What I remember about that day was the way the ground bit back when you sat
on it—the first hint of winter. I remember being tackled by my father, who
always braced himself in a push-up so that I got none of the weight and all of
his heat. I remember my mother, cheering equally for both teams.
And I remember throwing the ball to Jesse, but Kate getting in the way—an
expression of absolute shock on her face as it landed in the cradle of her arms
and Dad yelled her on to the touchdown. She sprinted, and nearly had it, but
then Jesse took a running leap and slammed her to the ground, crushing her
underneath him.
In that moment everything stopped. Kate lay with her arms and legs splayed,
unmoving. My father was there in a breath, shoving at Jesse. “What the
hell is the matter with you!”
“I forgot!”
My mother: “Where does it hurt? Can you sit up?”
But when Kate rolled over, she was smiling. “It doesn't hurt. It feels great.”
My parents looked at each other. Neither of them understood like I did, like
Jesse did—that no matter who you are, there is some part of you that always
wishes you were someone else—and when, for a millisecond, you get that
wish, it's a miracle. “He forgot,” Kate said to nobody, and she lay
on her back, beaming up at the cold hawkeye sun.
Hospital rooms never get completely dark; there is always some glowing panel
behind the bed in the case of catastrophe, a runway strip so that the nurses
and doctors can find their way. I have seen Kate a hundred times in beds like
this one, although the tubes and wires change. She always looks smaller than I
remember.
I sit down as gently as I can. The veins on Kate's neck and chest are a road
map, highways that don't go anywhere. I trick myself into believing that I can
see those rogue leukemia cells moving like a rumor through her system.
When she opens her eyes, I nearly fall off the bed; it's an Exorcist
moment. “Anna?” she says, staring right at me. I have not seen her
look this scared since we were little, and Jesse convinced us that an old
Indian ghost had come back to claim the bones buried by mistake under our
house.
If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are
you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?
I crawl onto the bed, which is narrow, but still big enough for both of us.
I rest my head on her chest, so close to her central line that I can see the
liquid dripping into her. Jesse is wrong—I didn't come to see Kate because it
would make me feel better. I came because without her, it's hard to remember
who I am
You, if you were sensible,
When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,
You would not turn and answer me
“The night is wonderful.”
—D. H. LAWRENCE, “Under the Oak”
BRIAN
WE NEVER KNOW, AT FIRST, if we are headed into a cooker or a smudge. At 2:46
A.M. last night, the lights went on upstairs. The bells went off, too, but I
can't say that I ever really hear them. In ten seconds, I was dressed and
walking out the door of my room at the station. In twenty, I was stepping into
my turnout gear, pulling up the long elastic suspenders, and shrugging into the
turtle-shell of my coat. By the time two minutes passed, Caesar was driving the
engine onto the streets of Upper Darby; Paulie and Red were the can man and the
hydrant man, riding behind.
Sometime after that, consciousness came in small bright flashes: we
remembered to check our breathing apparatus; we slid on our gloves; dispatch called
to tell us that the house was on Hoddington Drive; that it appeared to be
either a structure fire or a room and contents fire. 'Turn left here," I
told Caesar. Hoddington was only eight blocks away from where I lived.
The house looked like the mouth of a dragon. Caesar drove around as far as
he could, trying to get me a view of three sides. Then we all piled out of the
engine and stared for a moment, four Davids against a Goliath. “Charge a
two-and-a-half inch line,” I told Caesar, tonight's motor pump operator. A
woman in a nightgown ran toward me, sobbing, three children holding her skirt. “Mija,”
she screamed, pointing. “Mija!”
“iDdnde esta?” I got right in front of her, so that she
couldn't see anything but my face. “iCuantos anos tiene?”
She pointed to a window on the second floor. “Tres,” she
cried.
“Cap,” Caesar yelled, “we're ready over here.”
I heard the approaching whine of a second engine, the reserve guys coming to
back us up. “Red, vent the northeast corner of the roof; Paulie,
put the wet stuff on the red stuff and push it out when it's got somewhere to
go. We've got a kid on the second floor. I'm going in to see if I can get
her.”
It was not, like in the movies, a slam dunk-a scene for the hero to go win
his Oscar. If I got in there, and the stairs had gone… if the structure
threatened to collapse… if the temperature of the space had gotten so hot that
everything was combustible and ripe for flashover—I would have backed out and
told my men to back out with me. The safety of the rescuer is of a higher
priority than the safety of the victim. Always.
I'm a coward. There are times when my shift is over that I'll stay and roll
hose, or put on a fresh pot of coffee for the crew coming in, instead of
heading straight to my house. I have often wondered why I get more rest in a
place where, for the most part, I'm roused out of bed two or three times a
night. I think it is because in a firehouse, I don't have to worry about
emergencies happening-they're supposed to. The minute I walk through the door at
home, I'm worrying about what might come next.
Once, in second grade, Kate drew a picture of a firefighter with a halo
above his helmet. She told her class that I would only be allowed to go to
Heaven, because if I went to Hell, I'd put out all the fires. I still have that
picture.
In a bowl, I crack a dozen eggs and start to whip them into a frenzy. The
bacon's already spitting on the stove; the griddle's heating for pancakes.
Firemen eat together—or at least we try to, before the bells ring. This breakfast
will be a treat for my guys, who are still showering away the memories of last
night from their skin. Behind me, I hear the fall of footsteps. “Pull up a
chair,” I call over my shoulder. “It's almost ready.”
“Oh, thanks, but no,” says a female voice. “I wouldn't want
to impose.” I turn around, brandishing my spatula. The sound of a woman
here is surprising; one who's shown up just shy of seven A.M. is even more
remarkable. She is small, with wild hair that makes me think of a forest fire.
Her hands are covered with winking silver rings. “Captain Fitzgerald, I'm
Julia Romano. I'm the guardian ad litem assigned to Anna's case.”
Sara's told me about her-the woman the judge will listen to, when push comes
to shove.
“Smells great,” she says, smiling. She walks up and takes the
spatula out of my hand. “I can't watch someone cook without helping. It's
a genetic abnormality.” I watch her reach into the fridge, rummaging
around. Of all things, she comes back with a jar of horseradish. “I was
hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”
“Sure.” Horseradish?
She adds a good wad of the stuff to the eggs, and then pulls orange zest off
the spice rack, along with some chili powder, and sprinkles this on as well.
“How's Kate doing?”
I pour a circle of batter on the griddle, watch it come to a bubble. When I
flip it, it's an even, creamy brown. I've already spoken to Sara this morning.
Kate's night was uneventful; Sara's wasn't. But that's because of Jesse.
There is a moment during a structure fire when you know you are either going
to get the upper hand, or that it's going to get the upper hand on you. You
notice the ceiling patch about to fall and the staircase eating itself alive
and the synthetic carpet glued to the soles of your boots. The sum of the parts
overwhelms, and that's when you back out and force yourself to remember that
every fire will burn itself out, even without your help.
These days, I'm fighting fire on six sides. I look in front of me and see
Kate sick I look behind me and see Anna with her lawyer. The only time Jesse
isn't drinking like a fish, he's strung out on drugs; Sara's grasping at
straws. And me, I've got my gear on, safe. I'm holding dozens of hooks and
irons and poles-all tools that are meant to destroy, when what I need is
something to rope us together.
“Captain Fitzgerald … Brian!” Julia Romano's voice knocks
me out of my own head, into a kitchen that's rapidly filling with smoke. She
reaches past me and shoves the pancake that's burning off the griddle.
“Jesus!” I drop the charcoal disk that used to be a pancake into
the sink, where it hisses at me. “I'm sorry.”
Like open sesame, those two simple words change the landscape.
“Good thing we've got the eggs,” Julia Romano says.
In a burning house, your sixth sense kicks in. You can't see, because of the
smoke. You can't hear, because fire roars loud. You can't touch, because it
will be the end of you.
In front of me, Paulie manned the nozzle. A line of firefighters backed him
up; a charged hose was a thick, dead weight. We worked our way up the stairs,
still intact, intent on shoving this fire out the hole Red had put in the roof.
Like anything that's confined, fire has a natural instinct to escape.
I got down on my hands and knees and started to crawl through the hallway.
The mother said it was the third door on the left. The fire rolled along the
other side of the ceiling, racing to the vent. As the spray attacked, white
steam swallowed the other firefighters.
The door to the child's room was open. I crawled in calling her name. A
larger shape at the window drew me like a magnet, but it turned out to be an
oversized stuffed animal. I checked the closets and under the bed, too, but
nobody was there.
I backed into the hallway again and nearly tripped over the hose,
fist-thick. A human could think; a fire couldn't. A fire would follow a
specific path; a child might not. Where would I have gone if I were terrified?
Moving fast, I started poking my head into doorways. One was pink, a baby's
room. Another had Matchbox cars all over the floor and bunk beds. One was not a
room at all, but a closet. The master bedroom was on the far side of the
staircase.
If I were a kid, I'd want my mother.
Unlike the other bedrooms, this one was leaking thick, black smoke. Fire had
burned a seam at the bottom of the door. I opened it, knowing I was going to
let in air, knowing it was the wrong thing to do and the only choice I had.
Predictably, the smoldering line ignited, flame filling the doorway. I
charged through it like a bull, feeling embers rain down the back of my helmet
and coat. “Luisa!” I yelled out. I felt my way around the perimeter
of the room, found the closet. I knocked hard and called again.
It was faint, but there was definitely a knock back.
“We've been lucky,” I tell Julia Romano, quite possibly the last
words she'd ever expect to hear me say. “Sara's sister watches the kids if
it's going to be a long haul. For shorter runs, we swap off—you know, Sara
stays with Kate one night at the hospital, and I go home to the other kids, or
vice versa. It's easier now. They're old enough to take care of
themselves.”
She writes something down in her little book when I say that, and it makes
me squirm in my seat. Anna's only thirteen-is that too young to stay alone in a
house? Social Services might say so, but Anna's different. Anna grew up years
ago.
“Do you think Anna's doing okay?” Julia asks.
“I don't think she would have filed a lawsuit if she was.” I
hesitate. “Sara says she wants attention.”
“What do you think?”
To buy time, I take a forkful of eggs. The horseradish turned out to be
surprisingly good. It brings out the orange. I tell Julia Romano this.
She folds her napkin next to her own plate. “You didn't answer my
question, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“I don't think it's that simple.” I very carefully set my
silverware down. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Both. Six older brothers and a twin sister.”
I whistle. “Your parents must have a hell of a lot of patience.”
She shrugs. “Good Catholics. I don't know how they did it, either, but
none of us fell through the cracks.”
“Did you always think so?” I ask. “Did you ever feel, when
you were a kid, that maybe they were playing favorites?” Her face
tightens, just the tiniest bit, and I feel bad about putting her on the spot.
“We all know you're supposed to love your kids equal, but that's not
always how it works out.” I get to my feet. “You got a little extra
time? There's someone I'd like you to meet.”
Last winter we got an ambulance call in the dead of winter for a guy who
lived up a rural road. The contractor he hired to plow his driveway had found
him and called 911; apparently the guy had gotten out of his car the night
before, slipped, and froze right to the gravel; the contractor nearly ran over
him, thinking he was a drift.
When we got to the scene, he'd been outside for nearly eight hours, and he
was nothing more than an ice cube with no pulse. His knees were bent; I
remember this, because when we finally pried him out and set him on a
backboard, there they were, sticking straight up in the air. We got the heat
cranked in the ambulance and brought him inside, starting to cut off his
clothes. By the time we had our paperwork in order for the hospital transport,
the guy was sitting up and talking to us.
I tell you this to show you that in spite of what you'd think, miracles
happen.
It's a cliche, but the reason I became a firefighter in the first place was
because I wanted to save people. So the moment I emerged from the fiery arched
doorway with Luisa in my arms, when her mother first saw us and fell to her
knees, I knew I had done my job and done it well. She swooped down beside the
EMT from the second crew who got a line into the girl's arm and put her on
oxygen. The kid was coughing, frightened, but she would be fine.