In an Instant(25)

My mom’s face is in her hands, her elbows on her knees.

I can’t tell if it’s a distraction or if Burns actually needs the information, but giving my mom a task is a good idea. It gives her something to focus on and keeps her from going mad. She thinks for a second, then begins, and I am stunned.

My mom never looks at Oz, or never seems to, yet her description is chillingly detailed. Somehow, without anyone knowing, she has studied him. Her eyes are closed as she describes the mole below his left ear, the birthmark that looks like California on his wrist, the scar on his temple from when he fell off his bike two years ago, the cowlick at his hairline that swirls his hair to the left. She knows that he is wearing wool socks—one gray and one brown because his left foot is larger than his right and the brown sock is thinner and he likes his shoes to feel even. She is certain he will walk down instead of up because this is what will make sense to him, just as she is certain he will hide if the rescue workers come near.

She tears up when she talks about how strong he is and when she warns Burns not to go near Bingo unless Oz gives permission. Oz is fiercely protective of those he loves. Her description is so vivid I see him in her words. Her voice quivers with pride when she describes his kind heart, then grows soft when she speaks of his devotion, and as I listen, I wish my dad could hear it or that Oz could know it.





22

I watch as the brave rescue crew, dressed in bright-orange parkas, waits at the edge of the accident site for the order to rappel down and begin the search. A dozen of them stand with their backs to the wind, gusts of hail peppering them and the wind drowning their voices. None complains or shows any sign of surrender, and when they get the word that the operation has been suspended because of the storm, I feel their despair. These people all carry photos of Vance and Chloe and Oz on their phones, and none of them wants to leave them out there another night. Reluctantly each returns to the jeeps that brought them here.

It takes three officers to restrain my mom from storming the woods herself when Burns tells her the news.

“Haldol,” Burns barks to the paramedic who has run over to assist.

My mom is flailing wildly, her eyes bulging.

The paramedic pulls out a syringe and jabs it into my mom’s thigh before she can kick him away. Nearly immediately she slumps in his arms, and the men carry her to the ambulance, where she is strapped down and transported to the hospital.

I am relieved. It’s been over thirty-six hours since my mom has slept.





23

I go to the hospital in Big Bear to check on Mo.

Numb. That is the word the doctor keeps using. “There will be tingling, and for several days you might not have feeling . . .”

I wish the word were restricted to Mo’s fingers and toes. But numb is what Mo is all over, inside and out. She nods to the doctor’s questions and follows his simple commands, but she doesn’t speak, her pupils are the size of pinheads, and her body slumps like a rag doll as he prods and pokes her for damage. Valium is mentioned by a nurse, but the doctor shakes his head. Maybe later, if necessary. He prefers her to remain unmedicated while her body reacclimatizes.

Mo’s injuries are limited to damage from the cold. Her lips are swollen and raw, her ears are blistered, her hands and feet are splinted and wrapped in gauze to treat the frostbite, and her body temperature was, at first, a few degrees below normal. Despite all that, she is beautiful, and the sight of her sitting safe in the hospital, wrapped in a heated blanket, brings incredible relief.

Mrs. Kaminski bursts through the door, and Mo looks up slowly.

“Mommy,” she mumbles, her whole body quivering, the trembling starting at her lips and spreading outward until her whole body shakes violently. Then she is in her mother’s arms, and Mrs. Kaminski is holding her up, absorbing the shock waves as she kisses Mo’s head and assures her that she is here and that Mo is okay.

“Shhh, baby,” Mrs. Kaminski says, gently guiding Mo to lie back on the bed. As she tucks the heated blanket around her daughter’s curled body, she sings a Polish lullaby that I remember her singing when Mo and I were little. Within minutes, Mo’s eyes close and her breath settles. Mrs. Kaminski doesn’t stop singing. Pulling a chair from the wall to the rail of the bed, she settles into it and sings and sings and sings.

An hour later, Mo stirs but doesn’t wake, and when she cries out, sobbing my name, it’s too much to take, and I leave.





24

My dad is in surgery.

At least a dozen people surround him, all of them in gowns and masks. His head is wrapped in gauze, and there is a breathing tube in his mouth. A surgeon on his left seems to be working on his chest, while the one on his right is focused on an open incision above his hip. My dad’s right leg is in a brace, and the gaping wound from where the femur broke the skin is clean but exposed. Like Mo, his feet and hands are in splints and wrapped in gauze.

You don’t have to have a medical degree to know he’s in bad shape. It’s been four hours since he was airlifted from the crash site, and it looks like they’ve barely begun. They are in for a long night.





25

I decide to visit Burns for an update on the search plans for tomorrow and am surprised when I wind up in a room with Uncle Bob, Aunt Karen, and Natalie.

From his bed, Uncle Bob shakes the captain’s hand as Burns introduces himself.