Page 32 of To the Moon and Back
She took a step closer. At first she didn’t see anything unusual. His forearms were as nice as his shoulders. Then she looked more carefully and there they were. Small lines etched into his skin.
“Touch them.” His voice soothed the raw edges of her heart.
This was crazy. Jenna wouldn’t typically touch strangers. But something about him drew her in. She ran her fingers lightly over the marks. Only then did she know the truth. They were scars. Her eyes lifted to his. “You . . . were hurt.”
The dots connected all at once. She turned and looked at the place where the federal building had stood and then back to him. “You . . . you were in the building?”
He pulled his sleeves down and took a long breath. “Walk with me, Jenna.”
She’d never met the guy. Never seen him before. But somehow he felt like a friend. Like she’d known him all her life. She walked beside him, both of them quiet. He led her up a set of stairs to a bench not far from a large tree. The image of the tree was familiar, its trunk and outstretched branches something she had seen before.
They sat on the bench and Brady sighed. “Me and the tree. We’re the same.” He turned and faced her. “We both survived that day.”
Jenna felt the connection between them grow. “What happened?”
“You first.” His eyes were kinder now. “Why are you here?”
From where they were sitting Jenna could see the field of empty chairs. She stared in that direction and took her time. If Brady had been here that day, if he’d been in the building when the explosion went off, then he would understand.
If anyone would.
She looked at him again. “My parents worked in the building. Different floors.” Her eyes welled up. She hadn’t expected to cry in front of him. “I . . . I lost them both.”
Slowly, deliberately, Brady reached for her hand. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. For a long time they stayed like that. His warm fingers around hers, his thumb soft against her skin. “Where were you?”
With her free hand, Jenna caught the first tear as it fell down her cheek. “With my grandma. I stayed with her while my parents were at work.” She tried to smile, but it did nothing to stop her crying. “I was five.”
That last part seemed to hit Brady harder than the rest of her story. “Five.” He squinted toward the sky, then back at her. “I was five, too.” His hand was still safe around hers. “I was here with my mom when . . .”
His voice trailed off. There was nothing rushed about their conversation. The silence was easy between them. Comfortable and achingly sad all at the same time.
Jenna waited. Brady’s story would come eventually.
And after a minute it did.
10
J enna had watched Brady, studying him. He was quiet for a long time, as if the train that held his memories only came by every so often.
He looked at the stormy sky again, or maybe to some far-off place he clearly didn’t want to visit. He filled his lungs. “My mom and I were in line at one of the federal offices.” He shifted his attention to her. “I was playing with this gray stanchion, this thick dirty cord that kept us in line, and my mom was telling me not to touch it. I’d get germs.” He paused. “And then . . .” His eyes glistened, the memory alive again. “She came down to my level and smiled at me. Straight at me.”
Jenna could picture it. Like a movie playing out in the space between them.
“She told me we were almost done.” He sniffed and looked to the sky once more. “That’s all I remember.” He was still holding her hand, but he held up his other arm. “I woke up in the hospital with these cuts. That’s it. My mom . . . she protected me from everything else.”
He didn’t have to say his mother didn’t make it. Jenna already knew.
Brady pointed at the tree. “You know the story about that?”
“Not really.” For the first time, Jenna wanted to know more about what happened that April 19. “I’ve . . . stayed away.”
The empathy in Brady’s tone was a connection Jenna had never felt before. Kind and understanding. The same hurt as her own. “I get that. Staying away.” He searched her face. “You’re still in the club. Whether you come here or not.”
She nodded. The club. “The people along the fence. They all . . . they all lost someone?”
“That’s what I tell myself.” He looked over his shoulder back to where the people still stood. Some of them gripping the chain link. “I see lots of them every year.” He turned to her again. “Why else would they be here?”
Jenna could think of a few reasons, but she liked Brady’s explanation better. Wanderers, broken people. All of them survivors, one way or another. She motioned to the tree. “Tell me about it.”
