I have to get out of here. I have to. This can’t be the end. I push through the smoke-filled living room, pulling myself in what I think is a straight line across the room. It’s the only open path left in here. I hit a wall—one that I hope has a window or a door. I feel around until my fingers rub over a crack. Please be a door.
My house is on fire. My world is crumbling around me. What did I do?
It’s not a door. I can’t see the door. I don’t know where I am in my own house.
With my shirt still over my mouth, I pull myself against the baseboard and pound my fist against the wall. “Please, please…I don’t want to die,” I cry out, though I know I’m the only one who can hear me.
Holy shit. My phone. It’s in my pocket. I almost forgot. Please work. I try to reach into the back pocket of my flannel pajama pants, but my muscles ache, and it’s almost like I can’t find my pocket. I yell for help again, but my voice is muffled by the smoke and roaring flames.
I’m in here. Help me.
I’m going to die a slow and miserable death. A phone call won’t even save me now. With the flames closing in on me, engulfing me, I now realize there’s not enough time.
This is it.
I curl into a fetal position as I close my eyes and try to focus on the good parts of my life. There are so many things I still want to do.
It might have only been seconds since I gave up, but it feels like it’s been hours. Is someone out there? The wall shakes and there’s a pounding on the door. “Help!” I yell, though my voice is hardly audible.
I’m still alive in here.
How long can I survive inhaling all of this smoke?
A door swings open, forcing a gush of air into my body. I was so close. I struggle to lift my head, and as I do, arms scoop me up.
Sirens are blaring loudly, lights flashing in my eyes, smoke billowing out around me. The man holding me yells, “Side door. Young female. She needs oxygen, stat.” His voice is shrill and echoes in the smoggy air.
I try to scream from the panic exploding within me, but sound isn’t coming out at all any more. I’m placed down on a stretcher as firemen run past me and into the house. They shouldn’t go in there.
An oxygen mask is fitted around my face, and a blanket is pulled up to my neck. People are talking to me, asking me questions, I think, but I can’t focus on what they’re saying. My attention is focused past them, watching a fireman run from the front door. He comes closer to us, yelling into his radio: “Young male. Severe burns—most likely third degree. Unconscious.” Blake? He isn’t home. What are they talking about?
A light flashes into my right eye, then my left. Another man is asking how many people were in the house. I’m staring through him, forcing out the words, “Just me…I thought.” I’m not sure if he heard me, but I don’t care.
Blake?
The roof is caving in now, and the windows are all blown out. I look around, as far as my eyes can see. Neighbors surround me. They’re in their nighttime clothes; some are holding flashlights, while others are just holding each other. Most have a hand cupped over their mouths.
In unison, their focus shifts from me to the house. I look to see what they’re all gasping about, and I see firemen emerge through the cloud of smoke billowing from the front door, carrying a body. No. No. No. He was home.
Blake!
I tug at the oxygen mask, pulling it away from my mouth. “Blake!” I cough out. The sound is garbled and I’m not sure anyone can understand me. I hardly recognize my own voice.
The mask is forced back over my face.
“We got him out,” one of the men says. There’s a ringing behind each of his words. They carried him out like a limp rag. But they carried me out that way, too. Time feels frozen around me as tears bubble in the corners of my eyes.
Someone helps me lie back on the stretcher as I’m carted into the ambulance. I’ve never been inside of one before. It looks like a tiny hospital room. Everything is white and clean with drawers and cabinets lining the perimeter. A door slams. The sound is clear and crisp—and overwhelmingly loud—causing me to flinch.
“You’re going to be okay,” an older man in uniform says.
I try to speak through the mask. “Blake. What about Blake?” I’m unsure if they can understand my muffled words.
“Just relax,” the man says.
* * *
My house is twenty miles from the hospital, but somehow it felt like seconds between the time we left and the time we arrived in front of the emergency sliding doors. The hallway is a blur as we rush through. When is someone going to tell me what’s going on with Blake? I want to get this mask off of my face. I reach for it, pulling at it, but someone stronger than me holds it in place.
My clothes are cut from my body. But why? Nothing hurts.
“Can you tell us your name?” a doctor asks, finally removing the oxygen mask.
I look at each person hovering over my nearly-naked body. Everyone looks concerned. I wish someone would smile at me, give me an inkling of hope that everything is going to be okay. “Felicity Stone,” I manage to whisper.
“Felicity, do you have someone we can call?”
My parents. They have no idea what’s going on right now.
“I don’t know my parents’ numbers,” I say. I never memorized their cell phone numbers, and they changed the house number a few months ago when they moved. I always put everything in my phone. My phone. “My phone was in my pocket.” I point to the bag they dumped my torn clothes into. A nurse fishes through the pile and pulls it out. She tries to power it on, holding her finger over the button for several seconds before shaking her head.
“It’s not turning on.” She places the phone down on a table and turns for the door. “I’ll go see about locating them.”
Another nurse tries to place the oxygen mask back over my mouth, but I press my hand up against her arm. “Blake,” I try to shout. “Is he okay? I need to know if my brother is okay.” After each word, my voice squeals like a deflated balloon. Every person surrounding me gives me this blank look, making me feel like I’m behind some kind of two-way mirror. Like I can see them, but they can’t see me. I want to bang on the glass, let them know I’m right in front of them so they’ll tell me what’s happening. But they’re probably trained not to react.
They all must be great poker players.
The silence grows. It’s deafening. And now it’s being drowned out by the monitor and my climbing heart beat. “Please,” I cry out from below the oxygen mask. I’ve been holding it together for…I don’t know how long…I have no idea how much time has passed since the fire started. I can’t contain myself any longer, though. Heavy sobs erupt from my throat, making it clear how hard it is to breathe.
Different members of the medical staff attempt to calm me, but I can’t stop the tears. “Felicity,” a doctor says, “you need to calm down. This isn’t good for your lungs.” How could anyone expect me to be calm?
I rip the mask off and attempt to push myself up on my elbows. “I need to find my brother. Now!” I grit my teeth. My anger takes over completely.
A nurse gently guides me back down to the table, and if I weren’t so weak, I’d fight back. “You need to calm done, honey,” she says sternly.
“No,” I try to scream, but my voice sounds like rusty air scraping through my throat. “I will not calm down!”
The doctor shakes his head, and I feel a needle pricking my skin. “Ouch,” I cry.
I’m cold. And I’m so tired…
* * *
I wake up to find Mom and Dad seated beside me. Mom has a tissue pressed up against her nose, her eyes glued to the floor. Dad’s forearms are resting on his knees; his head hangs between his arms. I want to sit up, but my muscles aren’t moving as quickly as my brain wants them too. Instead, I twist my head to the side, feeling disconnected, like my mind can’t keep up with what’s happening. The oxygen mask is still in place, but I pull it down to my chin. “Mom…Da
d,” I slur. My voice sounds unfamiliar. It’s hoarse and gravelly. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. They lift their heads, and Dad falls to his knees, bringing himself to my bedside. Mom drags her chair over to the bed and grabs my hand. Her eyes are red and puffy, and mascara is streaked down her rosy cheeks. Her short blond hair is a mess, waves pointing in every direction. Her blouse is wrinkled and untucked, and she’s wearing tennis shoes with dress pants. I’ve never seen Mom like this. She’s always well put-together, no matter the occasion.
“Sweetheart,” Dad says. “You’re going to be okay. The doctors said you inhaled a lot of smoke, but besides that, you’re going to be fine.” If I’m going to be fine, why are they crying so hard? I’ve never seen Dad cry. Ever.
“What about Blake?”
Mom explodes with some kind of horrible moaning sound I’ve never heard before. Her chin is quivering; her lips are slightly parted. Her eyes are large with tears acting like reflecting pools beneath her lashes.
“He’s in a coma, but—” Dad’s cries grow louder as he attempts to speak through them. “They said it isn’t looking promising, Felicity. The burns are too much, and he inhaled too much smoke.”
Blake is going to die. No. He can’t.
Dad clears his throat and squeezes his hand over mine and Mom’s. “They’re waiting for you to say good-bye.”
I don’t want to say good-bye. I’ll be giving them permission to do whatever they’re going to do to make him go away forever. I’m the reason he doesn’t get to finish his life. I didn’t save him. “I can’t,” I cry. I’m scared.
“Please, Felicity,” Dad says, looking at me through his glossy blue eyes, “For us.”
* * *
A doctor who has visited my room frequently over the past forty-eight hours knocks before entering. “Good morning, Felicity. How do you feel?” His eyes are set on my charts, his pen dragging down from the top of the page in a line.
“Okay, I think. Everything kind of aches.” Especially my heart.
“That’s to be expected,” he says. “You know, you’re a very lucky young woman.” He looks up from his clipboard. “You really are.” I feel like laughing and explaining the definition of “luck” to him. He must see the look of disagreement on my face. Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m capable of any expression besides scowling. “There’s a detective in the waiting area who needs to speak with you. Once he’s finished, we’ll be releasing you.”
“Why does a detective need to speak with me?” I know why. And I don’t know why I just asked. Somewhere in the back of my head, I thought these details would all just work themselves out on their own.
“Standard procedure.” He moves in closer and places a hand on my shoulder. “Good luck with everything. I know this is hard, and it’s going to get harder, but you survived. And you should be thankful for that much.”
Almost the second the doctor leaves, another man walks in, dressed in business casual clothes and a stern expression. He’s around Dad’s age, and looks like an all-work no-play type of man. “Miss Stone?” he confirms. I nod, pushing myself up into a sitting position. “I’m Detective Earnst.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “I’ll make this quick, as I know you want to get out of here.” And say good-bye to Blake forever? I’d rather stay.
“You can take as long as you need,” I tell him.
He raises a brow and hands me a clipboard with a piece of paper covered with questions and a large box for a written statement. “Could you fill this out for me first?”
I study the questions, noting their simplicity. My name, birthdate, address, phone number. As I press the pen to the paper, my hand begins to tremble. I haven’t thought much past what it’s going to be like to see Blake for the last time. But the fact that I lost my house and everything in it is a new reality I’m trying to accept.
I continue to answer the questions. My handwriting looks like a first grader’s. In the statement, I write down that the fire had to be some kind of accident. I don’t know what I could have done to cause it.
“Can you also write down a timeline of events from when you got home that day until you noticed the fire?” he asks, pointing to the bottom of the paper. I can’t even remember what happened. Everything is a blur. I came home to what I thought was an empty house, not realizing Blake was actually asleep in his room…he was supposed to be away for the weekend with some friends. I made dinner and went to bed. What else is there to write?
I scribble everything down in three short lines and hand the clipboard back to him. “This is all I can remember.”
“Do you have any indication as to what may have started the fire?” he asks, resting his elbows over his knees.
“I don’t know. I—I can’t think of anything.” I can’t even wrap my head around what the hell is happening right now. How I ended up here. How my life just fucking burned to pieces right in front of my eyes.
“Investigators discovered that the smoke alarm near the bedrooms didn’t have batteries in them. Were you aware?”
All of the air is sucked out of my lungs, and my face goes cold. “I took the batteries out last week. They were chirping, and I didn’t have time to…I mean, I forgot to replace them.” How could I do something so stupid?
“None of the alarms appeared to have been functioning properly,” he adds.
“I didn’t know the others weren’t working. I only knew about the one in the hallway near the bedrooms.” It’s not like I’ve tested them since I moved in two years ago. I just assumed they worked.
He nods again, this time with a shroud of disappointment. “Your brother lived with you, correct?”
Everything is past tense. Blake is about to become past tense. “Yes; he had for a few months. He was in-between jobs and apartments. But I didn’t know he was home that night. I thought he was away on a camping trip for the weekend. That’s why I didn’t think to save him.” The tears return. “He wasn’t supposed to be there.” Why am I being forced to talk about this right now? I don’t want to remember anything, and he’s expecting me to. Doesn’t he care about how I feel right now? About how hard this is for me?
He straightens up and flips the questionnaire over to jot down notes. Every word I’ve said, for all I know. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help us out?”
“Not that I can think of right now,” I say.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. “If you think of anything, I want you call me right away.”
I take the card and set it on the bedside table. “I will.”
He stands up, straightening his pants under his gut. “Thank you. The investigation will probably take a few weeks. As soon as I have any information, I’ll be in touch.”
* * *
Not long after Detective Earnst left, Mom and Dad arrived to help with my discharge. Mom brought me some new clothes, which unfortunately, I will never wear again. I won’t ever be able to even look at these clothes after I say good-bye to Blake.
Dad leads us to the elevator, and Mom loops her arm through mine. We’re walking in silence, as though we’re headed to an execution.
The scent of ammonia mixed with urine wafts down the hallway. It’s nauseating.
My chest only aches slightly from smoke inhalation, but my heart feels as though it might implode from the weight, knowing this might be my fault. This has to be my fault. There’s just no one else to blame.
When the doors open, I hear beeping and machines pumping air. Bile rises in my throat and I haven’t even gotten to his room yet.
This is all my fault.
Dad turns the corner into Blake’s room. The machines get louder. Dad blocks my view, giving me one last second to remember Blake as the bright-eyed, happy-go-lucky brother I’ve always known.
Dad steps away, and I try to comprehend what I’m seeing. Blake’s face—actually, his whole body—is wrapped in gauze. His eyelids and lips are all that show, and they’re raw and shiny. He doesn�
�t look anything like my twin.
Blake and I were born two minutes apart. We’ve always been close. I’m feisty and stubborn, he’s diplomatic and laid back. But visually, he’s the male version of me, with his blonde hair, blue eyes, and a million freckles, though he’s taller and broader than I am. I look more like his younger sister.
I shudder under a sob I refuse to release. How can I live knowing I’ll never see him again, never hear his…
I switch places with Dad so I can be closer to Blake. I feel uneasy being next to him, something I should never feel around my brother. I slide my hand gently between his curled, bandaged fingers. I don’t want to cry in case he can hear me, but I can’t stop the tears from coming. Seeing him like this…it’s killing me. “It’s all my fault, Blake.” I should be lying where he is right now. I feel numb, I can’t think straight. My memories of our lives together are playing like a movie in my head, but the film just ran out.
How is this good-bye? We’re twenty-five. Things weren’t supposed to go like this.
I lean over and place a kiss on his bandaged cheek. “I love you. You’re the best brother I could have asked for. I’m so sorry I let you down.” Everything hurts so fucking much. I don’t know how I’ll be able to live with myself now. I hold my breath. “I’ll look for you in the stars, just like Gran always told us. I’ll talk to you every night. I promise.” It’s all I can take. I run to the bathroom, vomiting into the toilet. Black fluid, from the smoke. I don’t know where it’s all coming from, but it keeps coming until I heave nothing but dry air. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the heart.
It’s evident now. Our heartbeats were both discovered at the same time.
Now only one will remain.
CHAPTER TWO
I’VE THANKED FIFTY people for coming. They’ve all given me their condolences—the hand on my shoulder with a slight squeeze, and the tiny one-sided smile. An array of nasty perfumes and colognes have assaulted my nose, which don’t mix well with the spread of cold cuts and bunches of fragrant flowers set on the table beside me. Maybe it’s the emptiness of my stomach making me feel sick, or possibly the memory of Blake’s seared flesh…I can’t get it out of my head.
You're It Page 8