I doubled over as if punched in the gut. I felt time stop. All life had come to a screeching halt-there, in that inhospitable Martian landscape. The life I had lived up to that moment had blown away along with the buildings, like ashes in the hot, lifeless wind.
I let the memory of that afternoon settle on my heart as I tapped my fingers on the tabletop. Maybe, like the dust covering the ground where the lab once stood, it would eventually blow away. But what would remain? I hold on to the one constant that becomes my anchor every waking moment-no bodies were ever found in that sea of dust. No bone particles, hair, DNA-not a trace.
"People don't just vanish into thin air, Bria." My dad again-for the hundredth time. Who says air is thin? Mom certainly wouldn't.
I hear Dylan's bedroom door open and my brother come plodding down to the kitchen. My school term ended last Thursday, but Dylan's goes year-round. Now that I'm home for the summer, Debby, Dylan's part-time caretaker, drops him home at noon for me to watch so she can attend summer classes at the community college. She's only two years older than me, but we have zilch in common. It's like she's from a different planet-but then, I guess I feel that way about half the kids in my school. He walks over to the window, barefoot and dressed in his shorts and orange-and-blue Broncos T-shirt. He stares at the driveway, I swear, just like a dog waiting for his master to come home. I hear him say "Dad."
Sure enough, about two minutes later, Dad's car tires crunch gravel up the long driveway to our house. I had made a plate of Toll House cookies earlier. I don't particularly like to bake, and I usually burn things, because I get busy doing something and forget-until that burnt smell permeates the house. But, today I was careful to watch the oven. I go to the fridge and get out the milk as my dad comes in and deposits his briefcase and car remote on the hutch by the door.
Dad had lectured me to stop worrying about him, so I paste on a smile and bring him a plate of cookies. He looks exhausted and miserable but tries to cover it with a surprised expression. I know he means well, attempting to present a strong front. I just wish, instead, he would break down and cry and get all the pain out.
"Hey," he says, polishing off a warm cookie in three bites, "these are great."
"You skipped lunch." My comment is an observation, not a question.