Slumberland Page 15

  I worry about not being with them. They worry about me.

  Mark says he spoke to Dad on the phone last night and assured him his CC was in good hands.

  A flash of bright light from the side of my eyes.

  Squinting them, I cover my face with my hands.

  Tap… Tap… tap.

  It’s no use. I’m afraid to uncover my face, worried what I’ll see next.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  The blinding lights, they flash red through my lids.

  It sends sharp pain through my head.

  Tap… Tap.. tap.

  This has to stop.

  “Mark!”

  “It’s okay,” he says, “I see it too.”

  Peeking through my fingers, I see Mark looking to the window.

  The curtains are pulled but a slightly open space between them lets the morning light come through.

  Tap… Tap.. tap.

  Mark walks to the window and throws open the curtains.

  It takes a few seconds for me to adjust to the light.

  It’s not my imagination.

  I’m not hallucinating.

  The sky is overcast and turning dark green.

  The flashes of light are real, bolts of lightning in the distance. Half comes from the sky, the other from the ground, and it meets in the middle.

  Seconds later, a rumble of thunder.

  Tap… Tap.. tap.

  Rain drops patter on the glass.

  Tree limbs bend and sway.

  The sound of city’s storm sirens haunt the air.

  A banging sound, like metal hitting metal, comes from outside.

  My bare feet smack the floor as I walk to the door, throwing it open.

  Tin roofs threaten to break free from parking garages.

  Garbage cans tumble toward the street.

  My face brightens with a smile, watching tiny whirlwinds.

  Spiraling leaves and debris swirl together.

  They want me to play.

  But the first step I take outside toward the tiny twister, it scatters away.

  “Where are you going?” asks Mark, from the doorway.

  Watching twigs and broken branches fly along the ground and take off toward the sky, I look up to see a dark cloud rolling in. Loud crashes of lightning surround it, like tentacles of a giant monster. A supercell.

  It’s spinning gains speed and I can’t help but giggle.

  With each step I take, the temperature drops a degree.

  Pajama pants, a sleeveless shirt and no shoes, isn’t ideal for this kind of freezing wind, but it’s funny to me.

  “Sierra!” shouts Mark.

  The raindrops turn into tiny specks of ice that tickle my skin. Some of them come close but never land on me. This makes me laugh. It’s a neat trick.

  The monstrous cloud covers the city skyline and like a curtain dropping on a stage, a wall of snow begins to fall. The winds make it blow sideways.

  Mark runs after me, but it’s hard for him see through the thick flakes.

  “Sierra!” he shouts again. “We have to get inside!”

  "I’ve never heard it thunder when it snows before,” I shout. “The acoustics are impressive!”

  Spreading my arms to each side, I spin around, dancing.

  Mark struggles to run through the wind, shielding his face with one arm. Soon, I can only hear him screaming my name.

  “This is amazing,” I say.

  Walking farther into the streets, the air begins to warm. Blankets of snow covering rooftops and sidewalks, speckle with fat raindrops. Spheres of tennis ball size hail thud to the ground around me.

  As the snow melts, floods of water rush over my feet.

  My cheeks are sore from smiling so wide.

  I’m so caught up watching the sky shift, smearing shades of green and dark gray.

  The beast of a storm cloud spins so fast, it has nowhere else to go but down. The funnel swirls closer to the ground, kicking up dirt and gravel, sending pieces of metal and wood through the air.

  Like a child watching a magic show, I can’t help but giggle harder.

  I’m drawn to it, so I keep walking.

  My ears are deafened to any sound other than a roar of wind and rubble.

  In the distance, other funnels form and reach their tails to the city below.

  Each step brings me closer to being under the massive twister. The base begins to widen and the sky turns so dark, the street lights come on. They flicker and soon enough, sparks fly from each of the poles. Electric wires fly around like a garden hoses with the water turned full blast, smacking into parked cars and bouncing to the ground.

  “It’s so pretty!”

  There’s no one around. Everyone must be inside, sheltering themselves from destruction. They don’t know what they’re missing.

  My arms stretched out, my eyes close and I grin as the warm rain falls to my face. The wind blows my hair all around.

  The massive supercell must stretch across the sky for miles. I can’t see any of the buildings anymore. Only a huge wall of black cloud, spinning like a merry-go-round. Tiny bursts of electricity twinkle in the darkness. It’s rumbling shakes the ground under my feet, like an earthquake.

  As I get closer, bolts of lightning strike near me.

  I don’t flinch at their brightness.

  I’m not startled by their bang.

  For the first time, I’m not afraid of anything.

  Facing the ginormous storm, faint cries from Mark come from the distance behind me. It’s hard to make out the words, but I’m sure he’s shouting for me to take cover, to come back to him.

  “Not now,” I shout. “Not yet!"

  The last memory I have of being this thrilled was when I was eight years old and my parents took me to the carnival. The moving rides, the blinking lights, back when life was so innocent and perfect. Not a care in the world.

  The wind blows from behind me as it sucks up into the spinning vortex.

  Shreds of debris fly past my face.

  The lightning strikes so close, I can feel it’s heat.

  From here, I could throw a rock and it would take off like an airplane.

  The closer I walk toward the storm, the darker it gets.

  The wall seems to slow and shrink, lifting its tail from the ground as if it’s welcoming me to stand underneath it.

  And so I do.

  The winds are so strong, it’s hard for me to stand and keep my eyes open.

  Leaning my head back, I see the spinning vortex directly above me.

  Mark’s shouting becomes louder, through the howling and crashing rainfall.

  “Sierra! Get back!”

  Watching bright bolts shoot toward the sky, I can’t help but laugh again.

  “It’s okay, Mark. Everything will be okay.”

  He can’t hear my voice and since I can’t see him, I’m sure he can’t see me.

  The massive cloud swirls above me in a spiral, and seems to spin off across the sky, off into infinity.

  The Golden Spiral. The Fibonacci sequence. Elegant and pleasing to the eye.

  Perfection.

  What I do see, directly above me, the very center of this storm system.

  In the middle, there is no storm.

  In the middle, you can see the sunshine.

  It’s beautiful.

  It’s amazing.

  It’s breathtaking.

  It’s hypnotizing.

  From the volume of his voice, I can tell Mark is getting closer.

  Still, I can’t pull my sight away from the middle of the storm up above.

  The darkness spiraling around a perfect circle of daylight.

  In the center of the chaos is serenity.

  A perfect life.

  But to believe in perfection is irrational.

  The ratio of a circumference to its diameter.

  My eyes grow heavy. My body feels limp and weak.

  Mark shouting my name grows louder.

&
nbsp; Through my lashes, the shining circle and its surrounding darkness begins to blur.

  Numbers seem to appear.

  Circumference divided by the diameter.

  3.1459… and spinning off to infinity.

  Every mathematical calculation of the perfect weather, divided by an imperfect circle.

  An irrational sense of perfection.

  A monkey wrench.

  “Sierra!” shouts Mark.

  His voice in desperation, he must be close and his timing is just right.

  Thoughts clear my head.

  My eyes close.

  Gravity seems to pull heavy.

  Mark’s voice seems to fade but his arms catch me and ease me to the ground.

  I’m finally at peace.

  Finally at rest.

  Finally drifting away to…

  We’ll have more coming up after the break.

  Stay with us.

  FOURTEEN HOURS

  23

  Everything is empty.

  Black.

  You’d expect darkness to be cold but it’s not. It feels like the warmth of a blanket.

  Like the warmth of another body holding you.

  The warmth of a crackling fire.

  After blinking a few times, I’m able to see clearly.

  This is the first time I’ve slept on my living room floor.

  The first time I’ve slept in days.

  It’s the first time my fireplace has been used.

  The first time I’ve woken up next to a sleeping Mark.

  Using his arm like a pillow with his other rested over my waist.

  His chest against my back.

  His soft breath in my hair.

  This feels amazing.

  I feel rested.

  The ladybugs are gone.

  My vision is clear, in focus.

  Like waking up from a deep sleep.

  The room is dark except for the dancing light from the flames.

  Boards of plywood cover the windows and glass has been scattered across the carpet.

  Moving carefully, I try not to wake Mark but his eyes open and he smiles.

  "How long have I been asleep,” I ask.

  “Fourteen hours,” he replies, looking at his watch. “You’re a heavy sleeper. You could sleep through a storm.”

  “Is that what I did? Was it real or was it just a dream?”

  Under the blanket, my clothes are still damp.

  “No,” he says, “It was quite real.”

  Mark goes on to tell me how I had collapsed just in time for him to catch me. How he carried my dead weight in his arms, stumbling through the streets. How sheets of rain smacked his face. How the wind almost knocked him over. How his life flashed before his eyes just like the lightning strikes around him.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “Going out there is something I had to do.”

  Then he tells me how he would do it all over again if he had to. That he’s saved me before.

  In the kitchen, on the countertop, my potted sunflower sits blooming in the daylight from the window like it has never bloomed before.

  The silence from outside is almost too quiet. I’m afraid the storm destroyed everything around us and swept the world away.

  The yards and streets are riddled with garbage.

  Trees, snapped in half, lay on top of houses.

  Dead power-lines spread over the sidewalks.

  Cars turned on their sides.

  But it’s quiet.

  The sky is a brighter overcast, paper thin like the sun is just waiting to break through.

  As we step out, so do others from where they were hiding. Parents and children, coming up from storm cellars. From basements. People gathered together in the strongest buildings get a look for the first time of the storm’s aftermath.

  The apartment building in the distance from my bedroom window, where there were once patios, now broken beams of steel and concrete. From the doorway of the lobby, a short man steps outside, wearing work boots and blue jeans, a neon construction vest over a dirty white t-shirt. He lights a cigarette.

  Total strangers, survivors, they walk together towards the hill.

  No one is hurt.

  Everyone is alive.

  Everyone is in one piece, which is more than I can say for the buildings in the horizon.

  Later I’ll learn my parents house was completely leveled by the destruction. Had they been at home, I most certainly would have lost them. Later I’ll discover the only structure left unscathed was the hospital. When the phones are restored, I’ll hear Mom tell me Dad is doing well. They’ll be relieved to hear I’m well rested and feeling better than ever.

  From the hilltop, looking out over the city’s skyline, Mark stands beside me.

  Two police cruisers pull to park aside the street.

  Dax, the beefy black cop steps out, holding onto his car door, surveying the damage.

  Avery comes from her car, glancing around as her passenger side opens. A gorgeous teenage girl in street clothes, with long black hair hanging past her shoulders, steps beside her mother. Both of them soaking in the scenery. Avery’s head stops moving when she sees me.

  We smile at each other.

  She tilts her head sideways toward her daughter, nodding and giving me a wink.

  My body tingles and I can’t help but laugh with glee.

  The front door of a house opens from across the street.

  A sweet old lady comes stepping out with her walker.

  Tennis balls on three of the four feet. Alive and well.

  She knows me from Doctor Lane’s office.

  We exchange smiles and we wave.

  “Are you the weather girl from channel six news?” she shouts.

  Smiling big, I nod.

  Had she not seen the news, she would have kept her doctor’s appointment and not been at home where it was safe.

  The wheels of a silver SUV crunch debris as it comes to stop along a split tree trunk that lay in the road. The man with the short shaved hair, with his thin-framed glasses, with his gray sneakers steps from the driver’s seat at the same time his wife opens the door to the passenger side.

  From the backseat, his two children. A boy and a girl.

  They gather together, his arms around the other three and acknowledge how fortunate they are.

  The mystery man, he kisses his wife’s forehead and turns to me.

  He doesn’t recognize me from when we were kids, except for the times he may have seen me on the television, but he smiles and waves.

  My cellphone beeps with a notification. On my social media page, a message from Anonymous, with zero’s instead of O’s.

  The post says: ‘Thank you.’

  “They believed you,” says Mark. “You saved these people’s lives.”

  It’s an amazing feeling but I can’t take credit. The storm would have happened regardless. Who’s to say someone else wouldn’t have done the same? It turns out I happened to be in the right place at the right time.

  My wrist doesn’t hurt anymore. After loosening the brace, I let it fall to the wet grass. From my right side, I can feel Mark looking at me. When I turn my head, our eyes meet. The two of us, we smile. Reaching my right arm to him, I take hold of his hand. We stand beside each other and watch in the distance where construction crews begin to fill the streets and the sunshine breaks through the clouds.

  It’s not a perfect world.

  No one would think the two of us together would be perfect.

  But it’s not about reaching perfection.

  It’s not about how close you can get.

  It’s not about settling, but being happy with what you have.

  Being alive.

  Being passionate.

  It’s about staying true to yourself.

  It’s about staying true to everyone else.

  Remembering everything is chaos.

  Remembering you’re only as strong as your weakest link and that’s okay.

&nbs
p; We’re only human.

  “I’m awake now.”

  Remembering everything will be fine…

  …until it’s not.

  END

  24

  The producer of the Channel Six evening news wasted no time calling me to offer the primetime weather spot.

  Occasionally, I’ll see Randi hanging around her office when I come in late afternoon. She came through for me by putting a good word in. I guess after all that happened, there’s no doubt I’d be able to handle a live broadcast of any threatening weather.

  The cloverleaf intern took my spot as a full time paid morning weather girl.

  Douglas is still the morning news anchor along side Olivia and Kurt, but the storm at his home was nothing compared to the one that struck the city. Not once his wife caught wind he might be messing around.

  My evening colleagues are still getting to know each other, but one familiar face I see all the time is my cameraman, Mark.

  Standing in front of the green Chroma key screen, I wait for his countdown.

  The producer is heard in my earpiece telling everyone to get ready to toss to the weather.

  Mark’s hand goes up with all five fingers bending as he counts down.

  “Five… Four… Three… Two…”

  The one is silent.

  Mark flips me his middle finger instead of his index, and his smiling face peeks around the camera.

  I try not to laugh.

  “Good evening. I’m Sierra Preston with your local weather report. Over the next few days we’re going to see some warmer temperatures move into the area. This warm front could potentially set conditions for some weather threats. Nothing but clear skies and sunshine leading into next week where we have a chance of some thunderstorms. We’ll have more details coming up after the break.”

  “Thank you, Sierra,” says news anchor, Andy Overton. “What a relief not to expect what we had a few weeks ago.” His spiffy brown hair and trimmed beard, and his pinstriped blue suit; that’s all the audience sees. What they can’t see are his white Converse sneakers under the desk.

  The second news anchor, Melissa Johnson, nods and agrees before talking about a related story.

  Her bright sleeveless dress brings out the blue in her eyes. The studio lights make her golden blonde hair glow. On her feet, out of sight of the camera, a generic brand of blue sneakers.

  “City workers estimate a total, one hundred forty three million in damages,” she says, “and some local businesses are feeling the effects.”