Surviving Us
Authors: Erin Noelle
OTHER TITLES FROM ERIN NOELLE:
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Cover Photography by Toski Covey
Cover Design by Hang Le
Editing by Kayla Robichaux
Formatting by Kassi Cooper
Sirens.
Loud, loud sirens break through my sleep, disturbing the happy dream I’m having.
I don’t want to get up, not ready, not yet.
“Bristol!”
“Bristol! Get up! Get up now!” My eyelids fly open; Mommy is in my room, yelling frantically.
Angry rain pounds against my window while noisy winds howl a warning that echoes through the house as the sirens continue to blare.
“Abigail, Bristol, in the tub now!” Daddy rushes into my room, his face pale like he’s just seen a ghost.
I’m frozen in my bed with fear. I don’t want to get in the tub.
“What about the—”
“It’s too late,” he cuts off Mommy’s question. “Tub. Now. I’ll get her.”
She rushes out of the room in her nightgown as Daddy scoops me out of the bed and into his arms. He kisses my forehead and tells me he loves me. I think he’s trying to make me feel better, but it scares me more.
He places me in the bathtub next to Mommy and tells us both to tuck our legs under us with our hands on top of our heads. He’ll be right back, he says.
He doesn’t come back.
Mommy says she’s going to find him, and she’ll be right back too.
She doesn’t come back either.
The minute I’m by myself, everything gets louder
—the rain and the wind, the wind and the rain—everything except the sirens. I can’t hear them anymore.
Roaring.
Rumbling.
Hissing.
The sounds happen all at once. And I’m all alone.
Shaking.
Trembling.
Swirling.
Everything around me is moving. And I’m staying still.
Then, everything else is still too. Scary-still . . . and silent.
I wait in the bathtub for Mommy and Daddy to come back.
But they don’t.
They never come back.
Granny says they went to Heaven.
I wish they would’ve taken me with them.
“ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS,
Bristol?” Granny’s voice, heavy with worry, follows me down the hallway. “It’s so far away. What if your phone doesn’t work there?”
I stop in the foyer with an audible groan, twisting to look over my shoulder at her petite frame resting against the door of her bedroom. “Gran, we’ve talked about this,” I explain softly, hoping she doesn’t hear my growing frustration. “My phone
isn’t
going to work there, but I’ve written down all of the resort’s information for you
—
name, number, address, website—all of it. I won’t know which specific cottage I’ll be assigned to until I check in, and I promise I’ll email you the first chance I get.”
