The first thought to cross Sandy’s mind the next morning when she realized she was awake was that she was in bed and had no idea how she had gotten there.
Bits and pieces of memory began forcing their way into her consciousness. Standing in the kitchen. Pouring wine. Laying on the sofa … Pizza … Leaves.
Leaves.
“Oh no,” she moaned as she rolled onto her side. Her head throbbed. Every muscle in her body ached. She spotted the folded note on her nightstand taped to a bottle of Tylenol.
Good morning, Love.
I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t wake you. You needed your rest.
Take it day by day. Love always and forever.
— S
After throwing a couple tablets in her mouth and washing them down with a gulp of water from a glass Steve had left with his note, Sandy walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. “Ugh,” she groaned, turning away. She had considered skipping a shower, but her disheveled hair and stiff back convinced her otherwise.
Where would she find the strength to go back? While she was waiting for the water to get warm, she slammed down the toilet lid, sat down heavily, and sobbed.
Later that morning Sandy sat in her minivan studying the pole barn. How hard would it be to light it on fire? Would I die from smoke inhalation before the heat of the flames became unbearable? Would it be painful or over before I knew it?
Her thoughts wandered to her family and what life might be like for them without her. Her daughters were old enough to be okay with just Steve. He would be heartbroken, of course, but eventually he’d be okay, too. He was young enough and would remarry. Many single women in town would see him as a heck of a catch. Yes, her family would survive. She gripped the steering wheel tightly and closed her eyes.
Did anyone really need her any longer?
Today wasn’t the first time she’d imagined this scenario. Death by fire was new, though. She used to imagine ending her life with a pill overdose, but changed her mind because an obvious suicide would be a terrible embarrassment not only to Steve, the girls, and her mom, but to her students and friends. But if this warehouse went up in flames, she thought, and she was trapped inside, it would seem like an accident. Tragic, of course, but an accident nonetheless.
Sandy took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and shuttered at the dark thoughts consuming her. “My God, what I am thinking?” She started the minivan, slammed it into reverse, and backed out of the parking lot. It was already hot outside, and she needed something cold. Now.
The wall of cool air that greeted her when she opened the door and stepped into Berkelow’s, the local grocery store, instantly refreshed her. What would the warehouse be like? “Hell,” she muttered as she opened one of the cooler doors. “It’ll be just like the hell it is.”
“Excuse me?” asked an elderly lady standing just behind her. “Did you say something?”
“No, just singing a song,” she said as she reached in and grabbed a bottle of diet peach Snapple. One of her former students, a red Berkelow’s apron tied loosely over his street clothes, waited behind the checkout counter. Sandy put her tea on the check-out counter. “Hello, Paul.”
“Hi, Mrs. Richards. Will that be all today?”
Instead of answering, Sandy stared blankly into space, clutching her purse tightly against her chest. An awkward silence lingered.
“Uh, Mrs. Richards? Did you forget something?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry Paul, I have a lot on my mind. I’ll be right back.”
Sandy walked away from the counter and down aisle 4, where she found another of her students busily stocking a shelf while humming a tune. He looked up and smiled when he saw her.
“Hey Mrs. Richards! How’s your summer going?” asked Demetri with his own unique brand of enthusiasm. “Can I help you find something?”
“Hi, DT,” she replied, calling him by his nickname. “That’s quite a haircut,” she said. Demetri had always been one of her favorites, and everyone knew it.
Demetri’s face broke into a sheepish grin while he rubbed one of the nearly shaved sides of his head. “Yeah,” he replied, brushing back the reddish brown mop on the top that had fallen over his forehead. “Things got out of hand the other night.”
“I like it. It’s you,” she answered. “Do you …” She paused and stared down the aisle.
“Do I what, Mrs. Richards?” When she didn’t answer, Demetri asked, “Are you okay? You look sort of pale.”
“I’m fine,” she shot back. “Just a lot on my mind. Do you have any matches?”
“I didn’t know you smoked, Mrs. Richards.”
“I don’t—and you better not either!” She shook her index finger at her student. “Or chew.”
“I don’t,” he replied, pointing down the aisle. “You’ll find matches just around that end cap, on the left side.”
Ten minutes later Sandy inserted the key into the corroded lock and pushed open the barn door. Hoping to catch a rare breeze, she left the door open when she walked inside. After a few seconds surveying the first tall stack dead ahead, she sighed loudly and shook her head. It was as if all her work the day before had never happened.
“You came back.” The familiar voice was right behind her.
“That makes two of us,” she replied, turning slowly around to face the stranger. He was dressed in what looked to be the same clothes he had on the day before: an olive-colored T-shirt, khaki pants, and shiny black boots.
“Good for you.”
“Yeah,” she responded sarcastically. “Good for me.”
“My dad always said, ‘You don’t have to be the best, to be the best. You just have to be consistent.’” He laughed.
“Your dad?”
“Yes, my dad. He had a saying for every situation.”
“I don’t get it,” she replied shaking her head. “You think I’m trying to be the best at something?”
“No, but you have a big job here,” he said, casting his brown eyes from one end of the building to the other. “If you work consistently at this every day, you’ll get it done. Right now, I suspect all this,” he gestured with his right hand at the stacks of boxes, “is already beating you. “Am I right?”
Sandy remained silent. Just who is this guy?
“I suspect you’re not a quitter.” Sam continued. “You’re better than that. I believe you can beat this building, this mess.” He looked deep into her eyes, so intensely Sandy felt she could not look away. “There are too many people in this world who simply give up. They walk away from their problems. Even worse, they become so overwhelmed they make the mistake of believing they just can’t go on.” He paused. “Do you know what I mean?”
“No, not really.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“A drink. Tea.”
“The tea is in your hand,” he said, nodding toward the bottle. “What’s in the bag?”
When Sam eased closer, Sandy let the top of the bag fall open to reveal its contents. His eyebrows rose and he whistled through his teeth. “I wouldn’t bring anything flammable into a place like this. What if you got trapped in here?” He walked in slow measured paces, looking back and forth as if seeing the inside of the barn for the first time. “A fire would spread quicker than lightning.” He pointed toward the mountain of boxes lining the near side wall. “And because there are probably no chemicals in here in any quantity, well, smoke from wood, cardboard, and such would fill your lungs. But it wouldn’t kill you. Not right away.”
Sandy cocked her head as she listened, her mouth slowly falling open as she grasped the meaning of his words.
“The burning sensation, well that would be unbearable,” Sam continued. “You might collapse near where the fire started.” He looked around the floor and pointed. “Like there. Right there.”
She looked at the area he indicated and in her mind’s eye saw her own body lying on the dirty floor.
“Smoke and heat like that incapacitates a person. You’d be unable to run from the flames, but you would be fully aware of what would be happening. The burning in your lungs and the lack of oxygen is paralyzing. But you would still be awake when the flames reach you.”
Sandy gripped the plastic bag tightly and twisted it in her hands. “Stop, please,” she whispered, looking straight down at the floor.
“You might even smell your burning flesh before you died. Your last moments of life would be indescribable in their agony.”
Sandy lifted her eyes to look into his. “Why are you telling me this?”
Sam just smiled. “We should get those matches out of here.” When she didn’t reply, he added, “I think they’re dangerous. What do you think?”
She slowly extended her hand holding the bag.
“Well, I don’t want them!” he laughed. “Why don’t you throw them in that dumpster I saw outside when I came in today?”
The burning in your lungs and the lack of oxygen is paralyzing.
“Who are you?”
“I already told you. I’m Sam.”
“Sam who?”
“Just Sam,” he shrugged.
“Just Sam,” she echoed, turning away from him to walk outside and toss the bag of matches into the brown metal dumpster Steve had rented and delivered early that morning. When she stepped back into the gloomy barn, it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust from bright sunshine to the shadowy interior.
“Sam?” She called out, walking deeper into the pole barn. “Sam?” The only voice she heard was her own bouncing off the rotting wooden walls. What the heck is with this guy?
Sandy took a large swig of her tea, grimaced because it was already warm, and began opening boxes.