Page 45 of Our Sadie

But her features flip from enchantingly flushed and relaxed to slack. Then every ounce of color drains out of them, turning her complexion ghost white.

And my grin slides right off my face.

FIFTEEN: Lone Survivor

SADIE

I’ve spent countless hours in that arcade, so why I just shuddered in distress at the mere mention of it I don’t know. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because the man I used to share that time with is no longer here. The one who called me kiddo and encouraged my competitive streak. The one who’s the reason I have light caramel-brown hair and gray eyes.

The one that’s not alive.

Neither he nor my mother are alive.

All the people aboard our private jet—my parents, Jasper the pilot, and Natalie the flight attendant—were killed in that crash. With, of course, one exception.

Me.

At the time, everyone told me how much of a miracle it was that I didn’t die. Even today, if I cross paths with someone who knew my parents, they’ll remind me of how lucky/blessed/fortunate I am to have survived.

But it’s five years later, and I’m not so sure. I mean, objectively I can comprehend that being found unconscious but still breathing in that fiery tangle of wreckage is a miracle. I defied every odd ever conceived of, even if I suffered plenty while on the road to recovery.

That event forever changed me, and not just in the obvious and visible ways. I don’t ride in any type of aircraft anymore, even though I know that statistically they’re one of the safest modes of travel. But I can’t place myself in such a position again.

I just can’t do it.

I’ve reflected on this a lot, and I think what it boils down to is the lack of control. When we were dropping out of the sky like a leaden weight, all I could do was sit there in the crash position and drop right along with it. I couldn’t flip a switch, slam on the brakes, or jerk the steering wheel to one side. Never in my life have I been so helpless.

And never since. Now, even the concept of stepping aboard an airport entry ramp gives me hives.

But why feel squeamish about our arcade?

I do my best to shake it off. The whole first year as I endured skin grafts, surgeries, and all the other medical bullshit was about being a victim as much as the only survivor. I had to relearn how my body worked and didn’t work. It felt like being a toddler but without the benefit of not knowing my existence could be any different.

And as horrible as feeling like a victim is, being called “the lone survivor” isn’t any better. I’d rather not identify as either. Who likes to be reminded that everyone in their family is gone, no matter how it transpired?

Not me.

---