In an Instant(27)

26

Mrs. Kaminski still sits beside Mo singing her lullaby, so soft now it is merely a hum. I’m about to leave to go to the news conference when a phone rings, a single cow moo, the signal from my iPhone that lets me know I’ve been messaged. Mo must have taken my phone from the accident. It’s on the side table beside her own.

I drift over to look at the screen. Though drift is really the wrong word, because it implies movement and air and feeling, and there is none of that. I do not actually move; I simply exist where I choose, invisible and silent—a witness, an awareness, nothing more.

The screen glows. My mom wants to know what color ur dress is so she can buy a matching tie. Hope ur having a great weekend. C u Tuesday. Charlie.

I swallow hard, and my eyes fill with tears. And I know I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself when there are so many others to feel sorry for, but I can’t help it. I want to go to formal. With Charlie. I want to sit beside Mo and distract her by talking about my dress and what color I should wear, because Mo cares about those sorts of things. I want to help Burns search for my brother and sister and Vance. I want to tell my mom I’m sorry about wrecking her car and to tell her what Uncle Bob did to Oz. I want everyone to be found and for all of us to go home. I want to go back to school, go to college, then go on to be the first woman Major League Baseball manager. I want all these things.

I stare at the screen of my phone, which is now blank, thinking of the dress I would have chosen, maybe green because it would match Charlie’s eyes. I think of him taking my hand and leading me to the dance floor, about me giggling as he wrapped his hand around my back and him smirking back. I know we would laugh because he’s funny. His friends are always laughing at the things he says.

Mo stirs and moans and calls my name.

I’m here, I sob, though I’m not.

She shifts again, her face grimacing as if in pain. Worried it is my distress that is disturbing her, I leave.





27

The room is the size of a classroom and is jammed with reporters and cameramen. Near the door is a podium with a microphone. Burns stands behind it, giving a statement. It’s the first time I’ve seen him uncomfortable, and I realize, confident as he is leading his team, being in the spotlight is not his thing.

Stiffly he explains the situation, along with the search plan for tomorrow, while Uncle Bob and Natalie stand behind him. Uncle Bob has shaved, and Natalie has brushed her hair and wears lip gloss and blush.

Burns wraps up his statement, then introduces Uncle Bob, who crutch hops forward.

“Mr. Gold,” a reporter with bright-blonde hair says, “what can you tell us about the ordeal you and your family have been through?”

Uncle Bob blinks several times, blinded by the lights and the pretty woman speaking to him. “Uh, um, well, our priority, uh . . . was to just get through the night.”

“So your decision was to stay put?”

Uncle Bob nods. “We had fallen a long way, and it was pitch black and snowing. Finding our way out at night would have been impossible.”

“But . . .” The reporter looks at her notes. “Chloe Miller and Vance Hannigan chose to try? Was it a group decision to send them for help?”

Uncle Bob swallows at her slightly accusatory tone, and his eyes narrow as a shield of self-preservation goes up. “No, that was their decision,” he says, “a decision we tried to stop them from making, but Vance was determined to go, and Chloe was determined to go with him.” He stops and shakes his head. “There was nothing any of us could do.” He looks back up and, with genuine heartbreak in his voice, says, “They’re just kids. I’d give anything to have them here and safe with the rest of us.”

The reporter nods with sympathy, and the gaggle around her nods as well. “And the third child who is missing,” she says, “the boy, Oz—did you try to stop him as well?”

“I did,” Uncle Bob says with shocking sincerity. “I begged him to listen, but he wanted his mom.” He stops as his emotions get the better of him and then, with a deep breath, continues, “Oz has an intellectual disability. He has a strong will but not a strong mind. I pray the rescuers find him. His parents are my best friends, and they left their son in my care. If something happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself.” He looks away as tears fill his eyes, and he is so convincing even I almost believe him. And as I watch the reporters, expressions of great sympathy and understanding on their faces, I know they believe him as well, and I wish I could smash him over his head with an Oscar for his Academy Award–worthy performance.

“Mr. Gold,” the reporter goes on, her voice now gentle, “on a more positive note, your family, Jack Miller, and Maureen Kaminski were rescued.”

Uncle Bob nods and, following her lead, changes the subject. “Yes. Hearing those choppers overhead was God answering our prayers.”

“The rescue crew mentioned that aside from the injuries sustained during the crash, the five of you were in remarkably good shape thanks to some smart survival choices. Is it true you packed the windshield with snow to block out the storm?”

“We did. The snow acted as an insulator. It’s the same technique the Eskimos use.”

I bristle that he does not mention Mo or give her credit for the idea.

“And you melted snow into water?”