TWO SIDES; ONE COIN

Never Lie in a Disaster

We can’t always prevent, nor can we “control” a disaster — but we can always be better prepared to face one.

“If you don’t finish your First Aid Merit Badge,” warned Em, “you’re going to have to take eight weeks of C.E.R.T. training with me.” Em wasn’t sure if they’d let a fourteen year old enroll in C.E.R.T., but she figured the threat would light a fire under her son to finish up the few remaining requirements to earn his Scout badge. It didn’t.

The organizer of C.E.R.T. training said it would be fine if Em brought her son, Jason, along. He wasn’t old enough to earn a C.E.R.T. badge, of course, but maybe he’d be inspired to start a Teen C.E.R.T at his high school, or maybe in his Scout troop. Em had taken the training before, but living in hurricane country, it never hurt to be even more prepared.

Em had first heard of C.E.R.T. while volunteering at the Houston Astrodome, after Hurricane Katrina. The C.E.R.T. volunteers appeared to be in charge; they were calm, well-organized — something Em aspired to be, should disaster ever hit closer to home. She had trained, a couple of years later, with other local Scout leaders. Jason and Drew, one of the other Scout leaders’ sons, had volunteered — or been “voluntold”— to play the part of a victim of a mass casualty situation during their final certification drill.

The boys were whisked away to be transformed by moulage artists into gory versions of themselves. Em and the other Scout leaders were not even told, until the drill began, what sort of “disaster” had befallen their children, or in what shape they would find them. Em knew that none of this was real, but she prayed she would not be the one to find her son. She had studied theatre arts in college, and had once worked as a make-up artist. She knew exactly what these people could do to a mother’s psyche with one hand tied behind their backs.

The drill scenario was explained to the trainees: A plane had crashed on a crowded stadium across the street, and all first responders were there, trying to treat the survivors and assess the damages, when a tornado hit the dorm next to the fire station. The “dorm” was a two-story structure on the Fire Department training grounds. It was dark and reeked of old smoke. Em thought she could smell the vestiges of years of trainees’ fears.

Upon hearing distant cries from inside the structure, Em instantly switched into her “good in a crisis” mode, and found the Incident Commander. She was told to go into the building with a partner to look for survivors. They would take the second floor.

That’s where she found the other Scout leader’s son, Drew. It was hard not to worry about her own child, just knowing that he was there. Her imagination, coupled with the realistic rock sticking out of Drew’s forehead, sucked her into the fictitious disaster as surely as if it were real.

Drew was lying across an old couch on the second floor, softly moaning. Aside from the rock embedded in his forehead and a slight dribble of blood obscuring the vision in his left eye, Drew’s injuries did not appear to be immediately life threatening — but he could not walk. They would need another person to do a blanket carry. As Em turned away to find someone, so did the other C.E.R.T. trainee. Just for a second, but long enough for the teen to slide off the couch and crab-walk his way behind it, singing “Daisy Bell.”

Em rolled her eyes and tried to move the couch, but it was heavy — she wondered if it had been bolted to the floor to add challenge to the exercise. Drew was now laughing weirdly to himself and refusing to come out. Em wasted precious minutes trying to coax Drew to come to her. If only she’d had a big bag of Doritos, she might have tricked him into reaching for it. She glared at the boy. He grinned maniacally. He’d been well briefed, that one.

Eventually, they had a sturdy blanket and enough volunteers to move the couch and carry the boy to safety. Next, Em found a girl. They helped her limp out of the dorm and deposited her in the triage area. The minute Em and her partner turned their backs, the girl streaked past them — back into the building. “Bloody hell,” sighed Em, and ran after her. She’d expected to have to improvise makeshift splints and carry grown men down a flight of stairs over her shoulder; nothing had prepared her for crazycakes.

The other Scout leader walked by and whispered, “Your son’s in triage. It’s not too bad. He’s got a bolt through his arm.” Em cringed, but grinned. He’d recover.

As promised, nobody died; everybody passed. Em was awarded her C.E.R.T. badge.

Jason surprised everyone at C.E.R.T. training. He was attentive, and took notes. The C.E.R.T. coordinator noticed, and when it came time to hand out backpacks, Jason got one, too. “He can participate in the drill, if you’re okay with it,” she said to Em.

“If he wants to, sure.” Em was proud of her son, and still surprised he chose twenty four hours of training over eight weeks, with her, over spending less than an hour to finish up his merit badge.

Em refused to let the instructors self-censor around Jason, until it came time for the FBI talks about terrorism. She offered take him out of the room, but they adjusted the presentation only slightly, omitting some of the grislier bits but still covering the material comprehensively.

Jason whispered to his mom, “If terrorism is the unlawful threat of violence or actual violence against persons or property for political aims, then what makes the ‘patriots’ who threw British tea into Boston Harbor ‘patriots’ and not just terrorists?”

During a break, Em asked the FBI agents the same question. “Put her on the list,” joked one of the men. “It’s a hard question to answer,” he admitted.

Em asked if they could put her on the no-fly list, so she’d have a good excuse not to be strapped into a cramped Coach seat like a sardine, next time the family decided to go on vacation. One of the FBI agents raised an eyebrow. The other grinned. “Nope.”

“Dammit,” cursed Em, smiling anyway. “Thanks.”

When she returned to her seat, Jason looked stricken. “What did they say?” he asked.

“They put me on a list.”

“What??” Jason’s eyes grew wide.

“I’m kidding. I asked them what you asked me.”

“And?”

“History is written by the winners. And in the end,” she added, “the winners are usually the ones on the side of what’s morally right. Terrorists, not so much. Though I’m sure King George would have disagreed.”

The time came for the certification drill. This time, it was Em’s turn to be transformed by the moulage artist. The scenario: a tornado, again. She was to hide, a victim of emotional trauma more than physical. She found a cluttered nook behind some jumbled two by fours, under the stairs of the two-story “house” built inside the first station. Em had always loved closets under stairs.

She heard the search teams calling out, but ignored them, remaining crouched in the dark, under the wooden stairs. She heard her son’s deepening voice. He didn’t call out, “Mom,” of course. He, too, was in character. Em smiled. Eventually, they found her. Wild-eyed, but docile, she allowed them to lead her from the rubble, leaning on the strong, young man who had not yet grown taller than his mother. But when they reached the front door of the structure, Em clutched at him. “The baby! Where’s the baby?”

“What baby, ma’am?” he asked.

“Oh, God. Where’s my baaaaaaby?” Em tried to muster a few tears, for effect. The best she could do was a look of utter horror.

“Your baby’s fine, ma’am,” said Jason’s partner, an older woman. “She’s being checked out, right now, by the EMTs. You’ll see her in a minute.”

Well, that’s a lie, bitch, thought Em. Never lie to the victims. Just tell them the truth — and if you don’t know the answer, just tell them you’re doing your best to help. She looked to her son for confirmation. Had he been paying close attention in class? He nodded reassuringly. Em glared back at him. Now, Em would make them suffer.

She allowed herself to be taken to the triage area. They helped her to lie down, and she allowed them to do a quick head to toe assessment. Physically, their trauma victim was fine. Mentally… oh, this was going to be fun.

Every time they turned their back, Em darted back into the house. Twice, she did it without anyone even seeing her sneak out of the triage area. She’d pretended to be unconscious until they turned their backs. Each time, they had to play hide-and-seek. Em was starting to enjoy this, until the Fire Chief declared the drill over, and brought everyone back into the classroom for a debriefing. He shook his head at Em and rolled his eyes as she passed, but they shared a surreptitious chuckle.

“Who here thinks that woman,” he asked, pointing at Em, “was overacting?” Everyone looked back at Em, who had her arms folded across her chest, smirking. Their hands shot up.

“Wrong.” The Fire Chief shook his head. “We get one of these at almost every scene. Did you notice, at one point, 15 of the 20 of you were distracted from your other victims, by her?” Everyone nodded.

“Huge waste of resources. What should you have done?” No one knew. “Once you’d assessed the physical damages, someone should’ve duct taped her ankles and wrists together and locked her in the back of a squad car, for her own protection.”

Em chuckled and nodded. That would’ve done the trick. “Oh,” she added, raising a hand, “and those two — she pointed at Jason and the other woman — should never have lied to me about the baby.” The Fire Chief nodded in agreement. Em smirked at Jason, “All you had to do is say, ‘I’m right here, Mom,’ and I’d have stopped giving you such a hard time.”

On the way out of the fire station, Em picked up a flyer for the Citizen’s Fire Academy…

Do read Timothy Key’s Story, linked above — the saga continues!