by Sarah Monzon
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“An invitation. Mom wanted me to come by and invite you over for supper tomorrow at seven.”
I rubbed my chin, pretending to ponder the offer. A man would have to be a fool not to accept an invitation to eat Aunt Margaret’s cooking. It didn’t matter what that woman made, it was always delicious.
“She told me not to leave until you said yes. Said to tempt you by telling you she’d be making arepas and flan for dinner.”
My mouth salivated as I imagined biting into one of Aunt Margaret’s arepas. Before she had Sam, and even before she’d married Uncle David, she’d spent a year as a missionary in Argentina. It was there she learned how to make the tasty little round cakes made out of very fine corn flour, or mesa.
I licked my lips. “You couldn’t keep me away now.”
“Good.” Sam gave me one of his boyish grins that always made the ladies swoon. “I want you there, too. Lisa is going to be there.”
“Wait. The Lisa? The love of your life, I-don’t- know-how-I-ever-lived-without-you Lisa?”
“Yep.” If it was possible, his grin spread even wider. “You tease, but just wait ‘till you meet the girl who makes your heart stop and race at the same time.”
“That’s not physically possible,” I replied dryly.
Sam opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the tones of the station indicating a full set.
“Response needed for a structure fire at 1252 Ferry Street.”
Leaving Sam to scramble out of the way as the rest of the Engine One team poured into the bay, I sprinted to my turnouts. Kicking off my shoes, I jumped into my boots and jerked the suspenders attached to my protective trousers over my shoulders. Swinging on my jacket, I continued to prepare for the flaming battle ahead.
“See you tomorrow,” I called over my shoulder to Sam as I scrambled onto the bright-red pumper and took the rear-facing seat behind the driver.
Sirens blared and lights flashed as the truck pulled out of the bay and onto the quiet city streets.
God, please let everyone be out of the building. Let no harm or danger befall any of your children today. And if possible, please help us save this house.
People were devastated to see their homes and businesses go up in flames and smoke. Or, sometimes even, to the massive water damage from our hoses as we fought to put out the consuming fires.
But it was always worse if someone was trapped inside. When most people ran out of a burning building, it was our job to run in—even at the risk of personal peril. But if there was someone inside, then the stakes were raised. No one wanted the death of another person on his or her hands. When the worst happened, questions haunted our minds. Did I do my best? Was there anything else I could have done?
Please, God.
The engine stopped. We spilled out of the truck, the reflective strips on our trousers and tunics glaring back at the sun in a staring contest. Quickly, I took in the scene before me. Thick, angry black billows of smoke spewed out the windows of the small house, signaling that this fire had plenty of fuel to feed its enraged temper.
By the look of the older-styled home, I imagined wood paneling, synthetic wallpaper, and polyester furniture. All tasty treats for a fire to gorge on. Not to mention the wooden structure of the building itself.
We all worked as a team, knowing our duty and the part we were to play. The truck we came on was a pumper and held one thousand gallons of water within its belly. That allowed us to be aggressive in our attack against the blaze while we tapped into backup water supplies, such as a hydrant. But before a single drop was sprayed, the situation had to be assessed. Our captain was busy acquiring needed information from concerned neighbors and reading the signs of the fire. He turned and raced to the crew, barking out orders.
“Neighbor reports that a single lady and her teenaged autistic son live here. The neighbor saw the woman leave about half an hour ago, but he didn’t see her son with her in the car, so we may have a rescue situation on our hands.” He turned to me. “Masterson and Lopez, I want you two inside on recovery as fast as you can. In and out and no heroics, you hear? Josh, grab the chainsaw and get on the roof for ventilation. We need to get a hole open for smoke and gasses to find a way out. Baxtor will work on busting out these windows. Chambers and Richard, man the hoses.”
Lopez and I both strapped on our self-contained breathing apparatus, known simply as SCBA to firefighters. The air tanks now fastened to our backs added an extra twenty-three pounds to our gear but allowed freedom of breathing once we entered the smoke-filled house. Shoving the clear plastic shield of the apparatus over my head, I tugged on the nylon straps to make it snug on my face and took a few test breaths. Next came our Nomex hoods and helmets.
By this time, the adrenaline pulsed through my veins the way it always did. We firefighters were known to be adrenaline junkies. There was nothing like the excitement that bubbled in the pit of my stomach whenever I heard the tones of a full set. My body was antsy with it, but I reined it in and channeled it to the challenge before me—finding one scared teen in one dangerous situation.
I twisted the handle and shoved the door with my shoulder. Locked.
“Masterson!” Lopez shouted.
I jumped out of the way as Pedro Lopez lifted the handle of an ax behind him and swung it in a high arch above his head. He brought the razor-sharp blade into the wood, splitting it into shreds by the jam. The door loosened, and I kicked it wide open.
The heat whooshed out like water rushing from a broken dam and slapped me square in the face. If not for the SCBA mask covering my face, the sheer force of the temperature would have reached down my throat and stolen the breath right out of my lungs.
I bolted into the house, Lopez quick on my heels. Family portraits hung, slightly warped, on once-white walls now blackened by smoke and soot. The fire, the heart of which burned in the back of the house, roared and hissed. Flames shot out and licked the ceiling in the corner.
My breathing echoed in my ears with a koosh that overshadowed the crackling of the fire around us. We often told kids that Darth Vader was really their friend because that was exactly what we sound like while breathing through a SCBA.
“This is the Niles Fire Department,” I called out. “Can anyone hear me?”
No one answered.
There were no bodies in the main living area, so we headed away from the flames and cautiously made our way down a narrow hallway. The first bedroom proved empty, and I shook my head at Lopez and signaled him to continue. Mario and Luigi posters were push-pinned to the walls of the second bedroom. On the other side of the bed, my attention snagged on a head full of curly brown hair barely visible behind the twin mattress.
“Lopez, over here!”
The boy was crouched down on the ground with his back to the corner where the bed and wall met. His head was bowed, his attention riveted on the screen of a hand held device. Looking more closely, it appeared to be an old Game Boy system. The sounds of game music lightly filled the air around the stooped young man, interrupted with a boing, boing every time the character jumped.
I squatted in front of him. “My name is Luke, and I’m with the fire department. I’m going to get you out of here, okay?”
The boy never flicked a glance my way but continued to stare at his game, his thumbs racing on the buttons as he played. I reached out to take both the game and player, but he snatched his hand away.
“No, no, no, no!” He cradled his precious game protectively with one hand while swinging his arm wildly to fight me off with the other.
I glanced back at my partner and the orange glow emanating from the other side of the house. Suddenly the boy was in my line of vision, darting out of the room and in the direction of the heart of the fire. Pedro Lopez might have been the smallest man employed at the station, but he was also one of the quickest. Before the boy could make it two feet down the hall, Lopez snaked an arm around his waist and halted what the b
oy thought to be his escape but would truly have been his demise.
The neighbor had described the boy as a teenager, and while his face still held the look of a juvenile, he had to be closer to twenty. He was taller than Pedro’s five-foot-four-inch frame and right then his eyes were crazed with fear. His arms and legs thrashed wildly, his screams piercing the roar of the fire. Suddenly both the boy and firefighter fell to the ground.
Before I could round the bed to help, Lopez propped himself up from the ground, brought his now clenched fist behind him, and punched the boy square in the jaw, rendering him unconscious. As Lopez scrambled off the floor, I grabbed the limp body and hefted him over my shoulder, pinning his legs to my chest.
Good. Now we can get out of here.
I took the first step toward exiting and—crack!
“Look out!” The yell tore from my throat as a rafter in the ceiling came crashing down, raining drywall and burning embers in our path.
7
Rebekah
POPPY AND I sat hand in hand on the tufted Victorian style sofa in the front room at Grandview. The sun shone through the large picture window behind us, casting a horrible glare on the television as we watched the 49ers game. I couldn’t remember how many Sundays I’d spent this way, just Poppy, me, and eleven men in gold spandex leggings and red jerseys running across 120 yards of green turf, throwing spirals and tackling the other team.
Sometimes after the game, especially the ones we lost, Poppy would get a faraway look in his eye and reminisce about the ‘49er dynasty when the team won five Super Bowl championships in only fourteen years. He would go on and on about the prowess and athleticism of Joe Montana and Jerry Rice. We even went to a few games when I was younger. He would splurge and buy me nachos and one of those ridiculously obnoxious foam fingers. I loved every minute of it.
Although I wished I’d had one of those fingers right then to poke Mrs. Turlock along. She shuffled at a tortoise pace across the space between us and the television, pushing her walker with the two bright-green tennis balls on the bottom. If she didn’t hurry I was going to miss a crucial play of the game.
“Can I help you, Mrs. Turlock?”
She stopped—actually stopped—right in front of the TV! She looked at me, her head wobbling back and forth. I knew it was disrespectful, but I couldn’t help thinking she reminded me of a bobble-head doll.
“Oh, no, dear. I can manage just fine.”
Oh good. Manage faster, please. A strained smile stretched my lips. I leaned to the right and tried to get a glimpse of the game around Mrs. Turlock. The good thing was the volume had been turned up, so Mr. Peddlemyer could hear the game. If I missed a play while Mrs. Turlock toddled out of the way, then at least I’d be able to hear the announcer’s commentaries.
Pphhtt.
I looked at Mr. Peddlemyer.
Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.
My nose wrinkled against the stench assailing it. I wanted to gag, to bury the bottom half of my face in my shirt and take in filtered oxygen. What was the kitchen staff feeding these people?
Poppy tapped my leg and pointed to the television. Mrs. Turlock had finally made it far enough that she was no longer blocking our view. Just in time for commercials. At least I hadn’t missed a game-changing play by my beloved Niners.
Poppy had instilled a lot in me growing up—a love for the game, and the Niners especially, was one of them. Anyone could see I was just as much of a fan as he was. Every Sunday during football season, whether the Niners were playing or not, I would tug on my number seven Colin Kaepernick jersey, pull my hair up in a ponytail, and tie it with a red-and-gold Niners ribbon. Lisa used to tease me about it, but I thought she was coming to accept this side of me.
Embedded in sports, or the fans at least, is a hint of superstition. Now I didn’t really think that if I didn’t wear my Kaepernick jersey and tie my hair with this specific ribbon that the 49ers would lose. But, then again, I didn’t want to take that chance.
Eyes glued to the television screen, I scooted all the way to the edge of the couch and leaned forward in anticipation. Colin Kaepernick had just released a perfect spiral, throwing it deep down the field in a Hail Mary attempt to take over and win the game in the last few minutes. My heart pounded against my ribs, and I resisted the urge to bite my nails as my eyes followed the ball on the screen. Whispering “go, go, go” under my breath, willing the intended receiver, Randy Moss, to catch it in-bounds for the touchdown. As the ball descended from its final arch, Moss caught the ball and cradled it safely in his arms as if it were his firstborn child just handed to him in the delivery room.
I jumped to my feet, hands raised over my head to signal a touchdown, mimicking the two referees on the screen. Spinning around, I grinned in triumph.
“Did you see that—” The words died on my lips. Poppy’s head slumped forward, slightly angled. His chin rested on his chest. A rivulet of drool pooled in the corner of his mouth.
My heart plummeted. The victory I’d felt moments earlier vanished. Randy Moss could’ve fumbled the ball, and it still wouldn’t have felt worse. Poppy was slipping away from me, and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it.
Swallowing a lump the size of California in my throat, I leaned over my grandfather and pressed a light kiss on his forehead. I tried not to notice the new bruises scattered across his paper-thin skin as I tucked an afghan around his legs.
I turned off the TV and meandered down the wallpapered halls in search of Dr. Henshaw. Maybe he could give me an update on Poppy’s condition. Goodness knows I wasn’t getting straight answers from Poppy.
Rita pushed a cart with dirty dishes down the hall toward me. One wheel of the cart squeaked. The plates and cups rattled together even over the smooth carpeted floor. As I came closer, I noticed some of the food had barely been touched.
Aha!
Rita spent more time with the patients of Grandview than anyone, even more than Dr. Henshaw. She probably would know as much about the particulars with Poppy than the good doctor. Oh, he might have known Poppy’s latest white blood cell count, but Rita knew the important things. At least what I considered important. Like how he was eating or how he was sleeping or how well he was maintaining his mobility.
“Hi, Rita, how’s it going?”
She gave me one of her shy smiles, managed a “fine, thank you,” and looked straight ahead again, all the while pushing her cart.
“How’s your family?” I tried again to engage her in conversation.
She stopped pushing her cart and looked at me, a question in her eyes. We’d never really conversed more than a casual greeting. She seemed a bit curious, if not suspicious, as to why this moment was any different than the dozens that had come before.
“They are fine too,” she answered with a slight accent.
“Rita, I was wondering…”
“Yes, Miss Sawyer?” she prompted.
“I was wondering if you could tell me how my grandfather is doing.”
“Me, Miss Sawyer?” Her voice raised at least an octave in her surprise, and her accent grew a tad thicker.
“Yes, Rita, of course you.” I smiled and gestured toward her cart. “Who else gives as much time and attention to the patients as you? Who else knows all the details of their everyday lives?”
I let that sink in a moment and continued, touching her arm lightly to try and calm her. She seemed as skittish as a young colt ever since I’d stopped her to have this little chat.
“I know we haven’t talked much, you and me, but I’ve seen you work, and you are diligent and caring. My grandfather speaks very highly of you as well.”
“Thank you, Miss Sawyer,” she whispered, eyes averted.
I opened my mouth but closed it as my gaze caught sight of the portrait of Susana Beachworth hanging behind Rita. The founder of Grandview, with her beehive hairstyle and cat-eye glasses, stared at me with contempt. As if the picture could talk, I could hear her shrill words in my
head. Way to go, Becky. Of all the times you’ve come to Grandview, you’ve never once even said thank you to this poor sweet girl. You should be ashamed of yourself.
Great. I shook my head. Maybe I really was going crazy, and not just because I was letting Lisa find me a husband. Now pictures were talking to me.
I swallowed my humiliation. Somehow I’d make it up to Rita. She deserved better than how I’d treated her
Rita’s gaze darted between me and some unknown location down the corridor.
Right. Back to why I was standing here in the first place.
“Now,” I continued, letting my lips form a smile to try and ease Rita’s obvious discomfort, “how is Mr. Sawyer doing? Is he eating well? Drinking enough? Sleeping more than usual? How are his spirits? Is he cheerful or depressed?”
“Mr. Sawyer, he a very nice man,” she began. “He always smiling, and he say nice thing to me.”
She hesitated, and I urged her to continue.
“He no finish his food no more. Say not hungry. He sleep lot more too.”
I nodded but continued to pry her with questions. With each answer, my heart fell a bit more. It seemed the leukemia wasn’t satisfied with taking Poppy from me slowly. It was moving faster than a Triple Crown winner on race day. Nausea rolled in my stomach. I might as well lay down on the track and let the thoroughbreds stampede over me. A hoof to the heart couldn’t possibly hurt any worse.
I shouldn’t have been so dazed by Rita’s news, but being tackled by a three-hundred-pound linebacker couldn’t have shocked me more. The squeak of the cart’s wheels snapped me out of my stupor, and I managed to thank Rita for her help.
“Yes, Miss Sawyer.” Rita ducked her head, her response a mere whisper.
She was halfway down the corridor before I’d worked up enough saliva to moisten my dry mouth and call out to her once more. The clatter of dishes stopped as she turned back toward me.
“You can call me Becky, and…maybe we could be friends?”