Chapter 7
After the fire, Dad and Jess found a small, one story house for us on Eighteenth Street, a few blocks from downtown. Some of the houses in town had dirt cellars, but ours was newer, and had a poured cement basement with indoor stairs. Still, compared to the cedar house it was small, and too close to the other homes. Even the closets were small.
When I got out of the hospital and finally saw the place, they’d hung a banner over the front door. It read “Welcome Home, Cory!”
It didn’t feel like home, though; we lost everything that was familiar. The clothes we wore, the dishes we ate from, every little thing we touched seemed wrong. Dad and Sis had picked out some used appliances and furniture from Saint Vincent’s – a couch, a recliner, a kitchen table and three bedframes. The mattresses were new and felt too hard, the new sheets too scratchy.
Dad put up a battery-powered smoke detector in every room. Each of us had a small desk, a wooden chair, and not much else. The walls were bare, just a few photos in frames. We lost all the pictures that Mom had painted.
We’d lost most of Dad, too. He’d managed to hold himself together while I was in the hospital, but now the grief seemed to suck all the life out of him. I wanted him to say everything was going to be okay, but it really wasn’t okay, and I knew it never would be again.
They gave me the front bedroom, nearest the bath at the end of the hall, because it would be hard for me to get around for a while. Dad ordered a poster like I’d had of Albert Einstein and pinned it up on my wall. He also hung up the hero medal. I moved the desk chair over and stood on it to pull the award down. I shoved it in the back of a desk drawer so I wouldn’t have to look at it.
I shared the desk wall with Jessie’s room, which was a little farther up the hall. She painted her room lavender. Dad had the big bedroom past hers, back by the kitchen. That one had its own little bathroom.
Our bathroom included a big mirror over the twin sinks. The first morning in the new place, I gently peeled away the bandage on my face to get a look at what lay hidden underneath. The wound was huge and grisly, stretching almost from my nose, across the cheekbone, and halfway down to the corner of my mouth.
That’s when it hit me; it would never heal smooth. From then on I’d be the kid with the scar. It would always be the first thing anyone saw and the one thing they remembered about me. It would be there the rest of my life; I could live to a hundred and it would be there every day, reminding me of my guilt and cowardice.
I wanted to smash the mirror with a hammer. I felt nauseous. My insides clenched and I hurled my breakfast into the sink. Even when there was nothing left inside, I continued to heave.
When his bereavement leave and vacation ran out, Dad went on disability. He spent his days in bed and his nights drinking. Sometimes he’d just slump in his chair, staring out the front window. He had nothing left to give. Jess and I were left to fend for ourselves, so we did.
I was too handicapped to attend school, and when Jessie left in the morning, it was like she took the last shred of comfort with her. The sadness and suffocating guilt hung on me like vines. At first, I mostly slept, but eventually had to get up and move so my scars wouldn’t stiffen up. There wasn’t much I could do for myself, and I really didn’t want to bug Dad while he was in such an ugly funk. I read the whole newspaper, even the obituaries, and saw that Stan had died.
My system had gotten used to having the morphine injections and I missed them a lot. I had it in pills, but they were weaker and didn't work as quickly. It hurt to lie down. It hurt to sit and to stand. The steel thing on my left arm was cold and heavy, always poking me and in the way. I couldn’t even scratch my own itches.
Beth’s mom took Sis to Shopko and bought me some loose cotton boxers and pajamas. I walked around in slippers like an old man; first around the house, then around the block. That’s when I found out that we’d moved in next door to Janna. I waived hello by raising my bionic left arm – the right hand was almost as ugly as my face.
On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons Mrs. Loomis came by from the hospital. I was afraid my face might scare her but she didn’t seem to mind. She worked with me on physical therapy and stretching. It was painful, but with Dad in the house, I sure wasn’t going to whine about it. She suggested that when I was up to it, I should take up an instrument to build strength and agility.
That first week was so boring and lonely. I spent a lot of time flexing my burned hand open and closed, and chatting with Albert Einstein.
“Al,” I’d tell him. “I miss her so much. I wish I could just tell Dad I’m sorry, and that somehow that would be enough. But you see how he is. He’d never forgive me.” Einstein just stuck his tongue out and leered at me.
Sometimes I’d hear Dad moving around and think it was Mom. Then I’d remember that I killed her. I’d have hideous nightmares. Often I’d wake to find Sis sitting on my bed, stroking my head with tears in her eyes.
I was thrilled when she started bringing home my schoolwork. I had limited use of my hands, but managed to hold a pen, and I could turn pages myself, so I was all set. My handwriting was slow and very messy, but it had never been very neat, anyway.
Fortunately, Jessie’s burns were healing, and she could change her own dressings. Most of mine were doing okay, but I needed her help to care for them. I hated being dependent on her, and couldn’t wait to be free of my limitations.
I felt really bad – Jessie did nothing but work. I really don’t know how she did it all; shopping, cooking, laundry, going to school, homework, changing my dressings, and yes, occasionally wiping my butt.
I couldn’t go in the shower yet, so she gave me sponge baths, too. It was embarrassing, but there was no point in being shy; she just helped me strip down and we did what we had to. Like before, she made it bearable, maybe even funny sometimes, and by then it hurt less to laugh. After a while you just get used to stuff like that and it’s no big deal. It was just a weird kind of normal.
Even when Sis was tired, though, she kind of glowed. She said she liked feeling so needed. But I knew inside she was still just a sixth grader like me, and wondered how long she could keep it up.
We clung to each other, both figuratively and literally. At first we slept alone, and I’d listen to her breathe through the heat vent we shared. But then sometimes she crept in, scared and needing to be held. Eventually we just used my bed. We were pretty sure Dad would be upset if he found out, but he never checked on us.
The physical connection was reassuring. Often, I’d wake from a nightmare to find myself curled around her, strands of silky hair tickling my face. I’d let my breathing slow until we matched, inhaling and exhaling as one. Sometimes I could even feel our hearts beat together. It wasn’t long before sharing my narrow bed with Jessie was normal, too.
Sometimes after school, Spaz came over to hang out. He was happy to visit; his parents were divorcing and things were pretty bad at home. That, and living with three sisters was driving him crazy anyway. We talked or played cards in my room so we wouldn’t disturb Dad. It was hard for me to hold the cards so Spaz couldn’t see them, but he did his best not to look.
I worked to recover, to catch up with my classes, and to ease the burden on Jessie. Finally, in late April, I got the pins and rods off of my left arm. Finally moving it around felt great, but it was so stiff and weak! It seemed only half as big around as the right arm.
When all my bandages were off, I could finally take a shower. It felt wonderful at first, but I couldn’t reach everywhere with my stiff left arm, and had trouble holding the soap with my stiff right hand. I finally gave up and called for Jessie. I was startled when she just stripped and hopped in to help. It was hilarious until I saw that line of scars again.
I worked every day to get more rotation, more strength, and more grip, and slowly things got easier.
In May I went back to school. By then I could write better than I ever used to. I was very proud of that. We packed our lunches and walked t
he four blocks to Upper Elementary. I was glad that there was no embarrassing assembly or anything, I just showed up in class.
It felt good to be kind of normal – that’s really what I craved. The kids were all fascinated with my scars and said they were gross. As if I didn’t know that. Bobby Fleisher asked if he could touch my cheek, but I said no because it was still healing. I let him run his finger over a scar on my arm.
“That feels weird.”
Janna asked, “So, what was it like being in a fire?”
“Um, hot.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yeah, of course…”
“How did it start?”
Jessie saw how uncomfortable I was and came to my rescue.
“Our Mom died in the fire,” she said. “We don’t like to talk about it.”
“Jeez, sorry, girl. I was just asking.”
Bjorn had the guts to say what most of them were probably thinking: "What a freak."
At the end of the day I was weak and sore and exhausted – but happy. Jessie said I kind of glowed.
It felt so good being able to take care of myself and help with chores. The new house had gotten dirty, shabby even. It seemed wrong; Mom wouldn’t have allowed that. We were twelve and we knew how to do stuff. We made our beds and cleaned the bathroom. It was important.
Mrs. Loomis noticed, and mentioned how nice the place looked. She suggested again that I play an instrument to help increase my strength and range of movement.
“You know, Cory, girls love a guy who can play guitar.”
When I asked Dad if I could get a guitar, he snapped, “Do what you want.”
I don’t know why he was so mad at me, but I took him at his word. I found a used one at St. V’s, and asked the clerk if she knew how to tune it. She stared at my face for a second before she answered.
“No, honey, I don’t, but he would,” she said, pointing at one of the volunteers. His nametag read Joel.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling stupid. I probably couldn’t manage this yet... “Um, Joel... Can you show me how to tune this?”
“Lemmee see that,” he frowned. He looked down the neck and frowned harder. “Don’t buy this – it’s junk. You play at all?”
I shook my head.
He looked at my hands and arms. Too late, I tucked them behind me. He smiled and held up his right hand, which was missing the end of his ring finger.
“You’re cool with me. Tell ya what, dude, I got this old junker – sounds like crap but the action’s good.” Seeing the confused look on my face, he explained, “The strings are close to the frets, so it won’t hurt your fingers.”
“How much?”
“For you? Twenty bucks, and I’ll throw in some lessons.” Lessons – that’s what I needed!
“Deal!”
“I’ll bring it in Saturday. Can you be here about one?” I grinned and nodded. This was cool.
On weekends, we caught up on homework and shopped together. We used Dad’s ATM card at the credit union and dragged an old red wagon to Miller’s Drug and Market. Things were more expensive there than at the A&P, but that was too far for me to walk.
It was convenient that Miller’s had the pharmacy counter. That’s where I got the inhalers for my lungs and my pain pills. I was healing well, but still used the pills regularly, even when it didn’t hurt that much. Like in the hospital, they didn’t make me loopy or anything, but they took the edge off.
When a disability payment came in, Jessie forged Dad’s signature and mailed it to the bank. We got two big checks from insurance companies and a really big one from a lawyer. Those eventually became the bulk of our college fund.
Jessie also forged checks to pay the bills, and we got good at balancing the checkbook. Where months before we’d played at being married, now we were no different than an adult couple.
And Dad was our sick child – but all his burns were inside. Canadian whiskey, straight from the bottle, made him quiet. I’d heard it could dull your pain, and figured that’s why he used so much. I tried some, and couldn’t believe how awful it was. I decided I’d stick to the pills for relief.
One Sunday afternoon some ladies from the church came to the door, wanting to talk to him, but he was busy sleeping. I was going to say he was away, but the big green truck was obviously in the driveway. Jessie said a friend had taken him fishing, which seemed to satisfy them. I caught one of them looking in our trash when they left. After that we wrapped his empty bottles in newspaper and double-bagged them.
Another day a college student came to the door while Jess and I were eating dinner. He explained that he was Stan’s grandson. He looked at the scar on my face and nodded. His dull brown eyes conveyed resentment, bordering on hostility.
“You must be Cory.” He set a small, wooden guitar case on the living room floor. It looked kind of like a coffin. We invited him to join us, but he said he couldn’t stay. He told us that before his grandfather died, he’d asked that I be given the old guitar. The young man seemed very disappointed, but stepped away from the case anyway.
“Grandpa Stan said you have to promise and learn to play it, so Olie won’t be mad at him. I have no idea what that means, but he said you’d understand. He also told me to give you this.” He handed me a folded piece of paper. Then he left, without even saying goodbye.
“What does the note say?” Sis asked.
“It says that everything is just stuff. The good stuff outlasts us, and we only take care of it for a while. He hopes I make better use of the guitar than he did.”
I named the guitar Olie – I thought that Stan would like that. Olie was small, a Martin oh-eighteen. Martins had been made in Pennsylvania since long before the civil war. According to the serial number, this one was built in 1916. Since Stan never played the instrument, it looked brand new.
Olie wasn’t flashy or particularly unique looking. In fact, he was very plain, but apparently, he was rare. Joel said if I sold it I could get a grand or more, but I figured he was pulling my leg. It didn’t matter; Olie was worth a lot more than that to me. He fit my hands just right, and sounded great once we put new strings on him.
Joel warned me that the spruce and mahogany were so thin that they could crack in dry air, so I kept Olie under my bed with a humidifier in his case. I thought of Stan every time I played that old guitar.