Waiting For Sarah by James Heneghan Page B

window. Blue dust motes swam in the air above Sarah’s head as he thought back to last year when they had been driving home from the Abbotsford Air Show. They were all tired. Becky was overtired — over­excited, his father had said. His mom called Becky a tomboy because she was sometimes wild, and she loved airplanes as much as Mike. Becky always argued with her mother, saying, “Calling someone a tomboy is so stupid, I’m just a girl.” For both Mike and Becky the highlight of the air show had been sitting in the cockpit of a Spitfire. For their father, an ex-navy pilot, it had been the helicopters.
    â€œWe were on our way home in the car,” he said simply. “A drunk driver hit us head on.”
    Why was he telling this to a kid? Because sometimes Sarah didn’t seem like a kid, that was why; sometimes she seemed quite grown up.
    â€œIt was just over a year ago. My parents and my kid sister were ... they were wiped out ... killed. I was sitting in the back seat with my sister. I had my seat belt on. She didn’t. But I was trapped, couldn’t move. I don’t remember much of it. It took a long time, but they got me out; my legs were crushed, below the knees.” He shrugged. “That’s it.”
    That was it: a short, simple story. What he didn’t tell her was how the simple story, the part he did remember, the part he’d never forget, played and replayed itself in his head most nights before he went to sleep. In detail. With sound effects. Saturday afternoon, middle of August, Dad driving west, sun visor down against the late afternoon brightness, carradio playing some of Mom’s favorite music, live every Saturday from New York, that week an opera called
Aïda
— he even remembered the title — Mom with her head back, eyes closed, Becky — still high from an exciting day — giggling, unruly as usual, mimicking the soprano, showing off for Mike’s benefit. “Becky!” Mom’s testy voice the last thing he heard before the blackness.
    Robbie missed being killed. He had arranged to go with them, but canceled out at the last minute, calling early on Saturday morning to say his mother wasn’t well; Mrs. Palladin had been up most of the night with pains in her head and stomach, and he was going to stay home and make sure she was okay.
    Robbie had never discussed it with Mike, had never acknowledged his lucky escape.
    Fate: some live, some die. Yes, he believed in fate all right.
    Sarah said, “So who takes care of you? Your grandparents?”
    He shook his head. “There aren’t any. I live with Aunt Norma, my mother’s sister.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œShe wanted me. And she’s the only relative I have.”
    â€œWhat is your sister’s name?”
    â€œBecky.”
    â€œHow old was she?”
    â€œTen.”
    The sunbeam had lasted only a few seconds and now, for some reason — perhaps the thought of Becky dying so young, before her life had reallystarted — the archives room seemed cold and gray. The old newspapers and books and files that before had seemed to him a historian’s delight now seemed like so much trash. The whole mess should be thrown out, he thought, and burnt to ashes. In his mind he saw a mountain of paper burning in a huge fire, saw the black-and-white pictures brown and curl as hundreds of smiling crewcut boys and beehive-haired girls blistered into spirals of smoke and flame.
    But the room evidently didn’t seem cold and gray to Sarah. “What’s your favorite food? Mine’s chocolate ice-cream.” She swung her legs restlessly, a little kid once more.
    It was amazing how one minute she could be so grown up and then the next minute be a child again. No, it wasn’t amazing, it was annoying. And frustrating. Just when he was talking seriously, she started acting like a stupid little kid, changing the subject, asking childish questions. He