by Zoe Norman
“Keep your voice down, Em,” I say, looking toward the kitchen and finding that Olivia is deep in conversation with my mom.
I know that I need to tell her about my nightmares. Just talking about them brings me right back to that day –the reason for my nightmares.
Three years earlier
“Okay! Everybody listen up! We’ve got a report of two children trapped on the third floor of the building!” Walt Chapman, the commanding officer on the scene, shouts. “Maxwell! Wilson! You’re in the front looking for those kids!” he barks, looking at Tanner and me, and juts his thumb over his shoulder. “Jackson and Watts, you’re on the roof. Simpson and Lewis, you go around to the rear. Let’s get these kids out safe!” he yells.
“What about the parents?” I ask, strapping on my helmet. “We just looking for the two?”
“Neighbors saw the mom leave the building about an hour ago. Presumably, she left after putting the kids to bed for the night. The rest of the building’s tenants are accounted for,” the commanding officer answers. “Find those kids.”
The flashlights on our helmets do little to penetrate the wall of smoke as my partner, Tanner Wilson, and I enter the main door of the building. There is smoke to the floor as we climb the first flight of stairs together. We feel our way up the wall to the first floor. Tanner and I decide to split up to cover more ground in less time. We’ll get shit from our C.O. about this, but we’re running out of time. Our tanks only hold 4500 PSI of air. That’s roughly less than an hour of time we’re able to breathe and that’s not taking into consideration any extraneous things that may happen that would cause us to breathe harder and use up more valuable air. Being that we’ve nearly taken fifteen minutes to clear the first landing, I tell Tanner that I’ll head up to the third floor while he searches the second floor.
“Engine 119, this is Maxwell. I’ve reached the third floor. Commencing search,” I call on my radio. With a little help from my halligan bar and my shoulder, I bust open the third-floor apartment door. “Holy shit,” I exhale.
Greeting me are boxes stacked four high filled with clothes, books, toys, DVDs, and various junk lining the walls and hallways. Bags stuffed with garbage are scattered throughout the apartment. Food scraps, pizza delivery boxes, and cartons litter the kitchen countertop, and dirty dishes are piled high in the sink. Finding anything in this apartment would be a challenge all on its own. This woman is a hoarder.
“Fire department!” I yell out into the smoke-filled room. “Anybody here?” I search around the stacked boxes as I make my way down the tight hallway.
The first door to my right is a bedroom and it’s cluttered with clothes all over the floor. I call out into the dark room again, hoping for a response, but I hear nothing. I check the closet, under the bed, and behind the door and hanging curtains. The smoke is so dense that I need to feel my way around the room—and it’s taking forever.
Tanner radios to me that his floor is clear. It was a vacant apartment and he quickly did a sweep of the unit to confirm no one was in it. I tell him what I’m dealing with on the third floor and he radios back that he’s on his way to assist.
When I’m finished with the bedroom and make my way to the hallway, Tanner is there. “Someone actually lives here?” he questions.
I shrug my shoulders and tell him that I’ll take the next door while he checks out the one across the hall. He nods in return before we continue our search. When I open the door, I see that it’s the kids’ room. My heart surges with adrenaline.
“Anyone here? It’s the fire department! We’re here to help!” I yell. If the kids are going to be in the apartment, there’s a good chance they’re in this room.
Twin beds line each wall, and I pat the sheets from the headboard to the footboard, hoping to feel something. I sink to my knees, flashing my light under the bed, but I’m met with toys. I sweep the floor beneath with my pole for good measure to ensure no one is hiding under the bed. I turn on my knees and search the opposite bed the same way. Nothing. I crawl to the closet, but only empty hangers and a few hanging clothes are there. The room is empty.
I get to my feet and walk toward the door. Tanner’s muted helmet light illuminates the smoke. I take a few steps closer to him.
“I can’t… I can’t see anything! I can’t find them!” My yells are muffled by my breathing apparatus. The dark of the night combined with the thick, putrid black smoke permeating around us makes it difficult to see. “Your rooms?” I ask.
Tanner shakes his head and gives me a thumbs-down. He has come up empty too.
The Engine Company has been dousing the building with water, but the oven-blasting heat and steam are intense. I’m so fucking hot, but I refuse to give up looking for the kids.
BOOM!
A deafening blast rocks the brick building, causing Tanner and me to lose our balance.
“What the fuck was that!?” Tanner yells.
“I’m guessing it’s a gas line!” I scream back. “Come on. We need to find those kids!”
“They’re not here, Owen!” he shouts, exasperated. “We’ve looked in every room! We’ve searched the entire building. We need to get the fuck out of here!”
Our radios begin to squawk. “Wilson! Maxwell! Get out. Now! The structure is compromised! Get out! Do you copy?” our commanding officer, hollers through the line.
“One more room!” I cough out as the pass alarm on my bunker jacket starts to go off at the same time that my bell alarm starts to ping. “Fuck!” I yell.
My air gauges tell me I only have 2000 PSI left of breathable air. When I look over at Tanner, he’s looking at his gauges. His air supply is getting low too. We don’t have much air left and need to vacate the building. Soon.
“Do. You. Copy. Wilson?!” my radio screams.
Ignoring my commanding officer, I turn to recheck another room in the apartment.
Tanner grabs me by my bunker jacket, halting me from moving farther. He swings his head toward the exit in a nonverbal command. I pause and eventually nod my head.
“Copy that. We’re evacuating now,” I confirm. I shake my hand toward the exit, and Tanner turns to follow the instruction.
As we clear the apartment door, my gut stops me in my tracks, telling me to look one more time in the kids’ room. Uncertainty chokes my throat with panic.
“Wilson!” I yell to get his attention. “I’m checking the kids’ room one more time.” I point toward the apartment door, indicating that I’m going back for another look.
“Don’t do it, man! Our air is low and the building’s—”
Before Tanner can get the rest of the sentence out, a portion of the stairwell above us collapses, raining burning wood, lath, and plaster on us.
Jumping back, I fall with a thud inside the third-story apartment and land awkwardly on my air tank. I can feel my back crack from the weight of my body pressing on the tank which is lodged along my spine. All the air leaves my lungs and the pain is excruciating. I rapidly blink my eyes as I quickly assess my condition and try to catch my breath. I’m fine, but this is really going to hurt in the morning. I roll to my side and slowly get back onto my feet. I look around for Tanner, who jumped in the opposite direction from me when the stairwell caved in.
“Tanner! Tanner, where are you?!” I yell.
I step outside the apartment door and see a large piece of wood trapping Tanner between the floor and the wall. With my halligan tool in hand, I pry the burning wood off Tanner, freeing him. I grab hold of his hand and pull him to his feet, dusting of a few burning embers from his bunker jacket.
“You okay, man?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”
How close that was is not lost on me. I know we need to get out of here, but I cannot ignore the knot in my stomach, telling me that I need to search the kids’ room again. I nod at Tanner and turn to head back inside the apartment.
“MAXWELL!” he calls after me. “OWEN! Motherfucker!” Tanner mutters under his breath as
he follows me, sticking to our code of no man left behind.
“I need to make sure they’re not in here!” I yell.
I step back into the apartment and see orange flames dancing across the ceiling above me. In a matter of seconds, the flames have penetrated through from the floor above, endangering us further. As I observe the flames and listen to the hideous roar of the fire, the pinging of my air alarm is getting faster. It’s a sound a firefighter never wants to hear. Checking my gauge, I see that I have maybe ten minutes of air left. Now, not only am I putting my life in danger by sticking around, but I’m putting Tanner’s life at risk too.
“Fuck!” I yell, frustrated that I don’t have more time and more air.
I run towards the children’s bedroom and find the beds. I quickly feel the mattresses again and then double-check the closet. Nothing. When I swing around, my eyes zero in on a large, wood toy-box in the corner. The lid is closed, and my gut sinks. I scoot across the room and fall on my knees before the box. After reaching out a shaking hand, I lift the lid. Inside, with some teddy bears and dolls, are two small girls huddled together. The older one, maybe six years of age, is clinging to her sister, who looks to be two.
“Tanner! Tanner! I found them! Dear God…” I yell into my radio. “Maxwell to Command! I have located the subjects. Bringing them out now!”
I quickly remove a glove and check for a pulse on both the girls but feel nothing. Tanner finds me in the room and slides to his knees beside me. His air gauge is beeping too. Now we’re fighting time and the fire. He takes hold of the older child while I gather the younger, lifeless girl in my arms. I follow Tanner down the hall and into the apartment’s living room. A portion of the ceiling has given way, and piles of garbage and stacks of newspapers have ignited. Flames are licking all around us and quickly encroaching upon our only exit. I open up my bunker jacket and attempt to shield the small body with my protective clothing as best I can while I run through the dancing flames.
I dash down the three flights of stairs, carrying the child while it’s getting increasingly harder for me to breathe. My air gauge alarm is pinging hard now. My time is nearly up; my air is depleted. I can’t breathe. I can see the exit to the street… I’m just about there.
With sheer determination, I clear the stoop of the building, clutching the small girl in my arms. Falling to my knees on the cool, wet grass, I whip off my air mask and take a big gasp of fresh air. I fall forward onto my hand while clutching the tiny body underneath me. I start to choke, my lungs burning. Ignoring the pain, I gently lay the girl on the ground and begin to tap the soles of her feet, trying to get a response while I continue to gulp in air and breathe heavily.
I remove my gloves, lift the child’s arm, and check her brachial pulse. Not feeling one, I rip open her pajama top and start giving her chest compressions with the heel of my hand. EMTs run up to me with a stretcher and their medical goodie bag. They instruct for me to step aside as they kneel down on the ground with me in an effort to take over. Ignoring them, I finish out the thirty chest compressions and move to give air to the child. An EMT attempts to pull me away, but I shake him off as I bend to give two breaths to the girl.
“Breathe, little one. Breathe!” I shout, commanding her—willing her—to live.
When I go to start another round of compressions, two of my Company firefighters pull me away.
“You did your job, Owen. Let them do theirs,” Saul instructs.
I nod my head as I continue to take in deep breathes. Exhaustion consumes me, and I rest my hands on my knees as I attempt to catch my breath.
“My babies! Those are my babies!” a woman wails as she struggles to break free from the arms of the NYPD officers on scene who are holding her back and away from the burning building.
I look from the crying woman to the EMTs, who are now loading the two fragile bodies into the back of waiting ambulances. She continues to cry as aid cars leave the scene. When I see my commanding officer walking in her direction, it dawns on me that this must be the mother of the children. I straighten my back and stride over to the mother with fierce determination and outrage.
“You’re the mother of those kids?” I bite out five feet before getting to her. I angrily push aside the NYPD officers and bump my C.O., who is now speaking with her, to the side. “Are you the mother of those kids?” I yell bitterly at her again.
Her eyes, filled with tears, grow scared when she sees my large presence looming in front of her. “Yes, those are my ba—”
“What kind of mother are you?!” I spit out, wiping my hand across my face, which is drenched in sweat. The mother recoils in horror. “What mother leaves her young, helpless children home alone so she can go out and party? You’re a fuckin’ selfish bitch!”
Walt pulls me back by my bunker jacket and I’m pushed away from getting any closer to the mother with the help of the NYPD. I struggle to break free of the hands pulling at me, but the group of men hold me fast.
“I found them huddled together in a toy box! A fucking toy box!” I continue to shout at the horrified mother.
“Maxwell! That’s enough! She doesn’t need you making her feel worse,” Walt says, turning me around and walking me toward the company rig.
“She doesn’t deserve those kids!” I reply, shaking my head.
“It won’t be an issue anymore, Maxwell,” Walt murmurs. “The kids didn’t make it, Owen. They were gone before they made it to the ambulance. Too much smoke inhalation,” Walt says, gripping my shoulder tight.
I look up to meet Walt’s gaze and lower my head again, shaking it from side to side. I knew the kids couldn’t have survived, but it stings to have my fears confirmed. “Fuck...” I breathe out, bringing my hands to my head as I turn to watch the building burn.
“You did all you could, Owen.” He squeezes my shoulder again and turns to walk back toward the trucks.
“I could have saved them,” I mumble.
“Excuse me?” Walt asks, stopping in his tracks.
“I could have saved them,” I say quietly, repeating myself. “I found them in the second room I checked. The smoke… It was so thick…I didn’t see… They could have been alive when I was in the room the first time.” I turn to look at my commanding officer with wide eyes filled with regret. “I called out…I did, but I didn’t hear them scream. I…I didn’t see the toy box. They were in a fucking toy box, Walt! Huddled together! Why didn’t I see the box?”
“Owen,” Walter consoles. “Owen, you’re not at fault here. Those kids were likely gone before you got to the room the first time.”
“No. I could have done more. I could have done better. Their faces… You didn’t see their faces...” I plead with him, disgusted with myself.
“Get in the rig, Maxwell,” Walt says. “Let’s get you back to the firehouse.”
For months, I wasn’t right. I was depressed and kept beating myself up about what I could have done differently and how I could have approached the rescue better. During my two weeks of mandatory medical leave, I had plenty of time to ruminate about it. I’ve lost people before in fires; I’ve come across scenes more grisly than this. But these two… They were just babies and the youngest I’ve had to rescue in my career. But I didn’t rescue them. I should have, but I didn’t.
After the first call on my first day back to work, I was visibly shaking and I couldn’t understand why. When the initial blast of heat from the fire hit me, I was back in the children’s room at the apartment fire again. I struggled through the rescue without incident, but that night, while sleeping at the firehouse, I woke up in a cold sweat and my heart was beating so hard that I thought I was having a heart attack at the age of thirty-four. My captain got wind of the nightmares and ‘strongly encouraged’ me to talk to the department’s psychologist. Not having much of a choice, I made an appointment to see them the next day.
The shrink was a joke. He just sat there, shook his head, and took a few notes. He didn’t tell me how I could help myself
or give me tricks for stopping the nightmares. Seriously. What kind of help is it when they just listen and don’t give any advice?
On my second visit, we ended up sitting in silence. I didn’t have anything more to tell him. I had talked ad nauseam about it during the last session, so he had gotten all he was going to get out of me. I was done talking about it. He was the one who was supposed to be helping me. Toward the end of the session, he assured me that things would get easier. That, in time, I would learn to process my feelings.
I could process my feelings on my own, thank you very much.
After the third required session and getting nowhere, I made the decision to stop seeing the asshole.
As time went on, I was doing better. The nightmares became more and more infrequent. I started getting more sleep and adjusting to a new normal. The nightmares came and went, and after a while, I put two and two together. They were usually triggered by stress—whether work or personal. Since I started dating Olivia, my nightmares have been kept at bay most evenings, but when we have arguments, they come back with a vengeance as if to mock me. This, of course, only exacerbates whatever problem I’m having with Olivia because she witnesses the nightmare and wants to help, but I keep her closed out—not wanting to embarrass myself. She gets upset and rightly so. I know that I need to talk to her about it; I just don’t know how.
“I’ll tell her. I will,” I assure Emily and Vince. “I know you’re right, but I don’t want to come across as weak to Olivia. And if there’s anything that makes me feel less than a man, it’s these fucking nightmares.”
“She won’t think you’re weak, Owen. I can guarantee you that she’s going to respect you more for saying something and being truthful with yourself and with her. Look at her, Owen. She loves you. Like, really, really loves you. You’ll be fine.” Emily smiles comfortingly.
I push myself away from the kitchen table and stand up. I bend to give Emily a kiss on her head. “Thanks, sis. I think you’re right. It’s time she and I had a serious talk.”