Page 4 of Dear Firefighter Hero
3
LOUISA
Jobs in Knight’s Ridge are few and far between for someone like me. I need the flexibility in my schedule for a multitude of doctor appointments and accommodations for my limitations after my accident.
For a while, I couldn’t find anyone willing to hire me. They never said it outright, but I knew the real reason that they didn’t want me working the reception desk at their dental practice or law office. The fire left a hole in this community, and the sight of my burn scars would be a daily reminder that this happened.
Mr. Harper, the owner of Harper’s Market, lost his son in the fire. You’d think he was the last person who would want to be reminded every day of his loss, but he hired me on the spot when I walked in. I asked him once why it didn’t bother him to see me nearly every day. He told me that he didn't see me as a reminder of his loss but a reminder of the hope that even in the darkest moments, there are still glimmers of hope.
I couldn’t see the hope. I was still mourning all that I felt I lost.
But today is the first time I’ve woken up and felt the hope that Mr. Harper’s been talking about all this time—that is until I found out my roommate mailed the letter I wrote but couldn’t bring myself send.
“Good afternoon, Louisa,” Mr. Harper greets me when I walk into the backroom of Harper's Market.
“How’s it going, Mr. H?”
He smiles at my little nickname for him. “Just working through the inventory receipts.”
"Do you need any help with those?" I ask as I put my purse in my cubby and slip on my apron.
“No need. I’ve got it all handled back here. Besides, I need your smiling face out front.”
I’m not the bubbly employee that Mr. Harper likes to claim I am. He thinks that the influx of customer traffic into the market in the last few months is a result of him hiring me. I think it has more to do with the lack of grocery options in our small mountain town, but I would never say that to him.
"Well, you let me know if you need any help with that paperwork," I tell Mr. Harper as I take out the till that he’s prepped for me.
“Will do, dear!” he calls after me.
I love working the numbers for inventory—checking the figures and verifying them down to the penny. Math was my favorite subject in school. Numbers always made sense to me; there were no gray areas.
I head out front and open the second checkout lane next to Sheryl.
“Oh, there you are!” she says, slipping off the stool behind her register and waddling away in the direction of the restrooms. Sheryl’s seven months pregnant with twins and has to pee all the time. “I’ll be back in a moment!”
I open my register and put the till in the drawer before clicking on my open register light.
I check out a handful of customers before Sheryl gets back.
“I swear, if one of these two isn’t a soccer star when they grow up, then my bladder is getting its ass kicked every day for no other reason than these two hate me.
I chuckle. “I’m not sure fetuses can hate someone.”
“You try having your already squished bladder kick boxed multiple times a day and see if what I’m saying doesn’t make sense.” She sighs and tries to push herself back up onto the stool. “And don’t even get me started on the stretch marks.”
I look up in time to see her lift the bottom of her shirt to show me part of her protruding baby belly. There are angry red lines going up and down the tight skin over her belly.
"My body will never bounce back from this. Can you imagine what it feels like to have your body disfigured—” Sheryl’s eyes widen like she can’t believe she just said that. “Oh honey, I wasn’t thinking.”
I fidget with the collar of my shirt to make sure that my scars on the side of my neck aren't showing.
“It’s fine,” I lie.
I know that she didn’t mean anything by it, but that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t sting when someone mentions my burn marks directly or indirectly. I try to push away the feelings of anger that bubble up inside me away. I’m tired of the constant battle I feel whenever it decides to show its ugly head.
The sounds of someone behind me makes me turn, but when I look, there isn't anyone there. The whoosh of the automatic door slides closed, and all I see is the figure of a man walking out of view on the other side of the glass. I look down and notice an envelope sitting on the conveyor belt with the name “Fire Girl" printed on the front in block letters.
I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter to read.
