am roused by the sound of tires crunching on gravel. Austin sees the minivan before I do. At first, I wonder if it is an illusion. “C’mon,” he says, all business, heading up the road toward the oncoming car. I know we look like a couple of zombies out of The Walking Dead. The closer the car comes, the slower it moves. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. I wave my arms. Are they afraid of us? “Help us!” I cry. “Please, we need help!” The car stops a few feet away, and we continue walking, stumbling, toward it. I can see two women inside. My God, I think. We’re going to be saved.
Just then, the driver shifts the car into reverse. Our saviors are backing away. What are they doing? What in God’s name are they doing?
LINDA’S STORY
My friend Heather had been going through a lot in her life. She’d been diagnosed with MS, which would be a blow for anyone, but especially someone so young and energetic. One day, thinking about how fragile life is, she wrote a list of things she wanted to accomplish, her bucket list. One of the items on the list was shooting a gun, something she had never done. My husband is a hunter, and I was on the rifle team in college, so we offered to teach her.
That’s where we were going that afternoon, to meet my husband after work at a private shooting range in Fredonia, a thirty-minute drive from where we live in Chanute.
HEATHER’S STORY
I almost cancelled our trip. I take a shot once a week for MS, and that day I had trouble injecting myself. The shots hurt, but it’s the cost of the fight, so you work past the pain. That day was different, though. I’m not sure what I did—maybe I hit a nerve, or the bone—but whatever it was, it felt like a red-hot poker searing through my arm when I injected myself. I pulled the needle out, dropped onto my bed, and sobbed. For the next few minutes, I debated whether to just stay there. But as the pain began to ease, I decided that getting out might help take my mind off my aching arm.
When I heard Linda pull into the driveway, I went to the bathroom to wash my face with cold water. My eyes were red and swollen from crying. I hoped Linda wouldn’t notice. I didn’t want to have to explain. Before heading out the door, I grabbed my sunglasses, some Tylenol, and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I glanced at my watch. We were running about seven minutes behind. We would have to hurry to make our appointment.
LINDA’S STORY
When we finally got going, I headed for the shortcut on the county road rather than take the highway to Fredonia.
We were about halfway there when both Heather and I noticed a plume of smoke on the horizon. She wasn’t familiar with that territory, but I travel the rural route quite often, and it’s not unusual to see small brush fires, or someone burning their harvested field. This smoke looked different, though. It was shaped like a mushroom. Heather said she thought that mushroom clouds formed from explosions. I knew there were oil and gas wells in that area, but I still wasn’t overly concerned. “But let’s go see,” I said. I headed in the direction of the smoke, which led us off the main route to a gravel road I’d never driven before. As soon as we hit the gravel, and the dust kicked up, Heather muttered something about turning around. “No sense getting the car all dirty for nothing,” she said.
I guess my curiosity got the best of me because I stayed the course.
HEATHER’S STORY
We had probably gone a mile or so on the gravel road and we were getting closer to the smoke when, all of a sudden, we saw two people step out onto the road. We were still far enough away that it was hard to make out exactly what we were seeing. One person was wearing black. The other, a nude or tan color, or so we thought. It was odd seeing people there. My friend Linda stopped the car and looked at me as if to say, “What is this?” Honestly, at that point, things weren’t registering. We were encountering something we weren’t expecting, something we’d never seen before, and we didn’t know what to make of it. We had no frame of reference. A little bit of self-preservation kicked in, and I was thinking to myself, “I don’t know what this is, and I don’t know that I want to be here.” I knew my friend was having the same thoughts.
I had my phone in my hand by then. “I’m going to call 911,” I said. I had just begun describing to the operator what we were seeing. “Two people . . . Something’s really wrong . . . I don’t know what happened but you need to send someone . . .” She asked what county we were in. I had no idea, so I handed the phone to Linda so she could explain where we were and, just as I did, I saw the two people coming closer to us. Linda put the car in reverse and started backing up, to put space between us and the forbidding scene playing out. She had backed up only a few inches when the girl put her hand in the air and said something.
“Water!” she cried. “Please! We need water!” She and her companion walked closer to the car, and I could see then they were in no condition to attack us. She was bleeding, and her clothes were ripped and smoldering. He was naked and trying to cover himself. They were not trying to get something from us—to rob us or to hurt us. Something terrible had happened to them, and they needed our help.
I grabbed my bottle of water and swung open the car door.
“What are you doing?” my friend asked.
“I’m giving them water,” I said, stepping out of the minivan and shutting the door behind me.
Austin and I were so relieved when the minivan stopped again and the young woman got out. She looked only a few years older than me. I could see the fear in her eyes as she walked toward Austin and me, holding a bottle of water in her hand.
“What happened?” she asked.
“A plane crash,” Austin choked out.
“Are there others?”
“Three others,” he said. “I don’t think they made it.”
She said her name was Heather, and she uncapped the bottle of water and handed it to Austin. He pointed to me. “Her first,” he said. I guzzled about half the bottle, then she handed him the rest. He tipped the bottle to his lips and drank, but, after a moment, the water dribbled out of his mouth. He tried again and the same thing happened. Austin couldn’t swallow.
Heather told us she had called 911 and promised that help was on the way. “Can’t you just take us to a hospital?” I asked. It was all I could do to get a breath, my lungs just weren’t working right, but Heather said we needed to stay put and wait for the EMTs to arrive. I was frustrated and scared. I sat in the brush by the side of the road, while Heather stood with Austin, asking him questions.
“Who was in the plane?” she asked.
“Five of us,” he said, and proceeded to give her all of our names. “We came from Tulsa. We were on our way to an event in Council Bluffs.”
She asked Austin if he wanted to sit down, too, but he said he couldn’t. He looked gravely injured, yet he was completely calm and in control. He answered every question posed to him and even asked some of his own.
HEATHER’S STORY
He said, “I look bad, don’t I?” And I said, “Well, I don’t know. It looks like you have burns and a nice gash on your head that you can show off to all of your friends, but I think you’ll be just fine.” I ran back to the car to find something to cover him. My friend Linda had a basket of clean laundry, so I grabbed a sheet from it and held it in front of him because his hands were too damaged to hold it himself. I wanted him to have his dignity. A minute or two later, he asked me again. “How bad is it?” He stepped closer to me when he said it this time. I think he really wanted to know. So I said, “Well, it’s not good, Austin, but I think you’ll make it just fine.” He didn’t ask me again after that. He was concerned about Hannah. He wanted to make sure that she had enough water, and that she wasn’t in too much pain and was going to be okay. Hannah kept saying she couldn’t breathe. It killed me because there was nothing I could do. All I could say was, “Honey, I can’t help. I’m so sorry. We just have to wait for the ambulance to arrive.” Without thinking, I put my hand on her shoulder, and she screamed. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “What can I do?” Hannah looked me in the eye. “Please just pray for us,” she pleaded. I put my hand over her and started praying and, when I did, Austin stepped closer, and we all prayed together.
LINDA’S STORY
I got off the phone from the 911 call, confident that the rescue workers knew how to find us, and I walked over to where Heather was standing with Austin and Hannah. Heather was standing closest to Austin, asking him a series of questions to keep him from falling into unconsciousness, and Hannah was sitting on the side of the road. I noticed that her hair was singed and her clothes, what was left of them, were disheveled. She begged me to pull off her pants because they were burning her legs. My heart ached, knowing there was no way I could pull them off . . . they were melted into her skin.
She asked if I would call her father to tell him what had happened. I pulled out my phone and punched in the numbers she recited, thinking, “I don’t know what to say to this man.” When he answered I choked out something like, “I’m with your daughter, Hannah. There’s been an accident but she’s all right.” He asked, “What do you mean? My daughter’s on a plane. Where’s the plane?” I told him the plane was off in the distance, and it was on fire. I said “She’s standing here with a young man.” He asked his name. “His name is Austin,” I said. “Where are the others?” he asked. “There are no others,” I said.
HEATHER’S STORY
It was taking forever for help to arrive, or at least it seemed that way. I had asked Austin the same questions over and over, and I could tell he was getting irritated. What’s your brother’s name? Aubrey. How many siblings do you have? Two. What are their ages? Allie, sixteen. Aubrey, twenty-four. What’s your mom’s name? Mary. How about your father? Monte, deceased. I don’t remember whether he rolled his eyes, or if he even could roll his eyes, but somehow he expressed to me that he was getting annoyed at having to answer the same questions so many times. I could tell how much pain he was in. With the slightest breeze, he shifted from side to side, looking for a way to block the wind from brushing against his seared skin. Who should I contact for you? I asked. “My grandpa,” he said, reciting his grandfather’s phone number. Even with that kind of suffering, Austin had the presence of mind to answer everything I asked, and even remember the phone number. I found myself overcome with feelings of awe and admiration for him.
I was so worried about Austin. The ambulance still wasn’t coming, and he was getting worse. He couldn’t move his arms or legs, and he wasn’t talking nearly as much. I saw such determination in his eyes. He had so much courage. I kept thinking, if he can be resilient, so can I. He was in so much pain. I hated seeing him that way. I was still sitting and I felt this terrible burning sensation on my backside. I shot upright, and when I did I saw Linda getting back into the minivan. I thought she and Heather were going to leave us there, in the godforsaken field, and I panicked. “Where’s she going?” I cried. Heather assured me that Linda wasn’t going far. She wanted to check a nearby road sign to make sure she had given the 911 operator the proper crossroad. I guess it was the child inside me, but I still felt abandoned. Didn’t she see how Austin and I were suffering?
As I was thinking my irrational thoughts, I looked down at my body. “What’s crawling on me?” I screamed. “Get them off of me!” Growing up in rural Texas, I knew the feeling of being stung by fire ants. Now they were crawling all over my body. “Get them off of me!” I screamed again. Heather looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Honey,” she said, clearly perplexed but reassuringly. “Honey, there’s nothing on you.” I calmed down for a moment. Maybe it’s the wind I feel, I thought. I shuddered. My body felt as if it was being eaten alive. “Dear God!” I cried. “Get me out of this damned body!”
Up until then, I had been trying really hard to hold on for both Austin and me, but I started feeling as if I was going to black out. I was afraid that then I would go into shock and die. I thought I remembered Heather saying she worked with kindergartners, so I asked her to tell me a story. I said I needed to stay focused on something so I didn’t lose consciousness. “Look, I need you to help me to keep my eyes open so I don’t go into shock.” I’d start to fade away and I’d hear her shouting “HANNAH! HANNAH!”
“Tell me a fairytale,” I pleaded. Heather said she didn’t know many stories. “Tell me the story of Peter Pan.” I could tell she was trying, but she didn’t even remember that the Lost Boys had encounters with pirates and fairies. I was finding it harder and harder to stay aware. “Talk to me!” I pleaded. “Ask me questions! Anything.” She started telling me about her kindergartners, but I drifted off. She wasn’t a very good storyteller.
HEATHER’S STORY
Hannah started having more trouble. She stood up in the road, pleading with me to talk to her and tell her stories. Suddenly I remembered a story we had read in class a while back. It was a beautiful little story called “The Empty Pot,” in which the Chinese emperor proclaims that his successor to the throne will be the child who can grow the most beautiful flowers from seeds. “A long time ago in China there was a boy named Ping who loved flowers. Anything he planted burst into bloom. Up came flowers, bushes, and even big fruit trees, as if by magic . . .” Hannah’s eyes seared into mine. I could tell she was struggling to stay with me, struggling to maintain lucidity. Fighting not to die. Her body was shutting down. Her knees would buckle, and her face would tighten up, but then she would squeeze her eyes closed and stand up again. It happened over and over again. Her eyes would roll back and she would blink really hard and stare into my eyes, as if to say, “I AM NOT GOING ANYWHERE!” I could see the determination on her face, and it was intense. Her will was forcing her body to do what she wanted it to do. I have never seen anything like it in my life.