Poisoned Petals

Her lungs were bursting, but she knew she couldn’t take a breath of the poisoned air. It could mean the difference between life and death for both of them. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t let go, and couldn’t breathe until she could force them both through the doorway.

Something hit her. She thought it fell from the ceiling. Blood or perspiration dripped down the side of her face. She didn’t have time to see which it was. It didn’t matter. Her world narrowed to the doorway.

She didn’t realize she was on her knees, crawling, with her hand still tangled in Darmus’s shirt collar, until she looked up and saw a firefighter in full protective gear staring down at her.

“There are two people still in the house,” he said into his radio. “Both of them near the back door. I’m getting them out now before the roof collapses.”

He dragged Peggy out quickly and left her gasping for air on the ground beyond the porch. She tried to yell at him to get Darmus, too, but the words wouldn’t come out of her rasping throat.

She watched as he dragged Darmus out. He laid him carefully on the ground beside her. He shook his head at the paramedics as they approached with oxygen masks and stretchers.

“This one is gone.” He took off his mask. “Maybe just as well, with those burns.”

Peggy screamed in her mind. Darmus! Her throat was too raw to issue any sound. She collapsed and stared up into the clear afternoon sky above her.

Someone asked her if she was burned. Someone else asked her if she knew who she was. She couldn’t answer. She closed her eyes, hoping when she woke up it would all be a bad dream.

PEGGY WOKE LATER THAT DAY to find her nightmare was real. Darmus was dead. Apparently, he’d been trying to light a faulty gas stove and it blew up in his face.

Her son, Paul, sat with her at the hospital while a police community liaison officer told her what they knew about what happened. Paul was tall and thin like his father with Peggy’s green eyes and bright red hair spiked on his head. His dark blue Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department uniform reminded her too much of her husband, John, many years before. She turned her head on the smooth, white pillow so she wouldn’t cry.

“It was probably an accident,” the liaison concluded, taking off her blue-rimmed glasses.

“Probably?” Peggy’s voice sounded like a rusty hinge after inhaling so much smoke. “How could it be anything else?”

“In these cases,” the woman shrugged, “we have to consider every possibility. The arson team will check it out. There will be an investigation and an autopsy.”

Peggy closed her burning eyes. A nurse had put drops into them a few minutes before, making them sting even more. She didn’t remember much of the ride to the hospital. But seeing Paul’s anxious young face and worried eyes made her realize she was lucky to be alive.

She didn’t understand what there was to investigate. Darmus was dead, a victim of carelessness. It happened every day. She felt sure there were statistics if someone wanted to look them up. Darmus was gone.

“Do you have any other questions, Mrs. Lee?” The police liaison peered closely into Peggy’s face. Her voice was louder than it needed to be, as if saying the words louder would make them more palatable.

“Dr. Lee,” Paul corrected, getting to his feet. “I think she should rest for a while. Thanks for coming by. If she thinks of anything else, she’ll call.”

“I’m sure the investigating detective will want to ask a few questions.” The woman shrugged and gave Paul her card. “I’m sorry for your loss, Dr. Lee.”

Peggy didn’t respond. Her throat was scratchy, and her head hurt. There were cuts and bruises on her face and arms that stung from being cleaned and having antibiotic put on them. The worst of them were bandaged. The rest made a crazy patchwork up and down her arms.

She didn’t even realize she’d been cut at the time. It must have happened when she was outside and the glass blew past her. She wanted to be left alone to cry and pound the bed. It seemed to be the only way to properly mourn Darmus.

Paul walked the liaison to the door, and they spoke quietly for a few moments. When she was gone, he came back to the side of the bed and took his mother’s hand. “Are you okay, Mom? Can I get you some water or something?”

“I’m fine.” She squeezed his hand and gave him a watery smile. “When can I go home?”

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders a little beneath the dark blue uniform. “The doctor might want you to stay overnight.”

“What for? A little smoke and a few cuts.” She waved her hand. “Get my clothes.”

“You could have a concussion. It took a lot of force to blow that door off.”

“I wasn’t standing in front of it. I wouldn’t be here at all except that I went in after Darmus.” She choked on his name. It was stupid, ridiculous, to think he was gone. “Has anyone called Luther?”

“I’m sure someone did. Let’s worry about you for a change, huh? How are you feeling?”

“Like I need to go home.”

Her son, who looked so much like her, shook his head. “You never let up. Can’t you admit you were hurt back there and get some rest for a few days?”

“There’s too much to do. Luther will need help planning the funeral. He’s not in the best health. People need to be contacted. Rosie—”

“Who’s Rosie?”

“Rosie?” She wasn’t thinking when she blurted out that name. She hadn’t seen