Unexplainable Conditions

“Rebecca? Rebecca? Oh my god. Are you okay? Can you hear me?” My teacher, Mrs. Collins, stood over my limp body in the front of the classroom. I can hear her talking to me, but it sounds far away. Slowly, as she repeats herself, again and again, her words become clearer, and I begin to understand them.

As I come around, I am almost too mortified to open my eyes. What was I doing? Oh, right, I was writing on the whiteboard, working on a long equation for algebra. I was doing the math in my head, and then, bam, my head exploded in fear, and I couldn’t remember anything around me. I think I hyperventilated, leaning into the board and trying to breathe. And then, everything went dark.

Ninth-grade algebra is not the place I wanted to have a physical breakdown. The teacher sounds frantic now, so I decide I’d better open my eyes. I tell them to open, but I still can’t see anything. Slowly, a sea of black dots dissipates from my vision, from the center working their way out. The teacher notices immediately and reaches to help me up.

“Slowly now. The nurse should be in here any minute. We don’t want you to blackout again.” Mrs. Collins leans into me, wrapping her arm around mine and helping me sit up. It feels like the world is spinning. Somewhere deep inside, beyond comprehension for me right now, is this overwhelming sense of dread and hopelessness. I’ve never felt this way before.

Usually, I’m a happy, upbeat young woman. I spend time with friends, hang out with my family, and pretty much love everything. I’ve never been overly sad or depressed. I don’t know what that would feel like. But I can feel it now, creeping into me, sitting just outside of my understanding. My normally rose-colored world is bleeding into gray, and I don’t know why. Nothing has happened in the hour I’ve been in this classroom.

As I sit and wait for the nurse, I glance around and notice I’m very close to the wall. If I were to scoot a couple of inches, I could just rest my back against it. Maybe that would take the spinning away. I try to move, and the teacher stops me. I grunt and angle towards the wall. She must understand what I want to do because she reaches down and pushes my legs just enough to allow my back to rest on the cool brick surface.

I lean my head back slowly, hearing the low thud, and close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I open my eyes and see that the classroom is empty, except for Mrs. Collins and Josiah, a classmate.

“Wh…where is everyone?”

“I sent them next door. How are you feeling?”

“I. I don’t know. I’m very dizzy.” Miss Baxter, the school nurse, comes in, just a bit frantic.

“Oh, my goodness! Are you okay, dear? I was taking a break in my car, watching the news on my phone, when the principal tracked me down. It’s so awful. I just can’t even think about it right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Collins asks the nurse.

“There was an explosion at a school upstate. It’s so awful. But I will get back to that later. Rebecca, honey, how are you feeling?”

“I’m not sure. I’m dizzy and having trouble. Something feels wrong, but I don’t know what.

“I’m going to call for an ambulance and your parents. You hit your head on the floor from what I was told. Best to have you examined for a concussion. I will be back in a few minutes.”

The nurse shuffles out of the room, and Mrs. Collins sits next to me. She pulls out her phone.

“I’m just going to pull up the news while we wait. You don’t mind, do you?” She looks at me while she holds the phone, still dark. Phones aren’t allowed in class, and she has taken more than one phone away this week. She looks worried but is still asking my permission, even though I’m just a kid.

“It might help me focus on something besides the spinning.”

“Yeah, let's do that then. If it will help you, it’s not breaking the rules.” She bites at the corner of her mouth and turns on the screen. She pulls up a news app and doesn’t have to look far. She clicks on the very first story. A picture of a massive fire cloud covers the screen. She scrolls and reads out loud to us. Josiah has sat down with us and is reading over her other shoulder.

In Fort Wayne, Indiana, roughly 250 miles away from our sleepy little town of Jasper, Indiana, Snider High School has been wiped off the map. Josiah asked Mrs. Collins how far away it was, so she looked it up. It’s only four and a half hours or so away. The article doesn’t say why or how. The most important sentence comes at the end, after three paragraphs of the same information. “No survivors found or expected.”

“What does that mean?” I ask when Mrs. Collins reads it.

“I think it means everybody who was in the building is now dead.” She starts crying hard now, and I can feel tears leaking from my own eyes. Josiah appears too stunned to speak. Inside, the dread is growing. It is eating away at every good thing inside of me, and alarm bells are going off all over. Something is wrong. I don’t know what, but something is terribly wrong.

In fifteen minutes, we stop crying when the ambulance arrives, and paramedics load me. My face is puffy from crying for children I didn’t know. It could have been us. What if it had been us? Would we have died faster than we could have realized what was going on? Would it have hurt?

My mind is swirling with questions I am too afraid to ask. In the ambulance, the paramedic takes my vitals, asks me questions, and attempts to comfort me. I believe he thinks I cry because of my injuries. I cannot feel them. I cannot feel anything but despair.

In my hospital bed, I insist on the television turned onto the news. I beg the nurse. She worries that it’s upsetting me. I beg again. She leaves it on but stays in the room with me. She holds my hand as I tell her about the pain inside. We watch reporters circle the school, parents screaming for their children, bystanders covered in ash, tear-stained faces dirty with debris. The reporters have no words as they show secondary explosions. They suspect a propane tank behind the gym caused those, but it will be days before anyone is sure.

The doctor asks me to stand up. It’s late in the day now. The sun is setting. My parents watched from the couch where the doctor asked them to stay. I put my feet on the cold floor. I push my body up off the mattress and immediately crumble to the floor, the doctor catching me before I can hit the tiles. The pain is indescribable. I can’t see where it comes from, but it burns my body from the inside. The nurse and the doctor picked me up and lay me back in bed. The doctor leaves but promises to come back later.

It’s late now. Everyone is sleeping but me and my nurse. She sits in the chair next to me, holding my hand while we watch the live feed over the school. Helicopters take turns circling. Occasionally, they switch to an interview or a report on the status. Twice they have interrupted the feed to announce that a section of the school has been doused, the fire put out for good. It will be hours, days before we know anything about the children inside.

The sun rises outside. My mother stirs from the couch. She comes to my bedside, pats my hand. I am still on fire. The doctor has put medicine in my I.V., but it doesn’t touch the pain. I want to scream, but I can’t. I watch the tv. I can’t look away.

It’s time for a press conference. A pretty woman and a bulky-looking man stand in front of a collection of microphones. He introduces himself as the mayor. He has been working closely with the fire department, the police, and the FBI. No solid answers are available. The investigation continues. Please stay away from the school. It isn’t safe.

The woman talks about air quality and debris landing in yards. Please don’t pick it up. Call the hotline, EPA techs will come to clean it up. They don’t know what caused the explosion yet, and everything is evidence. A one-mile radius evacuation went into effect yesterday. It remains in effect. Please stay out of the area for your own safety.

At lunchtime, I can’t eat. Food is offensive. The pain burns everywhere. Medication offers no relief. I watch the live feed with my parents as I cry softly. I am afraid that I am dying.

               The television turns bright red, and an “Important update” banner flash. A reporter stands in front of a stack of microphones. He announces a section of the school has been opened. The first fires they put out, they have entered the building.

               No survivors have been found. The screen cuts to a firefighter walking around in the building. It is tragic. They are careful not to show the ground. As the firefighter enters the hallway, a scream is heard. He jumps into action. The cameraman stays back while other firefighters rush in. They don’t cut the feed. The men move a stack of lockers, screaming, yelling, grunting.

               I scream. The pain is awful. Hot flames assault my body from all directions. I am on fire. The screaming is so loud. It’s not just my voice. My parents hear it too. They look at the screen. I’m crying, drowning in the salty tears. Their faces go white, and they stop breathing. I am thrashing on the bed. The nurse attempts to stop me, to hold me still. She calls for my parents to help. They don’t move. Their mouths are open, their chests barely rising and falling with air.

               And then, it stops. The pain is everywhere, but the fire has ebbed. I look at the screen, which still holds my parent’s attention. A girl, blackened from the explosion, is caried gently from the wreckage on the screen. The feed cuts off as the cameraman gets a closeup of her face as she passes. I stop breathing.

               It can’t be. It’s nothing more than my imagination. My parents snap out of their trance as the feed returns to a camera high above the school site. They look at me. They look at the screen. Then, they sit on the couch and cry, holding each other. I am confused.

               The doctor enters the room and talks to the nurse. The fire rages anew, burning hotter than I’ve ever felt. I scream. I thrash uncontrollably. Hands all over my body, holding me down. Screams fill the room. And then, it stops. Utter and total silence and calm. I cannot feel anything.

               My cheeks are still damp from the tears, my sheets drenched in sweat. My parents are standing by the bed, holding my hand. I can’t hear them. I can’t see them now. I close my eyes. I can die now. I can’t fight anymore.

               “We interrupt this live coverage for a brief press conference. The mayor will be joining us momentarily.”

               The announcement cuts through my fog. I open my eyes slowly and look at the screen. I’m afraid of what I will see there. I can’t get over what I already saw.

               “Unfortunately, the live feed a little earlier today subjected viewers to a grim sight inside the school. Normally, such a sight would not have been aired live out of respect for the victims and their families. I know many of you are wondering what happened to the girl. I wish I had better news for those of you trying to hold out a little hope. Unfortunately, the girl passed away not five minutes ago. Her family has been notified and was with her when she passed. I know we have a lot of scared and upset parents and families out here tonight. I’m offering this update as a way to assure you that when we know something, we will tell you. And to again ask the public to stay away from the scene. Several parents have been taken for emergency care during their attempts to enter the school. If our emergency service personnel are busy pulling bystanders from the rubble, we cannot continue search and rescue efforts. Please, please have patience. That’s all for now. No questions, please. We will have another press conference tomorrow at noon. Thank you.”

               On the screen, they bring up a picture of the girl. Her most recent school photo. Regina.

               She has my face. Or I have hers. The tears come again. I look at my parents.

               “I don’t understand,” I whisper. My parents are crying, but my mother gets up from the couch and comes to my side. She wraps her hand around mine and lays the other on top.

               “Rebecca, honey, I’m so sorry.”

               “For what?” I choke out the words, terrified of what she will say. Guilt creases her face, and my father will not look at me. He only stares at his hands folded in his lap.

               “Please forgive us.” She whispers, and I barely hear.

               “For what?” I am shaking now. Nearly hysterical. I can’t breathe.

               “Regina was your twin sister. We adopted you from her parents on the day you were born.“