Remember

by Karen Kingsbury; Karen Kingsbury

  Landon made his way into the smoky hallway and heard his radio come to life again. He held it close to his ear.

  “This is an alert. We have two men trapped on the second floor, and the radios aren’t working for either of them. Backup units are on the way, but until then I need everyone in the building. Let’s move it!”

  So he was right. The radios weren’t working. Dear God, help us. . . .

  Landon fought off a wave of fear. In situations like this he’d been trained to scan the room for victims and then fight his way out of the building. Choose the most likely place for an exit and barge through burning beams and broken glass. Do whatever it took to be free of the building.

  But Landon had gone back into the building for one reason: to find a five-year-old boy in one of the apartments. He would find the child—dead or alive—and bring him out. He had promised the boy’s frantic mother, and he didn’t intend to break the promise.

  The smoke grew dense, dropping visibility to almost nothing. Landon fell to his knees and crawled along the floor. The flames roared on either side of him, filling his senses with intense heat and smoke. Don’t think about the broken radios. They’ll find me any minute. Help is on the way. Please, God.

  He still had his personal accountability safety system, a box on his air pack that would send out a high-pitched sound the moment he stopped moving. If that signal worked, there was still a pretty good chance his engine company might locate him. But they’d have to get here fast. If they waited much longer, ceiling beams would begin to fall. And then . . .

  Landon squinted through the smoke, his body heaving from the excruciating heat and the weight of his equipment. God, help me. He crept through a burning hallway door. I need a miracle. Show me the boy.

  Just ahead of him he saw something fall to the ground—something small, the size of a ceiling tile or maybe a wall hanging. Or a small child. Landon lurched ahead and there, at the bottom of a linen closet, he found the boy and rolled him onto his back. He held a glove against the boy’s chest and felt a faint rise and fall.

  The child was alive!

  Landon jerked the air mask from his own face and shoved it onto the boy’s. He switched the mask from demand to positive pressure, forcing a burst of air onto the child’s face. The boy must have hidden in the closet when the fire started, and now here they were—both trapped. Landon coughed hard and tried to breathe into his coat as the acrid smoke invaded his lungs.

  Then he heard crashing sounds around him, and he glanced up. No, God, not now.

  Flaming pieces of the ceiling were beginning to fall! He hovered over the child and used his body as a covering. Inches from the boy’s face, he was struck by the resemblance. The boy looked like a slightly older version of Cole, Ashley’s son.

  “Hang in there, buddy!” Landon yelled above the roar of the fire. He removed the mask from the boy for just an instant and held the child’s nose while he grabbed another precious lungful of air. Then he quickly replaced the mask over the boy’s face. “They’re coming for us.”

  He heard a cracking sound so loud and violent it shook the room. Before Landon could move, a ceiling beam fell from the roof and hit him across the back of his legs. He felt something snap deep inside his right thigh, and pain exploded through his body. Move, he ordered himself. He strained and pushed and tried to leverage the beam off his leg. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get free. His legs were pinned by the burning wood.

  “God!” The pain intensified, and he reeled his head back, his jaw clenched. “Help us!”

  He fought to stay conscious as he lowered himself over the boy once more. His training had taught him to limit his inhalations, but his lungs screamed for air, and he sucked in another deep breath. The smoke was choking him, filling his body with poisonous fumes and gasses that would kill him in a matter of minutes—if the falling debris didn’t bury them first.

  His air tank was still half full, so the boy should be breathing okay—as long as Landon stayed conscious enough to buddy-breathe with him.

  The heat was oppressive. The visor on his helmet was designed to melt at 350 degrees—a warning that a firefighter was in a dangerous situation. Landon glanced up and saw a slow, steady drip of plastic coming from just above his forehead.

  This is it. There’s no way out.

  He could feel himself slipping away, sense himself falling asleep. He borrowed the mask once more, gulped in one more breath of air, then firmly placed the mask back on the child’s face. Keep me awake, God . . . please. He meant to say the words out loud, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Gradually, the pain and noise and heat around him began to dim.

  I’m dying, he thought. We’re both going to die.

  And in the shadows of his mind he thought about the things he’d miss. Being a husband someday, and a father. Growing old beside a woman who loved him, standing beside her through the years, watching their children grow up.

  A memory came to him, sweet and clear. His mother, frowning when she first learned of his intention to fight fires. “I worry about you, Landon. Be careful.”

  He had smiled and kissed her forehead. “God wants me to be a firefighter, Mom. He’ll keep me safe. Besides, he knows the number of my days. Isn’t that what you always say?”

  The memory faded as smoke burned its way down his throat again. A dark numbness settled over Landon’s mind, and he was struck by an overwhelming sadness. He held his breath, the smoke strangling what little life remained in him. He no longer had the strength to choke out even a single cough, to try for even one more breath of clean air. So this is it, God. This is it.

  His impending death filled him not with fear, but with bittersweet peace. He had always known the risks of being a firefighter. He accepted them gladly every day when he climbed into his uniform. If this fire meant that his days were up, then Landon had no regrets.

  Except one.

  He hadn’t gotten to tell Ashley Baxter good-bye.

  Chapter Two

  The place smelled like urine and mothballs.

  Ashley shut the door carefully behind her and looked around. The front door led directly into an oversized living room lined with four faded recliners, three of them occupied by shrunken, white-haired women. The house was warm—too warm—but each of the women was buried beneath at least one homemade afghan.

  Ashley spotted an old television set in the corner of the room. A relic, like everything else, she thought. The tinny dialogue of a morning talk show rattled from its fabric-covered speakers. A cheap VCR sat on top of the TV, a few battered video boxes stacked beside it.

  Only one of the residents was awake.

  Footsteps sounded, and Ashley turned to see a slender woman with conservative gray hair bustle around the corner. “Ashley Baxter?”

  Ashley stood a bit straighter and flashed a smile. “Yes.”

  “I’m Lu.” The woman held out her hand. Perspiration dotted her upper lip and she was out of breath, as though she’d spent the morning running from one end of the house to the other. The corners of Lu’s mouth rose but stopped short of a smile. “I own the place. We spoke on the phone.” Her eyes gave Ashley a quick once-over, taking in her dark jeans, duster-length rayon jacket, and bright-colored shell. “You’re on time. I like that.” She turned and motioned for Ashley to follow her down a long hallway. “This is the third vacancy we’ve had this year.” She sighed, and the sound of it trailed behind her like exhaust fumes.

  Definitely overworked.

  They entered an office at the back of the house. A stout woman in her early forties spilled over an orange vinyl chair.

  “This is Belinda; she’s the office manager.” Lu didn’t stop for the introduction but continued across the office to a small desk made of pressed wood. The surface was cluttered with documents, a dozen different sizes and colors.

  Belinda wore aqua stretch pants and a T-shirt that read “Don’t even go there!” She crossed her arms and glared at Lu. “Your ad should read ‘No pr
etty girls.’ ”

  Ashley took the only other chair and narrowed her eyes at Belinda. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  “Oh, quit.” Lu clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Give her a chance.”

  “Pretty girls never last.” Belinda sneered in Ashley’s direction. “Too much lifting.” A laugh devoid of any humor slipped from her throat. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Look.” Ashley started to stand. “Maybe I should leave.”

  “Nonsense.” Lu waved her hands in the air as though she were shooing away a swarm of bees. “Don’t mind Belinda. She needs a vacation.”

  She needs more than that, Ashley thought. But she kept quiet and sat somewhat stiffly in the chair.

  Lu snatched a pair of bifocals from the desk drawer and set them low on the bridge of her nose. Then she sifted through the papers until she found Ashley’s application.

  “Hmmm.” Lu scanned the piece of paper. “No experience.”

  “No, ma’am.” Ashley kept her eyes from Belinda. The interview was going from bad to worse. She couldn’t imagine working for a miserable woman like Belinda. No wonder they had trouble keeping help.

  “You understand the job duties?” Lu handed Ashley a printed list. “Alzheimer’s patients are often delusional. At Sunset Hills it’s our job to keep them grounded. In other words, we do everything we can to make them live in the here and now.”

  Ashley glanced at the list of tips and suggestions for working with Alzheimer’s patients: Use simple sentences. Remind them where they are and who they are. Ask them if they need to use the bathroom. Suggest daytime naps when they’re—

  “You’re a . . . ?” Lu lifted her eyes to Ashley’s. “. . . a painter, is that it?”

  The list fell to Ashley’s lap. Her patience was wearing thinner than the plasterboard walls. “I’m an artist.” She hesitated. “Actually, it’s more of a hobby for now.”

  Belinda chuckled. “What she means is, painting don’t pay the bills.”

  “Wait a minute.” Ashley shot the heavy woman a hard look. There was no point being polite. If the job wasn’t going to work out, they’d all be better off knowing up front. “You run the house here, right?”

  “Ten years straight.” Belinda lifted her chin.

  Ashley looked at Lu. “She doesn’t want to work with me. We’re wasting our time.”

  “It’s not her decision.” Lu glared at Belinda. “I do the hiring around—”

  “Look,” Belinda cut in. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows an inch. “People come here thinking they’ll spend all day baking cookies and watching soap operas with Grandma. It isn’t like that.” She cast a dismissive glance at Ashley. “Pretty Girl needs to know the facts; that’s all.”

  Ashley locked eyes with Belinda and slowly rose from her chair. Then without blinking she dropped to the floor and peeled off thirty purposeful push-ups. From the corner of her eye she saw Lu wink at Belinda. The heavyset woman could do nothing but stare at Ashley, her lower jaw hanging from her face.

  When Ashley finished she stood up, dusted her hands on her jeans, and took her chair again. It wasn’t the first time her morning workout routine had paid off. “Some of us pretty girls”—she was barely breathing hard—“are stronger than we look.”

  Belinda said nothing, but Lu took Ashley’s application and tapped it on the desk. “When can you start?”

  Anger seared its way through Ashley’s veins. She shifted her attention to Lu. “I didn’t say I’d take the job.”

  “Fine.” Lu shot another look of disdain at her manager. “Think about it for a day, and let me know tomorrow. I’d like you five days a week, seven to three.”

  Lu shook Ashley’s hand and excused herself.

  Before Ashley could leave, Belinda cleared her throat. “Look, I’m . . . uh, sorry. We needed someone yesterday, and . . . well, I didn’t think you could handle the job.” She shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong.”

  Memories of every other time Ashley hadn’t measured up shouted at her. She wanted to spit at the woman and tell her what she could do with her apology. Calm, Ashley . . . be calm. She pressed her lips together and breathed in through her nose. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Ashley left the room without saying good-bye. She was halfway through the main room when a rusty voice called to her from one of the recliners.

  “Dear? Are you leaving?”

  Ashley stopped and turned. One of the white-haired women was sitting straighter in her chair, smiling at Ashley, bidding her to come close. Images of Belinda’s mocking face came to mind, and Ashley hesitated. I have to get out of here. She crossed the room and stood before the old woman.

  “Yes.” A gentle smile lifted the corners of Ashley’s mouth. “I’m leaving.”

  The woman reached up and took Ashley’s hand. Gently, with a strength borrowed from yesterday, the woman pulled her close. The skin on her face was translucent, gathered in delicate bunches. Her eyes were foggy from the years, but her gaze was direct. “Thank you for stopping by, dear. We should visit again sometime.”

  The words did unexpected things to Ashley’s heart. “Yes.” She ran her thumb over the old woman’s wrinkled hand. “Yes, we should.”

  “My name’s Irvel.”

  “Hi, Irvel. I’m Ashley.”

  “My goodness.” Irvel stared at Ashley and brought a shaky hand up toward her face. With a featherlight touch, she brushed her fingers through a lock of Ashley’s hair. “You have the most beautiful hair. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Ashley smiled. “Not lately.”

  “Well, it’s true.” Irvel strained to see past Ashley and out the window. “Hank’s out fishing. He’ll be here anytime.”

  “Hank?”

  “My husband.” Irvel worked her tired lips into a smile. “He brings me here for tea. Peppermint tea.” She managed a wink. “He likes fishing with the boys. Has plenty of fish tales when he comes back.”

  Ashley dropped to her knees and tried not to look confused. “Is that right?”

  “He’s later than usual.” Fear fell like a veil over Irvel’s face. “You don’t think he’s run into trouble, do you?”

  “No, it’s still early. When does he usually—”

  Belinda rounded the corner and planted her hands on her hips. “Telling stories again, Irvel?”

  Ashley’s blood ran cold. Belinda’s tone wasn’t cruel or even unkind. It was patronizing—as though she were the parent and Irvel the distracted child.

  Before Ashley could defend the woman, Irvel smiled, and a nervous chuckle sounded from her throat. “We were just talking about Hank.” The corners of her mouth fell back into place. “He’s . . . he’s later than usual.”

  Belinda lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows. She patted Irvel on the back. “It’s time for your nap, old girl.”

  Ashley felt the muscles in her jaw tense. “She doesn’t look tired.” Ashley shifted her gaze from Belinda back to Irvel. “We were having a nice talk, weren’t we?”

  “Yes.” Irvel patted Ashley’s hand. Her face relaxed some, and she looked grateful to have Ashley as an ally. “We were talking about Hank’s fish tales, right?”

  “Right.” Ashley tilted her head and smiled at the older woman. Somehow in their few minutes together, Ashley felt a connection with Irvel, the kind she had hoped to find with each of the residents if she’d been willing to take the job. Ashley flashed a warning look at Belinda but kept her tone even. “I want to hear all about Hank.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Belinda huffed and rolled her eyes in a way that wasn’t altogether mean. Then she lowered her face so she was inches from Irvel. “Hank’s been dead fifteen years, Irvel.Remember?”

  Ashley’s heart dropped to the floor.

  Hank was dead? The realization set in. Of course. These were Alzheimer’s patients. Ashley wanted to cry. She would have done anything to shield the precious woman beside her from Belinda’s cruel reminder.


  “No. No . . . that’s not true.” Terror filled Irvel’s eyes, and she began to shake her head in small, jerky movements. “Hank’s fishing. He told me so this morning. Before tea.”

  Belinda’s eyes grew wide, her tone bored and gently sarcastic, as though she and Irvel had this conversation every morning. “There’s no tea, Irvel. You live in an adult care home, and Hank’s been dead fifteen years.”

  Panic joined the emotions wreaking havoc on Irvel’s expression. “But . . .” She looked at Ashley, desperate for help. “. . . my friend and I just had tea together. Hank always takes me to tea with my friends when he fishes.” Her eyes implored Ashley. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Ashley shifted her gaze to Belinda as Lu’s words came back to her. “We do everything to keep them living in the here and now.” Belinda’s eyes dared her to find an acceptable answer for the old woman. Ashley faced Irvel again. “Tea was wonderful. We must do it again sometime.”

  “Yes.” Peace flooded Irvel’s eyes, easing the wrinkles on her forehead. “That would be lovely.”

  “Whatever.” Belinda uttered a humorless chuckle under her breath and walked off toward the kitchen.

  Irvel touched Ashley’s hair again. “Has anyone ever told you, dear, you have the most beautiful hair? Short, but so very pretty.”

  “Thank you, Irvel.” Ashley gave the woman’s hand a light squeeze. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”

  Irvel settled back in her recliner and nodded, holding Ashley’s gaze. A contented smile settled low on her face. The woman seemed to draw strength from Ashley. “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Irvel.” Ashley looked beyond the woman’s cloudy white cataracts to the soul behind them. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Completely at ease once more, Irvel returned her attention to the television set. Around her, the other women continued to sleep peacefully. The moment the situation seemed stable, Ashley stepped into the adjacent kitchen and found Belinda scrubbing a pan.