Final Fiction Portfolio Piece
The Bonfire
Jared
stood up, steadied his headdress of chicken feathers, sequins, and multi-colored
pom-poms. He waved the twig—the one carefully chosen from the plum tree—and
repeated the words from last week’s Pow-Wow. None of us knew what any of it
meant, but for Jared, it meant we were to light the bonfire. Everyone knew
their role; we had practiced this drill several times throughout the morning.
Jose and Javier stood lookout by the old yellow shed. Pollito continued
gathering dry grass and sticks from the walnut tree by the chicken coop--two
old hens scurried ahead of him, running over their own green and white
droppings. Chava held a large metal serving spoon of Crisco. I recognized it
from the ornate utensils his mom always brought out at Christmas.
In
my role as Pocahontas, I imitated the dance we had seen, with jingle bells tied
to my ankles and wrists with yarn from Mama’s knitting basket. I wore felt,
rather than leather, but the fringe I cut in the hem of my knee-length top
furled and flew as I twirled—it didn’t make the same pelting sound as cow-skin,
but Jared said that the few bits of leather we had were needed for more
important items, like his loin cloth and the sheath he made for Dad’s knife.
Still, he said that I looked very much like the chocolate-skinned Native
girls—I even had my long, dark hair plaited down my back—and his approval was
all I needed; all I really wanted. Mama had braided my hair this morning, not
knowing why I wanted it, (normally I asked for pony tails) and it looked nice,
especially with the bright pink ribbon she had woven through the strands. Jared
said it was an authentic touch. I had to look up “authentic” in the Webster’s
kid-friendly dictionary with all the bright colors and pictures. I took it as
the best compliment he ever gave me.
“Alright, Braves, it is
time. The sun is above.” Jared turned, looked at Chava. “The sacrifice!” He
commanded and Chava walked ceremoniously to the pile of wood, newspaper, clumps
of fresh and dry grass, and broken wine barrels.
“Now I will light the
fire.” Jared lit the match, dropped it solemnly. Nothing happened.
I
stopped dancing, we all stood still, staring at Jared. In our trial runs, we
had never considered that the fire wouldn’t burst immediately into a satisfying
blaze of lustrous glory. Jared frowned, escaping into deep thought, scratching
his head with one dirt-filled fingernail. We were all concerned, but we trusted
our chief to figure it out. “The ancestors are angry with you guys,” Jared
suddenly thundered. He was standing on the willow stump, making him at least a
head taller than all of us. The chicken feathers on his head swayed with his
movements, and a few bugs fell from the headdress onto the stump.
“I think you’re doing it
wrong,” Pollito hollered from the back end of the yard. He was pulling pieces
from our broken-down plank fence. Pollito had gone to Cub Scouts for two whole
years, so if we were going about this the wrong way, we trusted him to remedy the
situation.
“Here, like this. You
gotta light the newspaper.” Pollito had a flame growing a moment later and we
all stared in wonder at his skill. Jared snapped his fingers at me and I took
up my dance again, jingle bells ringing and jangling, just as I’d seen the
Native American girls doing. Well, at least as close as I could remember. Lift
one arm, then one knee, turn around. Lift, lift, turn. I had used masking tape
to attach clusters of the bells—stolen from Mama’s craft box—to a thick piece
of cherry branch, and shook it in the air.
Jared
picked up the drum he had bought at the Pow-Wow, tanned leather stretched over
wicker, and began to dance circles around me while pounding one balled fist on
the drum. Boom! I was thinking it
would sound better if he used the palm of his hand or a drum stick, but one
didn’t tell the chief how to use a drum. Bam!
So, I just danced faster, kicked my knee higher, as the flames burned brighter,
pushing toward an ice-blue sky. Thwap!
Chava had stood silently,
at the edge of the fire, holding out his spoon of hydrogenated vegetable oil.
He was patient, but looked a little anxiously at Jared, who was yelling a song
that no one understand and pummeling the leather drum. Whopp! The Crisco was starting to melt, the proximity to the
growing inferno changing its chemical structure. Thwack!
The
drum beat sped up, with no order or discernable rhythm, but Jared’s face was
serene, hypnotized by his own musical creation. My feet lifted and dropped to
match the increasingly frantic pace—lift, drop, twirl, jangle, lift, drop,
twirl, jangle!
“Um, Chief?” Chava spoke
quietly, but insistently. Boom! “What
about the sacrifice. Jared turned, confusion written across his face for only a
second. He had obviously forgotten all about the oil, but he recovered quickly,
waving his arms in ritualistic upward motion, his face lifting to the sky. Thwap!
I
didn’t remember the Native drummers beating their instruments as fast as Jared
was pummeling the stretched leather; I wondered if he was making up for the
Crisco. I supported his efforts with my feet, nearly skipping with each knee
lift, growing dizzy with every twirl, the jangling of bells bouncing about the
smooth inner surfaces of my skull. Faster, higher, faster, higher, faster!
“The sacrifice!” He
bellowed with the authority of a mighty, but short, chief. Boom! The willow stump wobbled, but held, as Jared signaled wildly
with hands, arms, legs, body, for Chava to give up the sacrifice, banging away
at the drum. Wapp!
Clanging
bells crashing into each other, metallic edges scratching and screeching. Soft
felt rising and falling, folding, then filling with the gusts of air my body
created. Whirl, twirl, spin!
Chava nodded, dark brown
curls bobbing nervously on his pointed little head. Boom! Not all seven-year-old boys can perform a ritual with such
sacred and solemn perfection, especially with only one autumn morning’s
practice, but Chava was in his element. Bam!
He had stayed up the night before, long after everyone had gone to sleep, to
re-watch segments of Dances With Wolves
on VHS. He kept the volume low, and lay a pillow on top of the video player to
muffle the hum made by the old machine. He told us he almost got caught when
his sister got up to pee in the middle of the night, but she didn’t even notice
him. During his shower the next morning, he said he had imitated moves he had
seen on the late-night movie and others that he remembered from the Pow-Wow. Thwap!
As
he stood before us, tilting the kitchen spoon slowly, gracefully, my feet
suddenly refused to move, the improvised rattle still in my raised fist, one
knee raised to my waist, chest heaving, head spinning. Thwok! Melting Crisco
slipped in one viscous glop, landing nearly in the middle of the blaze. I
remember Chava jumping backward, but in reality, he was probably blown back. Wapp! It was at the same moment—undoubtedly
foreordained by the fates, or ancestors, or someone—the Crisco hit the flame
and ignited, that the leather pouch holding Tio Jesus’ gun powder burned
through, exposing the particles, irreversibly, to the heat and flame. And then…
Boom!
I’m
on my back, in the grass, looking up. Cherry branches hang overhead, rustling
in a gentle breeze. I hear nothing, not even my own breathing. My head feels
full of cotton, my body stiff. With effort, I look to my left. In the grass,
not far away, not moving, is Chava. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s him—most
of him.
҉҉҉
The
logs in my fireplace have been mostly consumed, a pile of ash and coals glowing
dimly. I’m nursing the same bottle of light beer that I opened three hours ago,
twirling the brown glass longneck in my hands for the millionth time, warm
liquid sloshing, nearly spilling out the top. The cat, we are stuck in an
indefinite trial relationship, has begun circling the couch. I pull my feet up
after she nips yet again at my wool socks.
The
envelope—plain white, business length, and postmarked Northern California--is
still sitting on the coffee table, unopened. I should just open it, get it over
with; it’s from Jared though, so I just leave it there, topping a pile of
colorful junk mail. Why did he have to
write? Things are already fucking awful right now. I don’t need this. Though
I have no idea what “this” is.
I
down the beer in one long gulp, set the empty bottle next to Jared’s letter,
and escape to my bed, not bothering to turn out the downstairs lights. I also
don’t bother with the covers, but just sprawl over the mattress, pulling a
folded yellow afghan from the foot of the bed, covering only my torso. Outside,
the wind is picking up as a forecasted storm approaches. The cherry branches are
beating against my bedroom window, threatening to shatter the pane. Normally I
would gather candles, a lighter, one of my kerosene lamps, or a flashlight on a
night like this. Instead, I toss and turn, finally curling in on myself, hoping—almost
seriously--that the dying embers in the fireplace will somehow catch a rogue
gust of wind and burst into violent flame, consuming this house and me with it.
Escape is my modus operandi; I’m forever running away from, rather than toward,
anything too difficult, but always making just enough effort to convince myself
that I tried addressing my issues. Did I lock the doors?
The
cat reads my mind, as happens regularly, and finds me in my bed. She meows, and
it is a command. Only duty can bring the cat out of hiding on stormy night, and
soon I have a robe on and am headed downstairs.
I
walk around checking the windows and doors, the cat trailing behind, thinking I
do not see her. This is her game, one of many, and no matter how it turns out,
I know she always considers herself the winner. She darts behind available
cover, peeks out, then leaps when I turn to look. I smile, though honestly, I’m
not sure if she is double-checking my work, making sure I do the job right, or
if she is in fact stalking me, like her great cat relatives, getting ready to
pounce.
Whatever
her intentions were, she is climbing onto my bed now, weaseling her way next to
me under the heavy covers. She allows me one quick ruffle of the soft fur
behind her ears—and I know not to expect more. She is comforted with my
presence and by my side, in this bed, she doesn’t fear the storm, but she is
far too independent and proud to confirm the fact with prolonged physical
attention. I lay for hours, watching the pile of fluff next to me, every rise
and fall of fur, her breathing occasionally punctuated with a soft purring sound
and shift of paw or head. I am hypnotized. The sky continues to fall outside,
but quietly.
The
morning brings a temporary calm, a welcome cease-fire, and I am able to venture
outside, coffee in hand, to assess the damage. The cat, wet and angry, runs in
between my legs, through the doorway. I don’t know how she got out or where she
has been, and that is how our relationship works. The cherry tree that spent
the night rapping at my window has lost only one branch, one that I meant to
prune anyway. A few shingles had escaped from the roof, speckling the flower
beds and lawn. Scanning the surrounding homes, I figure I fared as well or
better than my neighbors. The storm appears to be biding its time, toying with
us. Feeling defiant, or maybe willing the storm to free me from my troubles, I
raise a middle finger to the sky, childish and melodramatic, and feel much
better with the simple gesture.
The
truth is that I am too much of a coward to actually try bringing about my own
end; and deep down I do want to live—just not with this weight around my neck
that I can’t remove, no matter how I try. My last therapist followed the
familiar pattern and referred me to someone else, and my best friend no longer
responds to messages or calls. I have reached that point of hopelessness where
only the cat wants to hear me.
Perhaps,
were I to tell the whole truth, things would get better. The therapist might
have actually been able to assist in my recovery, my best friend might have
understood, and the cat might have a name. But the truth is hidden, in my heart
and likely in Jared’s letter that still sits on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, Cat. I just don’t do long-term
relationships.” She isn’t paying attention, but I keep talking anyway. “If you
knew who I really am, you’d probably run away for real.” I’m certain she’d find
the wilds of alleys and garbage cans more appealing than my tuna dinners and
custom scratching post if she really knew I was someone to fear. But no, I
can’t even tell the cat, and she never asks.
The phone rings, and as usual, I ignore it. The
old-fashioned answering machine picks up and the caller’s voice comes on.
“Lola, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about hanging up on you the other day. I
was wrong. It was a jerk move and I shouldn’t have done it. You’re always there
for me and I couldn’t be there for you. I’m really sorry. I don’t blame you for
not answering, okay? I get it. But maybe we can talk this weekend? I love you,
Lola, even if I am a terrible friend most of the time. Alright, well, I hope you’ll
call me back. Bye.” I felt nothing listening to Tracy’s message. We had been
best friends for almost twenty years, but the friendship has been dying for at
least five of those years. I guess I’ve already finished grieving the loss.
The rain come on suddenly, furiously, beating the roof
above, and the windows around me; the wind is coming up fast and strong, and
seems to be unable to choose a direction. The cat is looking nervously from one
end of the room to other, as the pelting rain hits one side then the other. I
wonder how long she’ll last before she escapes to the safety of the curtains or
her hiding place under the sofa. While she contemplates her escape, I load the
dishwasher. The cat is off the table and under the sofa skirt before I’ve
filled the top rack.
The storm continues to batter the roof and windows, while
thunder has begun to roll in the distance. The bright morning is now shadows
and gloom. The dishes are done, so I sweep the kitchen floor, whistle the cat’s
favorite tune, and start filling the mop bucket with water. I’m adding cleaning
solution to the bucket when suddenly the entire kitchen is lit up with a spot
light from outside. The lightning came out of nowhere; there wasn’t a warning
boom of thunder preceding it. I jump, embarrassed by my own fear, and feel
floor cleaner soaking into my socks as soapy water sloshes on the counter and
down to the floor. Now the sky outside has erupted into a full-blown tempest of
biblical proportions and I hear the cat shrieking as she runs from the cover of
the couch, to the coffee table, to the space behind a floor lamp, then back to
the couch, moving with every blast of thunder. A riotous light show is being
performed outside, a pyrotechnics extravaganza of flashes, arcs, and sizzling
streaks of light racing across the sky, followed by furious bolts shooting down
from black clouds in a hail of electric terror.
I’ve abandoned the mop and bucket, leaving my wet socks
with them, pulled in by the magnetic power of the terrifying display. I am
hypnotized, unable to move. The commotion must be keeping my neighbors curled
up warmly in their homes—I see no one else glued to the show the way I am. With
the relentless light, I can clearly see neighboring windows, blinds closed,
curtains drawn. Why am I the only one
watching this? The show is spectacular, breathtaking. I almost feel guilty,
like I don’t deserve this dramatic display being played out only for me. It is a
weekday though—a lot of the neighbors are probably still at work.
My mouth is dry, even as my eyes are watering.
The rain is dancing, its back up performers are bolts of light and the roar of
thunder. They are synchronized, choreographed, and I know the show is mine
alone. I’m not an arrogant person, but I admit I am self-involved. Most of my
life has revolved around myself, my internal damage and dysfunction. I’ve been
addicted to my own pain, hyper focused on fixing my own broken parts, knowing
subconsciously that only one thing can truly repair the wreck inside, but
always being unable or unwilling to follow through. Has it ever really been
about Chava—any of it? Or has it always just been about me, just as I now claim
this entire heavenly spectacle for myself?
Another
crack of thunder and immediate flash of lightning, but louder this time than
any before; out of time with the rhythm of the performance up until now. Something
has changed, and the echo reverberates through the house, from the rafters to
the floor boards; framed pictures flutter on the walls, a gurgling belch
rumbles down the pipes beneath my bare feet. The burst of light coming through
the windows blinds me for a moment, leaving sparkly motes twinkling wherever I
look. I remember the cat, and am finally able to pull myself from the window
and think of someone else, something else. I find no sign of yellow-orange fur
under the sofa, no purring behind drapes or tables or the owl chair. I scour
every inch of the first floor, even as I begin to smell something acrid,
bitter; the smell is getting stronger and I feel dizzy.
The
cat is nowhere to be found, and maybe she got out—she has been sneaky like that
since I first brought her home. But the doors and windows are all locked and
I’m afraid she went looking for me, so I run upstairs, calling and whistling.
“Cat?” I hear nothing but suddenly feel everything, what is here and what is
not. The house has come alive around me, populated with shadows, and ghosts of
a sunny day in California--when the grass is dead, and you only wear as much
clothing as you have to. Kids running through sprinklers down my narrow hallway—disappearing
behind the attic stairs; a group of wanna-be Indian dancers swaying and turning
and hollering around my minimalist bedroom; fire trucks and barbecues and
weekend sleepovers--appearing and vanishing in the corners of my pink-tiled
bathroom. I think I hear a meow, or pawing at a door, or scratching on the
floor, but everywhere I look, reality has become sullied with shadow and smoke.
My head spins and I think I might collapse, so I flail my arms; one hand finds
a wall. But still no cat. She got out!
Please! Please! Let her be out and safe!
“Cat! Cat! Get out!”
The familiar taste of bile has risen to the back of my
throat, assaulting my tongue, attacking my taste buds. I cover my eyes--like I
used to do when my brothers and I would watch scary movies—movies that Jared
snuck in from the neighbor’s.
“Cat!
Cat!” The word is ripped from my throat, serrated edges shredding weakened
flesh. My big toe hits the threshold of the bathroom doorway. “Cat!” My knee
bangs into the towel cupboard—but I don’t put my hands down until I know I’ve
reached the porcelain vanity; my eyelids are squeezed shut so tight that I
think I feel the back of my skull pressing forward, sucking my brown irises
past hollow sockets and into the past I have been running from, unsuccessfully,
for two decades. I drink cold water from the bathroom sink, flushing the bile
back down; shake my head, and finally force my unwilling eyes to rip open—like
tearing out crooked seams from a summer quilt top--hoping that the host of
apparitions have retreated.
I am alone again, but now my nose, mouth, sinuses, and
tortured eyes are keenly aware of a thick, caustic mist, spilling down the
attic stairs.
“Cat…”
I barely hear my own voice. “Cat… please… get… out…” My ears feel swollen, deep
canals filled with a low grumbling, followed by the crackling chatter of
sparking flames, tap-dancing across the floor above me, each skipping movement
echoes through the ceiling, building to a crescendo and I beg the ceiling to
just come down already. The firestorm consumes the contents of my dusty little attic,
while its vibrations, the resonant clatter and occasional crash of seared
wooden beams, claw insistently at the ragged edges of gray matter filling my
skull—the snaking jumble of tissue retreats, turns on me; my own brain a
traitor as it fails to shift into survival mode—instead pulling oxygen from my
limbs to support itself, continuing its relentless attack on my psyche. Flashes
of memory—brighter and more painful than the encroaching flames could ever be.
Guilt blazes a circular path, around and around the recesses of my mind. Chava,
his once brown little body, now a scorched heap of red and black limbs,
swollen, hairless face, wearing nothing but one burnt shoe; he lays in a grassy
mount at my feet--on the bathroom floor.
The smoke billows down now, coming through A/C vents and
old cracks in the ceiling; having decimated the attic, it seeks more fuel on
the second floor. I am frozen amid the flames, crumpled into a useless,
helpless pile of nothing at the columned base of the vanity. I am a destitute
wanderer in a rich sea of dazzling orange waves, sparkling with recurrent
golden crests—never ebbing, only flowing, closer and closer; as though to ease
the dry existence I have struggled through—bringing a compassionate end to the
desert aimlessness that has been my adult life. My only companion is a dead
little boy who never quite pronounced my name right, no matter how much he
fought his lisp. He loved Transformers and He-Man, and his dog, Vato. I never
saw him wear any color but blue, and when the chips were down, Chava never
shied from a fight. But Chava is dead, and I am a coward. My heart is thirsty
and the thread of sanity that I have clung to is slipping into the proffered
cup of salvation before me, held out by the delicate extension of a flaming
tentacle--or is it a little brown hand reaching out, fingertips missing, skin
peeled back to raw pink flesh?
The silver I.D. bracelet gives it away, and I look to see
if he’s still laying at my feet. No. There is only the pale pink tile that I
once found charming. Chava’s mom, didn’t she wear that shade of lipstick? One
that she bought monthly from the local Avon lady, yes. Her favorite. And didn’t
she have a heart attack a few years ago? Did I hear that somewhere or is it the
smoke clouding my mind? I am alone, for only a moment, then surrounded by
voices, singing a tune that I never finished learning. An old Mexican dirge, a
wailing song; the refrain echoes over grassy back yards filled with clucking
hens and towering plum trees. As the singers combust, one by one, their notes
become strangled, anguished, burning alive while they sing, uniting dynamically
for a final chorus of suffering, unmatched by all the jarring harmonies of any
legion of hell’s demons. And suddenly, I know why they are singing and for whom
they sing.
“Cat?” No more than a whisper, a plea. I loved you, Cat. Only you and only me. The
cat would know I was lying. The cat knew well what I could never admit—I only
loved misery.
Watching movies or shows where people are burned to death—the
agony depicted does no justice to the feeling of real-life flames licking one’s
skin, crawling up a pant leg as the skin below is heated, then fused with the
ruined fabric. I remember watching a true crime show where an expert said that
many fire victims mercifully passed out due to smoke-inhalation, before
actually succumbing to the effects of the fire. How am I even thinking right now?! As the flame reaches my thigh, I
call bullshit on that expert. I am still very conscious and aware, even as I
hear, somewhere deep in the tissues of my legs, blood and fluid simmering,
boiling, drying up beneath dead and dying muscle and flesh. The room is filled
with smoke, the inferno has slowly crept in, and I am laying in the bathtub,
with what’s left of the plastic shower curtain melted onto my bare foot. Is it
guilt alone that keeps my mind working, feeling, experiencing, suffering? Statistically,
this is impossible. But I am not a statistic.
I
am a woman who is still a child, a broken china doll that cannot be repaired.
I’ve tried. I went through a dozen therapists, tried endless cocktails of happy
pills, suffered through acupuncture, wasted thousands of dollars on magnetic
therapy and various other alternative treatments. Yet here I am, worn and
ruined, no will to live, to even try. The pain I feel is somehow cleansing, a
kind of freedom that I haven’t known since the day I danced in fringed felt
with bells jangling and feathers flying. The pain receptors in one spot burn
and die and are followed by the excruciating, liberating stab of a new field of
destruction.
I
must be screaming; it’s inconceivable that a person wouldn’t be crying
violently, loudly, while her body is being consumed. I hear nothing but the
erratic beat of a stretched leather drum, accompanied by cheap jangly bells and
the intermittent snaps of fresh green grass catching fire before quickly
smoldering. Reason would suggest that
Chava--as awful as his death was--probably didn’t suffer long, if at all. I
could never bring myself to seek access to a coroner’s report or to look for
the internet’s expert opinion of how it would be to experience something so
abrupt and forceful. Did he die immediately? Was there time in that
split-second for him to feel fear? Or pain? Or anything? Even now, even as my consciousness
wanes, as all feeling seems to have gone, and my eyes see only darkness, I
can’t bring myself to consider his pain. And so, in the end, I am the coward I
have always been. They say that if you take a deep breath, you’ll invite the
flames into your lungs and the end will come quickly. It’s too late to make any
kind of attempt at escape. I hope the cat
got out.
I
wake up to the worst pain I’ve ever felt, pain that I wouldn’t have imagined a
person could live through. Yet here I am. I feel something foreign filling my
throat, am deduce it must be a breathing tube. My eyes are working, though my
surroundings are hazy and I can’t focus on any one object with any clarity.
Scanning the room, I notice something missing at the end of what appears to be
a hospital bed. The blanket draped over me lays flat at the end, conspicuously
devoid of two lumps where my feet should be. Waves of pain roll over and
through what is left of my body, and I have no energy left to contemplate what
all of this means or to try remembering how I got here. I only know that I must
be alive, in a hospital setting, and that I am still more incomplete than I was
before lightning struck my house. Was that yesterday, a week ago? Maybe a month
or longer? I have no way of knowing. Soon, I feel something coursing through my
veins and faintly hear a beep coming from somewhere above and to my right. As
it does, a pleasant warmth, far different from the burning tingle I’ve been
feeling over every inch and surface, is flowing through my limbs and in and
around my chest. My body lifts from the bed, and what was already hazy is now
swimming around me. Then only blackness, merciful and complete.
Consciousness
comes again, to the sound of voices above and around me. I feel nothing, not
even pain. I think I must be paralyzed. My ears are working though, and working
well. Faintly I hear what might be a meow. It is soft, and seems to be coming
to me through layers, but, yes, it is a meow. I know that meow. I can’t turn my
head, but looking out of the corner of my eye, I see her. Plastic sheets
separate us, and she is in some kind of carrying case, but it is her: the cat.
A man in scrubs is carrying the case, and inside, with bandaged paws and a
missing ear, is the cat. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
Three
Months Later…
I’m
still in the burn unit, and most days are pain or unconsciousness. My entire
body is covered in protective gauze and mostly I can only move my eyes. For two
days I have been without breathing assistance and that has been such a relief.
The cat has been in to visit a few times, and each occasion is like all my
favorite holidays rolled into one. I love that cat. There, I’ve owned it, and I
mean it. She already knew, but then, she’s always been quicker than me.
One
of the parade of doctors that flow in and out of my room daily told me last
night that the cat saved my life. He didn’t have all the details, but he’d
heard that the cat led firemen to me through the inferno. I don’t remember any
of that; I only remember giving up. I’ve always known that the cat outmatched
me for stubbornness. She’ll never let me live this down, and I’m just fine with
that.
After
the doctor told me about the cat, and how she was living with one of his scrub
nurses until I was recovered, he said that an envelope had been found in my
pocket, that it was a letter, and would I like to see it. I knew what it was,
of course, but I don’t know how it got in my pocket. Maybe I’ll never know.
Maybe it doesn’t matter. I must have passed out, as I do regularly these days,
because when I came to, the room was dark, and I could see that lights were on
in the parking lot outside my window. My favorite nurse, Jan, sat next to me,
working on one of her many crossword puzzles. I’d become increasingly jealous
of those puzzles, and of her hands. Only a week ago I learned that not only had
I lost both of my legs above the knees, but that I’d also lost most of the
fingers on my left hand—my dominant hand. Every stroke of Jan’s pencil was a
bit of an insult, but her cheery personality and devoted attention made it
easier to swallow.
She
looked up, maybe sensing that I was awake. “Well hello there. Making your
appearance for today, are you?” I’m not sure why she asked me questions—she
knew I was still unable to answer. I didn’t mind though, as she treated me like
a person and not like the freak that I’m sure I appeared to be in my condition.
She stood and checked my vitals, entered some information into a computer
mounted to the wall, and then gently stroked this one spot on my forehead that
had not been burned. I looked forward to this simple gesture every time she was
my nurse. The simple act of human connection—something I had chosen to forego
for so long—was now what I lived for. Her gentle caress and the visits from the
cat are not only a comfort during my short periods of wakefulness, but they
also fill my dreams. When one decides to survive, one needs a few beacons of
hope to cling to when the pain is acute--when recovery seems impossible and when
each new day brings another catastrophe—infection, heart failure, and a long list
of other ailments commonly experienced by severe burn patients. I may die tomorrow,
or even tonight, but right now, soft fingers are my connection to life, and I embrace
them with my mind.
Jan
smiles at me, adjusts some tubes, and then pulls something from her pocket.
“Lola, you’re looking lovely today.” She is a terrible liar. “Dr. Warner left
this here for you. It was in your pocket when you were found and is mostly
intact. He thought it might be important, so I said I’d read it to you if you
wanted me to.” She looks into my eyes, searching for an answer. I guess she saw
what she was looking for, because she unfolded the singed letter and began
reading.
Hey
Lola,
This
is a really hard letter to write but my sponsor says I gotta to do it. So here
I am. Well, here’s my letter. Anyway, my parole doesn’t let me leave the state.
Did you hear about all that? Never mind. It’s not what I’m writing for. I want
to tell you that you’re a good person. I want to tell you that I’m sorry, more
than you can know, for not telling you this a long time ago. Like when you were
in that looney bin. Sorry, shouldn’t call it that. It’s what it was though, and
it’s my fault you ended up there. I should have told you. I wanted to tell you,
but I was already in so much trouble and you weren’t talking to me, or anyone,
and Mama said to just leave you the fuck alone. So I did. But Mama was wrong,
as usual. She never did care much about reality, did she? Is that why you ran
away? No, I know why you left. I’m just nervous. I keep telling myself to just
write the damn words!
Fine!
You didn’t do it, Lola! It wasn’t your fault. You thought I took the rap for
you but you’re wrong. You were always wrong. Did you want to be a victim? Or
have a crutch? I know that’s a dick thing to say, but come on! How have you not
figured this out yet? I’m sorry. I keep saying the wrong thing. I just hate
this, all of this. I hate that we don’t talk. Hell, I don’t even know you
anymore. But I knew you back then. And anyway, I know you wanted to just be
part of what we were doing. I get it. But I couldn’t let you. I was the man, ya
know? Anyway, those were my vatos, my braves. My little sister was not taking
over. That’s what my stupid brain thought you were trying to do with that gun
powder. I saw you take it when Mama was gone and Papa was drunk. I don’t know
why they kept that shit in the house. So stupid. Anyway, I saw you take it. I
saw you put it in the fire pit. You really didn’t see me watching behind the
chicken house? I thought for sure you did. But then you never said anything.
You just went all quiet and crazy. And I didn’t know it was because of me, not
right away. Honest. I didn’t. My sponsor says I need to be totally honest, so I
am. It’s supposed to help me be a better person and stop drinking. Maybe it
will help you too. Anyway, Jackie, he’s my sponsor, says it’ll be really good
for you to know. So yeah, I sold some weed, ya know, from the patch behind the
snow bush? So I sold it to Kenny down the road. Remember him? He’s dead now,
but anyway, I sold it. He didn’t pay much, ripped me off. But it was enough to
get some glycerin stuff from Luis over at the Maple apartments. Remember that
shit hole? So Luis’ abuela had to take the stuff for her heart, but there was
some he said was left over, expired or whatever. So he sold it to me. I read
about it in one of those encyclopedias Mama bought from that guy she was
sleeping with.
The nurse has a nervous look on her face and it has come
into her voice as well. She looks at me again, searching, then continues reading.
I close my eyes, but she knows I am still listening.
It
was this liquid stuff, in a glass bottle. I didn’t really know what I was
doing, but I guess it worked. Anyway, I poured it on the pile of sticks when
you were tying everyone’s feathers on over at the yellow shed. And I took out
the bag of powder you put in there so you couldn’t take the credit for an
awesome fire. Chato, the skinny one, not the porky one; he wanted it. I traded
it for some girly pictures he stole from his dad. Anyway, you don’t care about
that. You just need to know that your bag of powder didn’t kill that kid,
Chava. It was me. For reals. I wasn’t lying, or taking the rap to be cool, or
anything like that. His ma slapped my face. I’m okay with that. I deserved it.
You should slap me too, or hate me, or want me dead. I’m okay with that. Just
please stop blaming yourself and being all crazy about it. You’re not too old
yet, ya know? You can still have a life. That’s what I’m trying to do. My
sponsor, that’s Jackie—did I tell you about him yet? Shit, I did. Well, anyway,
you’d like him, he makes good tamales. Anyway, he says I’ve got a pretty good
shot at recovery. He’s gonna hook me up with a job at his friend’s garage. It’s
the one by the old Chevron, you know the one. It used to be Lupe’s uncle’s
joint.
Anyway,
alright. That’s all I wanted to say. I hope your life goes better now. I’m
really sorry.
Your
brother,
Jared
The nurse’s voice fades into the background as my vision
is clouded with darkness again. I never last more than ten minutes, but the
doctors say that is great for where I’m at and what I’ve been through. I held
on as long as I could this time, longer than ever before. I needed every word,
and clawed at the blackness with the fingernails of my mind. My dreams aren’t of
cats or a kindly burn center nurse with a soft touch.
No, I see grass that needs watering on a summer’s day,
and half-dressed children spinning and dancing, with chicken feathers tied to
their ankles and wrists, chanting words they don’t understand. But I
understand, now. I understand so many things, yet I am more lost than ever.
