Running Home to You (The Running Series)

by Sweeney, Suzanne

  I drag myself up and into the shower. A long, hot shower might help warm me up and relax my sore muscles. My ribs and stomach muscles ache, and it’s hard to take a deep breath. All this coughing and sneezing is killing me. I’m glad Evan’s not here to see me like this.

  Blow-drying my hair is a challenge, but I’m determined not to lie down with wet hair. I shuffle into the kitchen to make myself a cup of Licorice Spice Herbal Tea when my phone rings. Just as I thought, it’s Evan calling to make sure I made it through the night. Although I can barely move, I force myself to put on a good show. Evan has to believe that I’m better. He needs to stop worrying about me and concentrate on his game.

  I curl up on the couch, wrapped up in a warm blanket, and do the best I can to keep up an intelligent conversation with Evan. I’m a better actor than I give myself credit for, because Evan actually believes me. He stops asking to send someone to the house to check on me, finally. He sounds pumped about the game and his team’s odds at winning. Even though the Lions have the home advantage, all bets are on a Sentinel’s victory. We end the call with a promise to talk one final time after lunch. After that, we will be in a communication blackout until after the game.

  With each passing hour, I’m feeling worse. My sinuses are now blocked, and yet my nose is running like a leaky faucet. How is this even possible? Now I cannot lay my head down and rest comfortably. The pressure in my head multiplies with each attempt. And I still can’t seem to get warm enough. I transfer myself to the recliner and take catnaps while sitting up. Maybe I should have accepted Evan’s offer to have someone come over to take care of me. Another cup of tea might help clear my sinuses, but I can’t find the energy to get up and make it myself.

  When Evan calls again, I put on another award winning performance. I wish him luck and make some excuse about wanting to make myself a hot lunch. I blow my nose for the hundredth time, and flip through the channels trying to find something that will surely lull me into a deep sleep. When I find “Across the Universe”, I put the remote down and let the beautifully lyrical songs transport me to a somewhat restful sleep.

  Eventually, the sun begins to set and I try to make myself something to eat. I haven’t had anything more than a few spoonfuls of chicken soup to eat all day. Surely, if I want to get better, I should get some nutrition into my body. Wrapped tightly in a blanket, I waddle back into the kitchen and rummage through the pantry looking for something that doesn’t make my stomach twist and turn. I find a can of SpaghettiOs, and decide to make the best of it. Pouring the contents into a bowl and programming the microwave is about all the cooking I can handle at the moment.

  I put on ESPN to listen to the pregame predictions and plop myself down at the kitchen table. Each mouthful gets increasingly harder to swallow. Food doesn’t seem to be agreeing with me right now. I don’t know if it’s the acid in the sauce or the chemical preservatives in the meal, but minutes after trying to eat, I feel my stomach muscles clenching, threatening to violently clear itself of its unacceptable contents.

  Ultimately, I can hold back the urge no longer, and I find myself sitting on the floor in the bathroom with my hands wrapped around the cold comfort of the toilet, retching brutally. As my body convulses with each wave of nausea, I am shivering and shaking with fever. With my stomach completely void of its contents, I hope for an end to the painful eruptions. When the next wave starts again, I lower my face into the porcelain bowl, wondering what is about to come expelling out of my body. There’s no food left to purge.

  The cold leather of the couch and the single blanket are no longer enough to give me comfort. Grabbing the bottle of Nighttime Cold Medicine, I fill the cup to the brim and down it in one shot. If one capful is good, then two must be better. One more dose and I put the bottle back down. I turn off all the lights and the television and return to the bedroom.

  Time to watch the game. After turning on the small TV in our room, I crawl into my comfy bed. Even with the layers of blankets, my body still tremors, struggling to get warm. I focus on the image on the television as the whistle blows and the kickoff starts the game. I smile to myself, wondering what Evan is doing at this very moment.

  I watch with a mixture of pride and terror as Evan completes play after play. When he gets sacked and goes crashing to the ground beneath the force of a man twice his size and weight, I cannot breathe until I see him get up and walk back to the huddle. I say a silent prayer to God to keep him safe.

  Excitement rips through me as the Sentinels make their way down the field without losing possession. With less than twenty yards to go, the ball is snapped, and Evan scans the field looking for someone who’s open. He finds his friend and wide receiver, Carlo Rivera, unprotected deep in the end zone. He sends the ball down the field and into the deft hands of Carlo for the first touchdown of the game. His teammates rush to congratulate him as they jog off the field so the place kicker can attempt the extra point. I’m smiling so broadly my face actually hurts.

  My mind races with images of what must be happening at Rush right now. I can imagine the cheers that must be exploding; Marcus and Derek giving each other high fives; Emmy squealing with delight. I wish I were there with them right now.

  I watch in glory as Evan completes another touchdown. By the time halftime arrives, the score is 14 to 3. The cameras follow Evan as he makes his way off the field. His hair is drenched with sweat, his face is covered in dirt, and his uniform is caked in filth, but when he smiles for the camera, I swear I’ve never seen anything so hot in my entire life.

  As the football commentators dissect the plays during halftime, my eyelids grow heavier and heavier. I listen to them praise Evan’s early performance and each of them takes credit for having predicted his domination on the field from the very beginning. When they break for commercial, I decide to close my eyes just for a few minutes. That’s the last thing I remember.

  I am jolted awake by the shrill din of the smoke alarm assaulting my eardrums. I open my eyes to discover the room is filling with smoke. Thick, heavy black smoke is hovering above me, completely covering the ceiling. The room is dark, lit only by the glow of the television. My head is throbbing and I feel like everything is happening in slow motion. I scramble out of bed, keeping as low to the ground as I can. I sweep my hands across the nightstand, trying desperately to find a phone, but my cell isn’t there. I can’t think clearly. I have no idea where it might be.

  I make my way out of the bedroom and down the hallway, only to discover that the entire house is filled with smoke. I try very hard to remember everything I learned in school about house fires. We were taught to stay low to the ground and test doorknobs for heat before opening any doors. The house is pitch black. I know that where there’s smoke, there must be fire, but I have yet to see any flames.

  Moving cautiously, smoke swirls hot and acrid above me. My eyes begin to water and burn. I blink back the burning tears as I work methodically towards the rear of the house. When I turn the corner and crawl into the living room, my heart stops. Through the sliding glass doors and the expanse of windows, I can see that the entire deck is blazing. Flames are licking the glass everywhere I look. The entire back of the house is engulfed in flames. There’s no safe way out through the back.

  I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline coursing through my veins or the effects of taking so much cough medicine, but I cannot think clearly. I turn around and slowly make my way towards the front of the house. The thick blanket of smoke is getting deeper and deeper with each minute that passes. My eyes burn as soot chokes my throat.

  Visions of being trapped inside a burning inferno play in my mind. All I can think about is Evan. At this moment, I’m so glad that he’s safely in Detroit. If something happens to me, I know he’ll be destroyed, but at least he’ll be alive. I’m grateful for the safety of all my friends and my most faithful companion Maddy. To think that one or more of them could be trapped here with me right now tears me apart.

  Shaking the dark torturo
us thoughts from my mind, I propel myself forward in search of an exit. The front windows come into view, and my worst nightmare is unfolding in front of my eyes. I can see scorching flames reaching up from the bushes lining the front of the house, shooting upward into the black sky. Red and orange light burns brightly out each window.

  I cough and choke as the air around me becomes toxic. I am numb and in shock. I don’t want yesterday’s good-bye to be my last. I think hard, trying to recall what my last words to Evan were on the phone, but I can’t recall. Did I tell him I love him? God, I hope so. My dreams are turning to ash right in front of my eyes.

  Remarkably, my head begins to clear and I know I have to find a way to keep myself safe until help arrives. I need a plan. Quickly, I scurry to the guest bathroom and grab a hand towel. I turn on the tub faucet and run the towel under the cold water, wetting it completely. When I hold it up to my face, it effectively blocks out the smoke.

  My cell phone is exactly where I left it in the living room. When I pick it up to call 9-1-1, it’s dead. I haven’t charged it in two days. Fuck! It’s the only phone in the house. Evan and I never bothered having a landline installed. At the time, it seemed pointless.

  Then it occurs to me – no one knows I’m here. When the alarm company can’t reach Evan or me, they will probably call Adam. They might be calling him this very moment. He thinks I’m in Detroit with Evan, so he would probably tell them the house is vacant.

  But even if they know I’m here, who knows how long it will take them to arrive. Our fire company is made up of volunteers. The firefighters have to drive themselves to the firehouse from all different distances, suit up, and then they can set out with the rescue trucks.

  Deciding I have to act quickly to try and save myself, I make my way to the front door. The front porch is stone and cement. Even though I can see flames outside the windows, there’s a slight chance the front door is clear. I reach up and test the knob, then quickly pull away. It’s hot. I’m not going to open the door and take a chance of being immediately engulfed by flames.

  Maybe I can find a way to break a window and scream for help. There are no curtains on the windows, just wooden blinds, so breaking the glass won’t set the inside of the house aflame right away. Giving the fire a direct path to the inside of the house is not a good idea. My options are dwindling. I have no choice left.

  I crawl back to the living room and grab a fire poker from the fireplace. It’s got a long handle and a sharp pointy end that should be perfect for breaking a window.

  With the poker in one hand and my wet towel in the other, I edge my way back to the foyer, determined to fight my way out.

  Unable to stand up because of the smoke above, I attempt to break the window from a crouching position. I look away, cover my face, and swing wildly. By some miracle, my first swing connects with the glass and it shatters, sending shards of glass flying in every direction. I feel something cold and wet dripping down my arm and when I look, I discover a large gash in my arm bleeding profusely. Thank God it’s just my arm. It could have been my face or neck.

  The smoke begins to billow out the window and when I visually follow its path, I can barely make out what appears to be a pair of headlights in the driveway. I scream with all my might, hoping beyond all hope that someone is out there and can hear me. I can’t see clearly and I don’t know if it’s doing any good.

  Then it happens. I hear a voice. Doubt paralyzes me momentarily. Is it real or am I hallucinating? Suddenly, I hear it again, a man’s frantic voice. “Jette? Is that you? Are you in there?” It’s Adam.

  My body is seized in a fit of coughing. I find a way to choke out a response. “Yes, Adam, I’m here. I can’t get out.” My mind races with thoughts of what Adam might do. He blames me for his split with Evan. Could he leave me here, finding this a suitable punishment?

  “Okay, listen very carefully. I’m going to help you, but you have to move quickly. Can you get a blanket?” he calls back. Relief immediately rushes through me.

  I remember the blanket still lying on the couch just a few feet away from me. “Yes,” I holler, hoping he can hear me.

  “Go get it. Quickly, Jette. There isn’t much time.”

  I struggle to the couch, grab the blanket, and inch my way back. Each breath a struggle. Each step a fight. I call back, “I got one. Now what?”

  He speaks slowly and carefully. “Wrap yourself in the blanket as tightly as you can. Cover your face and your hair. You’re going to have to open the front door and jump through the flames.”

  “No way, Adam. I can’t do it.” The thought of what he’s asking terrifies me. Embers begin to fly through the shattered window and into the house now.

  “Yes, you can. Just open the door and jump. I’ll be here to catch you, Jette. I’m right here. Trust me. I won’t let you get hurt. I’m right here.” He sounds so confident. I suppose it could work.

  “Adam? I’m scared. There’s too much smoke. I can’t see.” The wall of smoke is just inches above my head. I can feel the temperature in the room increasing tenfold and my fear is that the ceiling has ignited. Despite the wet rag, I begin coughing and gagging, unable to catch my breath.

  An enormous explosion of sparks in the back of the house startles me and I scream. There’s no time left to debate. “Jette? What’s happening?” Adam calls.

  The front door is my only way out. “I’m okay. I’m coming out. Get ready,” I warn him. With the rag over my mouth, I choke back thick smoke and struggle to regain my footing as the black cloud thickens around me. I wrap myself in the blanket, covering my face and head as best I can. Holding my breath and closing my eyes, I shield my hand with the blanket, turn the knob, ignoring the searing burn of the hot metal, and swing the door open. Unable to see what’s happening, I hear a loud “swoosh” race past me as I leap across the threshold. Just as promised, a pair of strong arms is there to catch me, ripping the blanket from me and tossing it to the side in one swift motion.

  I feel the rush of fresh air all around me, but when I try to take a deep cleansing breath, my chest burns. My ears begin to ring loudly and my field of vision begins to narrow. I hear sirens wailing in the distance. Adam is talking to me, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I feel him wrapping something around my arm. I want to say something. I try to thank him, but I can’t get the words out. A dark curtain closes around me, and I give in to the blackness, unable to stop its advance.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  On Borrowed Time

  I hear words and voices, but none of it makes sense. Still cloaked in darkness, I listen, trying to sort out the sounds. It’s no use. My chest hurts and my head is pounding. I shut it all out again and allow sleep to claim me. The pain subsides and the confusion clears, leaving only the dreamy images of flowers and football.

  More voices creep into my dream state. Some voices are familiar, others are not. Evan’s voice is loudest of all. He sounds distressed. I hope he’s not mad at me. In the background, I hear the repetitive beeping of medical equipment. My body is heavy. Even my eyelids feel unmovable. Unconsciousness beckons, offering solace and relief.

  Again, the fog begins to lift and unpleasant memories come surging forward. There was a fire. And smoke. So much smoke. I ran through the flames. Then nothing but black follows. I feel the pressing force of a blood pressure cuff on my arm, squeezing tightly. The beeping sounds return, along with voices.

  Slowly, I open my eyes, curious but afraid. Where am I? How badly hurt am I? I see Evan standing near me, talking to a doctor. I can hear their voices, but it’s like watching a movie. I observe and listen, unaffected and disconnected. They see me. Evan takes my hand in his and kisses it, but I cannot feel his lips, his beautiful, perfect lips. He’s asking me questions. He wants me to answer him. I’m not ready. It’s too soon. I’m scared. This time, when I begin to feel myself being dragged back down into oblivion, I welcome it.

  Soft, reassuring voices wake me again, urging me to talk. Auggie is he
re with me now. I open my eyes and look at his face. He’s been crying. He’s teary-eyed and sad. He knows I can see him. I want to tell him I’m okay. I want him to know that I’m here, but my body betrays me. I scream, but nothing comes out. I reach for him, but my arm won’t budge. I hear the quickening of the beeps, keeping perfect rhythm with my frenzied heart rate. The fog returns bringing darkness with it. I fight and struggle, but it’s no use. Auggie slips away from me and I’m helpless to stop it.

  Time passes without meaning or consequence. Has it been minutes? Hours? Days?

  I feel the adoring, gentle touch of Evan’s hand, sweeping the hair from my brow and placing it lovingly behind my ear. He traces a line down my neck and shoulder, and then takes my hand in his. He begins tracing tiny circles with his thumb all along the soft, sensitive flesh of my inner arm. It feels so good, like home. I open my eyes and I see him, sitting beside me in the dark, his hair a mess. This is my favorite way to wake up. Memories of playful mornings, waking in his arms, paying no attention to time or schedules, come rushing back. They are such sweet memories. I moan a soft grunt of pleasurable satisfaction.

  Evan stops his caresses and stares at me in disbelief. He heard me. “Don’t stop,” I mumble.

  “Juliette? Baby? Can you hear me?” Evan asks, his voice cracking and strained.

  I try to answer, but my mouth is so dry. I nod my head and squeeze his hand. I try to take a deep breath, and I’m rewarded by a harsh, painful cough instead. “Water,” I hiss.

  Evan helps me sit up. He brings a straw to my lips, and the cool, refreshing liquid feels glorious. I can’t seem to get enough. Evan refills the cup, and I drink until it’s empty.