Share the Joy

I had one hand on the grocery bag of canned soup and the other wrapped around the strap of Mom's old canvas duffel when she told me to run. "Leave the bag, Willa." The wind shoved rain beneath the hood of my sweatshirt. Beyond the gas station, the road dipped toward a creek that had already swallowed the white lines. Cars crept past us in a ragged line, their headlights smeared by the storm. Mom had parked our dented blue hatchback on the higher shoulder, but she was looking past it now, toward the bend. A horn blared. The dark SUV in front of us slid sideways. Its rear end struck the guardrail. For one breathless second, I saw its brake lights pointed at the sky. Then the car dropped nose-first into the flooded ditch. Mom let go of my sleeve and ran. I followed her because she was my mother, because the car had filled with water, and because I couldn't stand the thought of standing still while somebody screamed. A girl was pressed against the passenger window, pounding with both fists. The water came up to her shoulders. I couldn't see anyone in the driver's seat. "Call emergency services," Mom shouted. I fumbled with my phone. The screen was wet, my fingers clumsy. I got through to the dispatcher and gave the road number, the mile marker, the closest landmark. The dispatcher asked how many people were in the vehicle. "I see one," I said. "A girl. I don't know about the driver." Mom was already waist-deep in the runoff. She grabbed a metal road sign from the shoulder and swung it at the passenger window. The first blow bounced off. The girl inside flinched. "Keep your head down!" Mom yelled. I ran closer, water slapping my calves. A second blow cracked the glass. Mom hit it again. The window gave way in a burst of safety glass, and she shoved her arm through the opening. The girl's hands appeared. Mom caught one wrist and pulled. I waded in beside her, grabbed the girl's other arm, and braced my shoes against the road. We dragged her through the broken window inch by inch. She kicked free of the seat belt as soon as she was clear, then slid against us into the muddy water. "Keep moving," Mom said. "Don't look back." We got her to the shoulder. Her coat was soaked, and one cheek was bleeding. She coughed until she threw up water onto the road. I knelt beside her, holding her shoulders while Mom checked her breathing. A man shouted from behind the car. He had climbed out through the driver's side and was standing on the hood, one hand clamped over his brow. A passing motorist and a highway worker reached him with a rope. The girl shuddered beneath my hands. "What's your name?" I asked. "Clara." "Okay, Clara. I'm Willa. Can you hear the sirens?" She nodded once. A set of red lights appeared through the rain. When the ambulance arrived, Mom climbed in with her. I got into the front seat of our car and followed it to the county shelter, keeping the ambulance in sight whenever the road curved. The shelter was the gym at Bellwether High. People sat on folded blankets beneath the basketball hoops, watching rainwater creep under the doors. Mom and Clara went with the paramedics to get checked. I found a dry sweatshirt in our duffel and stood near the vending machines, counting the change in my pocket. A woman in a navy raincoat came through the doors, calling Clara's name. She was followed by two security guards and a man in a gray suit. I heard her tell the desk volunteer that she was Clara's aunt, then heard the volunteer say Clara was in the medical room. When Mom returned, she was carrying a paper cup of coffee and wearing an expression I recognized from the times she'd decided not to complain about something unfair. "Clara's fine," she said. "A few cuts. The paramedic thinks she swallowed some water, so they want to keep her here for a while." "Did they find her dad?" "They're trying." Mom handed me the coffee. "You should drink something." I took a sip and made a face. It tasted like warm cardboard. We spent the next hour on the gym floor while the storm rattled the doors. I was trying to sleep with my head against Mom's shoulder when a voice said, "Willa?" Clara stood in the aisle wearing a gray blanket like a cape. Someone had cleaned the blood from her cheek. Her hair hung damp and straight beside her face. "Hey," I said, sitting up. "I wanted to thank you." "You don't have to." "I do." She glanced at Mom. "Would you come over here? There's something I want to ask you." Mom raised her eyebrows at me. I followed Clara to the low stage where the school had set out boxes of bottled water. We sat on the edge, with the rest of the gym loud and close behind us. "My dad's coming," she said. "He got stuck on the highway when the road closed." "Good." "He's a good person." She twisted the blanket between her fingers. "He's been kind of bad at being a dad since my mom died." I didn't know what to say. I remembered Dad only through a couple of photographs Mom kept in a drawer. I'd been too young to recall anything he'd said. Clara took a breath, then looked at me directly. "Do you want a dad?" Her question startled a laugh out of me. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it." "My dad's good at fixing things. He makes breakfast if he remembers to set a timer. He likes old movies." She paused. "He could be your dad." I glanced at Mom, who was watching us from the aisle. She didn't look angry. She looked like she was trying not to smile. "Clara," I said, "you can't just give your dad away." "I'm not giving him away." Her fingers tightened on the blanket. "I'm sharing." Before I could answer, the gym doors opened, and a tall man strode inside with rain dripping from his coat. He scanned the room until Clara stood up. "Dad!" He crossed the gym and wrapped her in both arms. Clara's face disappeared against his shoulder. I turned away because I suddenly felt like I was watching something private. When I looked back, he had let her go. Clara pointed toward Mom and me. "This is the woman who got me out," she said. "And her daughter." Her father came over. He thanked Mom first, in a voice that sounded rough. Then he looked at me. "I heard you helped," he said. "I'm Grant Vale." "I'm Willa." "Thank you, Willa." The name Vale meant something in Bellwether Bay. It belonged on buildings, on the plaque at the harbor museum, and on the gates of the old house above the water. I knew that much, even if I'd never been inside. Grant offered to drive us home when the evacuation order lifted. Mom thanked him but said we had our own car. Clara looked from her father to me. "I'm glad you're coming home," she said. I didn't tell her we weren't going anywhere with her. I didn't tell her she couldn't share a dad, either.