Let Us Be Brave Page 3

  “Sam, you’re our weightlifter. Grab his arm and help us get him out,” Helen said. As soon as she tried to pull on Patrick’s other arm, she collapsed on the tarp, overcome with dizziness. “Nicholi and Marie, I guess you are all going to have to get Patrick out,” she said. “Be careful with him. Don’t hurt him.”

  The two boys took his arms and Marie tried to move his feet onto the tarp. Soon he was free, face down. They rolled him over and centered his body. Helen, back on her feet, showed them all how to hold onto the cargo net with their hands, and they dragged Patrick away from the wreckage toward the beach.

  She took another look in the plane, realizing that her dream of owning her own commercial air business was certainly delayed, if not over. “My baby,” she murmured. How she had loved that plane.

  She called to everyone: “Once you get him to the beach, come back and get more out of the plane.”

  Slowly they all mucked their way back to the plane. Marie stayed with Patrick, trying to make him comfortable. They got the last of the bags unloaded, along with Patrick’s wheelchair.

  “Sam, climb in the tail and see if there’s anything left.”

  He climbed inside as far as he could and found a can of bear spray, a little box attached to the framework of the plane, plus another tarp. He handed the can and tarp out to Helen, but couldn’t figure out how to remove the little box, so he left it.

  “Oh, I forgot I put those in there. It’s only a twelve by twelve tarp, but it might come in handy. Hope we don’t need this,” she said as she looked closely at the projectile spray can.

  Sam didn’t know or care what the can or the box was for. He climbed out and stood there, looking dazed.

  Marie helped Helen close the door to the plane. As Helen tried to walk away, she found her balance was deteriorating rapidly. Marie put her strong arm around her sister’s waist, and they sloshed sadly towards the dry beach. Sam walked beside the girls, innocently unaware of what was happening to Helen.

  If the emergency locator worked right, someone would find them, maybe even that day. Helen knew that the little box was still in the tail of the plane, but her head hurt so badly that she just couldn’t climb inside to look for it. Her eyes were seeing stars, she was dizzier than she had ever been in her life, and focusing was becoming harder and harder by the moment. She only wanted to sit down and shut out all the pain. She couldn’t look at her once-beautiful plane any longer.

  She focused all her remaining strength toward moving her feet up the beach in the sucking, depressing, grey mud. Along with her splitting headache, she felt complete and utter despair. With her plane gone, how was she going to save her sister and the four other special passengers? “Just how am I going to pull this one off?” she mumbled to herself as she trudged, head down and shoulders slumped, toward shore. She was overwhelmed with defeat.

  Chapter 2

  Irene

  Irene Vaughn was in her own little garden paradise in Point Loma, California. She had a beautiful head of thick white hair that was the envy of all her friends. Her stocky, four-foot eleven-inch body was in good shape because she loved working in her garden and planting flowers all year around. Her bright color scheme, composed of orchids, pansies, roses, geraniums, and hyacinths, constantly changed with the season. The flowers grew up the fence in some places and cascaded down rock retaining walls in others. Even the trees were covered in thousands of yellow, orange, purple, pink, and rose-colored blooms. Anyone walking down her curved path of red bricks, which she had individually carried home over a period of years and systematically organized into garden trails, would know she definitely had a green thumb.

  She lived in a small, cream-colored bungalow with a red Spanish tile roof. It was built the year she was born, 89 years earlier. It was riddled with termites, but she figured that when she died in ten years or so, it would be torn down anyway. There was no point in killing off the little buggers; they had as much right to life in her house as she did. Her little house was surrounded by mansions, so it would undoubtedly be cleared away for another one when some rich person bought it. At least her grandchildren would get the two million dollars that the lot was worth.

  She had been married once, but had been living alone, in control of her own life, since her divorce fifty years before. She was extremely independent and stubborn. No one told her what to do, but things were starting to change for her as she got older. She had left the burner on in the house last month after she heated a cup of tea. Her tea towel had caught on fire and caused the smoke alarm to go off. Earlier, her grandson, Michael Vaughn, had flown down from Anchorage and had a security system put in for her. It had immediately called 911for help. The next thing she knew, she had two San Diego fire trucks, an ambulance, and a smaller red fire truck blocking busy Rosecrans Street in front of her home. How embarrassing!

  More and more she realized she didn’t remember things like she used to. The past was clear as a bell, but everyone only had a face; the names were gone. She was always saying, “Now, what’s his name?” or “Who was that nice young man that repaired the thing in the bathroom?” She wouldn’t remember it was a “toilet” until hours later. Then the word would pop back into her vocabulary.

  At church, she was getting to the point that she couldn’t do the job she had done for decades. Just last week the head of the church committee had approached her and kindly said, “Irene, we think it’s time for people to change jobs during the service. We noticed you’ve been doing the same thing for years now. Would you mind letting someone else have a turn at it?” Truth was people were starting to make comments that maybe it was time for her to be “replaced.” Why, she couldn’t be replaced! She had her place, doing the job she had always done.

  She had been feeling excited all day, but the reason for the excitement kept playing hide and seek with her failing memory. One moment she knew that her favorite granddaughter, Danielle Foxworthy, had called earlier and said she would drop by to discuss their upcoming trip, but the next minute she was wondering what it could be that had her feeling so exhilarated. When Danielle drove up her narrow driveway with its borders of blooming rosemary, bird of paradise, and roses of white, yellow, pale pink, and red, it was a moment before Irene remembered why she was there.

  “Are you all packed yet, Grandma Irene?” she said as she walked up to her side.

  “Oh, yes! I’ve been packed for a week! I’ve been dreaming about going to Alaska for fifty years. I just can’t wait to get there and see Michael and find out how in the world he survives in such a wild place. Did you know he’s a newsman on an Anchorage television station? Well, of course you did; you’re his cousin! We’re going to have so much fun! I wonder if we’ll see a moose.”

  For whatever reason, Irene never forgot anything about Alaska. She received three papers from the state: Tundra Times, a native paper; Juneau Tribune, for political news; and the Anchorage Times for overall Alaska news. She’d read every book in the Point Loma Library about Alaska and thought she might buy some new ones on her trip to donate when she returned home in a month. Now, the statistics—she had them down years ago and had never forgotten them. The state was 586,412 square miles in size, one-fifth the size of the 48 contiguous states. Most people lived on the road system in the south central part of the state. The native villages, filled with Eskimos, Indians, and Aleuts, were dotted all over, mostly on rivers or waterways. She loved reading about subsistence use of the land as well as commercial fishing and mining. There were miles and miles of wilderness, untouched by people, and she was finally going to go see it all . . . well, some of it anyway.

  Alaska was so different from her world in Point Loma. Every inch of her surrounding world was covered in mansions with their manicured lawns and gardens. It was indeed a beautiful place to live, even if her little old two-bedroom house with its tiny bathroom and its leaky sink and old-fashioned clawfoot tub might not look like much in comparison. It was home, and she spent every daylight hour out in her garden anyway.
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  Danielle called from inside the house, “This bag, Grandma? Are you sure it’s ready?”

  Irene shuffled into the house, made her way to her bedroom, and looked down at the suitcase. It held a thick flannel nightgown, a comb, a brush, and two pair of heavy socks.

  Danielle said, “It’s a start. We’ll need at least five pair of warm slacks, a week’s underwear, shirts, and some nice dresses for dinner on the ship.”

  “Danielle, I’m not planning on eating all dressed up with the rich people on this trip. I’m going to spend my time on point looking at the view as it rolls by. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Grandmaaa,” she said, “This is your chance to get out ’n meet people. You hardly ever leave this place.”

  “Why should I go anywhere to meet anyone? I’m too old to get married again, and heaven forbid I’d live with some old man that just wanted me to clean up after him or, worse yet, take care of him. I’m going to Alaska to see Alaska, not to socialize.”

  “Well, would you at least agree to dress up and eat dinner with all the people when we’re at sea in the North Pacific?”

  “I’ll consider it. Depends upon who’s on board,” she said curtly. She liked to think of herself as an independent woman. Sure, she forgot things sometimes, but why did her daughter insist on her granddaughter coming with her to chaperone her like some overgrown child? Again, it was both comforting and humiliating. Well, humiliation had never stopped her before. The good part was that Danielle could carry all her suitcases. No aching backs for her on this trip. No, sir!

  Chapter 3

  Now What?

  Everyone plunked down in the sand with the gear and stared out at the water. They were all more than a little shocked at the recent events. Reality was setting in for each in their own way.

  “Helen, does this mean that I can’t stay in Anchorage tonight?” asked Nicholi.

  “Yes, looks that way. You never know, though; someone might have heard our Mayday call or the emergency locator went off. Homer Radio does listen to the emergency channel, and hopefully Mark hadn’t stepped out for a minute or something. There’s only the one FAA guy on duty at a time.”

  “But I wanna go swimming in the pool tonight,” Marie complained.

  Helen was exhausted. The crash had taken all her energy and strength. “I know, but it’ll take a miracle to make it happen, honey. If no one finds us today, we’re going to have to camp out until they do. Patrick, we need to get you up to a campsite and set up some kind of shelter. I heard KDLG radio in Dillingham announce a big storm coming in off the Aleutians tonight. I know it doesn’t look like it now, but we need to be prepared. Winds could be really strong—I just wanna close my eyes for a minute again. Feels like my head’s sort of stopped bleeding now, but I’m dizzy and my eyes are weird.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Helen,” said Patrick. “I’ve gone to boy scout camp. Take a nap and maybe you’ll feel better after.”

  Helen leaned against one of the many logs that had washed on shore in the past and closed her eyes. Patrick sat up as best he could and looked all around. Nicholi sat making contorted faces and talking quietly to his hand as if it understood his every word. Lillian squatted with her head tucked in, looking down. Marie sat next to Helen, lightly touching her arm as if trying to comfort her.

  Sam got up and walked to the woods and looked. “’Otta pee.”

  “Go over there,” Patrick said, pointing east. “We’ll probably camp right where you are. We don’t want you to pee where we sleep.”

  Sam started to unzip his jeans.

  “Sam, go there an’ pee—out of sight,” repeated Patrick.

  Sam looked and finally headed up the beach to where Patrick had pointed.

  “Marie and Nicholi, how about if you two look for a stream. We’ll need water to drink,” Patrick said.

  “I think there’s a little one over there,” she said, pointing west. “Want to go with me, Nicholi?”

  Nicholi was rocking and making contorted faces.

  Marie got up and touched his shoulder. “Nicholi, let’s go hunt for a stream.”

  He stopped rocking and looked at her for a few seconds as if coming out of a trance and suddenly comprehending. “Okay, I’ll go.”

  The two headed down the beach to the west, Marie walking and Nicholi dancing with his arms out, soaring like a bald eagle he had spotted.

  “Don’t get lost,” called Patrick.

  “We won’t,” said Marie.

  Patrick looked out at the water and realized that the tide had turned. He loved studying the moon with his telescope at home, so he knew that it was a new quarter moon and the tides wouldn’t be at their highest. Nonetheless. . . .

  “Lillian, we need to move all this stuff up into those trees. Tide’s coming in.”

  Lillian stood up and walked slowly over to peer at the duffels as if studying them. She grasped her own, carried it up, deposited it out of Patrick’s sight, and squatted down again. Patrick kept waiting for her to return, but she didn’t.

  Finally Sam came back.

  “Sam, we need to move all this stuff up into the trees. The tide’s coming in, and you’re really strong, so would you move my chair first? Lillian’s up there. Would you carry it to that flat rock and see if it’ll stay there?”

  “Ur” (Sure), he said as he pushed up off the sandy beach and picked up the folding wheelchair. He put it on the flat, low, black rock and tried to open it up but didn’t know how, so he left it and went back to Patrick.

  “You’re awesome,” said Patrick. “Thanks.”

  Patrick rolled over on his back and looked up. There were black clouds around the top of the Mt. St. Augustine Island to the south. At a higher altitude, a few thin, wispy clouds, the first sign of a front, were coming in. The moon disappeared and reappeared in and out of view.

  “Helen? Helen, looks like a storm’s starting to brew. Don’t you think we should start a shelter?”

  Helen didn’t respond or move. She just sat there leaning against the downed tree with her head hanging between her knees.

  She was within his reach, so he struggled to roll over and grasp her foot. “Helen. Helen, wake up,” he called nicely. He shook her foot as much as he could, but she didn’t move.

  Mumbling, he whispered to himself, “Hmmm . . . she’s warm but in a mighty deep sleep. That’s not normal.” (Louder) “Helen — Helen. Whadda I do?” He waited for a response, but none came. I shoulda listened better in first aide class. Okay, ummm, she’ll need water and to stay warm. There was something about elevating her feet or her head, but which one? Can’t remember. I also gotta be calm—for everyone, mainly Nicholi. I can do this, even if I’m not much help. After all, aren’t I the one leading the Special Olympics Pledge at Opening Ceremonies tomorrow night in front of the TV cameramen? Now, what was it? Oh, yeah. Practicing aloud, he said, “Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.”

  Marie and Nicholi were coming back. “We found water,” called Nicholi.

  “Yeah, and it’s deep and clean, just like at fish camp. There’s plenty,” said Marie. “It’s not far either.

  “How far?”

  “See those trees and the big rock?”

  Patrick arched his back so his head came up off the tarp. He saw that the rock was only about 100 yards away.

  “Great . . . We’ll get water later, but for now we need to move everything up in the trees. Maybe start with me, okay? You’ll need Sam and Lillian. Helen is still sleeping.”

  Marie glanced at Helen and then called, “Sam, Lillian, come help us . . . . Sam, Lillian! Come help us!”

  The two slowly came out of woods together. Lillian immediately squatted down next to Helen. She didn’t touch her, just sat staring sadly. It was like she sensed that something was very wrong with her coach. Sam just looked around at everyone innocently. He bent down and gently touched Helen’s shoulder and then straightened the hair around her ears. He didn’t like ha
ir to cover his mother’s ears either and was always doing the same thing to her. It was a way he demonstrated his love for her.

  “Grab the net, everybody,” said Marie. Marie was on one side and the other three were on the other. “That won’t work. Nicholi, come on my side! I don’t want to do all the work around here!”

  Nicholi stood rocking, ignoring everything.

  Patrick noticed the harsh tone of voice and said, “Speak nicely or he won’t listen.”

  Marie hesitated with blank staring eyes, processing the comment for about a minute before trying a soft voice and a gentle touch of Nicholi’s shoulder. “Nicholi, come over here. Stand here, Nicholi.”

  He stopped rocking and slowly moved in her direction. He had been listening, but had just chosen not to respond.

  He looked at her and said angrily, “Don’t order me. I’m not steak,” quoting his Mom’s favorite movie, Working Girl.

  “Okay.”

  “Wait a second. I’m thinking I should be in my chair on that rock. How about if you move me next to my chair and the rock first,” said Patrick.

  “Okay. Let’s go, everybody—oops, Nicholi, are you ready?” Marie said.

  He smiled while looking at his shoes, indicating that he was listening.

  All of them except Sam struggled and grunted as they semi-hoisted Patrick up and dragged him at the same time. Soon they stopped by the rock.

  “Marie, see if you can open up my chair.”

  She pulled the arms apart, and the wheels separated.

  “Now put the foam seat down and try sitting in it to see if it’s comfortable.”

  She did as directed and sat down. “Guess it’s okay for you. Not for me though.” She got out. “How we get ya in it?”