How to Set Yourself on Fire

by Julia Dixon Evans

  I walk slowly toward the clothesline, my bare feet heavy. There’s no more athleticism, no more quick intensity. And then I start at the beginning, and read.

  And it’s unbearable.

  How could they be like this to each other, for so long? I want to hate them both for doing this to each other, for not doing enough. If their love was so powerful, it would be powerful enough to uproot lives and still prevail. It’s the first time I’ve properly let myself be upset by this and not just unmoored, and I’m acutely aware that I’ve stepped outside of the compulsive way I read and reread and catalogued the letters. I imagine my grandmother, holding that last letter, the one where Harold leaves. I feel like her, sad beyond words. Helpless. Lonely. I miss her desperately only because I want a chance to tell her that I understand and that I’ll never understand. I want to hold her frail hands and tell her she was wrong.

  I’m not touching the clothesline when it falls. I’m not even close to it. I’ve stepped back three paces, not even looking because by now I know where all the candles are. But I’m too far away, I’m helpless. The knots on the cabinet door must have given out—my father’s failed knot lessons—because one of the lines sails, weirdly slowly, to the ground from left to right, all the way toward the window. It springs back a little at the point where I’ve wrapped it around the aluminum blinds, and then the line, the clothespins still attached, the letters still attached, sinks to the ground, the pages fluttering, feathers on a wing. My stare is glued to that point, to the blinds, when I hear the first rustle and crack of paper catching fire. The light swells in the room, golden, almost sweet. I lunge toward it, but I fall, and I cry out, and it’s hot, I’m hot, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to see any of this anymore.

  FIFTY-THREE

  “SHEILA!” IT’S VINNIE.

  “Sheila?” His voice is thick and warbly. Maybe I’m inventing it.

  “Come on, no. You cannot go back in. Shit,” he says. I can’t even think, never mind speak. “You’re hurt.”

  “Shit. Sheila.”

  “They’ll be here soon. I can hear the sirens. It’ll be okay. God, I think you’re hurt. Sit down.”

  I open my eyes. The letters are gone, the fire is gone. I’m in a hospital bed, not even in a room, more of a curtained-in cubicle. It’s not any sort of gradual realization like in the movies, where I hear these curious beeps and slowly become aware of my surroundings. I don’t try to tug at the tubes and wires attached to me. There aren’t many, just some sort of blood pressure cuff on my fingertip and a clipped needle in the back of my hand, clear tubing to an IV. My head is tilted to the side, and that’s all I see, that hand, and I don’t move.

  “I’m awake,” I try to say but no sound comes out.

  I go back to sleep.

  There’s smoke and tiny swirls of sparks, and I’m behind glass and can’t get to it. I press my hands to the glass, then my cheek. It isn’t even warm. I bang on the glass, as hard as I can, until it breaks. The fire rushes toward me, like it was sucked this way.

  My eyes flick open and it’s more dramatic this time, jagged breath and slight panic. My fingernails are digging into the loose sheet on top of the tiny mattress. My left hand and forearm are bandaged up. My breathing calms and I hold my arm up and rotate it back and forth. It doesn’t hurt much. I try to lean up to see what else is going on. There’s a blanket but I can move everything.

  I close my eyes.

  I can recite Harold’s final letters, the crazy ones, from memory. I don’t know if I’m saying them out loud. I don’t know if I’m awake. I might be dreaming, or on drugs, or dead. I move my lips, my eyes are closed. I’m not here, I’m not here, I’m not here.

  My Rosamond,

  I need to see you. It hurt me that you canceled our visit. Not that you canceled, per se, but because no matter how much we mean to each other, you cannot prioritize me the way I prioritize you.

  To be perfectly truthful, I actually cannot think of anything else to say to you in this moment. I have nothing to say.

  Yours, regardless,

  Harold

  When I grasp at the sheet, it lifts from the mattress. There’s something in me, something in my veins.

  Dear Rosamond,

  Please forgive my dreadful handwriting. You see, it is dark, it is early, maybe two o’clock in the morning, and I am so tired, and I have been drinking gin, and it is dark in my room. I do not want to turn the light on. With the light on maybe I will see myself more clearly, and my darling, I do not wish to see myself more clearly.

  I want to see you. Only you.

  Desperately, ashamedly,

  Harold

  I want gin, I want the dark. My eyes are closed but I feel so bright, it’s too bright here.

  My darling Rosamond,

  I want to throw away this pen. I want to burn this book of letter paper. I want to cement up the fence between our houses. I want to rip up the flowers. Sunflowers are such ugly, grotesque things. I want to be yours forever.

  Regretfully,

  Harold

  I try to roll over, to bury my face in my pillow, but I’m too tired, I’m too heavy, everything is heavy. I just want to be buried underneath it.

  Rosamond,

  My dear, my Rosamond. Where have I gone wrong?

  Yours, always.

  Harold

  “Oh God, she’s awake. She’s awake!”

  “Mom?”

  “Oh God, Sheila. You’re okay! You’re okay. Jesus. You’re okay. Thank God.”

  She sounds angry more than relieved, and I wish I had enough energy to hate her for it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. My throat hurts so much.

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “Don’t be sorry. It was an accident.”

  “What’s with my arm?” I whisper.

  “You’re burnt,” she says. “It’s not too bad, it’ll possibly just mean pain treatment. There’s a patch on your hip, too. You’ve been sedated a bit.”

  I don’t speak.

  “All things considered, you made out pretty well.”

  All things considered.

  “Hey.” It’s a new voice. A man. I can’t place it yet. “You awake?”

  I open my eyes. Brown hair, short, and for minute I think he’s Jesse Ramirez and my heart skips because it could be Jesse, because he could have heard about my accident and remembered me, because maybe he cared all along.

  “It’s Simon. Remember? I’m Harold’s nephew?”

  “Oh,” I say, and my voice sounds so relieved. It’s a relief to be relieved. “Hi.”

  “You don’t look so good,” he says.

  I sit up a little and try to squint at him.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that,” he says. “I just mean, you’re in a hospital.”

  “I know,” I say. I realize I’m fighting a smile.

  “I mean, shit. I know you know.”

  “Why are you here?” I say.

  “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.” He looks down.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  He looks at his phone. “I’ve been here, like, maybe a few minutes?” “How long have I been here?” I ask. I’ve been awake twice now. No, three times. Maybe I’ve been here all night.

  “A night? I think,” he says. “I’m not sure.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I don’t say why, and he doesn’t ask why, and he also doesn’t ask me if I have his letters so I assume we both know what I’m talking about.

  “I know. I’m sorry, too.”

  I lie back down and we stay like that for too long. We don’t talk, because what is there to talk about? I feel weak. I’m a little hungry, and I’m so thirsty.

  I hear nurses at the desk, and they’re talking about The Bachelorette, maybe it was on last night. They have strong opinions on the girl and weak opinions on the men. Simon and I sit there in silence during their entire conversation, until they run out of things to have opinions about, and then the
hallway is quiet.

  “Can you leave?” I ask.

  “Sure, God, I’m sorry.” He sounds so awkward. I think I’ve upset him.

  “Sorry,” I hedge. “It was nice to see you. I just mean that I’m feeling really tired. I don’t want you to be sitting here when I fall asleep. I’d feel bad.”

  “No, I totally understand. I’m sorry. It was kind of dumb to come here anyway. I’m sure you’d rather see a million other people.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t have a million other people.”

  I close my eyes.

  He stands up, a scrape, chair legs versus hospital floor. I whisper “I’m sorry” to him and I mean about the letters, I mean about coming to find him, somehow pulling him into my mess. I don’t open my eyes and I don’t want him leave.

  I think I’m asleep before he disappears.

  “Torrey?” I say. I close my eyes again. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Hi, lady.”

  “Hey, Sheila,” Vinnie says. He sits back but Torrey leans forward.

  I prop my pillow behind me. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  She’s sitting in the chair with her arms folded. She looks annoyed.

  “Did they just give up on giving you a room?” she asks. “Isn’t it illegal to keep people in this, like, hospital farm?”

  “It’s perfectly fine,” Vinnie says. “I think this is normal. Stop being dramatic, Torrey.”

  “I don’t have insurance,” I say. “That might be part of it.”

  “Ugh,” she says. “You’re so stupid.”

  “Thanks, I know.”

  “Seriously! How could you do that to me?”

  I’m quiet for a little while. I don’t really know what to say to her. I didn’t do this on purpose. I’m the one who is hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say.

  “How much longer are you gonna be here?”

  “I think they’ll let me go home in a bit,” I say. “Nothing really hurts but I’m also on a lot of medicine.”

  “Oh good.”

  We look at each other. She hasn’t unfolded her arms yet. Her lanky legs stretch out before her, all the way beneath the hospital bed.

  “Well, you do realize you don’t have much of a home left anymore, right?” she says.

  I didn’t realize. I didn’t really think about it.

  “It’s not that bad, but it’s definitely not livable yet,” Vinnie says. “The landlord has been around, grumbling and cussing and fixing stuff up.”

  “You’re so dramatic. I thought it burned down to the ground.”

  “Almost,” Torrey says. “It would have if it weren’t for my dad. And you’d probably be dead.”

  I close my eyes and lean my head back. I try to remember.

  “I can’t remember,” I finally say. “I remember you, Vinnie, a little bit.”

  “There’s not much to know. He went in, pulled you out, called the fire truck, the end.”

  He’s so quiet.

  She stands up and paces, slowly, in the tiny cubicle. I can’t tell if she’s awkward or angry at me.

  “Some of the letters are still okay,” she blurts out, like she’s been holding it in the entire time. “Most of Harold’s are fine.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “Yeah.” She sits down again.

  “I don’t really care about the letters,” I say.

  She slaps her hands on her thighs, stands up, and opens the curtain, but before she walks out, she turns back to me. In a small voice, not accusing, not judgmental, she asks:

  “Did you do it on purpose?”

  I take a deep breath, a long exhale. “No. Torrey. Of course I didn’t.”

  I think that was a mistake, including the “of course.” Because sometimes when I look at myself the way Torrey must see me, there’s no “of course.” There’s just a live wire.

  “I didn’t,” I say, and I reach toward her. She walks back to the bedside and I grab both of her hands with my right hand. “I swear. My power had gone out. I needed the candles to see.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay, Sheila.”

  She squeezes my hand a little bit, then pulls her hands away. “Torrey?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry,”

  “Don’t be sorry. It was an accident.”

  “I mean, for everything. For being such a mess.”

  She looks at me for a long time, and it unnerves me. I’m glad that I’m no longer connected to anything that might beep.

  “I really don’t think you’re a mess,” she says, and she looks at me, hard, and then she leaves, and she’s the strongest thing I’ve ever known.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  I WAKE UP AGAIN, not realizing I slept. Just Vinnie’s here.

  “Hey,” I say.

  I want to ask him so many things, but my throat is still sore from coughing, from breathing in smoke. I want to ask him what I was like when he walked in. I want to ask him if he saved any letters or if that was just pure chance. I want to ask him if he’s noticed we haven’t slept together in a while. I want to ask him if he’s noticed we’ve never kissed. I want to ask him where my grandmother’s dress is. I want to ask him if Torrey is okay.

  Instead, we’re both quiet.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “Hm?”

  “I mean, where are you going today, when you go home? For the time being, I mean?”

  “Oh. My mom’s. I don’t know if I can go back to my house.”

  “Why’s that? Is everything okay?” he asks, and he looks awkward. “Financially?”

  “Vinnie,” I start, and I feel this instinct to be mean but I also never want to be mean to him again. “Vinnie, I almost burned down my house.”

  The look on his face tells me I was mean.

  “But you didn’t.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I almost did. And I’m not supposed to burn candles. It’s in my lease.”

  “I’m sure the landlord could give you a pardon.”

  “I’m sure he won’t. He probably had to pay my electric bills so he could use power tools to fix shit today.”

  “What?”

  “Vinnie,” I say. “I’m tired. My throat hurts.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m still going to talk to him.”

  “Why, Vinnie?”

  “Because I’ll never have a better neighbor than you.”

  I’ll never have a better neighbor than you, Vinnie.

  “My mom says she wants me to stay with her for a little while,” I say, and I realize how childish it sounds. “That sounds bad.”

  “I understand. If I were a mother, I’d want the same thing, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t ever want to be a mother,” I say. “I don’t want to think about that.” But before I can finish the sentence, I’m already thinking about it. A girl, a daughter, burning down her house, lighting her flesh on fire, dripping blood from her nose into teacups. Into churches. Scratching her knees until the skin comes off. Stalking people, calling them, going to their houses. The way she’d disappear for weeks. The way she wouldn’t be able to hold down a job. The way she’d treat me.

  “Fuck,” I say. “I want to go home.”

  “Sheila,” he says, and he’s looking down at his feet, at the sparkling clean vinyl floor. I miss our courtyard. I miss the green plastic chairs. I miss all the sounds I know, the smell of Vinnie’s cigarette. “What happened to your father?”

  I close my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Vinnie says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Why did you?” I say, my eyes still closed, my voice thin and tired.

  “Well, I guess I was just thinking about you thinking about being a mother. I was thinking about your mother. It was a natural progression.”

  “Oh God,” I say, and I open my eyes. I laugh. It hurts. It feels good. I haven’t laughed in a very long time. “Were you just imagining being my father? Because that’s fu
cked up.”

  “No. Jesus. I was imagining Torrey, in a hospital.”

  The thought that Torrey could end up like this unsettles me. I feel nauseated. I feel like I could throw up. I clutch my stomach.

  “Oh hell, are you okay?” Vinnie is alarmed. He’s standing, reaching toward the curtains.

  “Stop, don’t get a nurse. I’m fine,” I say. “I just didn’t like thinking about Torrey like that.”

  “I know,” he says. He sits back down. It’s not a green plastic chair and the legs do not scrape against the concrete. “It tears me up to know that there’s a daughter in a hospital and her father is out there somewhere, not knowing.”

  “My father is nowhere.”

  “He isn’t,” Vinnie says, and he’s pissed. His eyes flash wild, angry, just for a moment, before he softens. He looks away. “He isn’t nowhere. He’s somewhere. Don’t say that.”

  “My dad has been nowhere my entire life.”

  “What’s his name?” Vinnie asks.

  “Martin,” I say. “His name’s Martin. My mom always called him Marty, but he introduced himself to other grown-ups as Martin.”

  I suddenly want to tell Vinnie everything, all of it, even the good. The times when my dad and I had fun together. The times we made the best pizzas, and the times we made the shittiest pizzas, and it didn’t bother us, it almost made it better.

  I was happy when he was happy. It was a very simple formula.

  “Vinnie?” I start.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to look him up or anything. That’s your business.”

  “No, I know. I want to ask you something.”

  “Okay,” he says, tentative. “Fire away.”

  “Which was worse? When your wife left you, or when she died?”

  “That’s a terrible question. Of course it was when she died.”

  “Really?” I say. “Think.”

  He does think. I’ll never know if he’s thinking about what I’m telling him to think about, or if he’s thinking about how ridiculous this is, that I’m pressing him on this. But because he doesn’t answer, I feel something like hope. I feel like in the tiniest way, he understands me.