spinning to the ground and crashing.
I didn’t want to think about my dad but I couldn’t help it. In my head he is struggling with his safety harness. His hands are shaking. I imagine the strong smell of gasoline from a busted fuel line. He calls out to the gunner but the gunner doesn’t answer because the gunner is dead. Black smoke starts to fill the cockpit. It is thick and oily and it smells bad because the gunner’s body is starting to burn.
I shook my head and shut my eyes and tried to think about something else. I tried to put all fifty states in alphabetical order but I’d only gotten as far as Delaware before I was imagining my dad dragging himself across some sharp rocks to get away from a burning helicopter. His legs are bent funny. His hands are covered in dirt and blood.
The sun is going down and the sky is red. Dad is pulling himself toward a split in the rocks. I imagine his flight suit has been torn away at the elbows and the flesh underneath is like raw hamburger.
…
The cave is small. Light from the last bit of sunset has found its way inside but it will be gone soon. My dad has drawn his sidearm and is sitting with his back against the cold rocks facing the entrance. His face is covered in sweat. He is sitting in a puddle of blood. The puddle is spreading quickly.
His sidearm becomes heavy and he puts it down. After a while he closes his eyes.
A little while after that he stops bleeding.
13
I DIDN’T REMEMBER falling asleep but I must have because the next thing I knew it was morning. I tried to roll over but I couldn’t. Somebody was in bed with me and their arm was around my waist, pinning me down.
I tried to wiggle out and heard a crinkling, crackling sound and that was when I remembered there were letters all over the bed. That was also when I remembered about my dad.
I stopped wiggling then. I just lay there on my side facing the wall. The arm around my waist felt heavy. I had a feeling it was Mom’s because on cold mornings when I was little I’d get into bed with Mom and Dad and she’d hold me like this under the covers and I’d feel warm and safe. I didn’t feel very safe this time though. I felt whatever the exact opposite was.
I breathed. I blinked. I stared at the wall. After a while I smelled coffee. Mom woke up and moved her arm leaving a cold spot on my side. She shifted. The letters crackled. I didn’t move.
“Derek?”
I didn’t want to talk. I pretended to sleep.
“I know you’re not asleep.”
“How’d you know?”
“I didn’t but now I do.”
“You tricked me?”
“A little.”
“You shouldn’t be tricking me at all,” I said. “I’m just a kid.”
“I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I wished I wasn’t against the wall because I wanted to get up and leave. I couldn’t though, because Mom’s arm was across me again and I just knew she wasn’t about to let me move it. She meant to have a Talk. And when Mom meant to have a Talk there wasn’t much you could do about it even if you weren’t pinned to the bed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
We lay there for a little while and didn’t say anything. I thought maybe she’d fallen asleep again.
“Derek?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
I scratched my arm and thought for a second. What
“I dunno,” I said finally. “I feel kinda… empty. Is it okay to feel empty?”
“Any way you feel is how you feel and that’s okay. Especially now,” Mom said. “And when those feelings change, the new ones will be okay, too. People will understand if you’re sad or if you’re angry—”
“But I’m not sad or angry. I told you, I’m not feeling anything. Just empty. And my head hurts. That’s how I’m feeling.”
She moved her arm from around my waist and started stroking my hair with her hand. I pictured her with a worried look on her face, her lips pressed together so you couldn’t see them.
“Is there something you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“No thanks.”
I listened to her breathe for a minute or two. Her breath was a little bit choppy and I was pretty sure she was crying. Or trying not to. She kept on stroking my hair.
“Would you like a song?”
I hadn’t had a song in a long time. Dad usually sung them to me.
“Yeah.”
“What song do you want?” she asked, clearing her throat a little.
“‘Sunday Morning Coming Down
“What? How do you know that song?”
“Dad sings it to me.”
“He does?”
“Yeah. It’s Johnny Cash.”
“I know who it is. I’m just not sure you’re old enough to—why don’t we do ‘Ring of Fire’ instead?”
“What about ‘Boy Named Sue’?”
“‘Boy Named—’?” She laughed. I think it surprised her. “Is there anything your father won’t sing to you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The Jonas Brothers.”
We finally agreed on “Walk the Line” and she cleared her throat again and started to sing. She didn’t really know all the words, though, so she sang the ones she did know and la-la-la’d the rest. I was warm with her body pressed against mine. Her fingers were in my hair.
“How many days did they search before they found Dad?” I said.
Mom stopped singing.
“What?”
“Those people on the news said they found Dad after days of searching. How many days was it?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Was it four days?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“A week?”
“Stop it.”
“Ten days?”
“Derek, stop. It wasn’t ten days,” Mom said. “It was… it was nine. Nine days.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly I didn’t feel so warm anymore. It was like the whole room had gotten colder even though I knew it
