The Joy We Shared

The water was already over the center line when Mom told me to hold the flashlight steady. I was twelve, barefoot in the passenger seat of our old Subaru, and doing my best to keep the beam from shaking. Rain hammered the windshield so hard the wipers seemed decorative. Beyond the glass, the coastal road had turned into a long gray channel. The evacuation signs pointed toward higher ground, but a pickup had stalled sideways ahead of us, blocking the lane. "Stay in the car," Mom said. Then she opened her door and stepped into the rain. I grabbed the flashlight with both hands. The beam skittered across the water, caught the white flash of a raised hand, and stopped on a dark car half-submerged near the ditch. Someone was trapped inside. I leaned across the wheel and hit the horn. Mom looked back at me once, then waded toward the car. A girl climbed out through the passenger window. She was about my age, wearing a cream sweater gone nearly black with rain. When she dropped into the water, she vanished to her shoulders. Mom reached her, got an arm around her, and pulled. I shoved my door open. "Lena!" Mom yelled. "I'm helping." "You're keeping the light on." The girl's fingers found Mom's sleeve. I held the flashlight higher, even when the wind slapped rain into my eyes. It took the two of them several minutes to reach the Subaru. By then, the water had risen past the bottom of the doors. Mom got the girl into the back seat and climbed in after her. She pushed a blanket into the girl's hands. "What's your name?" I asked. "Clara." "Do you know where your family is?" She shook her head. Her lips had gone pale. Mom turned the heater up and wrapped the spare coat around her. "You're safe for now. We're heading to the shelter." Clara stared out the rear window. "My dad was behind us. There were two cars in our convoy." "We'll tell the rescue team," Mom said. "He'll come looking." "Then we'll make sure he knows where you are." At the shelter, a converted middle-school gym filled with wet families, folding cots, and the smell of coffee that had been sitting too long. Mom found a nurse to check Clara's hands. I found us a place beside a basketball hoop and tried not to stare at the expensive watch Clara wore, its face cracked but still ticking. For the next two hours, I watched the entrance every time it opened. Clara watched it too. She never cried. Once, when a volunteer brought her a cup of cocoa, she gave it to a shivering little boy on the next cot and said she wasn't thirsty. Just after midnight, a man came through the doors, soaked to the skin and calling her name. "Clara!" She shot up. He reached her in three strides and pulled her against his chest so hard her shoes left the floor. "Dad," she gasped. I looked away. I had spent the last year pretending I didn't care that my own father had stopped calling. Still, the sound of someone finding his child scraped at a tender place. Her father held her face in both hands, checking her over. Then he turned to Mom. "Grant Ashford," he said. "I can't thank you enough." "June Bell," Mom replied. "We were lucky to find her." Clara looked from her father to me. She was smaller without the blanket around her shoulders. "Is she your daughter?" she asked him. "Yes," Grant said. "She is." Clara stepped toward me and reached for my hand. "Do you want a dad?" The question landed so plainly that I almost laughed. Mom's expression changed. Grant's eyes lowered to mine, but he didn't answer for me. "I already have one," I said. "He just doesn't live with us." Clara held on to my fingers. "You could have another." "I don't think it works like that." "Why not?" I had no answer. I looked at Mom. She crouched beside us and tucked my damp hair behind my ear. "We'll see," she said. In the morning, Grant offered to drive us to our motel. His black SUV had been found on the safe side of the road, and a highway worker had confirmed that the route was open. Mom tried to refuse his money. He tried to give her a check anyway. They compromised when she accepted his card for the cost of our damaged tires and nothing more. Before Clara climbed into the SUV, she hugged me. "Don't forget," she said. "You can have another dad." I watched the SUV disappear down the wet road. "You know that was a strange thing to ask," I told Mom. "She's had a frightening night." "I'm not looking for a new dad." Mom took my hand. Her palm was cold from the rain. "Neither was I," she said.