While You Were Gone (3 page)

Next thing I know, I'm lying on a tarp under a tree with the world imploding around me. Sirens scream. Smoke chokes the air. People stumble past. Beside me, a woman holds a bloody cloth to her head. Beyond her, medics load a gurney into the back of an ambulance. Everything is loud and hot and close. And none of it is familiar.

I push myself up and see my own hands wrapped in gauze. What happened? I close my eyes and think back.

I dodged Brent's truck. Walked to school. Grabbed a quick smoke before going to class. Got there late—

A slamming door makes me jump. The ambulance bounds over the curb and its siren wails. A woman crouches in front of me. “Welcome back.” Her smile is grim. She unslings the stethoscope from around her neck and presses it against my chest. Holds two fingers on my wrist to check my pulse.

These aren't my clothes. “Where's my jacket?”

She shakes her head and puts the stethoscope back around her neck. Pulls a penlight from her pocket and flashes it over my eyes. “That's your sweatshirt behind you, isn't it? We used it for a pillow. Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Pain anywhere?”

“Chest feels tight.”

“Asthma?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“Probably reacting to all the soot in the air.”

“What's wrong with my hands?”

“Superficial lacerations. Compliance officer said you were climbing a fence when the bomb went off. You got scraped up pretty good when you landed. Lucky nothing's broken.” She taps my knees and elbows with the side of the penlight. “I'd send you over to Harbor Samaritan, but they're full up. What's your name?”

“Danny.”

“Did you come here with anyone, Danny?”

I shake my head.

“Officers are working on contacting your family. Hang tight.” She pats me on the knee and goes to help a woman with a cut on her leg hobbling toward the tarp.

I lift the gauze to look at my palms. Road rash. Fingers scraped up, but nothing too—

What the—?

I hold my arms out in front of me. They should be covered in red-pink scars from Brent's cigar. But—

Everything blurs. The people, the noise. It melts away until all I see is me.

I stretch my fingers wide. The scars are gone. The calluses, too. And my long hair. I've never seen these clothes before, not even the sweatshirt the nurse said was mine. The world around me moves in slow motion.

Think, Ogden. You walked in late to English. Sat in your chair. Put your head down and fell asleep.

Fell.

I fell. There was darkness and a pulling. Then the floor was gone and I fell through. I thought I was dying. But I didn't die.

I landed.

Here.

And the scars are gone.

Someone calls my name. I look up through the sea of people. When I hear it again, I push myself up to stand. A cop walks toward me, the same one I saw before. His mouth is a thin line, his eyes searching. He stops to let a person in a wheelchair pass, then sees me and nods. He motions behind him for someone to follow. I try to see past him but there are too many—

“Whoa there.” A medic catches me.

“S'okay.” I shake my head and free my arm. Beyond the cop, a tall man in sunglasses walks into view. He holds out his hand to the woman on his right.

It can't be.

I take a step, sure the ground won't be there, and trip over the woman with the bleeding head. “Sorry.” I don't stop. I just keep walking toward them and they keep walking toward me until the space between us is gone and we're standing face to face. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

My parents are dead. I watched their coffins go into the ground.

Mom wraps her arms around me. “Oh, Danny. We thought we'd lost you.”

Early Friday evening, we're finally released from our confinement. Taking the elevator from the bunker all the way to the top floor feels like being reborn. Dad retreats to his office. I stop to look out over the city before joining Mom in the kitchen. She goes on and on about how good it is to be back upstairs, how we all must be starving, how she doesn't understand why some people refuse to integrate into society. Meanwhile, I prepare green beans. When she's said all she can say about the bad things in the world, she starts in on me wanting to study abroad.

“It's so far away,” she says, flipping the tilapia fillets. “Why not choose something closer?”

I think the things I can't say:
Because
it's far away and because over
there
they don't censor art. But what I say to her is, “Because it's the best.”

“Well, your father and I still aren't convinced.”

Gripping the knife, I pulverize the beans.

“How about we see if you get in and then decide?”

I'm so annoyed I can't answer. In fact, I don't say anything the rest of the time we're in the kitchen, or after we've gotten dinner ready.

The dining table is ridiculously long for a family of three, but necessary for dinners with dignitaries. Mom and I sit across from each other at one end, waiting for Dad to join us. He's always on the phone. Just part of the job when you're the gov. Mom turns pages in a manila folder beside her plate. She's always reading boring papers and proposals. Just part of the job when you're a lobbyist. A candle sits on the table, its light competing with the chandelier overhead. I watch the flame's reflection in the window overlooking Phoenix. The city stretches out in a shimmering grid of gold and silver lights. It's beautiful. But the darkness hides an ugly truth: Part of the city is without power. A mall lies in smoldering ruins. That's on the other side of the Executive Tower, though, so we don't have to think about it while we eat. Out of sight, out of mind.

“We need to go shopping,” Mom says, breaking the silence but not looking up from her work. “Governor's Gala is just around the corner.”

The thought feels like grit in my mouth. “They're still going to have it? Even with everything going on?”

“Of course,” she says. “It's a tradition. I think you should go with Chad. He's a nice kid.”

“Mom, I told you before—”

Dad's entrance rescues me from having to explain for the thousandth time that I don't want to go with Chad to the gala, or anywhere, ever. “Fine. Keep me posted.” He tucks his phone into his pocket, opens the media cabinet on the wall and turns on the flat screen. President Coradetti stands at a podium, a flag-lined hallway behind him. His face is stern.

“…because what happened in Phoenix could happen anywhere. The truth is, there are forces strategizing against our great nation. Individuals and organizations actively plotting to harm our people. They are ruthless. They are heart—” The lights flicker and the television glitches.

“What was that?” Mom asks.

“Fluctuation in the power grid,” Dad says, waving his hand to quiet her. “It's to be expected.”

The president unfreezes. “…will not stop until they've unraveled the very fabric of our society. We cannot and will not let that happen. I am working closely with Governor Solomon and security agencies to ensure the safety and well-being of the good people of Arizona. We will move through this dark and dangerous time toward a better tomorrow, but only if we stand together and stand strong. Thank you.” The presidential seal fills the screen before it returns to regular news.

Dad mutes the TV and sits at the head of the table. I watch the reporter's lips move, waiting for the lights to flicker again. Dad sighs. “How am I going to follow that speech?”

“You're going to be great.” Mom puts a hand on his shoulder.

“I just don't think anyone realizes the pressure….”

“You were made for times like this. And we'll be right there to support you. Right, Eve?”

Behind her, scenes of military personnel and cleanup crews move across the screen. I force myself to smile. “Of course. You've got this.”

He smiles. “Where would I be without my girls? Is this creole tilapia? You must really love me.” He winks at Mom and digs in. My own fish remains untouched. I push it around a little with my fork.

“Eve,” he says, his face and emotions back in check, “I received word that school is no longer on lockdown. Jonas can take you back straight from the press conference tomorrow.”

I exhale. Loud.

“Yes, yes, we know,” he says. “You can't wait to get away.”

“Security will be on alert?” Mom's voice is tense.

“What kind of father would I be if I didn't look out for my daughter when terrorists threaten to undermine the safety of our city?”

“Is that from tomorrow's speech?”

“You could tell?”

“Maybe a little less dramatic with the delivery.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin. “Eve and I were discussing the gala. We need to find dresses.”

“And a date.”

“Well, I know who I'm going with.” She pats his arm.

“What's the name of that intern in your office? Charlie?”

“Chad,” Mom says.

“Good kid.” He sips from his water glass. “Eve should go with him.”

I blurt out, “I'm not going.”

That gets their attention.

“Of course you are,” Mom says. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” I point my fork at the TV. “You're talking about dresses when someone just attacked the city, and
I'm
the one being ridiculous?”

“Eve.” Dad's voice is low. Mom and I both ignore him.

“There are traditions,” she says, “and standards you don't appreciate—”

“I have deadlines you don't appreciate.”

“We're all busy.”

“The Art Guild jury is the same day as the gala. I'll be up to my eyeballs in preparations.”

She crosses her arms. “What will people think if you're not there?”

“I don't care what people think.”

“Enough!” Dad slams his knife down on the table. The candle flame dances. “You're going to the gala and that's that.”

“What about my art?”

“Your art,” Mom says. “That's all you ever think about. Do you ever stop to consider what's best for our family?”

Dad takes a deep breath. “Girls, there's enough drama going on out there, we don't need more of it in here. Eve, I don't care if you go with Chad or Charlie or some schmo off the street. You'll be at the gala and you'll be on your best behavior.”

Mom rests her hands in her lap and raises an eyebrow.

He picks up his knife and fork. “
And
we'll figure out how to make the timing work for the jury exhibit.”

Mom purses her lips and takes a drink from her glass. “Well, maybe not a schmo off the street.”

My pulse pounds in my head. I'm about to argue my case again, but Dad's ringing phone interrupts. He stands and turns his back to the table. “Yeah?” He puts a hand on his hip. “Are you sure?” Runs his hand through his hair. “I want a thorough search. Keep me posted.” When he turns again and looks at me, his face is grave.