Falling for the Fireman

by Allie Pleiter

  Chad realized that his earlier answer had been a mistake; there wasn’t any way to explain what the intriguing box was—and why his name was on the delivery label—without talking about Laurie. He wondered if this was God’s way of telling him “opening up and talking about it” was a two-way street. With a resigned sigh, Chad pushed his file box back onto the dusty shelf and walked toward Nick. “Okay, come here and I’ll show you.”

  Chad led Nick out onto the bench in front of the firehouse, out in the sunshine because it felt better to talk about it outside. Not just because it put them away from prying ears, but also because being under the big bright sky always made him feel smaller and less burdened.

  “In China,” he began, completely unsure how he was going to go about this, “there’s a holiday sometime in February.”

  “But it’s September.”

  This was going to be harder than Chad thought. “I’m getting to that. Anyway, the holiday is a way to remember people who’ve died. Sort of like we do on Memorial Day, but it’s everyone, not just soldiers. They pray and send good wishes by lighting paper lanterns that float up into the sky. In fact, part of the legend is that when people were hiding from some bad guys in the mountains, villagers sent these types of lanterns up to let them know it was safe to come home.” Chad wasn’t sure that was entirely accurate, but it was close enough for the eighth grade.

  Nick started pulling the box open. The sound of the tape ripping mirrored the sensation in Chad’s chest. “I don’t get it. Why is someone from China sending you lanterns for dead people?”

  No, this wasn’t going to be easy at all. “The lanterns aren’t really for the dead people. They’re for the people still alive, as a way of remembering.” That sounded exactly like something Helen would have said; she’d be smiling if she knew this conversation was taking place. Maybe even laughing. Still, his chest felt tight.

  Nick managed to pull out one of the paper lanterns—why Helen sent multiples, he never knew—and pulled the circular rings until the paper globe took shape. “Neat. I like these. They’re like little hot air balloons.”

  “Scientifically speaking, that’s exactly what they are. You send them up at night, so they’re kind of like flares, too, because they glow. Well, that’s what I’ve seen in the pictures—I’ve never actually sent one up.”

  Nick thought that was absurd. “Why not? They’re cool. So you don’t have anyone dead to remember?”

  Talk about a loaded question. Chad couldn’t help but wonder if God had sent a thirteen-year-old to corner him on purpose, or if it just worked out that way. “I do.” It felt hard to even say that much. It meant a further explanation would now be unavoidable.

  Nick looked at him, awareness dawning in his eyes so that he looked all too much like his mother. “In the fire? The one you talked about?”

  Chad pushed the words up from the torn place in his chest. “Her name was Laurie, and we were going to be married, but she died before the wedding.” Chad took the paper globe from Nick just to have something other than the boy’s wide blue eyes to look at. “Laurie’s mom is Chinese, and she sends me these every year.”

  “So you can remember her.”

  As if I would ever forget her. “Yes.”

  There was a long silence. Chad waited for the ripping to get worse, for the huge slam of the pain to hit him, to take over and swallow him up, but it didn’t. There was a deep ache, a surge of regret, but it wasn’t shattering. Nick took another lantern out of the box and pulled it open. He found the candlelike fixture that went on the bottom and figured out how it attached without even reading the instructions. “I like these. Do you think I could have one to remember my dad?”

  Chad didn’t even have to think about it. “Absolutely.” It would be like Jeannie’s birthday candle, redeeming flame for him in a positive way instead of a weapon against the anger.

  “Mom would love these.”

  Chad had the exact same thought. Suddenly, the ritual made sense, and launching the lanterns with Jeannie and Nick seemed the most natural thing in the world. As if the box had been waiting for them. “You’re right,” he said, finding the lump in his throat entirely too sentimental. When Nick pretended to make the globe float up into the air, Chad had a vision of Jeannie in the evening, illuminated by the glow of the lanterns as they floated up into the night, and the lump in his throat got larger.

  “And we all got people to remember, so it kinda works out.” Nick leaned his shoulder into Chad.

  It was so simple. Nick said it as if their collective losses were a binding force, not a weight to be borne alone—again, something Helen would have said. He remembered the photos of the ceremony with hundreds of lanterns floating up into the sky and out over the water, and it no longer seemed like a silly stunt, but rather a touching tribute. Certainly more fitting than any of the dry memorial services he’d endured for Laurie and absolutely the kind of thing Jeannie would adore. “I suppose it does.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray the emotions whirling around inside. It was so much easier when all that stayed stuffed down. And yet, hadn’t he just told Nick how damaging it was to keep things stuffed down?

  Nick fitted the candle piece into the globe and held it up with satisfaction. It looked exactly like a miniature hot air balloon. “So when do we launch them—you, me and Mom?”

  Chad hadn’t heard a more appealing—or more dangerous—idea in years. “I’ll let you know.”

  He hadn’t planned it. It just happened, as if his feet involuntarily slipped into the back of Gordon Falls Community Church that evening.

  He and Laurie had attended a big, splashy church—she loved the vitality, but he found the energy overwhelming in his grief. A handful of the firemen attended this weekly prayer service, so he’d known about it for months. This church was simple, classic in its outlay, subtle in its decor except for the vibrant stained-glass windows which even now were somber at dusk. A young woman with a pretty voice was leading praise songs at a piano in the front corner. Nothing too upbeat, just quiet and comforting.

  He’d thought once or twice about coming, but never made it farther than fleeting consideration. He wasn’t completely sure why he was here now. After his experience with Nick this afternoon, faith felt both a thousand miles away and almost within reach.

  Chad nodded silently to the handful of familiar faces on the far left side of the room, but mostly he felt on display. A foreigner or, worse yet, an impostor. Was tonight a mistake? Or the first right step in a long time?

  The woman up front announced the next song, and he was relieved it was one he recognized. He didn’t sing, and he was sure it would hurt to listen because he could almost hear Laurie’s voice next to him. To his surprise, the words and music just flowed gently over him. No threat, no condemnation for the years he’d missed—it was as if the room somehow quietly made space for him. By the following song, the tension left his shoulders and he stopped worrying about what anyone around him was doing. He allowed himself the long-forgotten thought that God might be here, listening to the songs of these friends and neighbors, granting the peace and strength he used to draw from places like this.

  It wasn’t his and Laurie’s church, but it couldn’t have been—shouldn’t have been like his and Laurie’s church. He could almost feel that it was all right to be here without Laurie, that it might actually be good to be here without her. Maybe here he could begin to do this on his own. Maybe he could begin to find whatever faith he would someday call his.

  Pastor Allen announced the first reading, Psalm 66, and Chad fingered the Bible tucked in its little shelf in the pew in front of him. Did he even know where his was? Helen had taken Laurie’s, but he was sure he owned one once. Chad watched his hands take hold of the Bible and open it up as if they were attached to some other man. A long-ago version of himself remembered the Psalms were in the middle. It was a place to start, a foothold of his very own.

  He had almost slipped out unnoticed at the service’s end when Pas
tor Allen caught him at the door. Allen was close to Paul’s age, had served as the firehouse chaplain, but Chad had steered clear of him since his arrival in Gordon Falls.

  “It’s good to see you here, Chad.” Allen’s greeting was warm enough. No “Nice of you to finally show up” like he’d expected.

  “Yeah, well, I thought I’d come check things out.”

  Allen smiled. “Everything to your liking?”

  Chad looked around, not really wanting to meet the man’s eyes. “I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, so I suppose it’s good so far.” That sounded foolish, but Chad was stumped how to begin any kind of conversation like this.

  Allen just continued smiling and nodded toward the hallway at the back of the church. “Why don’t you come in for a bit?”

  Some part of him knew if he followed Allen now, the whole story would come spilling out of him, as if it would take the town’s big green floodgates to hold it all back.

  He was weary of holding it all back. “Okay,” Chad heard himself say, even though half of him yelped “No!”

  The minister stopped at a kitchenette halfway down the hall and filled a coffee mug, pointing to another mug with a raised eyebrow until Chad declined the unspoken offer. “Funny you should show up today. Abby Reed was just telling me you’ve been quite a help to the Nelworth boy.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that I’ve helped at all.” Chad wasn’t pleased that word had gotten out about Nick’s “giant detention.”

  “Spending time with a fatherless boy in a tight spot is a great big help.” The word “fatherless” was like a poke in the ribs, and Chad wondered if Jeannie felt the same twinge anytime anyone mentioned Nick’s late father. Allen pushed open his office door. “I can think of ten other boys who would be in much better places in this world if someone would just pay enough attention.” He sighed as he sat down on a long maroon couch opposite the armchair Chad had chosen. “But somehow I don’t think you came to pray for teen counseling advice.” He held Chad’s gaze with steady, welcoming eyes. “You look like a man with a lot on his mind.”

  How do you start a conversation like this? Explain a gap in your life you can’t explain? Chad ran his hands down his face and reached for the words. “It’s been a long time since I went to church. I mean a really long time.”

  Allen settled in. “I’m not much on measuring time away. I find it doesn’t really matter. I’m more interested in why you left and what’s drawing you back.”

  Chad told the shortest version of Laurie’s loss and his eight-year church exile he could manage. It wasn’t like opening up the floodgates; the words came with sadness, with weight, but with something closer to ease. They didn’t choke him like they used to, and the slam of pain that hadn’t come when he told Nick didn’t come now.

  “That’s a lot of pain for one man to shoulder,” Allen said quietly. “When’s the last time you talked to anyone about losing Laurie in that fire?”

  Chad actually felt a smile crack through the fog of sadness. “I told a thirteen-year-old boy about it just this afternoon.”

  Allen put down his coffee cup. “I think you’re even a bigger help to Nick Nelworth than Abby makes you out to be. Are you ready to believe that God brought the two of you together?”

  Chad shrugged. “Seems a bit epic for someone with my resume. I’m not really the guy to…” To what? He didn’t have an ending for that sentence.

  “Oh, from where I sit, it seems like you’re just the guy.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “For starters, you’re here.” He ran his finger around the handle of the coffee mug he’d just set down. “You said you felt like your faith left you when Laurie died. Where do you think your faith went?”

  “Gone. Just poof and gone. Like it couldn’t hold up to what was going on.” That didn’t sit right as the words came out. “No, that wasn’t really it.” Chad relaxed into the chair, taking his grip off the armrests before confessing, “I don’t really think I had any in the first place. It mostly seeped off of Laurie into me. Borrowed.”

  “Not really. More like shared. Being close to people of faith wakes us up to our own needs, I think. We start to want what we see in them. My own faith started as more of an admiration of my father’s than any big revelation of my own.”

  “Yes, that’s sort of it. I want what Laurie had, but well, I don’t know if I can get there without her. Like I can’t possibly do it on my own.”

  Allen leaned toward Chad. “Actually, I think the only way any of us can get there is on our own. Your faith has to be yours. It won’t look or act or feel like Laurie’s because it’s a relationship between God and you.”

  “I don’t know that I’m ready.”

  “Who ever is?” Allen managed a chuckle. “God never seems to care about ‘ready,’ only about ‘willing.’ The hardest part is getting though the door the first time, so you’re halfway home.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jeannie questioned Abby as she looked up from the pan of caramelizing sugar. Abby had dropped by the church kitchen as Jeannie was cooking to replenish gift basket stocks.

  “Yes, Saturday dinner is definitely on. Even expelled boys have to eat,” Abby reasoned. She pulled on a pair of plastic food service gloves and began helping Jeannie crush pecans. Abby was the best kind of friend. Even when things were at their worst, Abby had a way of making Jeannie feel like everything was under control and things would turn out fine. During the hardest days after Henry died, Abby invited Jeannie over for coffee as always. As if everything were still normal and Jeannie’s world hadn’t just exploded into a million painful pieces. “You said yourself,” Abby went on as she whacked at a bag with a wooden mallet, “Nick’s stint at the fire station yesterday went well. Think of this as a thank-you dinner.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch.” Still, her son seemed less dark, less tense. Jeannie checked the candy thermometer clipped to the side of the saucepan. “Nicky is actually excited at the idea of having dinner with Chad.” Nicky had actually smiled today, hinting at some kind of plan the two of them were hatching, although she had no idea what.

  “The man is helping your son.” Abby poured out the bag of pieces into a stainless-steel bowl and refilled the bag with whole nuts. “The least we can do is feed him.” Abby was clearly not giving in.

  Chad was helping her son, and that meant the world to her. But Jeannie was aware that her feelings for Chad were gathering a little too much momentum.

  Abby pounded for a few seconds, then stopped to point the mallet handle at Jeannie. “It’s not going to go away, you know.”

  Jeannie returned her gaze to the thermometer, willing the correct temperature, the one requiring immediate action, to appear now. “What isn’t?”

  “What’s going on between you two. What’s going on between you three, actually. Did it ever occurred to you that Frank and I have been praying for something like this for years? He went to church last night, did you know that?”

  Jeannie leaned against the counter, suddenly exhausted from all the inner turmoil. Chad went to church. She was glad—truly, deeply glad—but in truth, it only made things more complicated. “That doesn’t make everything clear between us. And the timing is still, well, horrible. I don’t know what to do.” She checked the other pan of ingredients, stirring it once. Timing how one blended ingredients was crucial to candies. And life. Half of her wanted to rush forward and give in to whatever this thing was blooming between her and Chad Owens. The other half of her wanted to run away from the new storm of feelings surging up inside her. “Why does it feel like God had pulled every rug out from underneath me all at once?”

  “I don’t know, Jeannie. You’ve been through enough heartbreak for four lifetimes. I told God He needs to let up, if that makes any difference.”

  The necessary temperature achieved, Jeannie carefully poured the creamy mixture into the bubbling sugar, reveling in the aroma. She was good at this, very good. She stirred u
ntil just the right color appeared in the pot, then turned down the heat for the several minutes of the final step. “I can’t help thinking Nicky’s through the worst of it. It’s simply got to get better from here.” Her eye caught a batch of photographs held to the church fridge with a magnet, the satisfying scent warring with a sudden sharp loss for all the kindergarten and first grade photos lost to ashes forever. The baby pictures. The wedding pictures. “He’s…well, it’s a vulnerable time for him. For me. I can’t add a complicated relationship. I can’t risk losing my focus on Nicky by getting myself in a tangle. I need to see the clear path right now.”

  “And what if the clear path is through Chad Owens?”

  That was the least calming thought of all. Jeannie was taking a breath to say maybe it would be better to just wait a week when Abby started whacking again. “Don’t you even think of canceling. And wear something nice. And bring some of these. They smell wonderful.”

  Nicky gave her an incredulous glance when she came out of her bedroom Saturday night dressed in a new yellow sweater. Fine time for Nicky to decide to start noticing what she wore.

  “What?” she challenged as they pulled their coats on. “I was saving this for a week when I needed cheering up.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, drawing out the word in awful teen cynicism, hinting at a million things in one syllable.

  Dinner felt remarkably easy. Frank and Chad evidently had several things in common, and Abby’s high school senior son, Ben, scooped up Nicky as always. Ben referred to Nicky as his “honorary little brother,” and the boys got along famously.

  “It would help if Ben were a little less impressed with Nicky’s expulsion,” Jeannie joked to Abby as they set out slices of cake and a bowl of Jeannie’s chocolate covered sea-salt caramels after dinner.