Baby, I’m Yours (5 page)

He counted to himself—he’d heard that most tornadoes last only a couple of minutes. But more than eight minutes had elapsed and the wind didn’t seem to be diminishing in intensity. The sirens stil wailed, a plaintive cal beneath the howl of the storm, but he hoped it meant the water tower was stil standing. He didn’t want to lift his head to see and risk an injury. He needed to survive—he had to, so he could get to Shelby. If she didn’t love him anymore, he would have to live with it, but he had to know she was okay.

He kept counting…ten minutes…twelve…fourteen…

And then, as suddenly as it had descended, the wind dropped and silence echoed around him.

Emory gingerly lifted his head, dislodging the soil and leaves that had covered him. Around him trees lay on the ground like a pile of pick-up sticks, their roots exposed. It was a marvel that one hadn’t crashed on him.

But the more disturbing sight was the trail of furniture and appliances and clothes strewn over the forest floor. A footed white bathtub sat neatly on the ground, as if someone had deliberately put it there for an outdoor oasis. A soiled plaid couch sat on its end. And a carved headboard to a bed lay nearby, split in two.

Emory swal owed hard—it looked like the headboard to the bed his parents had shared.

Panic licked at him, but he tamped it down. A glance behind him confirmed the water tower was intact. The sirens stil sounded, but were growing weaker, signaling their battery source was petering out.

He headed downhil , his feet and heart tripping faster as he wondered what sight would greet him at the bottom. Al around him, thudding noises sounded as things fel out of the sky and bounced on the ground. Birds, he realized sadly. Probably sucked up into the vortex of the twister and spun out. He pressed on, gulping air to stay calm, as he’d been trained.

His prayer that his SUV hadn’t been upended or blown away had been answered. It was covered with debris, but it was operational. He jumped in and steered the vehicle down the trail, stopping twice to remove logs and branches and other debris large enough to cause damage to the undercarriage. Two other vehicles had been picked up and dropped alongside the trail, but after checking to make sure they were empty, he was able to maneuver around them.

He was sick with worry by the time he got to the bottom of the trail. From there, it was a short ride through the trees up to the main road that wound through Sweetness. He slowed to turn toward the center of town.

And stopped.

Emory’s heart fel to his knees. “Oh, dear God,” he murmured.

He’d imagined the worst, but nothing could have prepared him for the utter devastation that lay before him. Absolutely nothing in his field of vision was left standing. The buildings were little more than piles of lumber and brick. Remarkably, the road itself was passable. He spotted several groups of people who were climbing out of the flattened buildings.

He was relieved to see survivors and kept driving until he reached the building where his father’s office was located. His father, Nancy Cole, and a handful of other people, including the woman from the flower shop who’d sold him Shelby’s roses, stood next to the road, stunned and disheveled. His father’s face lit up when he saw Emory.

“Thank God you’re okay,” his dad said.

“You, too,” Emory said. “Any injuries?”

“None here…but look at this place. There are bound to be.” Then he gestured to Emory’s hands. “You’re bleeding.”

Emory waved off his concern. “Just a scratch. Do you need my SUV to get around?”

“No, I have mine here and it’s driveable.”

“Okay. I’m going to find Shelby.”

Dr. Maxwel frowned. “You weren’t with her when the storm hit?”

“No,” Emory said, but the rest of the story could wait. “I’l be back after I make sure she’s okay.”

A sheriff’s car pul ed up. “Good to see you’re okay, Doc. How are you fixed for supplies?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look yet, but I hope some things are salvageable.”

“I’l send a deputy to help you. We’l need to get an area set up for treating the injured.”

“Sheriff,” Emory asked, “does anyone outside of Sweetness know this happened?”

The man nodded. “We had a radio in the basement and were able to cal out. Help is on the way. I don’t know who sounded the alarm on the water tower, but he saved a lot of lives.”

Emory appreciated the man’s words, but right now, he had concerns that trumped taking credit for setting off the alarm. He pul ed away and continued his slow trek down the main street. The destruction was incomprehensible. The school, the bank, the Presbyterian church—al rubble. He maneuvered around a stray refrigerator and rounded the bend to get his first look at Moon’s.

His breath left his body.

It was gone. The only thing that would make anyone guess a grocery had once stood on the spot was the line of blue baskarts lined up in what used to be the front of the store.

The fact that no survivors mil ed around left his heart pounding in his chest.

The cars in the parking lot were jammed up against each other, and some were toppled. Emory slammed his SUV into park, retrieved a toolbox from the back, and ran toward the big expanse of waxed linoleum tile that had once been the floor of the grocery. The fact that the floor was intact gave him hope—it meant the basement hadn’t caved in, at least not from the top.

Emory was almost desperate as he searched for the basement door—without wal s to guide him, it took him a couple of minutes to locate the opening. When he did, his knees buckled. The stairwel leading down was fil ed in with debris, and on top were the red roses he’d given Shelby, strewn and mangled. It was a too-graphic reminder of what Shelby might have suffered when the storm hit.

Emory choked back a cry of anguish. Shelby needed for him to stay strong. If there were survivors in the basement, they might not be getting air. And who knew how unstable the basement ceiling could be. It could cave any minute.

“Shelby!” he shouted. “Shelby, if you can hear me…if anyone can hear me, let me know you’re okay!”

He held his breath, but he didn’t hear anything. Or maybe he couldn’t hear anything because his ears were stil ringing.

Emory hardened his jaw and opened his toolbox to retrieve a pair of heavy work gloves. He found a smal pickax, then began to methodical y remove loosened debris with his hands, using the ax to dislodge larger pieces. He couldn’t bear to think of Shelby trapped down there, maybe injured, maybe worse. To keep his mind from going to a dark place, he talked to her.

“Porter told me on the drive up here that I was going to screw up the proposal. He told me instead of blurting it out, I should tel you what you mean to me, and how much I love you.” He laughed. “Porter—can you believe it? The biggest confirmed bachelor I know…next to his brothers, of course.”

He was encouraged when he uncovered the first step leading down into the basement.

“But he was right,” he continued. “I total y messed up. I didn’t tel you I was coming home because deep down, I was afraid you were stil mad from the last time we talked. I was afraid you’d tel me you didn’t want to see me.

“Bril iant plan, right? I was afraid you didn’t want to see me, so I decided to propose instead.”

With the grunting removal of a big chunk of block, the second and third steps were cleared.

“Then I met with your dad and instead of tel ing him how much I love you and how I intend to take care of you, al I could talk about was taking you away from here. Smal wonder he didn’t give me his blessing.”

He stopped digging long enough to get his breath, then resumed.

“And I don’t blame you for tel ing me no,” he continued. “It was wrong of me to put that kind of pressure on you. You deserve a proposal that’s as special as you are, as special as our love.”

Another step, more digging. He listened for signs of any noise below him, but activity was returning to Sweetness. The air around him was fil ed with sirens, car horns, and raised voices. He convinced himself he wouldn’t be able to hear them.

That was it—they were okay, he just couldn’t hear them.

He kept digging. “Do you know I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you? You’ve just always been in my heart. And although I’m prepared for you to say you don’t ever want to see me again, I have to tel you that would be tough for me. Because my love for you is so bound up in everything I do. Learning to live without you in my life would be like learning to walk again.”

He uncovered the fourth step and dared to put his weight on it, first one foot, then another. The stairs held.

“But if you’re wil ing to give me another chance,” he said, digging more feverishly, “I promise I’l do it better next time. I’l say al the right things and let you plan the wedding of your dreams.”

He used the pickax and gingerly chipped away at the debris to the side of the step, hoping to hit an opening. But when he encountered more rock, he started to get a little frantic. How much time had passed? How long had they been down there without air? What if gases had leaked into the space from ruptured utility lines?

At the sound of his name, Emory looked up, relieved beyond words to see Porter running toward him.

“You okay?” Porter asked.

“I’m good. Me and Dad both. You?”

“Mother and I are fine.”

“Good.” He looked up at his best friend, trying to hold himself together. “Shelby’s in the basement, Porter. I have to get to her.”

“Okay. What can I do to help?”

His mind raced to think of a way to accelerate the process. “I need a long pipe.” He pointed to where the bathroom had once been. A pipe stuck up out of the floor. Porter rummaged in the toolbox for a mal et and a hacksaw, then hurried over to work on the pipe.

Emory kept digging. “I love you, Shelby. I want to live the rest of my life with you. I want to wake up with you every morning and lie down with you every night. Wil you marry me, Shelby Moon?”

Porter walked up with the pipe, then put his hand on Emory’s arm. “You okay, man?”

Emory pul ed his hand down his face, then nodded. “Let’s try to drive this pipe through the rock here.” He pointed. “If we can reach air on the other side, we can at least communicate with…whoever might be down there.”

“You hold it,” Porter said. “I’l swing the hammer.”

Emory held the pipe steady. The first few blows didn’t make a dent in the rock jam, but eventual y, Emory could feel things budge, and the pipe inched its way through. “Just a couple of more hits,” he said, almost giddy when the pipe penetrated the obstruction.

“We need something to clean it out,” he said hurriedly, looking around for something long and narrow to push col ected debris through the pipe. He found a stick and pushed it through, final y reaching air on the other side. He put his mouth to the pipe. “Shelby! Shelby, it’s Emory. Are you okay down there?”

His heart was jumping out of his chest during the next few beats of silence. Desperate tears gathered in his eyes, but he hardened his jaw to stem them. Then he heard a faint scrape.

“Emory,” came her sweet voice. “We have fifty-three people down here, I think everyone’s okay. Can you get us out, baby?”

Emory sat back on his heels in abject relief. He exhaled loudly, conscious of Porter clapping him on the shoulder. He pul ed himself together enough to respond, “I’m coming, Shelby. Hang in there.”

“I’l round up more men,” Porter said, then jogged off.

“Emory?” she asked.

“I’m here.”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Yes…I’l marry you.”

He gave a little laugh, and his heart swel ed with unbearable happiness. “That’s the best news I’ve heard al day.”

“We don’t have to get married at the church,” she continued. “We can go to the justice of the peace.”

Emory bit down on the inside of his cheek, unwil ing to tel her that the church was gone, as wel as the municipal building…as wel as the rest of the town. Instead, he forced cheer into his voice. “Don’t you worry, baby. We’l work it out.”

But as he looked around at the complete devastation, he couldn’t help but feel that for the people of Sweetness, things would never be same.

The minister raised his hands for silence. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered on this special day of celebration to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”

Emory smiled at Shelby, his glowing bride-to-be, dressed in a white gown scavenged from the rubble of someone’s home. Few houses had been left standing. Neither his own home nor Shelby’s had survived.

For a wedding venue, they’d chosen a tal , strong oak tree next to Trimble Creek, away from the flattened wreckage of the downtown area. But the extensive, ruinous path of the tornado was stil evidenced by the swath of sheared-off trees in the distance. Four days after the tornado, they had a better accounting of the damage.

Structures lost—countless. Lives lost—zero.

One hundred percent survivorship of an F-5 tornado was, simply put, unexplainable.

The Sweetness Miracle, it was being cal ed on television, or so he’d been told. Communication to the outside was stil limited.

It was a glorious summer day, with a pure blue sky, a day for renewal. Porter Armstrong stood next to him as his best man. Emory was grateful to have had his buddy with him after the tornado, and now. The Armstrong home had also been swept away, but Porter had been pragmatic, appreciative that he and his mother had survived. The Armstrongs, like most of the people in Sweetness, were of mountain stock. Porter looked over and gave him a bolstering thumbs-up, ever the rascal…and good friend.

From what Emory could see, a majority of the town’s population had turned out for their wedding. It was, for most, a farewel occasion. Many would return to vehicles packed with whatever belongings they’d been able to recover, and would leave Sweetness for good. The area had been declared a federal disaster area. Without homes, jobs, or infrastructure, and impeded accessibility to deliver recovery supplies, neighbors and the local government had made the difficult decision to disband the town.