Skyler and Bruce were born at Hale Hospital six months after the Pearl Harbour shelling happened. That night a tornado destroyed the hospital. Will they survive the carnage and live to tell their story?

1942

Six months after the shelling of Pearl Harbor, the Hale Hospital Miracle occurred.

Low pressure combined with a mass of warm air crossing over Louisiana created conditions for an extreme weather event. Based on witness testimony from two nurses whose shift fortunately ended 32 minutes before the event—and from legible papers recovered two miles away at Heron Pond Farm—Marge Bell delivered her daughter at 2:02 pm, immediately followed by Regina Whittles, who gave birth to a boy. Widowed because of their respective husband’s deaths, hospital administration thought it best if they shared the same room.

After their births, the babies rested in the nursery, away from the sleeping moms. Because of the war, there was a rationing of supplies, including—for reasons unknown—bassinets. So Skyler and Bruce shared a bassinet. 

Nurse Midge Parsons’ responsibilities included monitoring newborn vitals every 30 minutes. Midge, however, had other things on her mind, as her boyfriend Stan was heading to war the next week. She was deep in thought, her mind tuning out the radio, cooing babies, and whistling wind. If not for her absentmindedness, she would have moved the babies to the emergency shelter at the end of the hallway, and unbeknownst to her, guaranteeing their deaths. Alas, her final thoughts were of Stan, so the babies remained in the nursery. 

At 3:35 pm, a tornado (a 12, based on the Beaufort scale, but nowadays referred to as an EF4, using the modern-day Enhanced Fujita Scale) ravaged a three-mile trail through Vermette, Louisiana, destroying nearly everything in its path, including most of Hale Hospital. Two doctors, four nurses, three administrators, one janitor, six visitors, and eight patients died that day.

Tragedy aside, locals said there were two miracles that day. 

First, Isham Jones and His Orchestra’s “For All We Know” permeated the air amidst the destruction; the radio dial in the nursery still tuned to 1340 am, as the DJ at KRMD ran to take shelter, leaving the vinyl on repeat. 

Second, amongst the ruins, rescuers discovered a pair of babies alive, their fingers intertwined. 

1962

Skyler waved to her parents as the bus departed on a three-hour trip, 183 miles to Fortin University, in Wiscalla, Louisiana, with a quick pit stop at the Seymour Bus Depot.

She tried to sleep, but kept thinking about her students. She hoped they would keep up with their piano lessons. Gerald Carlson worried her the most. He practiced continually, yet struggled. Skyler gave him extra help, but to no avail. He could play separately with his left hand and his right hand, but he couldn’t work them both together. She spoke with Jane Alba, a piano teacher a few towns over, who agreed to teach Gerald until Skyler returned from college. 

The images of her students disappeared as the bus pulled into Seymour. One person exited the bus, followed by two people getting on the bus. A third person, face deep in a book, sat on the depot bench. 

“You coming?” the bus driver said.

No response.

“Hey, you with his nose in the book. Are you heading to Wiscalla? I’m leaving in 30 seconds, with or without you.”

Bruce looked up, confused and flustered, then realizing what was happening, pulled his ticket from his flannel shirt pocket, grabbed his luggage, and headed onto the bus.

“Sorry about that,” he said, handing the driver his ticket.

“Kids these days,” the bus driver said to no one in particular.

Bruce meandered towards the back of the bus, saw an empty seat, threw his luggage in the overhead storage bin, tossed his jacket on his seat, and plopped down next to the piano teacher from Vermette.

She said hi. He nodded and returned to his book. Skyler leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.

~ ~ ~

“Hey everybody, we’re about ten minutes away from the Wiscalla Bus Station,” the bus driver said.

Skyler woke from her slumber. She rubbed her eyes and turned to see the person besides her still reading his book.

“So, Mister Chatty Cathy, what’s your story?” she said.

No response. 

“Hey, you, the guy next to me. Can you hear me?”

“Who me? Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts. What’s up?”

“What’s your deal? Where you heading?”

“Me? Ah, nothing much. Catching the bus in Wiscalla to Canobi College, near the lakes. Studying meteorology.” He held up the book he was reading. “Atlantic Hurricanes” by Gordon E. Dunn.

“Ahh, light reading.”

“Yep. How about you? Where you heading?”

“I’m a piano teacher. I’m going to Fortin University to study music.”

“Cool.”

The bus pulled in.

“Ahh, dang. What time is it?” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to be on that 4:10. I’m going to see if I can sneak ahead before everyone stands up. Good luck with your music.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Good luck with your weather thing.”

He smiled, grabbed his luggage, then bolted to the front of the bus, leaving his pea coat on the seat. 

“Hey,” she yelled. “You forgot your jacket.”

He was long gone.

“He’s cute,” the woman behind her said.

“I suppose,” Skyler said. “And annoyingly preoccupied.”

“Like the guy in the movie ‘The Absent-minded Professor.’”

“Exactly,” she said.

1982

​

Bruce nursed his beer, waiting for a date—who would never arrive—to appear. 

“The tribute starts in 20 minutes. These tables are for couples only; if your party isn’t here by 7:55, I’ll need to move you to the bar or a high top in the back,” the server said.

Gerry Carlson was playing a tribute to Bill Evans at a club on the outskirts of Southeastern Louisiana University. The place was filling up. Bill was a famous alum and people were coming to pay their respects.

“Is today the sixteenth?” Bruce asked.

“What?” the server said.

“The date. Do you know if today is the sixteenth?”

“No, it’s the fifteenth, two years since Bill died. That’s why everyone is here today.”

“Dang,” Bruce said. “I think I told her the wrong date. Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Depends,” the server said.

“I don’t want to lose this seat. Can you go to the bar and ask someone if they want to sit here? Preferably female.”

The server stared at him.

Bruce pulled out a ten-spot and handed it to the server.

“Gimme a minute,” the server said.

~ ~ ~

“Hi, hey, thanks so much for letting me sit here. I’m a huge Bill Evans fan. I could listen to ‘Peace Piece’ all day.”

“No problem. You are helping me out. Didn’t want to lose this good seat. Although, I’m not sure if I know any of Bill Evans’ stuff. Is he any good?”

“Umm, yeah. A legend. The best. What are you doing here if you don’t know who Bill Evans is?”

“I was meeting someone here for a date and I’d been to this club before and figured it would be a good first date. Had no idea who was playing, though.”

“What happened to the date?”

“I told her tomorrow instead of tonight,” Bruce said, shrugging.

“Nice. Well, her loss is my gain. Can I at least buy you a drink as a thanks?”

“Sure,” he said, holding up his empty People’s Brewery bottle.

“Keeping it local. Sweet,” she said.

“What brings you here?” he said.

“I’m an Associate Professor of Music at SLU, right down the street. Gerry, the guy who’s playing tonight, used to be one of my students. I try to get to as many of my current and former students’ concerts as possible.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“What’s your name?”

“Me? My friends call me Brew, like the beer. You?”

“My friends call me Skye, with an ‘e’, like the sky. Nice to meet you.”

She extended her hand. He took her hand and shook.

Nice hands, they both thought.

~ ~ ~

Gerry Carlson meandered from “Waltz for Debby” to “Autumn Leaves” to “Time Remembered.” At the end of “Peace Piece,” Skyler grabbed a tissue and dabbed the tears at the corner of her eyes.

“That song gets me every time,” she said.

“I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t know any of his music, but this is fantastic. He was quite the musician.”

“The best,” Skyler said.

The pianist played J. Fred Coots’ “For All We Know,” one of Bill Evans’ favorite songs to cover. As Skyler sipped her beer, she turned to her companion, his face awash in tears.

“It’s a beautiful song, isn’t it?” she said.

He nodded his head. 

She grabbed his hand.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said.

The song ended, and the audience applauded.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said.

“No, it’s fine. You just saw me cry. I cry at music all the time.”

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“Yes, fine, really. There’s just something about that song. Every time I hear it, no matter who’s version it is, I just burst into tears. No idea what that’s all about.”

“Want to hear something crazy?” she said. “This song was playing in the hospital right after I was born.”

“What? Seriously? Okay, that’s weird. How do you know that?”

“My adoptive parents told me. You ever hear of the Hale Hospital Miracle?”

He shook his head.

“Well, do I have a story for you.”

~ ~ ~

As they walked out of the club, Bruce said, “Do you mind if we find someplace to keep the conversation going? I have questions.”

“Sure, I know this area pretty well. There’s a place a few blocks away with great coffee and amazing toasted honey buns.”

“Food and coffee? I’m all in.”

“Excellent,” she said.

They walked all of two blocks, when a gust of wind accompanied by gallons of water poured down on them. They ran for cover under a store veranda and waited it out.

“We’re soaked,” he said.

She nodded her head.

“You know, I brought an umbrella with me,” Bruce said.

“You did? Where is it?”

“I left it at the concert.”

“Ha,” she said, “you always this forgetful?”

“Yeah, all the time.”

“Do you live far from here?” she asked.

“About 20 minutes. My car is down a couple of blocks on Elm street.”

“I live three blocks over, makes it easy for me to get to work. If you want to come on over, I can throw your clothes in the dryer.”

“Yeah, that would be great, thanks.”

~ ~ ~

She gave him an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants. As the dryer ran through its cycles, they drank hot chocolate and Kahlua at her kitchen table.

“Thanks for this,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” she said. “Hey, you said you had more questions. I’ve got a few I want to ask you first, if you don’t mind.”

“Ask away.”

“Is Brew short for something?”

“Bruce.”

“Any chance your last name is Whittles?”

“Whittles? No. Miller. Why?”

“They told me the name of the baby that survived with me was Bruce Whittles. I tried looking for him a few years back, but you know, life got in the way. Anytime I meet someone named Bruce, I have to ask.”

“It’s a fair question. Geez, good luck. Hope you find him.”

“Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“Mind if I ask you one more question?” Skyler asked.

“Go ahead.”

“When’s your birthday?”

2002

“The doctor says you are doing better,” Skyler said.

“Mmmm,” Bruce said.

“Well, I think you are making a lot of progress,” she said as she kissed him on the forehead. “So, you’ve been doing really well with the left-handed scales. How about we try a few right-handed scales today?”

“You’re the boss,” he said, as a crooked smile appeared on his face, one of the last remnants of his stroke.

“Put your thumb here, on middle C.” She gently placed her hand over his and helped guide his fingers.

“You still have the softest and most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen,” he said.

She blushed. 

“Thank you, Bruce. Okay, now let’s try C, D, E, F, G, thumb to pinkie, one finger after the other.”

Bruce’s mind was elsewhere.

“What do you think, sweetie?”

He came out of his trance.

“Sorry, was thinking about the cardinal we saw on the deck the other day. Was such a rich red.”

“Yes, it was. Let’s hope it comes back.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice. Maybe we should buy a bird feeder.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll get one this weekend at The Bird Bayou.”

“Tell Don he still owes me that beer.”

“I will, my love,” she said. “Okay, so, what do you think? Ready to start the C major scale? Right thumb, right here on the middle C key.”

He placed his thumb on the correct key and slowing moved his way up to G. 

They always made beautiful music together.

2022

“Put up a new bird feeder today. Hoping to see more of those American Goldfinches. That yellow is a pretty color to look at.”

“Thanks for doing that, love,” Skyler said.

He joined her on the couch. She was planning her piano lessons for the week and was struggling to write.

“You can always retire, if you want.”

“You know I can’t. I love it too much. Besides, I’m the only piano teacher in Vermette. Who else is going to take my place? Not another piano teacher for at least 30 miles.”

He smiled. 

“When you are right, you are right,” he said

As she continued to write, he stared at the fire in the hearth.

“I’m going to bed. Want me to put the fire out?”

“Yes dear, thank you.”

“You coming with?”

“You go on ahead; I’ll be there in a few.”

~ ~ ~

“Are you awake?” he said.

“Yep, can’t sleep. Damned arthritis.”

“Same here.”

They laughed.

The shriek of the siren about a mile from their house filled the air. 

“Should we head to the storm shelter?” she asked.  

“Do you mind if we just stay here?”

“Not at all, my love.”

“It’s been a good life, hasn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

The winds howled. He squeezed her hand.

“Did you remember to fill the new bird feeder?”

“Dang, plum forget. I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” he said. 

“Okay my love.”

They both fell deep into thought, comforted by the quiet presence of each other, indifferent to the outside elements. Abbey Lincoln’s voice from the bedside radio joined their thoughts as she crooned, “For All We Know.”

“Did I ever thank you for saving my coat?”

“You did, my love. Many times,” she said.

He laughed.

“I love you,” Bruce said, as liquid salt seeped from his ducts.

“I love you too, my angel,” Skyler said.

He squeezed her hand.

The twister’s whistle drowned out the siren and radio.

She squeezed his hand back.