by Emilia Finn
I break through the last of the space standing between me and my son, and when that female paramedic tries to stop me, I snatch him up and bury my face against his neck. “Maximo!” I press my nose against his cold skin, and wrap my arms around his pebbled torso.
Someone wraps a blanket over my shoulders. Another over Maximo’s. They cinch us together and bully me toward the back of the ambulance. “You need to sit, ma’am.”
“Are you okay, bello?” I pull back, but only so I can see his face. He still has the rounded cheeks. The pert nose. The double chin that comes with a baby born at ten pounds, though he’s two now. Two and a few months.
But on those chubby cheeks are lines made by tears that track along his skin, stopping at his chin. Soot, black and mean, is smudged beneath his eyes. He’s rubbed them. Either in his room, while he was all alone and confused in his crib, or out here, while strangers talked at him and he waited for his mommy to arrive.
He doesn’t answer me. Doesn’t speak. But warmth spreads under our blanket, and then the smell of urine follows as he soaks his pyjamas and mine.
I say nothing. I don’t shame him for his valiant attempt to no longer need diapers. He initiated no-diaper bedtimes, even at his young age. But now he wets.
He waited for me, terrified and lost. And then he let go.
“It’s okay, Maximo.” I brush a hand over his face and try to wipe the dark smudges away. “Mommy’s here. Mommy’s got you.”
“Fire.” He looks toward our home, points a chubby hand, and stares in awe. “Hot.”
“Yeah, bello. Hot. Don’t touch.”
“Daddy?”
“He’s coming soon.” I join my son’s vigil and watch our dream home crumble and fall. Whatever the flames spare, the water destroys. Whatever the smoke doesn’t blacken, the night hides. “He’ll be out soon, baby. We’ve just got to be patient.”
“Mommy?”
“Soon.” Fresh tears well in my eyes.
For every minute that passes and nothing happens, the lump in my throat grows. For every minute more, my pulse quickens. For every breathless moment I experience, my cough returns. And for every time Maximo asks “Daddy?” I sob and reply, “Soon, baby. He’ll be out soon.”
Six days after Lieutenant Brandon McGarren and Max Mazzi perished in the fire on Curie Street at one in the morning, I stand in the rain and watch them lower my husband’s body into the earth.
Yesterday, I stood in a similar place, wearing similar clothes, with a similar ache in my heart, and watched on as another wife cried while they buried her husband.
Mrs. McGarren held the hand of a child only a couple of years older than Maximo, and on her other side, a woman equally as beautiful as she, but perhaps twenty-five years older, held her up and sobbed while they took him away.
Brandon’s wife was so sad. But so sturdy. So heartbroken. But it’s almost as though, to marry him, she’d already accepted she would lose him this way.
It wasn’t a matter of if, but when. And knowing that, perhaps, helped her stay strong.
Or numb.
One or the other.
The rest of the fire department stood stalwart. A hundred of them, at least. They wore full uniform—the suit kind, not the firefighting kind—and when they handed Mrs. McGarren Brandon’s helmet, melted and deformed, destroyed and disfigured, I turned and walked away.
Because I couldn’t watch anymore. I couldn’t stand by and absorb a single iota more of her grief. Or the grief felt by those hundred firefighters. I couldn’t absorb their sadness. Their anguish.
And a large part of me worried there was also bitterness in the air.
Their colleague died protecting my family. My home. My son, my husband, and myself.
Brandon was my hero in the darkness, and because of me, he went back inside that home to save someone who was, by all accounts, already gone.
I thought I could hear Max calling for me while I laid on Maximo’s carpet. I was so certain that what I heard was Max’s voice, strong and searching. I thought he was coming to find us, which meant he was still standing. Still alive. But the fire investigator I spoke to the morning before yesterday told me that Max had been found deceased, laying in the basement beside our faulty hot water heater.
The wiring was frayed—I knew that already—but it still worked. It still warmed our water. And Max assured me it was safe and fine.
Turns out, the frayed wiring started the fire, and though Max was the first awake, the first alerted, he perished in the confines of the basement long before the fire tore apart the upstairs of our home.
I sent a firefighter back inside for my dead husband. And now they’re both gone.
Maximo stands beside me in a suit that doesn’t fit quite right. He’s a little short for his age, a little thin. The moment we stopped nursing and he transitioned to regular food, most of the rolls fell off my son’s chins, and his little-boy look overtook that of the baby.
My mind has been in a million places since the night of the fire. I’ve organized a funeral, and reviewed Max’s life insurance policy—they called me, I didn’t call them. I’ve discussed—and declined—the offer of cremation for my husband. And, since our home and all of our things were destroyed, I’ve gone shopping for an outfit for my husband to be buried in.
These are the things I had no clue would need to be discussed after death. Jeans or slacks? Shirt or sweater? Socks, or no? Shoes? Underwear? Should I bury my husband with his watch on, or take it off and set it aside for our son? Should I bury him here, in the town where we made our home, or in a small village not so far from the city of Milan, where we left only four years ago?
These details, and others. Flowers and newspaper announcements. Long distance phone calls and tears… so many tears.
Max’s mother is old and frail. She was at an advanced age when she had her children, and only a few years ago, her own husband passed on. Delivering the news of her son’s death to the frail old woman might have been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Until today. Until burying him.
Because of age and distance, it was decided there would be no international visitors making it in time for Max’s funeral. And though he had a bevy of friends at work, his job was, by and large, a traveling job. Which means those who are normally local, are currently away and unable to attend.
Unlike yesterday’s burial, where hundreds were in attendance, today, it’s just me, my son, and a garbed priest, who stands at the head of Max’s gravesite, reading from his bible to send my beloved into the next world with blessings and prayers for peace.
Maximo stands tall and dignified beside me, despite the fact he hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since that night. He holds himself with pride in his poorly fitting suit, though he’s nervous about making a mess of it.
He still wets himself at night, but now it’s progressed so he wets in the day too.
He clutches my hand tight, white-knuckled, and watches the people who work here lower his father into the ground, and though he can speak, though his vocabulary is quite advanced for a two-year-old, he remains as silent now as he has since that night on Curie Street.
The last word he spoke was Daddy.
Almost a whole week ago, he kept asking for his daddy. But since then, not a peep.
Not one single word.
Idalia
Learning to Trust
Present time—two years later.
I rush through the lobby of the Oriane, my hotel, my baby mid-transformation, and hurry toward the stairs that lead up. Max sits on my hip, smiling at the rapid ride I’m giving him, but his headphones are on and his eyes are focused on the shiny brooch I wear on my blouse, rather than the tradespeople who lope through our hotel.
Men, dozens of them, work on reinvigorating the space that was once a sinkhole for accommodation. Torn wallpaper and worn banisters. Thinned carpet, and wall hangings missing too much of what they should have for me to consider keeping them.
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This place, when I first inspected it, had walls stained from dirty hands, and railings chipped from misuse. Warped timber, and rotted bases in some spots. The carpet was so worn down that, often, I could see the wood beneath, and the light fixtures overhead either hung limp, or were missing completely. Wiring dangled down in their absence, the frayed ends heart-stopping enough to tempt me to take a moment in private to breathe.
But still, I made an offer to the incompetent owners—a very rich offer, available to me only because of the policy my husband ensured would be accessible to us if he passed first—and the moment they said yes, I walked over to the power supply and shut the whole hotel down.
No more electricity would pulse through this building until a professional electrician could come through and inspect the entire place. A costly exercise, and one that pissed off the only couple that was staying here when I walked through, but a promise of a week-long, free stay in the brand-new suites upstairs upon the grand reopening was enough to assuage the tenants and send them on their way.
Tomorrow is that grand reopening.
In heels and a skirt suit, since I insist on being the astute professional in this hotel, despite the child on my hip, I hustle up three flights of stairs with burning calves, and biceps that sing from Maximo’s fifty pounds, I stop at the brand-new stairs, built to match those that were already here… but better.
This building was once three stories smaller, but the moment I secured the deeds to this place literally named ‘HOTEL’, I called in my team—builders, engineers, and architects, as well as plumbers, electricians, and carpenters for the small finishing touches—and we started on the renovations that caught the attention of many in this small town.
I went to war with this town’s council, got approval for an additional three floors, then we started on demolition and reconstruction.
“Jake.” I meet my site manager at the entrance to my new staircase and smile when he grins down at me. He’s handsome and sweet, he works hard, and he tries to make Maximo speak. But alas, he’s nothing more to me than an excellent employee. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready, Miss Italy.” He teases my accent, Italian and thick, but he does it now out of good-natured ribbing, not because it surprises him.
We’ve worked side by side for the better part of six months. He understands me, even when he mocks and asks “huh?”.
“Let’s go.” I reseat Maximo on my hip and swallow my grunt at his weight.
When Jake leans around me and tries to grab my son’s attention, my baby’s fifty pounds grow even heavier as he tries to escape the brute’s gaze. So I turn. It’s subtle, and minimal, but it’s enough to shield Max from the man who thinks he’ll be the magic touch to end my son’s traumatic mutism.
Maximo doesn’t want to speak. And if he will not do it for me during the hours and hours of work I put in to help bring him back, then he sure as hell will not do it for the tradesman he barely tolerates.
“Jake?” I lift a brow and move onto the first step. “I have somewhere to be in twenty minutes. We must hurry.”
Nodding and jumping to action, Jake bounds a few steps ahead and leads the way. “Staircase, made to match the Oriane’s original. The guys mimicked what was already here, they made it better, and then they replicated it for the entire build, so now everything matches.”
“Excellent.” I rub a hand over Maximo’s back and help him relax as we move past more men. More tools. “The chandeliers?”
“Made by a local artisan,” Jake answers quickly. “They’re glass but look like crystal. Jacques felt this was the better choice to maintain the elegance you want, but with durability so your hotel remains beautiful longer.”
I study the massive chandelier that hangs in the middle of my hotel.
Before, this hotel used to have separate floors, and low ceilings. Now, it’s like a massive oasis, with open floors, mezzanine levels, and rooms surrounding the outside of the stairs. Glass abounds, shiny and clean, transparent, so we still have separation of floors and spaces, but without making the place dark or cramped.
The ladies from the florist bustle around as Jake and I move; they add their fresh flowers where I instructed them to, they plump and primp, polish and inspect, and without a word, they hustle away and work their way down as I work my way up. Massive urns take up space in the corners, and flowers dangle—some with drooping greenery, others with proud color. Roses and daisies alike, hanging pearls and succulent flowers.
Abigail Rosa is in the middle of her first promised delivery to the Oriane—just as her contract states—and she impresses me… just as she promised she would.
“The guys are on the top floor now, finishing up,” Jake reports. “They asked for thirty minutes more.”
“That makes them thirty minutes late,” I tell him. “And as I said, I have somewhere to be in twenty.”
Forcing a smile, but beneath that, barely covering a kind of panic, Jake snags his cell phone and hurriedly types something into a text box. He hits send, and meets my eyes with a nervous chuckle.
His contract says that he is to deliver at noon today, and if he misses that deadline, then he’s in breach of contract and may lose fifty percent of what I’m to pay him. I won’t actually withhold his money—thirty minutes or thirty hours, he still delivered—but the threat is enough that I know he just texted his people and told them they have ten minutes to get their shit together.
“The first of your new floors of suites.” He extends a hand when we reach the landing, and leads me toward a door that reads a famous couple’s name.
Anthony and Cleopatra, Napoleon and Josephine, Pierre and Marie… Each new room has a theme, a story. When he pushes the door open to the first, I hold in my gasp at the sight that lays before me.
“A honeymoon suite,” Jake says, despite the fact I pored over the plans for months. I know what each room is, I know what each floor is. “One bedroom, one living room, a king bed, and a king-sized jacuzzi tub.” He leads me in with a hand on the back of my elbow, stopping in the living room to show off the fancy half-kitchen.
It’s doubtful anyone staying in this room will want to cook, but the facilities are here just in case, and the wine fridge beside the counter, filled with rich reds and crisp whites, will be enticing enough to bring any couple, no matter how in love and frenzied they are after their big day, toward the marble countertops.
“The staff has already stored the dishes.” Jake moves forward and opens a glistening white cupboard door, taking out a fine china plate. “Each room has a full setting of these.” He passes the plate, though of course, I already know what they look like. I selected the pattern. “Plates, bowls, mugs for coffee.”
“The fifteen-ounce?”
“Of course,” he snickers. “Silverware.” He takes the plate from me, places it back where it goes, shuts the cupboard, then opens a drawer and takes out a glistening fork. “Silver, with the Oriane’s pattern etched in.”
“So if anyone steals for a souvenir,” I preen, “we’re still being advertised wherever the fork goes. Perfetto.” I grin and fix Maximo on my hip.
He’s too big for me to carry everywhere. The practicalities of running this hotel and being a single mom at the same time make it impossible.
But this is the life I choose for us now. This is the road we walk.
And though I would have enjoyed Maximo’s input about where we should move when I asked, he didn’t speak up. Which makes this my choice, my journey, a road I’ve dragged him down. Making single-momming and being the CEO of the Oriane my load to carry.
I’ll do both, and I’ll do them well.
Ever since the fire that took our world and tossed it on its head, my son has suffered from paralyzing anxiety in public settings. He won’t speak to anyone—not even me. He won’t look at anyone, won’t interact. He prefers to pull his headphones down over his ears, with or without music, and when I allow it, he’ll watch cartoons on his tablet and tune out what’s happ
ening around him.
When he can’t have his device, he reads a book. When he doesn’t have a book, he plays with his soccer ball and develops his footwork.
There’s nothing wrong with my son—intellectually or otherwise. He merely prefers his own company. So for the times he must be in the company of strangers, he’s mastered the ability to ignore them.
At least when it’s just us, he doesn’t ignore me. He communicates… in his own way.
I follow Jake through my hotel for ten minutes more—we look at linens and showers, coffee selections, and soaps. I carry Maximo the entire time, his hands on my shoulder, his chin on his hands, and his sweet baby soap scent stronger to me than even the smell of Abigail’s flowers or the sweat of men hurrying to finish their work.
Then we stop on the top floor.
Our home.
Even though I haven’t told Maximo this, he can feel the excitement. He lifts his chin from my shoulder and peeks at the door that men spill out of. Men in work boots and tool belts. Men in suits. Men with hard hats, and others with seemingly nothing but a bottle of water.
It takes only a minute or two for Jake’s crew to grab their things and bolt, and then silence overtakes us, and Maximo’s body vibrates with anticipation—though no one would know that but me.
When Jake wrings his hands at the door and doesn’t take the lead, I smile and glance down at my watch. “Only thirteen minutes past noon.” I wait for his sheepish eyes to meet mine. “Perfect timing.”
When he visibly relaxes, I high-five myself in my mind and take a step forward. “Let’s see it, shall we?”
“Yes. Of course.” He wipes his hands on the thigh of his pants, as though nervous to transfer a blemish to my new doorhandle, then taking the lead, he opens the double doors with a grand, sweeping-type motion, immediately revealing a space that can only be described as a foyer.
