To the Moon and Back Page 4

  9:01.

  We’re almost done here . . . almost . . .

  Brady stepped back from the fence. A woman was watching him. She was beautiful. Older than he was, but still very pretty. Probably remembers me from Survivor, he thought. But she wasn’t Jenna, and Brady didn’t feel like talking.

  He started to walk away. There was still the tree and the museum to visit. He needed to look through it all, every detail. Every memento and remembrance, like he did every year. Before he left he would take a piece of chalk and write something on the children’s patio. Visitors were encouraged to do that. It was another part of Brady’s routine.

  And the whole time he would keep his eye on the fence. Checking it. Looking back at the spot where his letter remained. Just in case he might see her. Maybe walking the fence the way she’d done all those anniversaries ago. Just in case this was the year.

  The year Jenna actually showed up.

  4

  T he bad news came when Ashley and Kari and three of their older kids had been standing in line for thirty minutes. No more saplings. Apparently, there were more people wanting a piece of the Survivor Tree this year. There were still dozens of people ahead of them when a man with a megaphone stood on a picnic table at the front of the line and made the announcement.

  “Sorry, folks! We’re all out!” He wore a park ranger shirt and a sympathetic expression. “Try again next year. We do this every anniversary.”

  Amy didn’t seem to grasp the information at first. She looked up at Ashley. “Wait. Is he serious?” Alarm filled her eyes and her cheeks looked suddenly pale. “Does he mean . . . I can’t get a sapling? Even though we got in line so early?”

  Ashley felt terrible. “Yes.” She put her hands on her niece’s shoulders. “They might find more. We can ask someone inside.” Ashley glanced at Kari. Maybe her sister would have something more to offer. But Kari managed only a sad shake of her head.

  Defeat seemed to come over Amy all at once. “I can’t believe it.”

  Ashley looked into her niece’s eyes. “I’m sorry, honey.” Next to Amy, Cole and Jessie stood, silent. All of them helpless.

  For a few seconds Amy said nothing. Then she nodded, her eyes dry. “That’s fine. I just . . . I really hoped . . .” She hesitated and looked off. “It’s okay. Can we see the tree now?”

  “Of course.” Ashley’s mind raced. How could she still get a sapling today? Her niece wouldn’t cry or make a scene or even complain. The poor girl had lost her whole family, after all. At twelve, she was used to disappointment. But there had to be a way.

  Ashley ached for her precious niece. The baby tree was a big part of the reason they were here. And now . . .

  Ashley felt like she was responsible. Like she’d let Amy down. She hung back with Kari while Amy, Jessie and Cole walked ahead. Cole must’ve said something kind, because Ashley saw Amy give him a slight smile.

  “I really blew that.” Ashley linked arms with her sister for a few seconds. “We should’ve gotten here at six. Clearly.”

  “You didn’t know.” Kari patted Ashley’s hand. “It’ll be okay. She can get a sapling another year.”

  But they both knew what the little tree would’ve meant to Amy. They were quiet as they followed the kids. Ashley crossed her arms and looked around. The feeling of the memorial was one of complete serenity. Ashley had expected something more hopeless.

  Instead somehow the place felt inviting. As if many people who had walked these grounds had made peace with the past. A quick glance around told her that most of the people here today were likely tourists. Patriotic types. Oklahoma natives. Visitors from out of the state and even out of the country.

  Ashley wondered if the families of victims and survivors visited anymore. There would be fewer now, twenty-three years later. People might have moved or passed away.

  Following Amy’s lead, their group walked into the museum. She didn’t stop to look at any of the exhibits. That would most likely come later, Ashley figured. Instead Amy was moving more quickly now, her cousins working to keep up. Like she had a single-minded mission, and nothing could distract her until she’d carried it out.

  Amy walked through the back doors of the building and there on the landing she stopped, her attention locked on one thing. Ashley and Kari were close enough behind her that they could see it, too.

  The Survivor Tree.

  It stood much larger and grander than Ashley had imagined. The five of them continued outside and up a few flights of stairs. And there they were. In the shadow of the big old tree.

  Ashley and Amy had searched online for photos of other American elms. None of them looked so grand. This one had a trunk thick and proud, if somewhat slanted. The branches spread out like a canopy.

  A hundred people could’ve sought cover under its shade.

  With quiet steps, Ashley moved next to Amy. After a while, Amy looked at her and smiled. Not with her mouth, but with her eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes.” Ashley gazed at the tree. There was definitely something special about the tree. “No wonder your mama loved it.”

  The others came closer. “It’s the prettiest I’ve ever seen.” Jessie leaned against Kari. “Right, Mom? Don’t you think so?”

  “I do.” Kari nodded, her eyes on the old elm.

  Cole stood on the other side of Ashley. “It’s almost a hundred years old. I can’t believe it’s still here.”

  Amy didn’t stop staring at the tree. “I saw pictures of it after the bombing. It looks like a totally different tree now.”

  “I know. I Googled it.” Cole nodded. “It was basically just a burned-up tree trunk, all black and shredded from the bomb and the cars that caught fire around it.”

  Amy’s eyes grew noticeably soft, her attention still on the elm. Her voice grew quiet. “But God let it survive.”

  Disappointment came over Ashley again. She lifted her eyes to the blue overhead. We should’ve gotten that sapling for her. Please, Father, help us get one. No one deserves one more than Amy. They had already researched how the little tree would look when it was grown and Amy had even found a place to plant it. Ashley let the thought go.

  There were two other groups of people nearer to the tree. When they were gone, Amy walked to the trunk. At one point she stopped and looked straight up through the branches. “I can’t believe it’s so tall.”

  The others didn’t say anything. This was Amy’s time and Ashley wasn’t going to miss the moment. She pulled her phone from her jacket and as soon as Amy put her hand on the trunk, Ashley captured it.

  For a long while, Amy closed her eyes. When she opened them she turned to Ashley and then Kari and her cousins. “I asked God to let my mama and daddy see me here. So they’d know the truth about me.”

  They all watched her, like they were waiting for more explanation. Amy looked at the tree and then back at the rest. “You know. That I’m a survivor. Just like the elm.”

  Cole joined Amy at the tree, and put his hand on the bark. “God really can get us through anything.” He turned to Ashley. “I think that’s why He let it survive.”

  “I think so, too.” Ashley walked to the trunk and touched it. Pressed her hand against the rough bark. Suddenly she knew what she was going to do. She was going to paint the tree. She could see it in her heart already. A bright blue sky, two or three puffy white clouds. And there in the middle, in all its glorious splendor, the Survivor Tree. At the base, a blond girl. Amy. Sitting against the trunk, her hands raised toward heaven.

  Yes, she would paint it for her niece. Ashley smiled. She would start as soon as they got home.

  Kari and Jessie joined them, too. “Amy . . .” Kari took a step closer, her words gentle. “Your mom always loved trees.”

  “She did?” Amy leaned against the trunk.

  Ashley loved the privacy of the moment. There were no other tourists on the patio near them. They could take their time. She slipped her arm around Cole and listened as Kari explained.
/>
  “Yes. They were some of her favorite things.” Kari linked arms with Jessie, her attention on Amy. “She once told me she felt closest to God when she looked at a tree. She liked to say we could learn a lot from them.”

  Tears filled Ashley’s eyes. Dear Erin. The revelation was sweet and poignant. Something Ashley had never known about her youngest sister. She looked at Kari. “I love this. How long ago did she tell you?”

  “We were at church camp one summer. Taking a walk.” Kari gazed into the distance, clearly remembering. “Ash, you and Brooke were back at camp for some reason.”

  “Probably cleaning our cabin.” Ashley uttered a light laugh. “I was always in trouble. Too much talking. Not paying attention.”

  Kari grinned. “Probably.” She turned to Amy again. “Anyway, your mom said that trees raised their arms to praise God, no matter the season. Even in the dead of winter, when no sign of life existed. When its leaves might never come again, the tree’s branches were still lifted high toward heaven.”

  “Really?” Amy’s eyes brightened. “I love that. I never knew.”

  All of them seemed caught up in the story. Ashley looked to the beautiful elm, grasping the imagery as deeply as Erin once had.

  “She said something else.” Kari’s voice was soft, gentle in the breeze around them. She had a way of bringing a memory to life. This was one of those times.

  “The reason a tree can survive the storms of any season is because its branches bend in the wind. Otherwise it would blow over and die.” Kari gave Amy a slight smile. “Your mother said she wanted to be that way, too. Whenever God’s Spirit might talk to her or lead her in a certain direction, whatever He whispered for her to do or not to do . . . she wanted to be sensitive.”

  “That’s beautiful.” Amy kept her eyes on Kari.

  “She said the Holy Spirit was like the wind.” Kari patted Jessie’s arm and separated herself so she could go to Amy. In the most tender way, Kari took hold of both Amy’s hands. “I want you to know something.” She looked into the girl’s eyes. “Your mom was like the trees she loved so much. She moved easily to the sound of God’s voice in her heart.”

  A few tears slid down Ashley’s cheeks as she listened. She wiped them and put her free hand on Amy’s shoulder. “It’s true. Your mom’s faith was everything to her.”

  “Wow.” Cole took a deep breath. “That’s powerful. The tree in the wind analogy.”

  Amy hugged Kari and then Ashley. “Thank you.” She kissed each of her aunts’ cheeks. Kari put her hand alongside Amy’s face. “I’ll remember that about your mom as long as I live. Every time I look at a tree.”

  Ashley’s heart ached. The story was indeed one of the most precious she had heard about Erin. She had been at the camp that summer, too. And somehow she had missed that moment. The way she had missed so much about Erin while she was alive. The two of them had often been at odds. Erin, close to their mother. Ashley, more rebellious, independent.

  She blinked back another few tears. At least she had stories like this. And she had Amy. One day in heaven she would have forever to get to know her little sister in ways she never did here on earth.

  Several tourists were headed their way. God had given them private space here at the Survivor Tree. Now it was time to move on. Ashley took another few photos, including one of Amy and Kari. A reminder of the story that had come to life today.

  “Can we see the fence next?” Amy was at Ashley’s side again. “Do you know about the fence?”

  “I don’t.” Ashley put her arm around Amy’s shoulders as their group started to walk toward the steps.

  “None of us do.” Cole looked at Jessie and then Kari. “Tell us about it.”

  Amy had done her research on the memorial site and while they walked, she told them what she knew. The site had opened in 2000, on the fifth anniversary of the bombing. It sat on three acres in the heart of Oklahoma City and included the museum and the open space behind it.

  “See those?” She pointed to a nearby field with rows of chairs made of bronze and what looked like blown glass. Amy stopped. “There’s one for each of the people who died that day.”

  “How come some of the chairs are smaller?” Jessie shaded her eyes.

  Amy was quiet for a moment. “Those represent the children. Nineteen little kids were killed. Most of them were in the daycare on the second floor.”

  Again Ashley’s heart felt the weight of the tragedy. The realness of it. Good thing the guys had taken the younger ones to Frontier City today. The sadness here would be more than they could understand.

  They were passing a large rectangular pond. Amy motioned toward it. “That’s the reflecting pool. Come on.” She stepped away from Ashley and headed toward a low stone wall. “Look into the water.”

  Everyone followed her lead. The only thing Ashley could see was her own reflection—almost as clearly as if she were looking into a mirror.

  “I see myself.” Cole looked from the water to his cousin.

  “Exactly.” Amy smiled, but her eyes held a deeper sorrow. “It’s meant to show you the face of someone harmed by the bombing. Someone changed by it.” Amy looked at the others. “Because when terrorism hits, we are all affected. Always.”

  Ashley could hardly believe her niece’s depth and insight. She had definitely studied the memorial. The reason for the pond was spot-on. Of course every American had been harmed by what had happened that sad day. Ashley had been in high school. The feeling then was the same now: only God could heal America. For this bombing and for 9-11 and so many other ways the people of the United States had turned against Him.

  Amy sat down on the stone bench and the rest of them did the same. “See those tall thick walls?”

  They were impossible to miss. Covered in bronze and at least a hundred feet high, each of them glistened in the morning sun. Amy explained that the walls were called gates, and that the times engraved at the tops of them represented the minute before the bomb went off and the minute after.

  “The bronze is so that people would see more sunshine than memorial. The promise of life outside of the disaster site.”

  “Wow.” Cole patted her shoulder. “You did your homework.”

  Amy looked more relaxed. She smiled. “My history teacher said I could do an extra-credit report on it.”

  “So what about the fence?” Jessie turned and looked over her shoulder at the long stretch of chain link at the far end of the grounds. “It has things all over it.”

  “Right.” Amy stood and looked that way. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  As they walked, Ashley kept her eyes on Amy. I couldn’t be more proud of her. Amy’s composed way of sharing the details about the memorial. The way she carried herself, head high. Smile ready. Even surrounded by reminders of her own loss.

  Amy wasn’t a victim. No matter what had happened to her because of the car accident. Even though the rest of her family was in heaven, Amy was whole. Of course she had moments of feeling sad and missing her parents and sisters. But she was determined to live life.

  Coming here to see the Survivor Tree was further proof.

  Her cousins walked on either side of Amy as she talked about the fence. “The original bombing site was fenced so people wouldn’t disturb it. But crowds still came to see the area, to remember. Some of them because they’d lost a person they loved here.” Amy pointed to the fence, now just ahead of them. “People began to leave things tucked in the chain link. Letters and cards, photos and teddy bears. Whatever reminded them of the husbands and wives, daughters and sons they had lost.”

  “This part of the fence.” Cole pointed down the length of it. “Is that what they kept when they opened the memorial?”

  Amy nodded. “Exactly.” She motioned to a pink teddy bear. “Every day people leave things here. And every day the memorial site workers collect everything and put it in storage.”

  “All of it?” Kari sounded as amazed as Ashley felt.

  Amy thought
for a few seconds. “I guess. I’m not sure.”

  They reached the fence and for a few minutes Ashley looked at the items. A faded baseball cap with the words Hey buddy . . . still think about you every day written across the bill. A birthday card tied to the fence so the inside could easily be seen. Ashley stooped low to read it.

  “Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every time I see a sunset. I still miss you, Son. Love forever, Dad.”

  Ashley felt her tears again. She wanted to spend an hour here. Reading the notes and messages. Imagining the heartache behind them. But they didn’t have that much time, which was just as well. The sense of grief and loss was bound to be overwhelming.

  Kari walked up, dabbing at the corner of her own eyes. “It’s beyond sad. I mean . . . the emotions here. Just heartbreaking.”

  “So much pain.” Ashley looked at the birthday card again, then at her sister. The three kids were a few yards away, still studying other items on the fence. “Are they ready to move on?”

  “Actually, Jessie and Amy and I are headed to the restroom. Cole, too.” Kari took a step toward the kids.

  “Okay.” Ashley hesitated. “You go ahead. I’ll stay here.” She glanced at the fence and then back at her sister. “Come find me when you’re done.”

  “Okay.” Kari smiled. “This has been so special.”

  “For me, too.” Ashley searched her sister’s eyes. “I feel closer to Erin because of the story you told.”

  For a quick second Kari reached out and squeezed Ashley’s hand, then she turned and met up with the kids who were a few yards away, and the group headed toward the museum.

  Ashley faced the fence once more. As she did, she noticed she wasn’t alone. A few feet away stood a guy who looked like he could be Landon’s brother. Tall, dark hair. Strong and fit. Maybe in his late twenties. He wore sunglasses and held what looked like a rolled-up letter. Ashley took a few steps back and watched him.