In an Instant(32)
I am still talking when his shivering stops, his death so quiet I almost don’t notice. His chest rises and falls one last time, and then his mouth drops open and he is still.
I pray for his soul, asking God to carry him away quickly to a heaven like the one I promised him, a place that is kind and understanding, a place more tolerant and less confusing for a special boy like Oz.
When my grief turns to hate, I go to the source of it, wishing equally for a hell that will punish Uncle Bob for what he did.
36
It is deceiving. The ones who have survived, you think are okay.
It’s been a week since the accident, six days since my mom climbed out for help, five since Chloe and Vance were found.
Oz was never found. The search resumed the moment the storm lifted, then was called off two days later.
Two died. The others are healing and can resume their lives, pick up where they left off.
This is what you think. Right?
Wrong.
Like a quilt of thorns, an injurious aftermath has settled over the survivors, the urgency of staying alive morphing into something else entirely. Adrenal glands no longer fire in overdrive; exhaustion and shock no longer numb the brain; and the reality of life-after has seeped into consciousness like a slow bleed, a silent haunting of the cold and suffering that tears at each of them with every breath.
Dread coils my stomach in a constant ache as I realize the worst is yet to come. Denial and regret, shameful gratefulness and guilt, grief and hopelessness spin through the thoughts and dreams of my mom, Chloe, and Mo—each so terrorized by what happened they avoid sleep for fear of remembering.
I think of the deer in the road, his startled marble eye blinking through the windshield, and I wonder if he is aware of the damage he caused, or if he is oblivious, ignorantly going about his life completely unaware of the price that saving his life has cost.
Uncle Bob, Aunt Karen, and Natalie have returned home to Orange County. I’m glad they are gone. Though Uncle Bob’s presence was comforting to my mom, it was infuriating to me. It seems grossly unfair that the same lack of conscience that allowed him to do what he did also guards him against the posttraumatic effects from which the others are suffering. Already his ankle is almost healed, his family is healthy and whole, he’s being heralded as a hero, and he sleeps easy at night.
If I could play for him my brother’s suffering, I would. Every time he closed his eyes, I would torture him with an endless reel of Oz’s cries, his confusion, and his pleas for my dad, for me, for Mo—the entire soundtrack of his lonely, awful, slow death. Sometimes I would wait silently, allow him to believe he was being spared, and then I would blast the recording full volume, mercilessly haunting him until he was terrified of sleep.
But I can’t replay Oz’s suffering, and so, like the deer, Uncle Bob continues on, oblivious and without repentance. His thoughts never venture back to that awful night or to the moment he sent Oz away, never reflect on his role in the chain of unfortunate events, and therefore he suffers no ramifications for what he did and feels no sense of responsibility or remorse.
The others are not blessed with his lack of retrospection. Constantly their consciences roar, should-haves and could-haves blaring in their brains. They cannot bear how they see themselves now—the reflections too clear, too unflattering, too brutal and honest—and I realize we are not meant to see ourselves so plainly, without the guise of ego and ignorance, not meant to have our true characters revealed.
My mom and Mo and Chloe suffer from different regrets, though the root cause is the same—fervent desire to turn back time, reverse fate, and be better than they were.
My mom mostly thinks of Oz. Did I say goodbye? she mumbles to the mirror out loud.
She didn’t, but she’s not sure, and desperately I hope she convinces herself she did.
She also tortures herself with what happened to Chloe. She sobbed uncontrollably when she told Aubrey about it, and no matter how many times Aubrey said it wasn’t her fault, she could not be convinced. Uncle Bob also reminded her that she did try to stop her. He said it forcefully, almost angrily, telling her in no uncertain terms that there was absolutely nothing she could have done.
I hate him, but I was glad he said that.
Unfortunately Chloe doesn’t feel the same way. Openly she hates my mom, blame radiating whenever she is near. My sister spent nearly thirty hours huddled in the hollow of that tree, and that is a long time to be alone with your thoughts and for your perspective to become distorted. I cannot be sure how Chloe remembers things, only that her altered view leaves no room for forgiveness.
It is hard to know what Chloe thinks because Chloe doesn’t talk. Since she was rescued, the only time she’s spoken was to ask about Vance, her eyes filling when she heard he was alive, then her heart breaking when she asked the nurse to call him, and Vance’s mom told her he wouldn’t take her call.
Since then, she hasn’t said a word, hasn’t done much of anything. All day she lies on her side, her face toward the window. Sometimes her eyes are open, though most of the time they’re closed. She refuses to eat or go to the bathroom. An IV feeds her, and she wears diapers, and even when she soils herself, she does not move.
It is horrible to watch, and I think the smell must be vile—gangrenous flesh, urine, and feces. My mom must be used to it because she doesn’t react, but all the others wince when they walk in and hurry to finish their business quickly so they can escape.