In an Instant(14)

Chloe stands, wobbling slightly with dizziness.

“Chloe,” my mom says, fear lacing her voice. “You need to stay here.”

Vance pulls Chloe to him and wraps his arm possessively around her shoulders.

My mom reaches for her. “Chloe, we need to stick together.” And though she doesn’t know it, her words tip Chloe’s decision over the edge. Setting my mom’s scarf down, she turns and staggers toward the shattered windshield, careful not to look at my body as she goes, her body wavering and her jaw clenched tight. Vance follows and nearly pushes her into the night.

“Ann, stop her,” my dad moans, but there’s nothing my mom can do. She is standing at the edge of the cab, staring through the broken windshield into the darkness, but the snow has already swallowed them, and they are gone.

“Pancakes,” Oz continues to scream. “I’m hungry.”

Everyone pretends he isn’t there, except my dad, who mumbles, “Oz, no pancakes, not tonight. You need to take care of Bingo. Bingo’s hungry also, but there’s no food. He’s going to be scared because he doesn’t understand, so you need to take care of him.”

With this final exertion, my dad’s eyes roll back in his head, and he passes out. But what he did was amazing. He’s the only one who truly understands Oz. My brother has stopped screaming, his attention diverted to his new task.

“Mo, let me down,” he says. “Dad says I need to help Bingo.”

I’m a little surprised Mo is the one he asks. But when I scan those who remain, she is the best choice. My heart pinches with the realization that already I’ve been replaced.

Even now, my mom doesn’t look at her son, avoiding him the way some people avoid their reflections, not wanting to see what the world does. The cruel joke is that Oz looks the most like her—light-golden skin and hazel eyes with long lashes. But like a fun house mirror, Oz is distorted, a grossly enlarged version of her, and since he was born, she has refused to face him.

My mom continues to stand and stare into the night, her fists clenched, and I know she is weighing the decision of whether to go after Chloe or stay. I feel her making the choice. Impossible. One daughter gone in the wilderness. Her injured husband and son here. And Mo. Selfishly, I beg her to stay.

Mo stands, her body convulsing from the cold as she walks carefully around my dad to get to Oz. Kyle leaps up to help her, and together they release his seat belt and help him down.

Oz takes a spot in the corner behind the driver’s seat and calls Bingo onto his lap. He whispers to the dog, “I know you’re hungry, but you need to wait. It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you.” He strokes the dog’s fur, and Bingo lets him.

“We need to close off that window,” Kyle says with a glance at the shattered windshield, snapping my mom from her trance, the decision made for her, too much time passed for her to do anything but remain.

“He’s right,” she says, blinking away her tears. “The only chance we have of surviving the night is to somehow block out the storm.”

Everyone looks around. The Miller Mobile doesn’t offer much in terms of supplies. It’s not the kind of camper used for camping. It’s more of a surf-mobile, an inexpensive way to travel and cart toys like surfboards, kayaks, and bikes, a metal box with a few seats and a table.

“Snow,” Mo says. “We can use the game boards and sticks if we can find them, then pack it with snow like the Eskimos do.”

Mo is brilliant. Someday she will do great things. Like MacGyver, give her a paper clip and a roll of duct tape, and she could make a jet airplane.

Kyle doesn’t need to be told twice. Jumping into action, he pulls on his gloves and crawls toward the opening. Uncle Bob hobbles forward on his damaged ankle, and my mom and Mo follow behind him.

My mom turns, the twist causing a jolt of pain that freezes her. With a measured exhale, she straightens the wince from her face and says, “Mo, stay here.”

“I can help,” Mo says, her teeth chattering inside blue lips.

“Stay,” my mom says more firmly, and Mo doesn’t argue again.

When my mom is gone, Mo turns her attention to my dad. Her hands shake uncontrollably, but she manages to unzip his jacket and wrestle his arms from the sleeves. She crosses them over his body, then rezips the coat and ties the sleeves, his jacket now a cocoon and his bare hands protected.

Her manipulation rouses him. “Finn?” he mumbles, disoriented, his eyes fluttering open.

“It’s me, Mr. Miller,” Mo says, her voice cracking.

And when my dad realizes it isn’t me, his eyes leak, the tears freezing on his cut cheeks. “Thank you,” he says, then falls back to unconsciousness.

She looks down at his leg and winces at the injury. It’s not the blood that makes her cringe; her wince is in sympathy for his pain, and I see her pray that he stays unconscious. As her eyes travel back to his face, she notices something sticking out from his jacket pocket—the edge of a glove—and I watch as she pushes it out of sight.





8

As cold as it was inside the camper, it’s impossibly colder outside. The wind howls ferociously, whipping the snow into hard balls of ice that slash and cut the skin. My mom raises her face to the onslaught, her eyes peering through the razor gauze as she searches for Chloe, but not a trace of her or Vance remains.