couldn’t tell if Gracie was still in this world, or if she’d already crossed into the next. All she could do was follow the sound.
Mama.
She began to run, past one block where men with chainsaws were clearing paths in the street, then past a second where a church van was distributing bottles of water.
Mama. Mama.
She stopped in the middle of an intersection strewn with debris then turned left, bearing northeast to the swiftly rising sun. She ran past search crews and a passing ambulance, past a crew of firemen trying to put out a fire.
Mama.
The voice was louder now, which meant she was getting closer. Tara ran another block and then into what appeared to be a park, but the swing sets and teeter-totters had been upended and twisted into each other until there was nothing but a lot full of shattered plastic and twisted metal.
Mama. Mama .
She stopped to catch her breath and then closed her eyes. I hear you, Gracie. Keep talking to me.
When she started walking again, she went all the way through the park to the other side into what was left of a large stand of shade trees. Just as she entered the woods, the worst happened.
Gracie’s voice was suddenly silent.
“No!” Tara screamed, and began running from one pile of debris to another, tearing through limbs, pulling aside pieces of corrugated iron and insulation from houses, but there was no child, alive or dead.
All of a sudden a chill ran through her body. She stopped, took a deep cleansing breath and made herself focus, and just like that the answer came.
Look up.
And she did, straight up into the branches of an old spreading Oak tree recently denuded of leaves, to the fork high above her head and the tattered blanket waving in the wind that had caught among the limbs.
The branches were thick and forked in such a way that from where Tara stood, the blanket almost looked like a hammock.
Suddenly the hair on the back of her neck began to crawl. She could hear whimpering. And when she saw a tiny hand appear over the edge of the blanket, she gasped.
She spun to look behind her. Nate was a good block away, maybe farther, and the family even farther away than that. She didn’t dare yell at Nate for fear the sound of her voice would make the baby move and fall. She heard the whimper again and knew there were no seconds to spare.
There was a moment when she wished she was wearing tennis shoes instead of boots, but that was her only hesitation. She shed her raincoat, reached for the lowest limb and pulled herself up. Then little by little she began climbing, using the spreading limbs as her pathway to Gracie.
It felt like forever, but she finally reached the fork in the branches where the blanket was caught. She pulled herself up, then peered over, straight into the face of Gracie Littlehorse.
The toddler was covered in mud. Her rain-soaked clothes were bloodstained and beginning to dry, but when she saw Tara, she lifted her arms as if begging to be picked up.
Tara hesitated for fear she’d make matters worse in case the baby had broken bones, but Gracie was moving her arms, trying to kick the blanket off her legs and she was moving her head from side to side, as if trying to see where she was at. It was all the proof Tara needed that her neck and back were not broken.
Tara lifted her up into her arms. Gracie wrapped her arms around Tara’s neck so hard Tara could feel her trembling from shock.
“I’ve got you, Gracie. Don’t be scared. You’re okay now,” Tara said, patting the toddler’s frail, muddy back.
From this high up, Tara had a bird’s-eye view of the storm’s path. She couldn’t believe Gracie had been carried this far by the storm and be alive, and yet here she was.
She looked off in the distance and waved. Nate saw her and waved back, but he was running—his aches forgotten—his exhaustion a thing of the past. She leaned back against the limbs and began patting Gracie’s back.
“You must be a very special girl, Gracie
Mama.
She began to run, past one block where men with chainsaws were clearing paths in the street, then past a second where a church van was distributing bottles of water.
Mama. Mama.
She stopped in the middle of an intersection strewn with debris then turned left, bearing northeast to the swiftly rising sun. She ran past search crews and a passing ambulance, past a crew of firemen trying to put out a fire.
Mama.
The voice was louder now, which meant she was getting closer. Tara ran another block and then into what appeared to be a park, but the swing sets and teeter-totters had been upended and twisted into each other until there was nothing but a lot full of shattered plastic and twisted metal.
Mama. Mama .
She stopped to catch her breath and then closed her eyes. I hear you, Gracie. Keep talking to me.
When she started walking again, she went all the way through the park to the other side into what was left of a large stand of shade trees. Just as she entered the woods, the worst happened.
Gracie’s voice was suddenly silent.
“No!” Tara screamed, and began running from one pile of debris to another, tearing through limbs, pulling aside pieces of corrugated iron and insulation from houses, but there was no child, alive or dead.
All of a sudden a chill ran through her body. She stopped, took a deep cleansing breath and made herself focus, and just like that the answer came.
Look up.
And she did, straight up into the branches of an old spreading Oak tree recently denuded of leaves, to the fork high above her head and the tattered blanket waving in the wind that had caught among the limbs.
The branches were thick and forked in such a way that from where Tara stood, the blanket almost looked like a hammock.
Suddenly the hair on the back of her neck began to crawl. She could hear whimpering. And when she saw a tiny hand appear over the edge of the blanket, she gasped.
She spun to look behind her. Nate was a good block away, maybe farther, and the family even farther away than that. She didn’t dare yell at Nate for fear the sound of her voice would make the baby move and fall. She heard the whimper again and knew there were no seconds to spare.
There was a moment when she wished she was wearing tennis shoes instead of boots, but that was her only hesitation. She shed her raincoat, reached for the lowest limb and pulled herself up. Then little by little she began climbing, using the spreading limbs as her pathway to Gracie.
It felt like forever, but she finally reached the fork in the branches where the blanket was caught. She pulled herself up, then peered over, straight into the face of Gracie Littlehorse.
The toddler was covered in mud. Her rain-soaked clothes were bloodstained and beginning to dry, but when she saw Tara, she lifted her arms as if begging to be picked up.
Tara hesitated for fear she’d make matters worse in case the baby had broken bones, but Gracie was moving her arms, trying to kick the blanket off her legs and she was moving her head from side to side, as if trying to see where she was at. It was all the proof Tara needed that her neck and back were not broken.
Tara lifted her up into her arms. Gracie wrapped her arms around Tara’s neck so hard Tara could feel her trembling from shock.
“I’ve got you, Gracie. Don’t be scared. You’re okay now,” Tara said, patting the toddler’s frail, muddy back.
From this high up, Tara had a bird’s-eye view of the storm’s path. She couldn’t believe Gracie had been carried this far by the storm and be alive, and yet here she was.
She looked off in the distance and waved. Nate saw her and waved back, but he was running—his aches forgotten—his exhaustion a thing of the past. She leaned back against the limbs and began patting Gracie’s back.
“You must be a very special girl, Gracie
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