The Ceiling Man

by Patricia Lillie

  My towel is still on the bar. My pajamas are on the floor. I forgot to get dry and get dressed. I do not need my towel. I am dripped dry.

  “Abby? Answer me.” My mom rattles the door, but it is locked.

  “Abby?” She does not sound happy. Not even pretend happy.

  “I am getting dressed.” I pick up my pajamas.

  “What’s taking you so long?”

  “Idunno.”

  Devon should write:

  4. And they all live happy ever after. But not pretend happy.

  • • •

  THE NIGHT IS QUIET. The Ceiling Man is not here.

  Daddy says my mom must sleep.

  It is quiet. I think my mom is safe.

  Daddy is in his sleeping bag on my floor.

  Daddy says, “I am not leaving you alone with her.” My mom looks like she will cry, but she does not.

  I let my mom go to sleep. I will sleep too. I think we will all be better after we get some sleep.

  I am glad the Woodsman is here.

  • • •

  “BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEEEEP.” I am not in the shower. I am in bed. My ceiling clock says 2:45.

  “Beeeeep. Beeeeep. Beeeeep.” I am not in the shower and my timer should not say beeeeep.

  Sami is barking and the beeeeep hurts my ears. My timer is not beeping. It is the smoke alarm.

  Sometimes the smoke alarm goes off when Daddy cooks. It is 2:45 AM and Daddy is not cooking.

  The ceiling clock has blue numbers. Blue is better than red. No more red ceilings.

  The Ceiling Man is here.

  My mom is asleep in my chair.

  Daddy says, “Carole, you must get some sleep.” I think it is time for my mom to wake up even if it is 2:45 AM.

  Daddy is not cooking. We are on fire.

  “Abby, take Sami and go outside,” Daddy says.

  “Mom. Mom. Mom.” My mom does not hear me.

  The smoke alarm screams. Sami barks. My ears hurt.

  “Mom. Mom.” Her eyes are closed and she does not move but her chest goes up and down.

  “Your wife does not wake up. She should wake up now,” I say.

  “Take Sami and go outside,” Daddy says. “Just like we practiced.”

  The Ceiling Man is laughing and my ears hurt.

  “Abby. Don’t just stand there. Go. Now. I’ll get Mom,” Daddy says.

  I cannot go downstairs.

  “Fire,” I say.

  “Remember what we practiced.”

  “Downstairs,” I say. “We cannot go downstairs. The fire is waiting downstairs.”

  Daddy’s face is funny and I do not know what his funny face means. He shuts my door and puts his sleeping bag in front of the crack at the bottom of the door.

  I do not remember practicing this.

  “Abby, remember what we wrote on the emergency list?”

  Devon makes lists. I do not make lists. Daddy makes special lists. I close my eyes and I see Daddy’s Emergency List.

  “Number Seven. If Abby cannot go down the stairs, she must go out her bedroom window and on to the porch roof,” I say.

  My mom is not awake. She cannot go out my window.

  Daddy opens my window. “Out,” he says. “I’ll take Mom.”

  Beeeeeping. Barking. Laughing. I put my hands over my ears.

  I cannot wake up my mom.

  “Abby! Look at me!” Daddy is yelling and I do not want him to be Mad Dad. I did not make the fire.

  I do not keep my mom awake, but it is not my fault. Daddy says, “You need sleep,” and my mom says, “I’m fine.”

  We are not fine. We are on fire.

  “The Ceiling Man did it,” I say.

  [30]

  Abby

  “ABBY!” DADDY HURTS MY EARS. “Go out your window. Wait for me on the roof.”

  My feet are bare.

  “I will catch my death of cold,” I say. I sound like Gramma Evelyn.

  I shove my feet into my blue sneakers, but I do not untie them first and the backs squish under my heel. My mom hates it when I squish my shoes. It is one of her Pet Peeves. She says, “You are ruining those sneakers and hurting my head.”

  I am not hurting my mom’s head and she should wake up.

  My clock says 2:48. I think it is broken.

  “More than three minutes,” I say. “Your wife should wake up.”

  “I’ll get your mom. Put this on and go!”

  Daddy holds my Port Massasauga High School Fighting Falcons sweatshirt. It is red and black but mostly red.

  “No,” I say. “Your wife must wake up.”

  “Abby! Out!”

  I look at the ceiling. No numbers.

  “My clock is broken,” I say. “I did not let the wolf in.”

  “Abby. Look at me. The electricity is out. You need to go to the porch roof now.”

  Sami is barking at my mom but my mom does not wake up.

  “What about Sami?” I say.

  “I’ll put her out right behind you. Go!”

  Daddy is yelling. Sami is barking. The Ceiling Man is laughing. My ears hurt and my eyes burn.

  “Put shoes on your wife,” I say. I do not want her to catch her death of cold.

  “Abby, go!”

  “Put shoes on your wife,” I say. “Do not squish the heels. She does not like that.”

  Daddy puts my pink sneakers on my mom’s feet. He does not untie them first but her feet go right in. No squished heels and I am glad. I do not want her head to hurt. My pink sneakers look like clown feet on my mom.

  “She needs a red nose,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “No red. I am ignoring you,” I say.

  “ABBY!” Daddy is Mad Dad and he scares me.

  I go out the window. It is cold and the Ceiling Man is outside but he is not on the roof.

  Mr. Pete is in my yard. Fire drills mean I leave my house and go across the street to Mr. Pete’s house. I am on the roof and I cannot go to Mr. Pete’s house. Mr. Pete is at my house.

  The Ceiling Man is at my house but I cannot see him. He is not in my front yard with Mr. Pete.

  I will not jump. The Fire Drill list does not say Mr. Pete goes to Abby’s House. It does not say Abby jumps. Devon should write a new Fire Drill List. My mom should wake up. I cannot jump off my roof.

  “Abby, are you okay?” Mr. Pete says. He yells too. Everybody yells and my ears hurt and we are on fire and I am not okay.

  “My mom will not wake up,” I say.

  “Where are your mom and dad?” Mr. Pete says.

  “Idunno.”

  “Abby, put this on.” Daddy throws my sweatshirt at me and it slides down the roof and falls off.

  “Your mom is next,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “I cannot jump,” I say. My mom should wake up now and say “Abby, do you know you are a banana?”

  “I’m going to go get a ladder. Stay right there,” Mr. Pete says.

  “Stay away from the Ceiling Man,” I say, but I do not think Mr. Pete hears me. He is running away.

  I am on the porch roof and I cannot run away.

  Daddy borrows Mr. Pete’s tools. Daddy says, “Pete has all the cool tools.”

  My sweatshirt is red and it falls all the way to the ground. I do not want to fall all the way to the ground. I do not stay right there. I crawl back to my window.

  “I cannot jump,” I say.

  My mom is still asleep. She is over Daddy’s shoulder. “Abby, out of the way,” he says.

  “Do not throw your wife.” I do not want my mom to be like my red sweatshirt. I do not want to be like my red sweatshirt.

  “Is a ladder a tool?” I say.

  The Ceiling Man is laughing. His laugh is a red laugh.

  Sirens scream and I put my hands on my ears. My eyes are watery.

  “If you move, he’ll throw your mom,” the Ceiling Man says. “She’ll be broken.”

  My face is wet. Maybe I am crying and I do not want to cry.

  My mom says,
“Breathe, Abby. Breathe.” My mom should wake up and say Abby, breathe.

  “Breathe, Abby. Breathe,” I say.

  “Abby, move!” Daddy should not yell. My mom does not yell when she says Abby, breathe.

  “Don’t do it. He’ll throw your mom off the roof,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “Do not throw your wife,” I say.

  “I’m not going to throw your mother, but you need to move.” Daddy talks soft and slow. I think he is trying to be patient but he is not doing a very good job of it.

  “You told your wife she must sleep,” I say.

  “She’ll be broken. And red,” the Ceiling Man says.

  “Abby. You must get out of the way so I can get your mom out of the house. Then we will wake her up.” Daddy tries to hide Mad Dad, but I think Mad Dad is here.

  “I cannot jump,” I say.

  “Move so I can get out and then we will get down,” Mad Dad says.

  “Mrs. Livvy’s husband has all the cool tools,” I say.

  “Abby, come on.” Mr. Pete is on his ladder.

  “Is a ladder a cool tool?”

  Daddy’s mouth moves. I do not know if he is Mad Dad. The sirens are too loud. My ears hurt and I cannot hear him. The sirens stop, and I think the firemen are here.

  “I hate red,” I say.

  “Shit,” the Ceiling Man says. He is angry and full of red. His red is filling me up, and I smell dirt and pennies.

  “No.” I push the Ceiling Man away, and he laughs.

  “Abby, go with the fireman,” Daddy says. Mr. Pete is gone, and a fireman is on the ladder. He is yellow, not red.

  “Is a ladder a tool?” I say.

  The Ceiling Man’s red is loud and he is full of red and fire and thunder. He stinks and I hate him. I push him hard and I think I will fall and I do not want to be crumbled on the ground like my sweatshirt. I hang on to the windowsill.

  My house sounds like Gramma Evelyn’s fireplace but does not smell good. My eyes burn and I think they are full of tears.

  Arms are around my waist and I do not like to be touched and maybe it is the Ceiling Man. I should say stop do not touch me but my words are stuck and maybe lost.

  “Come on, honey. Let go.” The arms are on a fireman. He is not the Ceiling Man. I do not fall to the ground. I am not my sweatshirt.

  “Abby, let go.” Daddy does not yell. He whispers, but he is serious.

  I cannot make my hands let go of the windowsill. My fingers hurt and I think my hands are bleeding. Daddy talks. I think he is talking to the fireman, but I do not know what he says. My crying fills my ears.

  The Ceiling Man wants to fill my head but I do not let him in.

  “I do not like red. I do not like to be touched.” My words are not lost.

  “Come on, honey. We’ll go down the ladder, and I won’t let you fall,” the fireman says.

  The Ceiling Man is full of black, not red. “We’re not finished.” He whispers like Daddy, but his voice is scratchy and not soft.

  “Abby, the fireman will help you down the ladder,” Daddy says and he is not Mad Dad. “Go with him.”

  Daddy is a policeman. He helps people and keeps them safe. Firemen are like policemen.

  “Do not throw my mom,” I say. I take my hands off of the windowsill and they are not bleeding.

  The fireman carries me down the ladder, and I cannot look at my sweatshirt on the ground. I cannot breathe. One of my shoes falls off.

  My mom says, “Abby! Those are sneakers, not clogs. Untie them before you put them on!”

  “My mom hates it when I do not untie my sneakers,” I say.

  “Shhhhhhhh,” the fireman says. I think maybe I am screaming.

  “I need Sami,” I say.

  “I’ll get her. I promise,” the fireman says.

  “My mom should wake up now.”

  “We’ll get her too.”

  “Daddy is the Woodsman,” I say. The fireman does not answer.

  “The Ceiling Man is full of red and fire,” I say.

  “It’ll be okay, honey,” the fireman says.

  I hope he is right. Maybe he is a Woodsman too.

  • • •

  THE MAN IN THE ambulance says I am Oooo-kay and I am Breathing just fine.

  He is wrong. I am not Oooo-kay and there is too much noise and too much touching and I am not breathing just fine.

  “My mom needs to be okay,” I say. I am not crying but my eyes are burning. My mom is inside the ambulance and I do not know if she is breathing just fine. I do not think she is awake.

  “We’ll take good care of her,” he says. His shirt says Jason. His name is Jason and he does not call me honey.

  “Abby, come with me,” Daddy says.

  “Good-bye, Jason. My mom should wake up.”

  • • •

  SAMI IS OFF the roof and stuck to my leg.

  My mom says, “She is doing her Velcro-pup act.” My mom is in the ambulance. She should wake up and Sami should Velcro-pup my mom too.

  My house is filled with fire and I stand across the street. The fire in Gramma Evelyn’s fireplace smells good and warm and cozy. The fire in my house smells bad and it makes my nose burn and my eyes water. Too many people are here and they are watching my house and I do not know if it makes their noses burn. I cannot see my dad and I cannot breathe.

  “We’re not finished, Little Bunny,” the Ceiling Man says and he is gone.

  Sami growls. I do not have her leash. It is burnt up in my house.

  I think the Ceiling Man is still here. He does not talk to me, but I think he is watching my house burn down and I think he is angry. I do not want to talk to him so I do not look for him.

  “Look after Abby,” Daddy says.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” Mrs. Livvy says.

  “Daddy is the Woodsman,” I say.

  I have both my shoes. I untie them and put them on my feet properly. My mom should wake up and see that my shoes are put on properly.

  Mrs. Livvy puts a blanket on my shoulders. It is not scratchy and it smells like purple flowers. Lavender. The flowers are called lavender and they grow by my house in the summer and I think they are all burnt up.

  Mr. Pete ties a rope to Sami’s collar and gives me the other end. “I don’t have a leash, but this should do the trick,” he says.

  “My mom should wake up now,” I say.

  “She’ll be fine, honey.” Mrs. Livvy sounds like the fireman. She tries to hug me but I do not let her. Our house is on fire and it stinks and hurts my ears and there are too many people and my ears are screaming. I am rocking and I cannot stop.

  My mom should wake up and say, “Abby, you are making me seasick.” I will let her hug me even if it hurts and Sami will Velcro-pup her and my mom will be okay.

  “I hate the Ceiling Man,” I say.

  “Shhhhhh,” Mrs. Livvy says.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom,” I say, but I do not say it with my mouth and Mrs. Livvy does not hear me. My mom should wake up.

  [31]

  Carole

  “MOM, MOM, MOM, MOM.”

  Abby calls for me, but drowning in red and noise, I can’t find her.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.”

  She’s close—somewhere above me, just out of my reach. I kick my feet, try to surface, but the red sucks me back.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.”

  I open my mouth to call to her. The red fills my mouth, fills my lungs, chokes me. I can’t fight. I stop struggling and sink. The red turns to black, and I know it will take me.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom. You should wake up now.”

  A dream. A nightmare. If I open my eyes. . .

  “Mom. Mom, Mom.” Abby is my lifeline. I won’t give in. “Mom.” I search for her call. If I find it, I can pull myself from the mire.

  «Lady Bird, Lady Bird, fly away home. . .»

  Not Abby.

  «Your house is on fire and your child shall burn. . .»

  I knew the raspy, laughing voi
ce, but couldn’t place it.

  Plastic clung to my face. I clawed at it, ripped it off. Smoke. Something was burning. Ohmygodthehouseisonfire. The black disappeared, replaced by blazing red.

  “Ma’am. You need to leave the oxygen mask on.”

  “Abby.” Why weren’t the smoke alarms screeching? I needed to get up. I needed to get Abby. I needed to wake Jim—

  “Shhhhh. Ma’am, lay back. You need to stay calm.”

  Someone held me down. I fought, grappled with hands, arms. I had no strength.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom.”

  I heaved against the searing red, and it released me. I opened my eyes.

  A man loomed over me. A uniform. An EMT.

  «No place to hide, Lady Bird. She’ll burn.»

  “Why would you say that!”

  “Ma’am, calm down.” A smooth Johnny Cash voice. The EMT hadn’t sung the nursery rhyme.

  “My daughter. I need to—”

  “She’s fine. She’s with your neighbor. Livvy?”

  I wasn’t in Abby’s room. The EMT brought the oxygen mask back toward my face. I slapped him away.

  “You’re not Jed,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My EMT. His name is Jed.” At the school. Ages ago. I wasn’t at the school. I was home, in— “Abby. Where’s Abby?”

  “Ma’am, I’m Jason. Your daughter’s fine. Checked her over myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a precaution. She’s fine and she’s safe. Right now, I need to look you over and make sure you’re fine too. Do you know how long you were unconscious?”

  “I don’t even know what time it is. I need to find Abby. Abby always knows what time it is.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed. Cot. Gurney? The room spun. Not a room. An ambulance.

  “Ma’am. Do you know where you are?”

  “Why am I in an ambulance?”

  “Did you take anything? A sedative? A painkiller? Prescription or over-the counter?” A note of accusation crept into Jason’s deep voice.

  The Vicodin. Not tonight. Last night. I shook my head.

  “Are you having any trouble breathing? Tightness in your chest?”

  Both, but I wasn’t about to tell him. He came at me with the damned mask again. I let him put it on me, then ripped it off and threw it back at him. “I’m fine. I need to get to my daughter.”

  “We checked her out. She’s fine. She wouldn’t wear the oxygen mask either.”