Page 9 of To the Moon and Back
He ran his hand over the letters one more time. “Next year, Mom. I’ll be here.”
The tears welled up again. He blinked them back, his sunglasses firmly in place. Then he turned and walked away. He knew where to go next. He moved across the open space to the reflection pond.
He took a seat on an empty bench and stared at the two bronze walls on the other side of the water. They stood four stories high. Engraved at the top of one was a simple time stamp: 9:01. The other was engraved with a different one: 9:03.
The first one represented the minute before the bomb went off. That morning at 9:01, when life was still whole and innocent and beautiful. Not just for Brady and his mother, but for everyone in the building.
Right up until the explosion.
Brady closed his eyes. The dirty gray stanchion. The smell of the musty government office. The people in line ahead of them. We’re almost done here. Almost done.
He squinted and shifted his gaze to the second one. 9:03 . The minute after the bomb went off. People in Oklahoma City liked to say that time stamp represented the first minute of whatever would come next. The beginning of life after the bomb. The start of recovery. The numbers were meant to give victims and their families and all who loved the city a belief in one important idea:
Healing was possible.
Brady worked the muscles in his jaw. Never mind any of that. For him it would always be 9:02. The minute the bomb went off. There was no fancy wall memorializing that moment. An ache filled his chest and pushed down on his soul. Breathe, Brady. Take it in. He lifted his gaze to the sky. The explosion ripped through his life every morning, keeping him from something that came easily for most people:
Love. All kinds of love.
Letting someone in would mean the possibility of losing that person. Brady hadn’t figured out how to do that, so he hadn’t found healing. And he was almost certain he never would. Every now and then his buddies at the firehouse tried to set him up with one of their sisters or friends. Brady would last one or two dates. Once in a while he would spend a couple weeks or a month interested in a girl. But always things fell apart. Brady was never surprised. Not only did he have trouble loving, but the reverse was true, also.
He wasn’t easy to love.
Girls didn’t understand him. One date put it succinctly: “You’re gorgeous on the outside, Brady. But you’re a haunted house on the inside. I don’t want to get caught in the cobwebs.”
Brady thought of it another way. His heart was like the Murrah Building. Still in pieces from the aftermath of the bombing. The way it had been since he was that five-year-old little boy, waking up in the hospital.
Since high school, Brady lived alone, no roommates. He liked it that way. Besides, he was hardly ever home. When he wasn’t working, he volunteered with several city service groups. The work gave him purpose. If God wasn’t going to help the people of Oklahoma City, then Brady would step in. It was what he lived for. Helping other people. That and one other thing.
The hope that someday, somehow he might find Jenna.
Brady stood and walked around the pond to the hundred-foot section of chain-link fence. Here was where he would spend most of his time this morning. Looking at the letters and pictures and hand-drawn cards people would leave today.
Eleven years ago, Brady had met Jenna here at this very spot. But that was another story. Something he wouldn’t think about until later. Depending on how he felt. Right now he only wanted to find a spot in the fence for the letter and wait. In case she showed up the way she had that day.
Brady took the letter from his pocket. It was a copy. Every year he wrote her a letter and always he kept the original. That way if he ever found her, she could have the whole collection. One for every year.
Proof that Brady had never forgotten her.
He took a deep breath and read this year’s letter once more. He’d written it last night. Usually that was when the words came to him—the day before the anniversary. From his other pocket he pulled a piece of blue ribbon. He rolled the letter like a scroll and tucked it into the chain link. Just above a large red paper heart with the words We miss you, Papa scribbled in crayon across the front. Next to a faded copy of an older photo. A husband and wife on their wedding day. Four words were handwritten across the top: I miss you still.
Sorrow rushed at him like a tsunami. Brady tried to steel himself against it, but then he moved closer to the fence. Closer to the heartache. He grabbed the chain link and squeezed his eyes shut. Why? Why would someone fill a truck with fertilizer and blow it up in front of the federal building?
How could anyone hate that much?
Brady felt his tears become sobs. Deep. Quiet. Relentless. He fought them with everything in his being. It was time to move on, time to get past this. If only he could. Because for all the people he had ever rescued, the one person he couldn’t save faced him in the mirror every morning.
For a long moment Brady didn’t let go of the chainlink. Couldn’t let go. So much pain. So much hurt and loss. Generations changed forever. Brady clenched his teeth and finally . . . finally he found control again. He sniffed and willed his tears to stop. He wanted only one thing. The same thing he always wanted.
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.
