Part 19 (2/2)

Unfortunately, that was the message for every call I tried to make.

If I got to the evacuation center at the school, I was going to learn how to drive and ask for a car by the end of the week. Forget about the whole parent at the driving test thing. I'd hire a parent if I had to.

”Think. Think. Think.” I forced myself to focus. ”If Dad's on his way home, what do I need to do? What does one need to bring on an evacuation?”

Seriously, school could be doing a better job teaching us life skills. Between this and the management of boys, I thought I could have written a whole new curriculum.

Clothes, blankets, towels, toiletries, sketch pad. Stuff for dad.

I'll admit, I was beginning to panic, but figured I could at least move Mom's heavier stuff toward the foyer for when Dad got there. Maybe I could even pull some of it up the narrow staircase on my own.

The sky grew darker by the time I'd gotten all the furniture in the entryway. I collapsed on the overstuffed chair angled toward the banister and started bawling. Around me sat all the objects in the world that carried my mother's memory and I couldn't get them to safety alone-I couldn't even get myself to safety-and I'd finally allowed myself to wonder if my father had forgotten he even had a daughter.

Over my own stupid sobbing, I heard the engine rev up the drive and shot to the door. Only, it wasn't a mid-sized Toyota coming my way. It was a dark red, very old pick-up.

Luke wasn't even out of the truck before I launched myself at him, the rain mixing with my tears and soaking us both through in less time than it took for him to push me back toward the house.

”Grab your stuff. We have to get you out of here.”

He shoved the door shut against the wind and froze, unable to move in the menagerie of furniture.

”Amy, what's all the furniture doing in the foyer?”

I started crying again, that ugly, drastic, hiccupping crying.

”It was my mom's.”

He pushed his hair back and ran his hand across the back of his neck. Glancing up the stairs, taking in the a.s.sortment of stuff I'd tried to carry up myself. He checked his watch and said, ”Pick three things.”

Launching myself at Luke Parker while sobbing was beginning to become a habit. But he rubbed my back for a moment and let me sniffle into his T-s.h.i.+rt.

”Really, Amy. Only three.”

I pulled away, totally embarra.s.sed that I kept finding myself in Luke's arms instead of, you know, not.

It was too overwhelming. But I knew he was right. Three was even more than we really had time for, but picking what stayed and what didn't was like choosing which memories I got to keep.

Luke's hand came to rest on the back of my neck.

”When you walk in the room every day, where would you picture her?”

I pointed to the battered chair I'd been curled up in.

”Okay. We'll take that one first.”

Once that was done, we surveyed the hall, Luke beside me not pus.h.i.+ng as I caught him glancing out the window toward the river.

”Amy?”

”I don't know. I can't pick.” I looked up at him, a little desperate. ”You pick.”

”How about we take the oversized chair thing and the other cus.h.i.+on chair thing?” He pointed at the two loveseats. ”And hope the stuff that's wood can be refinished.”

And just like that I knew my home might not be here when I got back. That the best I could hope for was to be able to refinish the wood. And that Luke and his big truck had already crossed the little wooden bridge once.

”Let's go.”

He looked at me and I realized I was getting used to it. Comfortable with the wordless-searching-look thing he did when he really looked at me-that no matter the misunderstandings and the arguments, he saw me. And being seen had suddenly become a very good thing.

”Do you have your stuff?”

I pointed to the two suitcases and the hamper filled with blankets and pillows.

”I put a tarp in the back of the truck. We'll throw everything under there and make a run for it.”

”A run for it?” My voice squeaked the question as I realized things were worse than I thought.

”The bridge was already sitting in water coming this way. I'm hoping it's still there. If not, we'll drive toward the farm and hope that's far enough from the river to ride it out.”

”Oh my G.o.d, Luke. What are you doing here?”

That seemed to be the only question that stopped him. He halted, turned back toward me and said, ”You were here.”

And then he was gone, sprinting through the downpour and throwing suitcases in the back. I ran to the kitchen and stuffed as much food as I could into a backpack in case we were stuck in his truck today. And tonight. And until the water went down.

I climbed in the truck, pus.h.i.+ng my wet hair out of my eyes. Luke turned the key and the engine sputtered, a sick sad noise that had my heart stalled out. Closing my eyes, I prayed his rescue hadn't already morphed into a tragedy.

”Don't worry. It's just damp.”

Damp. I started laughing. Hysterically. The type of laughter people in the movies get slapped for. We were sitting in three inches of water, a river racing toward us, about to wash away the bridge that might already be gone, and he says the engine is damp.

Luke Parker, King of the Understatement.

The truck turned over with a loud roar that slowly subsided into its typical gentle rev. As we made our way down the lane, the trees rode low, slapping water soaked branches against the side of the battered old chariot of a truck. I was so relieved to see the end of the drive that I laughed a little, not knowing how else to let it out.

Luke turned us onto the road and stopped where the bridge met land. The bed of the bridge was already hidden by water, several inches slos.h.i.+ng over the top. Together, we sat and looked at it, just watching the water rus.h.i.+ng by.

”Ready?”

I nodded. It wasn't as though you could get more ready for something like this. Luke threw the truck in gear and reached down to where my hand gripped the seat, threading his fingers between mine.

I suddenly knew we'd make the bridge, if just for Luke's sheer stubborn streak. But I closed my eyes and squeezed his hand in mine anyway. The front wheels dipped onto the wood with a cur-thud. The water shoved the front end around, almost forcing us into the railing. Luke pulled his hand back and downs.h.i.+fted, forcing us forward and up the incline on the far side. I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing except the railing peaked out above the water behind us.

Easing back in the seat, my muscles turned to mush as Luke re-threaded his fingers through mine for the silent ride up the three hills to the school.

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