The Gift
by Lorraine Bennett
The
small plane spiraled out of the sky and blasted through a row of palm trees
near the street behind Pat Steven’s cottage. The nightmare unfolded as she was
having one of her own – riding a heaving deck, bracing against slippery planks.
She
awoke to a flash, no ocean, no rocking boat, just a dresser, a chair beside her
bed, proof she was conscious. The throbbing glow outside was real.She struggled into her robe and opened her front door. The usual muggy South Miami night was filled with acrid smoke.
In the street the air was so thick she could hardly see. Someone was crying. Pat turned toward the sobs.
“Come here, sweetheart. Come to me.” Her own voice seemed to originate from outside her body. I’m not dreaming, she thought.
A toddler, pink dress blackened, eyes wild with fear, was crawling from underneath a charred bush.
Pat gathered the shivering child, feeling warmth through her robe. She smelled smoke and fuel in the little girl’s hair.
A fire truck careened by, followed by two police cars. Someone shouted, “Here’s one. She’s alive!”
A burly uniformed man reached for the child, who reinforced her hold on Pat’s neck and would not let go.
“Ma’am, do you know this child?” Uniformed man’s tone was sharp. “Is she injured?”
“She doesn’t seem to be. She came from under that bush,” Pat heard her own voice again. I must be awake in the middle of this madness, she thought. She was aware the man was staring at her.
The officer pried the child’s arms from Pat’s neck and handed her to ambulance attendants. Red emergency lights flared as the vehicle disappeared down the street. Pat could still hear sobs on her shoulder, see fear-filled eyes. A familiar feeling washed over her. Brushing away tears, she turned toward her cottage.
A few hours later her bungalow seemed too quiet after last night’s chaos. Many Saturdays began this way, over coffee and newspapers, since Charlie died.
Weekend mornings, their special togetherness time to play and plan, were hardest to endure. They were two dreamers with schooling behind, shining futures ahead. Charlie had opened his law practice. She had nailed a coveted job with the city’s largest accounting firm. They celebrated with a new sedan for her, sailboat for him.
The sudden appearance of two friends at the front door had changed everything, including the shape of her dreams. An unexpected squall and a sailboat shattered on rocks left her with nightmares of capsized boats. A vacant space at the breakfast table greeted her mornings.
She read the newspaper’s recap of last night’s events: a 12-seat commuter plane, ten bodies recovered, one survivor, a girl, about two, bruised, unidentified and unable to tell anyone even her name. Authorities were seeking passenger identities, the plane’s origin and destination. No aircraft was reported missing. No flight plan had been filed.
Pat’s television blared to life with video of charred and twisted wreckage. A police officer, Sgt. Scott Morris, told an insistent reporter no further details were available.
Pat could see the child’s frightened face. She and Charlie hadn’t had time for children. What might happen to that child now? The officer speculated the plane might have carried drugs. A “suspicious substance” had been found.
“Maybe I can help find out who she is!” Pat sprang from her table. Half an hour later she was in Mercy General’s lobby.
“You don’t understand. I found her after the crash!” In frustration, Pat was trying to pass an iron-jawed volunteer at the hospital’s front desk. A family of six descended, distracting the volunteer. Pat backed away, tears stinging her eyes, and bumped into an immovable object.
“Nice to see you again.”
The voice, gruff with a hint of kindness, belonged to wide shoulders, denim jacket, khaki pants, dark brown hair, brown eyes.
He nodded to the desk volunteer, then offered Pat a quirky smile.
Flustered, she stammered, “Excuse me. Do I know you?”
“I could never forget a face like yours." He smiled again. Coming from him it didn’t sound like such a line.
“You’re the officer from last night.” Pat felt herself relax. “I’m trying to find her. Do you know where she is?”
‘Third floor. Children’s ward. I’m headed there myself.” They fell into step toward lobby elevators.
“Are you the officer I was reading about in the morning paper?”
“Misquoted,” he frowned, but his eyes were merry. “We’re not supposed to mention drugs until the investigation’s complete. Not much doubt about this one.”
“Suppose they’re all dead? Her whole family.” A crazy, against-all-logic idea was forming in Pat’s head. She’s alone. I’m alone. Why can’t two people who find each other in the night…
The elevator doors opened. Pat heard howling.
“That’s her. I know it.” She hurried down the hall, Scott Morris right behind her.
A nurse with stethoscope hovered over the crib. The child was sitting up, rigid, red-faced, tears rolling from blue eyes. She saw Pat and stopped crying.
The nurse turned. The child reached for Pat with chubby arms.
“Can I pick her up?”
“I don’t think so,” the nurse began, but the child’s arms were tight around Pat’s neck. Scott Morris’ quirky smile spread to a large grin.
“Hey, you’ve got a way with kids,” he said admiringly. “You must have some of your own.”
Pat blushed. That had been a touchy topic around her parents’ dinner table.
“We’ll find her next-of-kin. Just a matter of time,” he predicted, unzipping a plastic tote. The brown teddy bear looked small in his large hands.
The child gave a squeal of joy. The bear disappeared into chubby arms.
“It’s a miracle she’s alive,” the nurse offered, checking vital signs now that the child was occupied with the toy.
“That wasn’t the only miracle last night.”
He said the words lightly. Pat blushed again. She had a crazy, against-all-logic thought. Why can’t two people who find each other in the night…
I apologize for the format of this story. Copying it into the blog created some problems. Glenda Beall
