but what if she didn’t?
I envision myself standing by watching as the house burns, knowing David is inside, knowing I might mean the difference between life and death for him. Could I live with myself if he died because I didn’t try to save him? I shake my head, answering my own mental question.
Desperate, I look around for something to use to break a window. I remember seeing a snow shovel on the front porch and head back that way to grab it, but as I’m running down the far side of the house, something catches my eye and I stop. One of the basement windows has been broken out. I bend down and peer inside and Hoover does the same. The basement is dark, dry, and free of both smoke and flame.
I drop down onto my stomach on the ground and stick my feet through the small window opening, wiggling backward until my butt hits the frame. I push back a little harder and feel a stinging sensation on my left hip as my butt goes through the opening, but I hit another stopgap when I get to my chest. After reaching down and shifting my boobs around a bit, I contort myself first one way, then another, but to no avail. For a few horrifying seconds I think I’m stuck in the opening but after several more desperate grunts and squirms, I manage to push through and drop down onto the basement floor.
I pick myself up and spare a glance at Hoover, who is outside the window looking in at me. After telling him to stay, I head for the basement stairs, pausing at the top to put my hand to the wood to feel for heat. The door to the basement is in the hallway near the kitchen and away from the main fire, and though it feels faintly warm, it’s not dangerously so. I slowly ease it open.
Though the basement air wasn’t bad, as soon as I get to the main floor, I’m assaulted by roiling clouds of thick black smoke that make it hard to breathe and nearly impossible to see. I’m having second thoughts, thinking David will just have to wait for the fire trucks to arrive when Hoover darts past me, barking like a fool and headed for the back stairs.
“Hoover, no!” I yell, but his barking rapidly grows more distant and I can tell he’s on a mission. I hunker down to minimize my smoke exposure and feel my way along the wall to the stairs. The flames are frighteningly close but the fire hasn’t reached the stairwell yet so I grab ahold of the railing and start pulling myself up. I hold my breath for as long as I can and by the time I reach the top, I’m feeling light-headed. When I’m finally forced to suck in a breath, it makes me cough so hard I see stars and nearly pass out.
Off in the distance I hear sirens, and once again I have second thoughts. But over the roar of the flames I hear Hoover barking a short way ahead of me and know I have to go on. With my eyes burning and watering, I guide myself along the rail in the upstairs foyer and into the bedroom. I can’t see the bed, but I fling myself across the room to where I know it to be and fall on it. I can feel David’s legs beneath me and I pull myself up along his body toward his head.
“David? David! Come on! We need to get out of here!”
Hoover is beside the bed barking his agreement.
David doesn’t move or respond and I feel my heart seize up in agony, wondering if I’m too late and he’s already dead. Summoning every bit of strength I have, I leap off the bed, grab David’s feet, and pull.
He isn’t a small man by any means and because he works out regularly, his body is a dense mass of heavy muscle. Grunting, groaning, and trying not to pass out, I manage to drag him off the bed. His head hits the floor with a frightening
Inch by inch I drag him across the room, into the hallway, and to the top of the stairs. Hoover gets into the act by grabbing the sleeve of David’s pajama top with his teeth and pulling along with me. When I look toward the bottom of the stairs I don’t see any flames so I turn around and start backing down, dragging David with me. My breathing is so strained I sound like an accordion. Twice I nearly fall over backward and then, halfway down, blackness begins to close in on me. Frantic, I double my efforts and try to pull harder. It proves to be a fatal mistake because this time I do lose my balance. As I feel myself fall I tighten my grip on David and hang on for both our lives.
My last sentient thought is how ironic it would be for David and me to be joined in death even though we are no longer joined in life.
Chapter 23
“Mattie? Can you hear me? Mattie?”
Though the voice is soothing to my ears, I panic, struggling to get my breath. I feel as if I’m swimming up to the surface from some great depth and I’m not going to make it before my air runs out. Then I gasp as memories of the fire flood my mind.
I try to say his name but my throat is dry and raw and I can’t seem to get any sound out. There is a bright light behind my closed eyelids, and for a second I think that maybe I’m dead and I’ve somehow managed to luck out and end up in heaven despite the fact that I never go to church and have committed a host of sins over the years. I mentally thank God for her magnanimity and kindness in letting me spend eternity with Hurley, for I recognize that it’s his voice calling my name.
Logic kicks in when I remember Hurley isn’t dead—at least as far as I know. I try to speak again, but my chest is on fire and I cough so hard it feels like I’m hacking up a lung. That’s when I realize
I sense that I’m lying in a bed, and when I finally open my eyes I find myself staring into a too-bright ceiling light that momentarily blinds me. That first cough has multiplied into dozens, a prolonged spasm that makes me start to gag, and I push up from the bed into a sitting position.
“Whoa!” Hurley says, placing the palm of his hand against the front of my shoulder. “Easy there.”
As my vision slowly returns I can just make out Hurley standing beside me. The wall behind him shifts and I’m not sure if it’s the movement of my head created by the coughing jag that’s creating the illusion, or if I’m hallucinating. When another face joins Hurley’s, I recognize Phyllis “Syph” Malone and realize the wall is actually a curtain, and that I’m in the ER.
I continue to cough and my head feels like it’s about to explode. Along the periphery of my vision I can see tiny, sparkling lights floating in the air. Syph shoves a paper cup of water under my nose and says, “Here. Drink. It will help.”
I go for the cup like a drowning man gasping for air, but when I try to swallow I’m seized by another hacking spasm and spew water all over the bedsheet. After sputtering like a dying engine for a few seconds, I try again and finally manage to get some of the water down.
It hurts like hell at first, like I’m trying to swallow a handful of razor blades. But eventually it gets easier and by the time I empty the cup, the cool water has become a soothing balm. Even better, the coughing has ceased, at least for now, though I suspect it will return since I can feel my lungs desperately trying to squeeze out all the crap in them.
“Better?” Syph asks.
I say yes and the word comes out as a hoarse croak.
“Don’t try to talk too much yet,” Syph says. “You inhaled a ton of smoke and your throat probably looks like a very used chimney right about now.”
Mention of the fire brings my memories back. “David?” I manage to rasp, watching Syph’s expression closely.
Concern flits across her face, but it’s there and gone in a blink, quickly replaced by her placid professional persona. It’s an expression I know and understand all too well as I’ve worn it a few times myself. Delivering mixed or bad news is an unpleasant but necessary part of working in an ER.
“He’s stable for now,” Syph says, and I squeeze my eyes closed with relief. “But he’s unconscious. He inhaled a lot of smoke and has a minor head injury. They’re debating on whether or not to intubate him.”
“Damn,” I whisper. Despite the antagonistic nature of our relationship of late, I don’t want David dead, even if I did secretly wish it a time or two a few months ago after catching my coworker playing his skin flute.
