It feels like I’ve been waiting for daylight forever. Hours have surely passed since I initially stuck my hands through the hole. But finally, the first specks of morning light hit my face, warming my nose and cheeks.
I pull from the small well of strength still left in me. Manage to push myself up again. And then I poke my head out. I’ve barely got enough room. I want to be able to pull my whole body out, but I can’t. I look around. You’d never know this was a laundromat if not for the washers and dryers. The walls and doorway have been hollowed out, everything collapsed and broken. Metal. Glass. Concrete. Dust and dirt. I see the road through the shattered window and crushed cars abandoned in the middle of the street. Collapsed buildings. Buckled asphalt. Above me, half of the roof of the laundromat is gone. A blue sky and puffy clouds hover overhead. Looking up, the world seems the same. I can almost pretend nothing has changed. I lean back and pretend I’m gazing up at the sky in the middle of that beach in Hawaii that Charlie helped me imagine one time.
“Feel it,” he’d said. “Smell it. Like you’re there. Like you’re home.”
I take a moment to pretend. But then I have to return to where I am. Where the rubble is concrete and heavy and I’m not sure how to free myself.
And then I spot it.
Charlie’s hand.
A glimpse of his wrist.
Poking out from the rubble.
His bloodied knuckles.
The blue streaks of paint on his fingernails.
I suck in a breath and use my shoulder to push against the hole enough to get my arm through. It scrapes up and down from my shoulder to my fingertips, everything too tight. Too sharp. But I can’t care. I won’t. All this time, when I kept reaching for Charlie, I couldn’t.
But I see how close he is now.
How close he was.
I’ve spent so much time digging that I can barely breathe. My lungs are full of dust, and it hurts to suck in air. Still, I wiggle. I roll. I push and shove until I have enough room to get my other arm out. I’m twisted sideways on my back with my head outside of the hole and my arms above my head. I need leverage. Something to give me purchase or pull me free.
My eyes dart. Frantic. They snag on rubble and metal and dust and dirt.
But then. Charlie’s hand again.
I reach for him. Grasp his hand to help me. It’s cold and his fingers don’t tangle with mine the way I want them to. I’ve longed for that contact for hours. Days. To know I didn’t make him up in my head. To know I wasn’t alone.
I summon up the last ounce of strength I have to pull myself free. And when I’m finally all the way out, I collapse.
Exhausted.
Panting.
Sweating.
I’m a fish pulled from the sea, struggling for breath on the hardwood planks of the pier.
I’m still holding Charlie’s hand. The only part of him I can see. I take in the massive pile of debris that’s buried him. The blocks of cement. The steel wall of triple-load dryers. Piled up. Pressing down. Against his chest. Making it so hard to breathe. But he managed to get one hand out, the fingernails worn down and bloodied.
Was he digging?
Was he trying to get himself free so he could get me free?
Was he reaching for me the way I was reaching for him?
Could he feel the warm rays of sunlight on his fingers? Is that how he was keeping track of day and night?
I want to pull Charlie from the rubble. Take him with me. But everything is too heavy. I’d find the strength if I thought there was a reason. But I’m holding Charlie’s hand in mine and I know what he is.
Cold.
Dead.
Still. I remember my promise.
I work the championship ring from my finger. It doesn’t slide right off. I have to twist and turn it. Pull it free. And when it finally comes loose, it almost goes flying, lost to the rubble forever. But I manage to catch it. Grip it. Not let go. I slide it down Charlie’s finger, twisting it past the knuckle on his pinkie. It almost looks like it belongs there.
My vision blurs. I swipe at my face, wet with tears. For Charlie.
My friend.
I want to leave something that will tell whoever finds him who he is. But I’m slumping. Slipping. Going under. Until I catch the handles of Charlie’s duffel bag. C. Smith stenciled on the side. I drag it to me. Rest his hand on top. Hoping this will be enough. The bag slips open, its zipper already undone. Charlie’s journal peeks out. The gold stenciled letters across the front. C. Smith. Charlie’s words are inside it. I can’t leave them behind for a stranger to read. Or worse yet, throw away without caring. He deserves better than that. I promised him.
I grab the journal.
Zip it up inside my sweatshirt.
Safe against my heart.
I have to go.
I crawl, dragging my legs behind me as I claw my way out of here. My arm burns with blinding pain. My fingernails are ragged from the digging, some of them torn all the way off and bleeding. The palms of my hands are worn raw and bleeding, too.
And my mind is slipping.
So tired.
So done.
But I’m almost to the blown-out doorway. I’m almost to the parking lot. I’m almost where someone can see me. I don’t know how far outside I get when it feels like I can’t move anymore. Like I’m literally anchored here. I hoist my arms in front of me. Settle my head on the bent elbow of my good arm.
I just need a minute to catch my breath.
I just need a minute to feel my legs.
I just need a minute to close my eyes.
I just need a minute.
A minute.