Page 7 of To the Moon and Back
Whatever. People recognized him. That was fine. Brady liked the people of Oklahoma. They were the family he didn’t have. He enjoyed talking to them. Signing the occasional autograph, taking the handful of selfies in a month’s time.
Not today.
Her chair was in the third row, somewhere near the middle. Brady moved past the people taking pictures and whispering. Beyond the handful of visitors carrying saplings from the Survivor Tree. No one seemed to notice him as he made his way. He was as familiar with this walk as if he lived here. And in some ways maybe he did.
Always would.
Three chairs down, and then—
There it was. Her chair. The one with her name etched into it. Proof once again that she had died here on that terrible day. Brady felt the first sting of tears. The routine was the same every year. He set the rose in the vase. Every chair had a vase attached to the side of it.
But not every chair had a rose.
With both hands Brady gripped the edges of the seat. He closed his eyes. There it was. The familiar feeling that came over him, the same one that hit him every anniversary. An aching, desperate, deep sense of protection. As if Brady Bradshaw, strong, tall, broad shoulders, could certainly do something to keep his mother safe.
The way she had done for him that horrible day.
“Mom. I’m here.” He choked on the words. Then he ran his fingers over the plate with her name.
Sandra Bradshaw.
Two tears trickled down his cheeks, but Brady ignored them. Almost didn’t notice. This was his time to remember. He wasn’t in a hurry.
A few photographs of Brady’s mother had been collected from their apartment after her death. Brady kept them in a small flip-book in a drawer near his bed.
That was it. Six pictures. The only evidence that his mother had ever existed. Brady thought about the photographs. One was his mom in her first year of college. The year she got pregnant with him. She had blond hair past her shoulders and a graceful, athletic build. She had gone to school on a tennis scholarship.
But that had ended when she found out she was having a baby. Brady had no idea who his father was or why he had abandoned his pretty mom. From what Brady could piece together, his mother hadn’t been close with her parents. She had moved in with a few girls and gotten a job waiting tables.
The second picture was of her with two friends, all of them in their restaurant uniforms. In both photos, his mom’s eyes were bright and happy. Young and full of life. The rest of the images grew less carefree. Deeper. But whatever the details of her story, Brady could see his mother had loved being a mom. She had loved her boy. Brady was everything to her.
The next four pictures were of the two of them. Her and him. One when he was hours old, lying in her arms, still in the hospital. Another when he was maybe two. He wore overalls and sat on his mother’s hip, him grinning up at her. The next must’ve been taken at Christmastime when he was maybe four, and the last one was from his fifth birthday. In that photo, his mom stood beside him, her arm around his shoulders while he blew out the candles on what was the last birthday cake she’d ever make.
Yes, Sandra Bradshaw had loved being his mom.
The only other keepsake Brady had was an old weathered children’s book. The one his mom had read to him every night at bedtime.
To the Moon and Back.
Brady gripped her chair and let the memories come. There were so few, he had to concentrate. Even then he wasn’t sure if they were real or something he imagined. One moment he recalled was of his mom at nighttime. Maybe a few weeks before the bombing.
In the memory, Brady was wearing green race car pajamas. He could see himself, running into his room and hopping on his bed, his mom behind him. It was the clearest real-life picture Brady had. The one he held in his heart. His mother’s blond hair windblown. Beautiful. Happy. Her eyes bright with laughter.
No hint of the tragedy to come.
“Brady boy, it’s time for your story.” Her singsong voice had called to him then. It called to him still.
And she was sitting on the bed beside him and opening their favorite book and reading every line, every page. “I love you to the moon and back, Brady. I always will.”
He had giggled and laughed and yawned through the story. And she was turning off the light and lowering her voice. “Let’s pray to Jesus.”
“Yes, Mommy.” In his memory it was always Yes, Mommy.
And she was praying for God to put His angels around Brady and their little apartment and for God to show him the good plans He had. “You’re going to do great things when you grow up, Brady. Very great things.”
Her smile had lit up his heart and then she was leaning close and kissing his cheek and tucking him in. Her hands soft against his arms. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too, Brady.”
