Just can’t get a good night’s rest anymore, I thought as I lay there in bed, eyes closed, half listening to the early Sunday morning sounds of the house and half in a blank abyss. No way would anyone else be up as early as 6:00 a.m. Slowly, I allowed my eyes to open. It was mid-August, and the sun was beginning to shine its day’s rays through the blinds. A light feeling came over me as I imagined the day to be a wonderfully warm Sunday. The thought energized me as I raised my aching body from the bed. I threw on the pair of dark-blue sweatpants I had worn the evening before, tossed a t-shirt over my head, and headed out to the kitchen.
Sliding the door open to the backyard, I discovered the air was crisp but still had great potential. I climbed down the porch stairs, entered the garage, then stopped and examined the toppled and disorganized condition of the contents. We really have to get to this garage and clean it up, I thought. I glanced over to the sofa across the garage, noting the plastic bag on top of it. Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. The bag contained an almost-complete afghan blanket. It was a surprise present for my niece, Marie. This wasn’t just any blanket; my mother had started it for Marie before passing away from lung cancer. It held a lot of sentimental value, and I felt rather protective of it. This morning was the perfect morning to complete the project.
I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. The soothing warmth of the coffee basking my tongue easing any aches left from the unsettled night before. M-m-m-m-m, that tastes so good. A second sip and it was as if the aches were but a bad memory. Another trip to the garage with coffee in hand and it was time to get productive.
Setting my coffee down on the folding table next to the sofa, I threw in a load of laundry, turned on the TV, plopped on the sofa, and began to complete the blanket for my niece. As the yarn slipped through my fingers, of the past week eased into the emptiness of my mind. I had just finished another summer, and the rush of the new 2006–07 school year had begun. I had been back for only about a week, and my mind was racing through the different “to do” lists and projects for opening day before the kids and teaching staff arrived for the first day of school. My new job as office manager of a middle school was off to a rough start. After spending twenty-one years of my career at the high school level, middle school felt like foreign territory. That same year, I also had carpal tunnel surgery and missed the closing of my first year at the school.
With these thoughts of the past rushing through my head, the morning went by quickly, and, before long, the rest of the family was up and moving around.
The first person I saw was my husband of over twenty-seven years. Todd was six-foot tall, with a medium build and brown eyes and hair. He was a gruff sort of guy, both in sound and in appearance, but there was also a soft side to him.
He leaned against the garage door, family dogs underfoot and began, drinking his coffee. “What are ya doin?” he asked.
“Today is such a beautiful day I thought I would finish this afghan for Marie for Christmas”
“For Christmas?” Todd exclaimed. “A little early isn’t it? It’s only August.”
I chuckled. “I’ll finish it, put it away, and then at least I’ll have one present ready. So what are your plans for today, dear?” I asked Todd. Looking up, I saw my oldest son, Chris, leaning out the kitchen door.
“Hey, Mom, what’s for breakfast?”
“How about some home-fried potatoes, bacon, and eggs?”
“Yeah, that sounds great.” He flashed me a twinkling smile.
“Would you clean the cast-iron pan on the stove?” I asked. “I’ll be right in.”
“Sure, Mom,” Chris agreed before disappearing into the kitchen.
“Is your brother awake?” I yelled out while he ran the water.
“Yeah, I think so.”
I cheerfully returned to the afghan, and Todd and I picked up our conversation about our plans for the day. As I was finishing a sentence, I looked up to see a bright reflection bouncing off the cabinets behind Todd. Within seconds, it hit me. “Oh my God, the kitchen is on fire!”
Todd and I raced through the door only to find the top of the stove and the oak cabinets surrounding it engulfed in flames. We both grabbed towels hanging close by and started slapping at the stove parts, trying to put the flames out. At the same time, I yelled at the two boys, “Get the dogs out of the house, and call 911!”
The back burner of the electric stove had been acting funny lately, and I had planned on having it checked. A twinge of guilt ran through me as I hastily removed everything that I could. My arms were full of dishes, pots, pans and salvageable food from the cupboards and countertops, as I ran in and out, unloading in the garage.
Chris ran in and began helping his father fight the flames. “Get outside, Mom!” he shouted. “I’ll help Dad. You’ve had a heart attack. You shouldn’t be in here.”
The smoke was getting thicker and lower, so I headed for the front door. In the smoky haze, I could see one of my dogs had run back into the house. Grabbing the thick leash, I latched it onto our ChowChow’s collar and led her back out.
In the meantime, Mateo, my younger son, cradled Sparky, a small Cairn Terrier, in his arms as he methodically opened the windows to let as much of the smoke out as he could. By the time the fire department arrived, the fire was mostly out, but smoke was still pouring from the windows as both Chris and Todd stumbled out the front door and onto the lawn seeking fresh air.
With everyone, including dogs, out of the house and safe, the firemen entered the kitchen to do a safety check. The Emergency Medical Technicians immediately began working on Todd, giving him oxygen while questioning Chris’s condition. Despite Todd arguing that he was “fine,” the paramedics loaded him up in the ambulance for possible smoke inhalation. The paramedic continued to ask Chris if he was okay. Being a twenty-three year-old man, he quickly and convincingly dismissed the fact that he had a history of asthma. Despite my reminding interjections, the paramedic decided Chris was well enough, returned to the bus, and drove off with Todd in the back.
I walked back into the house after the emergency vehicles had left. The smell of freshly burned wood lingered strong. My eyes began to tear up from the smoky haze in the hallway where the bedrooms were located. I chose the better of the two routes to the backyard, which took me down the hallway, past the boys’ bedrooms and a bathroom, and to my bedroom. Opening the door, I was relieved to find my room had been spared this time. I stepped inside and hastily latched the door behind me, pleased to find fresh air. Unlike the last time, I thought.
I stood there, reflecting back five years when our night’s sleep was abruptly interrupted by Sparky’s relentless barking. A forgotten lit candle in the back master bathroom had started a radio on fire. This room, the master bedroom, was blocked off resulting in a blackened mess.
My thoughts returned to the present as I walked out the sliding glass doors into the backyard. There stood Chris and Mateo with questioning eyes.
“What do we do now, Mom? We have to go to work tomorrow, and we have no clothes or anything.”
“Look, let me go to the hospital and check on daddy. When I come back, we will figure out what we are going to do, okay? In the meantime, stay out of the house. Both of you have horrible asthma and the smoke isn’t good for your lungs. Hang out in the garage for now until I get back.”
I stepped back into the bedroom, hurriedly riffled through my closet, and changed my pants. Opening the drawer next to my bed, I scooped up my driver’s license and a credit card just in case, and shoved them into the back pocket of my jeans. As I walked toward the front door, I grabbed my car keys sitting on the table, and out I went.