Page 6 of To the Moon and Back
“Good night.”
Ashley rolled onto her back and stared toward the window. Their new hotel was in the heart of Oklahoma City, not far from the memorial. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark, and now she could see lights from adjacent hotels and buildings.
God, please . . . let Amy get a sapling. I have no idea how we’ll care for it on vacation, but we’ll figure it out. It’s just . . . it matters so much to her.
Ashley lay there, silent. Waiting. Sometimes when she prayed she heard from God. A Scripture or something He had been laying on her heart. But not tonight. Tonight there was just the soft breathing of the kids sleeping and the nearness of Landon. She closed her eyes. God would come through on this. Ashley was sure.
Because if anyone deserved their own Survivor Tree, it was Amy.
3
T homas “Brady” Bradshaw had been counting down the days for a month. The way he always did when springtime rolled around. For the past few weeks, his work as a firefighter for Oklahoma City had taken second seat to his memories and heartache, his confusion and anger. And all of it led to this one day. This one morning.
The anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing.
Brady had the day off. He pulled his motorcycle into a spot near the back of the memorial parking lot and killed the engine. For a long time he just sat there, helmet and sunglasses still in place.
He was twenty-eight now. Twenty-three years removed from the little boy he had been when the bomb went off. The sky overhead was clear today. Some years it rained. A few years had seen storms and even a tornado warning or two. Brady could see today’s events as clearly as if they’d already happened.
It was the same every anniversary.
People would stream through the front gates, quiet and somber. Some of them tourists, curious people passing through, remembering for the first time in years the terrible terrorist attack that had happened here. In America’s heartland. They would walk the grounds and take pictures. Look at the exhibits in the museum and stop by the gift shop. A mug and a postcard later and they’d be on their way. Off to explore the nearest park or Frontier City.
Brady released his grip on the handlebars and stared at the memorial. The people here today wouldn’t all be tourists. Some would be connected to the bombing. They might’ve lost a friend or a family member. Or they may have survived the attack from inside the building. For those people—like Brady—the anniversary of the bombing was reverent. A day they would never forget.
But only a small number were really anything like him. For Brady, the Oklahoma City bombing was personal.
He shoved up the sleeves on his navy sweatshirt and stared at his forearms. When people looked at him they didn’t see the scars. They saw the guy who had done a season on the Survivor show. A guy modeling agencies once fought over.
Brady never wanted any part of it.
He didn’t do Survivor to become famous. Battling fires in Oklahoma City was his passion, not standing in front of a camera. He only did Survivor because he was one. And if anyone could prove it, he could. Never mind that he lost in the second round. The show couldn’t hold a candle to real survival.
The way it felt twenty-three years ago, when he was buried in the rubble of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building.
A quick look at his arms and he could see them. Jagged scars that crisscrossed his forearms. Sure, they had faded, but they were still there. He ran his hands over the marks and looked up again. Yes, today would be the same as every anniversary that had come before it.
He would go through the gate with the others and make his way to the outdoor area. In utter silence he would find the chair with his mother’s name and he would leave her a single long-stemmed rose. Then he would place his hand on the trunk of the Survivor Tree and he would try to separate his memories from the long-ago news accounts of the day. The ones still up on YouTube.
Brady took a deep breath and removed his helmet. He set it in the compartment at the back of his bike and pulled the paper bag with the rose from the same spot. Then he headed for the front gate.
Of course, there was one more reason he came every year. At least for the last eleven years. The reason was simple. The chance that he might see her. Brady clenched his jaw and stood a little straighter.
Her name was Jenna.
He didn’t know her last name. She was a girl he’d met only once, here at the memorial site on the twelfth anniversary of the bombing. Back when they were both only seventeen. Back then she’d been a wisp of a girl with forever long legs and the face of actress Emma Stone. At least that’s how he remembered her.
And Brady remembered her every day.
Jenna. The only girl in the world who would ever fully understand him.
Brady paid his admission and thought the same thing he did every year: Survivors should get in free. He shoved his free hand into the pocket of his black jeans and made his way out back to the field of chairs.
Like every anniversary there were more people here than usual. The noise wasn’t soft and reflective, but more an intentional somberness. As if people knew they should be quiet. Respectful. But it was forced. Because they didn’t have a million memories clawing and fighting their way to the surface.
The way Brady did.
His sunglasses were still on, where they would stay. No one ever saw Brady Bradshaw cry. He would make sure about that. Also because he didn’t want to be noticed. The Survivor show had highlighted his history, his connection to the Oklahoma City bombing. Since then occasionally he’d responded to a call and someone would identify him. Dark hair. Tall. Built like a professional quarterback. At least that’s how they described him on television.
