The Language of Sparrows (28 page)

With the heavy cloud cover, it was almost eight before any light made it to the window. April’s eyes burned. Her neck throbbed. And Sierra was still missing.

She turned around to see Luca on the sofa, eyes closed. She thought he’d fallen asleep and leaned to cover him with an afghan. But he opened his eyes, and she saw his folded hands. He wasn’t sleeping. He was praying.

Grateful someone had the faith to pray, she went to splash more cold water on her face and check the TV again. The rain count showed over ten inches in twelve hours. An image popped up of I-10 with more water flowing down its lanes than the Brazos River.

She dropped to her knees to follow Luca’s example. She folded her hands, closed her eyes, and tried one more time.
O Lord, hear my prayer. If you never hear another prayer from me again, hear this one.

On TV, an eighteen-wheeler careened on the water like a drunken ship. Then the camera feed switched to Buffalo Bayou, swollen past its banks and lapping over the bridge.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A night of driving through every corner of Sierra’s neighborhood, of questioning every street person, prostitute, and night guard hardy enough to be out in the storm turned up nothing. Nick even visited Emilio. Groggy with sleep, Emilio was furious he was suspected of foul play. He swore he hadn’t seen Sierra since the day in the stairwell. His dad had stood behind him and said he’d had him under house arrest since Emilio had been transferred and that Emilio had been home since the bus dropped him off.

Nick checked Dad’s house, but there was no sign of her. Somehow he knew she wouldn’t go to the expected places anyway. She was more desperate now.

At first light, Nick pulled into McDonalds. In the parking lot, he wolfed down a bagel sandwich. He took a deep swallow of coffee and said his hundredth prayer. Where would she go?
Guide my thoughts, O Lord.

He put his hands on the steering wheel and stilled his mind and body. Where would he go if he were sixteen and grieving and felt he had no one to turn to? Nick couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. He
had
been sixteen and grieving with no one to turn to.

At seventeen, he’d spent a few nights on the bayou, half a mile from home, the same bayou Sierra had to cross to reach Dad’s. He’d been certain his father wouldn’t find him under the bridge, and with the running battle in their home, he’d wanted to go where the only sounds were rushing water and tires rolling overhead.

It was one of the few places he hadn’t been this past night. It was his last shot.

But as Nick backed out of his parking space, he prayed she wasn’t there. After who knew how many inches of rain, it just wasn’t a place for her to be.

He drove to the bridge between April’s apartment and his old man’s street. If Sierra had gone to this bayou, this was surely where she would climb down. He parked his truck on the street and jumped out. The water had turned into rapids, exploding past the concrete banks and working its way up the grassy hill on both sides. But Nick began making his way down the cement steps that hadn’t been submerged yet just in case.

He reached the waterline, scanning as far as he could see. The rushing current carried a rancid smell, as if it had collected gallons of trash and sewage on its race to the sea. He zipped his jacket. There was no way Sierra was here. The only grass left was wet and steep. Surely she had more sense than that.

He’d found nothing of her whereabouts, not a hint. He had no scrap of hope to give April. He turned woodenly to go back up the steps.

A faint sound stopped him. He didn’t see anything at first, but as he searched the water and hill for a second time, he spotted her. A wet, disheveled Sierra huddled under the bridge. The rapids were a yard beneath her feet. At first, he wondered why she hadn’t climbed up the embankment—there was still grass left—but a more focused inspection showed the churned-up mud slicks where she’d obviously tried to make her way up. The hill was a difficult climb in good conditions. Saturated and slick, it had to be impossible. The story was all too clear. She’d spent the night here and, in the dark, hadn’t realized how fast the water was rising. In the daylight, she’d found she was trapped.

He began dialing 9–1–1, but realized he wasn’t even getting a dial tone. The heavy rain must have affected coverage. Even as he stood there, he could see the water rising toward her feet. She shivered and shook and had her heart in her eyes when she looked at him.

“I’m coming, Sierra!” he yelled.

He raced back up to his truck. He still had a rope from towing a friend’s car last year. He secured the rope to the railing above the bridge and dropped it over the side, then he lowered himself, hand over hand, down the grassy decline, using the rope to steady himself. His hands burned. Every muscle quivered. His feet got stuck in the mud. But he worked his way down, inch by inch, staying close to the cement arch of the bridge.

His leg caught on something, and he couldn’t move. He twisted to see what had a hold on him. A bolt, embedded in the cement, was snagged on his jeans. Nick groaned. He kicked and heaved until the jeans ripped free of the bolt, gritting his teeth as the bolt scythed across the back of his knee, shredding skin.

Keep going,
he told himself.
Keep going.
Just as he almost reached her, his feet slid past, and he touched the rush of water. The icy bayou sucked and pulled at his feet like a riptide, and even though he was only knee deep, for a split second, he was terrified it was going to pull him under. He clung to the rope. Searching for every ounce of strength he could find, he gave a hard thrust of his feet and freed them from the impossible current.

Nick released a sigh and crawled back up the concrete under the bridge. In the harsh gray light, Sierra’s face was white, her lips blue. He grabbed her hands and massaged warmth into them. “You’re colder than the North Pole, Sierra.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. How was he going to get her out of here? It had taken all his strength to hang on to the rope coming down. She would have to be a mega-athlete to climb up.

He closed his eyes. Could he carry her somehow? She was on the small side, but carrying a hundred-plus pounds up a slippery hill? He’d get them both killed. His best shot was to climb behind her in case she lost her grip.

“Sierra?”

He waited until her eyes cleared and he had her attention. He had to shout to be heard over the water. “This is important. I know you’re tired. But you’ve got to use the rope to climb up the hill for me. I’m going to be behind you. You’re going to feel like you have to let go of the rope, but you
can’t
let go. No matter what. You have to use every scrap of strength you’ve got. If you lose your grip, we could both end up in the floodwaters. Do you understand?”

Her eyes large, she nodded. “I understand, Mr. Foster.”

He rubbed her hands with a vengeance, trying to warm them. “Stand up and move. Get your blood flowing before we climb.”

She stomped her feet and did a couple of lunges. Closing her eyes, she held out her arms and took in a deep breath, as if she could visualize oxygen moving through her limbs.

“Are you ready?”

She gave him a solemn nod.

Nick said a silent prayer and put the rope in her hands. He hoped he’d been right when he’d told April her daughter wanted life. Sierra had to want it with an unyielding will right now.

They grasped the rope and began to climb up. Her fingers turned white, and her shoulders strained as they made progress one step at a time.

They’d made it about a quarter of the way up the hill when her feet slid backward in the muddy tracks. She cried out as they both slammed into the concrete. The impact knocked the wind out of Nick, and he struggled to find air. Flecks of rust shook loose from the bridge.

He dug his boots into the mud, trying to keep them from sliding any farther. He knew the concrete must have bruised her. And the rope stung his hands, so the slip had certainly burned her tender palms, but she didn’t let go.

“We can do this, Sierra,” he said softly in her ear. “We
will
do this.”

Her breathing was labored, and a groan tore out of her, as if she were finding strength somewhere deep inside of her. She stood stock still long enough for a cold sweat to break out on Nick’s neck. But then she began moving again, hand over hand, edging her way up the grass, and Nick followed. It was agonizing and slow as they slid back and pressed forward, moved back and farther forward. But at last, the street was right above them.

Sierra crawled off the grass on her hands and knees to the sidewalk, and Nick collapsed beside her. He couldn’t help but glance down. The place where they’d taken cover under the bridge only a few minutes ago was a raging river now. He lifted his eyes in thanks, shrugged off his jacket, and wrapped Sierra in it. At least the inside was still dry.

Sierra leaned her head against the truck’s window. She felt so unreal, so cold and lost. Mr. Foster drove them out of the blocks of concrete and onto a wooded road. She tried to make sense of where she was, but her brain felt like it was filled with cobwebs. It had been such a crazy night and a crazier morning. She’d thought she was going to drown in the pounding bayou. A sob found its way into her throat, but she swallowed it.

She closed her eyes and only looked up when they drew to a stop at a row of townhouses she didn’t recognize. Why were they here? She looked around, trying to make sense of the place. Light blue buildings with dark trim stood tucked between pine tree-lined sidewalks. The rain had stopped, but the black clouds and soaked tarmac remained.

She started to get out of the truck, but her legs didn’t remember how to move. She stared ahead, trying to think what she was supposed to do. But she was floating, floating away.

Mr. Foster picked her up and carried her into the townhouse on the end, setting her down next to fireplace, and began building a fire. “Your mom will be here soon, Sierra.”

A woman of about forty with long, platinum hair came in and cooed over her. She patted her skin, checking her temperature, Sierra realized. She could hardly feel her touch.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” the woman said. “You just rest.”

She could hear Mr. Foster in another room telling someone he’d brought her to his house so his neighbor could give her a checkup. Exposure, he said. Is that what she had? Exposure?

“I’m Dr. Allen, Nick’s neighbor. We’ll get you in some dry clothes and warmed up by the fire, and you’re going to be A-OK.”

Sierra let the woman dress her. The doctor toweled her hair, tucked a quilt around her, and then slipped a hot water bottle under her feet. She massaged some kind of gel into her hands and wrapped them up in bandages.

“That’s good, baby. Cry it out.”

Was she crying? Her eyes felt too frozen to cry.

The woman brought in a steaming mug that smelled like it had more sugar in it than coffee. Sierra swallowed it robotically, and then she was left alone by the fire. The flames flickered and licked orange and blue until she began to fade.

When she woke, she found herself in a big bed covered by a thick cotton burgundy comforter. Honey-colored light streamed onto a beige wall. Outside the window, a huge pine tree dripped with the remains of last night’s storm. Cufflinks and combs sat on a corner of a big oak dresser, but mostly stacks of books littered the top.

Where was she? Sierra stretched, trying to make sense of her presence in the strange bed. Her whole body protested. Her hands burned.
The night on the bayou, getting trapped by the water, climbing up from under the bridge.
She shook her head, as if she could make the odd memory go away. He’d brought her to his house, he’d said. This must be Mr. Foster’s home.

She eased out of the bed. The sweats she was wearing were too loose, and she had to hold the waist to keep the pants up. Her arms and legs wobbled like she’d run miles. But she couldn’t help but inspect the books—thick military thrillers, science fiction in hardback,
A Tale of Two Cities
in threadbare paperback with yellow sticky notes poking out.

You could always tell a lot about a person by what they read. Mr. Foster must read it all. She liked that. The thought almost startled her.

She was warm, almost too warm. She still felt odd—heavy and vague and lost—but she couldn’t seem to mind. She lay back down and let the world drift away for a long time until she heard voices. She couldn’t make out what they said, but she recognized them well enough.

Mom and Mr. Prodan. Her mother had come to take her home.

Finally, she gathered herself.

She tiptoed out to a hallway, each muscle crying out as she opened a door to peek into the only other room upstairs. It was a study with even more shelves of books than Mr. Prodan had. She breathed in the scent of paper but forced herself to close the study door and climb down the flight of carpeted stairs. Rounding a corner into the kitchen, she found the three of them whispering.

They stopped when they saw her. Sierra had no idea what to say, so she just looked through the kitchen window. A wood deck perched over a gorge and a bulging creek below. It was still gray outside, but the storm had passed.

She could feel her mom’s worry, but
sorry
wouldn’t cut it this time.

“Sierra.” Mom stepped close, her face fragile, as if the slightest movement would cause her to break. She reached out to Sierra but let her hand drop. “As soon as you’re ready, we can go home.”

“I’d like to stay here.” Her raspy voice surprised her.

She stared at a wall, trying not to feel her mother’s presence. It was so light here, so full of books and nature and life.

“Sierra …”

Sierra walked back up the stairs, holding the sweatpants close. She slipped under the covers again, her back to the door. Maybe she wouldn’t have to discuss it if she looked sick.

In seconds, the bed dipped when Mom sat down. There was a long silence before Mom said, “I’ve made my mistakes, Sierra. Big mistakes. But no matter how I’ve failed you, I want you to know”—her voice cracked—“if something happened to you …” Mom drew in a long breath. “You know what it’s like to be left behind. Don’t run away again. Okay, Sierra?” Mom let the question hang in the air.