Letting Go (Triple Eight Ranch) - By Mary Beth Lee Page 0,14
were going to dig for survivors.
“West of here?”
“Down at the trailer park and the neighborhood surrounding. Sure could use your hands.”
Bev lived at the trailer park.
Clarissa’s gasp said she understood.
A sense of responsibility for keeping Mack and Clarissa safe warred with the duty Jed had to Stearns and those who were missing.
Clarissa made the decision for him.
“You’ve got to go help, Jed. Mack and I will be safe at the church. Go on. Go find Bev.” Her voice broke as she said their friend’s name, and Jed knew she was right. This was Stearns. They took care of their own.
He leaned down and kissed Mack on the forehead, determined to try to protect her from the worst of this if at all possible.
Mack wrapped her hands around his neck, then took his face in her hands. “Jesus kept us safe, Daddy. He kept Bev safe, too.”
Clarissa didn’t meet his eyes this time, and he prayed Mack was right. Prayed Bev and her kids were okay. This was a lesson he didn’t want Mack learning so early. She’d learned enough in her short lifetime.
Jed wanted to say something meaningful to Clarissa. But her walls were back up, and even a hug seemed out of place. So he did the only thing he knew to do.
“Thank you,” he said. And then, as he started the truck, he said, “Be good Mack,” but this time he knew he didn’t have to worry.
Clarissa and Mackenzie joined Miss Topkins and the school secretary, Mrs. Anderson. The church now served as a shelter for people who’d lost homes.
As soon as they entered the building, Clarissa swallowed the pain at realizing she was one of those people. Keeping busy would work as emotional salvation for now.
From all over town people were bringing in food, water, blankets, sleeping bags, cots, jackets. Someone Clarissa didn’t know was grilling hotdogs. If not for the debris visible out the heavy wooden doors of the church, she’d think this was a celebration instead of a response to crisis.
When the twins from Mackenzie’s Sunday School class came in, one of them with a huge bandage on his head, Mackenzie ran to them. It wasn’t long before they were playing games with other children.
Clarissa, sure Jed’s daughter was safe for now, helped arrange areas for displaced families in the church gym. She handed out food and water. Prayed or at least listened to the prayer of a new wife whose husband had been on the road somewhere between Stearns and Shawnee where the powerful storm with what the weather service was calling multiple vortex tornadoes had torn through.
When a man with three children came in, she rocked his newborn baby, feeding it a bottle and listening as he and his older children retold their story of horror and thankfulness. His wife was in the Oklahoma City hospital now, but the emergency workers had brought him and his children to the shelter because the hospitals were too full for the uninjured. Someone volunteered to take care of his children, someone else volunteered to take the man to the hospital where his wife was once they knew where to go.
Home wasn’t an option. Home was gone.
Clarissa put her finger in the baby’s hand and smiled as the infant wrapped his tiny fingers around hers. The infant smiled at her and a sense of peace wrapped itself around Clarissa’s heart.
Home.
So much loss and yet the entire town rallied together to help each other. She’d only felt at home one place in her life. But she’d run away from her grandmother’s as soon as she’d been able. In the midst of this tragedy, Clarissa wondered if maybe she hadn’t found home again.
Handing the now sleeping child to his father, she stretched, rubbing a crick in her back, happy to be helping, to be part of this.
“She doesn’t belong out there.” The shrewish words sounded in a whisper as Clarissa moved toward the church kitchen. She stopped as soon as she heard the voice, knowing instantly who the words were about.
“Shush, Joan. You don’t…”
“Don’t shush me. We don’t know anything about her.”
“I know now is not the time. She’s here, she’s helping. Just stop.”
“Mark my words, that girl’s trouble.”
Clarissa recognized the voices. The women talking were the school secretary Mrs. Anderson—Joan—and the Sunday School teacher Miss Topkins. Miss Topkins was done arguing with Mrs. Anderson. At least Clarissa figured that to be the case since the conversation ceased.
The words hurt. Truth was, Mrs. Anderson was right. She didn’t belong