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She swallowed. “Until her hand let go of mine. She used it to wave at a man running past us. She was crying, yelling at him to stop. Please. Help. He stopped and picked me up.”
“The Major.”
“I remember being hysterical. Fighting him. Trying to get back to my mother. I remember him clutching me against his chest and telling me that everything would be all right.”
“That was a lie, though, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but he lied out of kindness.”
Trapper didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked her when she had put two and two together. “When did you realize that your nightmare was actually a memory of the ‘something terrible’?”
“Not for years.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“I can tell you don’t believe that, but it’s true. No one around me ever referenced the bombing. I was a child. I watched Sesame Street, not 60 Minutes. The Oklahoma City bombing came a few years later, and I remember the grown-ups in my life being terribly upset, but it was irrelevant to me.”
“You never matched the date of the Pegasus bombing with the day your mother died?”
“That’s precisely how I eventually became aware. I was in middle school, about twelve or thirteen. On an anniversary of the bombing, one of my teachers mentioned it. When I got home from school, my aunt was sitting in the living room, looking at a picture of herself and my mother together. I asked her why she was crying. ‘I always get sad on this date,’ she said. ‘It’s the day your mother died.’ Suddenly it clicked. I realized why I had such vivid nightmares of smoke and fire, of my mother letting go of me and being carried away from her.
“My aunt and uncle were reluctant to confirm it. Justifiably, as it turned out, because once I knew, I became obsessed with the bombing. I wanted to learn everything about it. I read all the books, watched all the films and interviews with survivors. I’d seen that famous photo, of course, but I’d never paid much attention to it, because, again, it had no relevance to me.
“But when my aunt pointed me out, I saw not only myself, but also the face of the man who’d saved me. The Major became real when, up to that point, he was only the stranger in my dreams who’d responded to my mother’s dying plea.”
“Why didn’t you blurt it to the world then?”
“My aunt impressed upon me what an awful ordeal it would be for my dad. The Major had stepped into the role of hero naturally, as though born to it. But my dad was a soft-spoken, self-effacing man. Given his circumstances and frailty, it would have been cruel to thrust him into
the spotlight. I swore to my aunt, and to myself, that I wouldn’t go public with it as long as Daddy was alive. I upheld that promise.”
“For what? Thirteen years?”
“Roughly. During that time, I went on with my life, a happy, healthy, normal girl. I finished school, entered adulthood, pursued my career.”
“You were preparing for the day.”
“You make it sound more calculated than it was, Trapper. Unfairly. I didn’t want my dad to die. But he did. And yes, by then I had press credentials and an excellent forum. I began reaching out to The Major.”
He ruminated on all that, then said, “The name ‘Bailey’ wouldn’t have meant anything to him. You never told him who you were or why you wanted to interview him?”
“He never gave me a chance to speak more than a few words before hanging up.”
“You could have sent him an email. A letter.”
“I wanted to introduce myself in person. Besides, how many correspondences has he received over time from women claiming to be the rescued little girl?”
“Good point.”
“He would have thought I was just another opportunist.” She held up her hand palm out. “Don’t say it.”
“I won’t. Too easy.” The comeback had been as quick as all his were, but his dark brows were furrowed and there was no humor in his expression. “How many people know that you’re that girl?”
“My aunt and uncle and me. You make four.”
“If you go through with this, everybody will know.”
“Oh, I’ll go through with it, Trapper. With or without your help, I’ll find a way to make it happen.”
