Page 111 of Courage, Dear Heart

“He’s okay.” Her voice is muffled and raspy. “Scared but okay.” Her hand goes back to resting protectively on his back.

“What happened?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Her expression hardens, her exhaustion replaced with something sharper. “You tell me.” Her tone is cold and flat, even through the oxygen mask.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I recoil. “What?” She can’t possibly think I had anything to do with it. “What do you mean?”

“All I know,” she says, her voice trembling with restrained fury, “is that your father told you to handle the building situation, and three days later, I lose everything. My home. My store. Almost my son.”

Her words are like the lash of a whip, cutting deep, leaving scars. I want to touch her, to hold her hand, to beg her to believe me. I do none of those things.

“I swear—” I stop, swallowing the pain of her accusation when my voice breaks. “I swear I had nothing to do with this. You have to believe me.”

Tears fill her eyes. “I want to believe you, but I can’t trust your father. And I don’t know if you can either. Can you look at me and say he had nothing to do with the fire?”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and damning. I don’t have an answer. I shake my head. I don’t think my father did it. I don’t want to believe he’s capable of doing something like this, but can I be sure? No. Silence falls between us like an executor’s axe, cutting the ties we built together. This can’t be it. This cannot be the end of us. I won’t accept it.

I open my mouth to say no, that my father didn’t do it. But I can’t.

Somewhere a lowbeep-beep-beepsound plays in the background like a ticking clock counting down to the end of us.

I swallow again. “And Daisy?”

“Sheila is taking her to a twenty-four-hour vet. The hospital was not too keen on having a screaming bird in the ER.” A hint of a smile softens her features. “Jamie saved us. And Daisy. She woke him up with her screeches. He came to my room and shook me and called me mommy until I woke up. I was so dizzy. If not for him, I would have been overcome by the smoke and never even known what happened.”

Her words, the thought that I could have lost her—lost them—rips a hole in my soul. “Jillian...”

Her gaze drifts away from me, lost in the terrifying memory. “We stumbled downstairs, barely made it to the door. The smoke was so thick, it blinded us. It was so hot, like being inside of an oven.”

I kneel at her bedside, my head dropping into my hands as a sob rips through me. I had nothing to do with the fire, and yet guilt is an anchor, dragging me in the depths of a sea of despair and anger and relief and gratitude that they’re okay. And fear that Jillian will pull away from me.

Her fingers thread through my hair, a small gesture of comfort that only magnifies the weight of my guilt and helplessness. I sigh, dragging in a breath that hurts as it pushes down the knot in my throat. I swallow it along with the guilt and fear.

A nurse comes in then. “We have a room ready for you. You’ll be able to bathe and change into a hospital gown if you want.”

Jillian nods. “Yes. I want to get rid of this smell.”

The nurse turns to me. “Sorry. You can’t come up. But you can return in the morning during visiting hours.”

I want to fight the nurse, demand they allow me to stay,but I don’t. I stand up, kiss the woman and the boy I’ve come to love on the head, and then step back, making room for the nurse. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

Jillian doesn’t respond, and the ache in my chest deepens as I watch her disappear down the hall, knowing the distance between us isn’t just physical.

SIXTY-THREE

Elliott

I didn’t wantto leave, but I had no choice. I had half a mind of staying in the waiting area, but that wouldn’t have helped anyone. I drove to her place instead. I had to see for myself.

And now I’m here, standing in front of what used to be the flower shop and their home.

Yellow tape closes off the immediate area around the corner building. Blue and red lights reflect on the walls in a bizarre dance. The rumble of the fire engine vibrates under my feet. Curious onlookers gather around with their cell phones out, taking pictures and videos. A TV crew is filming and interviewing firefighters and anyone else they can find with information.

“The fire is contained,” someone says.

Black smoke and steam billow in the night breeze, carrying the scent of ash and burned wood. Sludge runs in rivulets down the sidewalk and along the curb like a dark river carrying away Jillian’s future and dreams.

The front door is ripped off the hinges. The inside no longer looks like a jungle. It’s a black cave of nothingness.

---