Page 34 of To the Moon and Back
“Fitting.” She tightened her jacket around her. “I used to fall asleep asking God just one thing. That in the morning I’d wake up and come downstairs and my parents would be there. Sitting at the kitchen table, sharing coffee.”
Tears filled her eyes again. “They’d see me and we’d run to each other and I’d be in their arms. They’d kiss my head and tell me how much they missed me and everything . . . everything would be okay.” She hesitated. “I prayed that till I was in middle school.”
Brady let her story hang there for a minute. Blowing in the wind between them. Then he sat a little straighter. “We prayed the same thing, Jenna. I remember . . . I was six or seven . . . eight. Nine. Lying in bed, begging God that before I fell asleep my mom would walk into the room and sit on the edge of my bed. And just one more time she’d say, ‘Love you to the moon and back, Brady. Love you to the moon and back.’ ”
A chill ran down Jenna’s arms and legs. “Your mother used to say that?”
“Every night.”
It was one more connection. “Mine, too.” She paused, her tears spilling onto her cheeks. “After bedtime prayers. It was our special thing.”
“They probably would’ve been friends, our moms.” Brady seemed to think for a long moment, and gradually the hurt returned to his eyes. And something else. Anger or bitterness, maybe. “I remember the night I stopped praying. I told God if He didn’t bring my mom back, then I was done talking to Him.” He paused and for a moment his eyes grew harder. “I kept my promise.”
“Me, too.” The sad picture of the little boy he must’ve been was suddenly etched in Jenna’s heart. “I don’t pray anymore.” The sameness of their stories was more than Jenna could take in. “I mean, I still go to church with my grandma. It would hurt her if I stayed home. But I guess I’m just . . . I don’t know, frustrated with God.” She looked straight at Brady. “Like why did He have to take my mom and dad?”
“And my mom.” Brady took a deep breath and stood. The pain eased from his expression again. “Let’s get coffee.”
At that point, Jenna would’ve gone anywhere with him. No one had ever understood her feelings the way Brady did. They started walking. “So you don’t go to church?”
“No.” He made a sound more laugh than cry. “Hardly. The state says foster parents can’t force us to do anything. Especially where religion is concerned.”
“Makes sense.”
Again Brady took her hand. This time he worked his fingers gently between hers. “Have you seen the commercials for that movie Superbad?”
“I think so . . . It looks, I don’t know, not that great.” She laughed, and he did, too.
“That’s what I thought.”
They left the memorial grounds and made their way down the street. The wind played with her hair. “Why did you ask? About that movie?”
“Because.” He slowed his pace and stopped, facing her. With his thumb, he brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “You look like the actress in it.”
She angled her head. “Thanks.” Her smile came easily now. “I think. Right?”
“Definitely.” He looked down, and then back at her. His cheeks grew slightly red. “You’re very pretty, Jenna.”
His words sent a rush through her. It wasn’t the sort of thing she heard often. Not from guys who looked like Brady, anyway. Jenna tried to focus. “My grandma tells me I look just like my mom.” She smiled again. More shy this time. “Dark red hair and green eyes like her. So I guess that’s a good thing.”
“Very good.” Brady studied her for a few seconds before they started walking again. They got coffee from a small café and took the trip back to the memorial more slowly. Brady talked about the first year he came here. He was ten and one of his foster parents brought him. “That day I could really feel my mom with me again. Right beside me.” Brady cast her a quick look. “After that I always asked someone to bring me here. My foster parents or my Little League coach. Whoever.”
“Which is why you started recognizing people at the fence.”
“Exactly.” They stopped at a bench and sat down. For several minutes, neither of them said anything. They just sipped their coffee and listened to the wind from the coming storm. Jenna felt like she’d slipped into some other world. For the first time someone knew exactly what the hurt felt like.
Then the rain hit. Not the slow sort of rain that starts with a few drops and builds to a downpour. This one came over them all at once. Brady grabbed her hand and they ran with their coffees down the street and into the museum. By then they were drenched, and there—inside the building—they had nowhere to go, no way to avoid the photos mounted on the wall.
Brady let go of her hand and walked slowly to the first picture. A shot of the Alfred P. Murrah Building a few days before the bombing. Brady stood as close as he could, his eyes locked on the image. Jenna came up beside him. She blinked the rain from her lashes. At the same time they both seemed to notice something about the building.
The windows were lit.
Which meant her parents were somewhere in there. Walking around. Working. Putting in their time until they could come home and be with her. Princess Jenna. She narrowed her eyes and found the third and fifth floors. The places where their offices used to be.
“My parents . . . they would’ve been there that day.” A chill came over her. Jenna wasn’t sure whether it was from the rain or the reality of what she was taking in. “I can almost see them. Through the windows.”
“Think about that, Jenna.” He moved closer to her, the heat of his arm warm against hers. “How beautiful. It’s like . . . they’re still alive. At least in that picture.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way. More just the reality that if they could’ve gone back, if they would’ve known how little time they had . . . then maybe they wouldn’t have gone to work that day . . . and maybe things would’ve turned out differently.
