Chapter 5
Awareness wove in and out around me. Everything blazed in time to my heartbeat. The room was hot and the sheets were damp. A wall clock clicked. The fluorescent light over my bed flickered.
It hurt to inhale. Even through the oxygen mask the air was a nauseating stink of sweaty flesh, old coffee, rubbing alcohol, and carts of steaming hospital food. I salivated as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dad slouched in a chair. He wore a paper mask over his face; I could only see his worried forehead and his eyes, sunken and hollow. Behind him was an empty hospital bed, and beyond that, a large window full of glowing red clouds. I wondered if it was a sunrise or a sunset. What day was it?
My heart stopped as it hit me. The other bed was empty!
Panicked, I turned my head to see clearer. My face and shoulder screamed with pain. Dad noticed the movement and sat up.
Overwhelmed by fear and pain, I gasped for air. He stood beside me, his hand on the rail.
No words would form in my mouth. It seemed like days before I was finally able to squeak out a raspy, “Dad?”
He looked down at me and winced.
“I’m here, Son.”
“Where’s Jessie?” I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the answer.
“Across the hall. She’s going to be okay.”
My chin trembled and I choked. Sobs wracked my body, sending waves of searing heat over my flesh. Across the hall. Of course. They wouldn’t put a girl in the same room with a boy. Dad stroked my damp head with his large hand. Where was my hair? It seemed like hours before the breath returned to my body.
“Can I see her?”
“Not yet. Maybe in a couple days.”
“Days? Is it bad?”
“No, she’ll be alright.”
I didn’t really have to ask the next question. I knew from Dad’s eyes.
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry, Buddy.”
I was a mess. Needles under my skin delivered antibiotics and fluid to replace what seeped from my wounds.
I was lucky not to have any really big burns, but there were dozens of smaller ones. Some spots, like my face, were seared right through the skin. The middle of those didn’t hurt because the nerves were gone, but the second-degree burns? Each one felt like a twisting bayonet.
Morphine dulled the pain a little, just taking off the edge. I watched the clock, waiting for the next injection, for relief to flow into my veins. Hurry, hurry, hurry! It always hurt worst those last few minutes before the shot. But sometimes the nurse was late. When that happened, I’d have to struggle not to cry out. Even after she finally came, it took another hour just to get back to mere agony.
They couldn’t use a cast on my left arm because of the blistery skin, so I had this stainless steel armature thing instead. My right hand was ruined from the doorknob, so I couldn’t have fed myself even if allowed to. Instead, a tube went up my nose and down into my stomach for food and more liquids. It hurt, and made me gag to have it in the back of my throat. Another tube pumped oxygen to my mask. A catheter drained into a bag of pee hanging off the side of the bed. The pungent smell made me want to vomit when they’d measure and empty it out. Gross.
Even sleep was no relief. My dreams... Sometimes Mom was on fire, or just a skeleton, screaming, begging... Other times she’d say it was okay. That was worse, knowing the fire was my fault. I’d startle awake and the pain made me cry, which hurt even more. Eventually, exhaustion sucked me into the next nightmare.
Reverend Adams came by to pray over me. I didn’t deserve it, and pretended to be asleep. When he was finished, he sat down next to Dad.
“How are you holding up, Mikael?”
Seconds ticked by before Dad answered. “Not so good.” Another long pause. “I should’ve been there.”
“It’s not your fault Mike.”
“You’re wrong. I was out playing poker for Christ’s sake!”
“You were with your friends. You had no way of knowing…”
“But I should have known. I should have been there! I could have…”
“You could have died with Emma and orphaned your kids.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe I could have saved her. Or at least…”
“What? Died in her place?”
“Yeah. In a heartbeat”
“And left her with the pain of going on without you? Would you really want that?”
The silence was stifling. I ventured a peek. Dad’s face was in his hands.
Then he sat up.
“No. No, of course not. But my God, Fred, it just hurts so deep…”
I didn’t want to hear this. The guilt was like a million bugs crawling over me; it was tearing my heart out.
“I feel like I’m dying.”
“Mike, I know you. You’re strong. You have to be strong for your children. They need you.”
I couldn’t bear it anymore. I had to make them stop talking.
“Dad?”
“Look who’s up. How are you feeling? Do you want some ice chips?”
“I…”
“What, Son?”
“The fire…”
“What about it?”
“I…”
I needed to tell him I was sorry, that I’d been careless, that I burned the house down and left his wife to die. But the shame was too much. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn’t say it.
“Um, sure, some ice.”
Every day the nurse unwrapped the bandage on my face and picked off the dead tissue. I wanted to be brave, but usually ended up screaming with the pain. They’d flush the wound with a saline solution and then pick at it some more. This went on and on and on. And then they’d finally wrap it back up… and start all over on the next burn. Then the next, and the next – there were so many.
But even that wasn’t the worst part. I’d hear Jessie crying across the hall as they did the same to her. I’d weep, knowing what she was suffering, knowing it was because of what I did.
After the first few days Jessie was allowed to visit my room. I could tell she was in a lot of pain. She had severe burns on her left calf and ankle, and a row of them where each of the plastic nightdress buttons melted onto her skin. Fortunately, the cotton flannel was thick and flame resistant, and mostly protected her. Her beautiful hair had burned within inches of her scalp in places, and they had to cut most of it off.
She’d wheel her pole of intravenous bags into my room and sit next to Dad, leaning her head on his chest. The bag of pee hanging off the side of my bed was mortifying, but Jessie made fun of it and after that it was okay between us. Nobody said much, but it was good to have them there.
“Daddy? Can we go visit Mom?”
“She’s not here, Bug.”
“Where is she?”
Dad pulled his mask down. There was something in his face I’d never seen.
“She died in the fire and went to heaven, Sweetie.”
“When will she be back?”
“I’m so sorry, Bug, but she can’t come back. She’ll wait for us there.”
“Oh.” Jessie was quiet for a long time, while tears of sorrow and disgrace cascaded into my ears and down onto my pillowcase. Dad held Sis gently, but his eyes were stones.
I was way too sick to be there when they buried Mom’s remains, and I was really lonely. The nurse was late again and I couldn’t even wipe my own face. Jessie got to go, but had to come back to the hospital for a few more days.
Sis said tons of people came. She told me that Dad picked out a white coffin, and before the service, he let all the kids there paint flowers on it in bright colors. When they were done, Jessie went up and painted a small purple heart on top. Dad painted “A&F" on the side. He said it stood for always and forever. Jessie told me that he was having a double headstone made with a space for him.
Doctor Lukes discharged Jessie after ten days, and she went to stay at Aunt Mel’s, up the bay in Glad
stone. Aunt Mel was Dad’s sister and she always seemed angry about something.
“Doctor?” I asked, “How long until it stops hurting?”
“It’ll be better in a few weeks, but the pain won’t go away completely for a couple months. You’re healing well, and you’re going to be fine.”
“How long until the scars go away?”
“We’ve done the best we could to minimize the scarring, but we can’t eliminate them completely. Your burns are serious and they’ll leave permanent marks.”
“Even my face?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
At the time, it didn’t occur to me what that would be like.
The first day Sis was gone, Dad could hardly sit still. His forehead got that pissed-off look. He finally leaned over me and growled, “Son, if you were in better shape I’d kick your ass. You had no business staying in that house! I could have lost all three of you.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you decided to be a hero.”
How could I answer that? What kind of hero steps over his own mother?
“Should I have run outside?” I demanded, suddenly furious. “Would you?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Okay, I guess not. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, huh? Well, it was an adult decision, and I guess you made the right call. This time. You know the difference between heroism and stupidity?”
I shook my head slightly.
“How it works out. You might not feel like it, but you got lucky. Asshole.”
I wouldn’t have guessed being called an asshole could make me feel so grown up.
“I need some lunch,” he announced. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him eat anything in days. Before he left, he took off his mask and kissed my forehead, carefully avoiding the large bandage under my right eye.
“I love you, asshole,” He whispered. Then he almost smiled, and I tried to smile back, but my cheek exploded with pain. He left the door open a crack.
“I’m not a hero,” I said to the empty room.
Dad spent as much time as he could at the hospital. He read books to me; adventures by Twain, Stevenson, and Dumas. Some days he brought in homework and tests from school. I appreciated it. The doctor said this was going to take weeks, and I didn’t want to repeat a grade like Beth had to.
We brightened when Aunt Mel brought Jess back to visit. By then visitors didn’t have to wear a mask, and I was off the oxygen. Sis asked Dad if she could have some time to talk with me alone. He said he was tired of sitting anyway, and went to take a walk with Aunt Mel.
When they were gone, Jessie shut the door and pulled the curtain closed, too. She got an evil grin on her face and said “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Um, okay I guess, but you first.”
She gently pulled off her shirt and threw it on Dad’s chair. She kicked off her shoes and slid out of her loose jeans. She stood there in just her underpants, with a row of bandages where the buttons had been, from her right knee up to her left collarbone. Oh my God, what had I done to her?
“You look like you were hit by a machinegun.” I had hoped it would be funny, but it wasn’t. “Is there one...” I nodded to the unseen spot still under fabric.
“Oh, yeah.” She slid her panties down a little to show a bandage right in the crease of her leg. “That one hurts the most, especially when I walk.”
“What happened to your hip?”
“This? That’s from the flower – it was in my pocket, but it got too hot. It melted and burned me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was just...” She bit her lip, but then smiled for me. “We’ll get new stuff now.”
She turned like a fashion model to show off her ankle and leg. “And look at these! They’ll be like Grandma Sophie’s tattoos,” she gushed, “All the tough kids will want ‘em.” She posed like a fashion model, aloof and serious, but couldn’t hold it and broke down sniggering and giggling.
“Okay,” I hissed, trying not to laugh. “Quick, get dressed before Dad comes back.”
She gingerly replaced her clothes and slid her shoes back on. Her cheeks had a rusty tint to them. “Okay, your turn,” but then she stopped. “Um, maybe we shouldn’t. This might not be so fun.”
We stared at each other for about five heartbeats. I had a hospital gown but it wasn’t even tied in back, just draped over me like a sheet. She eased it down to my waist.
“Oh, Cory,” she breathed, “Oh my God.”
With the back of my right hand I sent the gown onto the floor. I didn’t care what she saw, pee tube and all. She’d made herself totally vulnerable to me, and I guessed I had nothing to hide from her.
I could see her counting the bandages with her eyes, up my legs, abdomen, chest, arms… everywhere. Her lip quivered, but she bit it to make it stop.
After a minute, she asked, “Which one of yours hurts the most?”
“Today? The inside of my right elbow.”
“This one?”
“Yeah, it’s bad, and the skin’s so tender there. It probably matches the one above your bellybutton.”
She leaned over me, examining it closely. “From my nightgown… when you carried me.”
She was so close that I could smell her shampoo. Vanilla. Her short hair floated across my stomach, tickling slightly. Ever so delicately, she kissed the bandage, and then straightened up. She followed the tube with her eyes. It seemed like she was studying my testicles.
“Huh,” she said matter-of-factly. “No peach fuzz yet.”
Again, she couldn’t hold a straight face. Her mouth twisted and she giggled so hard it shook the bed. I laughed and cried, both from the release of laughter itself and the physical pain it caused.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch!” I complained, but I couldn’t stop. Tears were streaming down my face, and she could barely keep it together long enough to get the gown back over me. When it was safe she reopened the curtain.
“Thanks Sissy, it felt good to laugh. But seriously, are you okay?”
“No, but we’re all more worried about you.”
“I’ll be alright.”
“Dad and I are going to look at houses tomorrow. I’ll be glad to get away from Aunt Mel. I threw water on her but she wouldn’t melt.”
When Dad got back he looked us over with his gray mind-reader gaze, but just shook his head. That was the second time I saw him almost smile.
I was on liquids at first. It was two weeks before they finally took the nose tube out. I didn’t care that it was hospital food or that my cheek burned with every bite. Getting to chew something was heavenly.
The downside of solid food, of course, is solid waste. They tried to get me to use a bedpan but I flatly refused, so they took out the catheter, much to my relief. It took five minutes to get the side rails down and walk to the bathroom, and every step hurt like hell.
That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The antibiotics gave me the runs. You don’t know humiliation until you’ve needed a nurse to wipe your ass. It was disgusting, beyond horrible. As if that weren’t enough, they’d ask every time they came in if I’d had a bowel movement yet that day. Eventually, Dad got them to shorten it to “Did you?” so I could just nod or shake my head.
One day we were on TV. I recognized the reporter from the local news. He was the one with bad hair, and it was much worse in person. The room was pretty crowded; there was Dad and Sis, a cameraman, and a man in a uniform. They kept knocking down the cards from school that were taped up all over the walls.
I was afraid that the uniformed guy was a policeman, there to question me about the heater. I was relieved when he introduced himself as the Escanaba Fire Chief. He said he was there to give me a hero award for saving Jessie.
“I’m not a hero,” I complained, “I don’t want your stupid award!”
But Dad said they’d gone to a lot of trouble to se
t up this broadcast, and that I should just be gracious about it, so I didn’t have much choice.
The reporter looked at the camera and said in a happy voice, “I’m Guy McMillan with Channel Three News. I’m here at St. Francis Hospital with Cory Laine, the little boy who saved his sister from a fire, despite having severe burns and a broken arm.”
Little boy? Gee, thanks, mister. I was twelve – almost a teenager for God’s sake!
He introduced Jessie and Dad, and went on to mention that I was an A student, then said the friendly folks at Ace Hardware had set up a college fund for me. Next, the Chief put the medal around my neck. He went to shake hands, but then saw the bandages. It was awkward and I felt bad for him.
“So, Cory, how does it feel to be a real, live hero?” asked Mr. Bad Hair.
I couldn’t answer with the truth, that I had started the fire, and then left Mom to burn to death. I shuddered just thinking about it. So I lied.
“I’m not the hero. Our Mom died getting us to safety – she’s the hero. If you don’t mind, I’d like to accept this on her bequest, um, for her.”
The reporter said in his happy voice. “Isn’t that wonderful, folks? A hero, and humble, too.”
After that, he said his name, and the station, and mentioned the advertiser twice. He told the camera operator, “That’s a wrap.” They packed up and left.
The Chief stayed around to talk, something about a report he was writing. That made me nervous. He said that he was sorry about Mom. I said it was okay because I didn’t know what else to say. When he left, Dad thanked him.
“You did real well, Son. I’m proud of you,” he said. Then he teared up. I hoped it helped him to think of Mom saving our lives.