Old Flames, Burned Hands

by McGregor, Tim

  His hand raked the gravel and found hers. “I want to see the sun come up.”

  “It’s not fair.” It sounded childish to her own ears but she didn’t care. It was honest.

  “I know.”

  Blackbirds dove through the air above them and barnswallows chittered mindlessly from the wires. The wail of sirens could be heard, growing louder.

  His head tilted away and he spit blood onto the stones and turned back to see the east. The horizon washed pink and orange. “How long has it been since that night? The accident.”

  “Seventeen years.”

  “A nightmare.” His voice croaked, an effort just to speak. “But it was worth it. I got to see you again.”

  She pulled her hand away to cover her eyes. The little hydration left in her system welled up and was falling now. “I can’t do this, Gil. I can’t just watch you die.”

  “Yes you can.”

  She could already feel warmth on her skin. It was happening too fast and there was so much she wanted to say but no coherent words formed in her mind or on her tongue. This wasn’t fair. No one should have to endure death twice.

  “Are you scared?” A silly thing to ask.

  “Terrified,” he said. He tried to lift his arm but there was no strength left to do even that. The best he could do was to unfold his fingers. “Will you hold my hand?”

  She folded her hand over his and tried not to wince as the skin of his palm peeled away like rotten fruit. His fingers flensed at her touch but squeezed back. He said “I already miss you.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  “This should have happened a long time ago.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  He opened his mouth to say something but the clouds shifted in that moment and the first ray of sun unfolded over his face. His face, his beautiful face, darkened to char instantly and the first lick of flame parted from his lips like another tongue and then the fire was total. He erupted into flames.

  The heat of it slammed into her. Her hand remained clenched in his and she watched her own flesh burn. When it came the pain was diabolical and she pulled her hand away but his blackened fingers would not let go.

  The flames ate her hand. She twitched and jerked it free. Gil’s fingerbones popped apart and the carbonized phalanges fell to the gravel.

  She coddled her burning hand into her chest to douse the flames and when she looked down her palm bubbled up in blisters. Turning it over, the blackened skin split across the knuckles, exposing the bone beneath it.

  Gil burned away, a dark silhouette inside the rippling Halloween orange of the flames. His head shifted back and the jaw dropped open and then he didn’t move again.

  The pain was total and it snipped her breath. She was going to pass out from it. She was going to die alone on this rooftop from the naked pain but she didn’t want to die. Clawing the phone from her pocket, she fumbled and dropped it onto the stones and scooped it back up. The screen lit up and the last number she thumbed into it displayed on the little screen. Above the digits was the name.

  Whittaker

  WHEN SHE AWOKE IN the hospital, Tilda Parish remembered nothing. Her short term memory a black hole, the edges of it rendered hazy by pain killers. Opening her eyes to a soiled patch of a ceiling tile, she held only a dim understanding that she was in a hospital room. The reason why escaped her completely. Another car accident? She faded in and out, seeing nurses enter to adjust this or that. A doctor with a smug tone, an orderly taking away an untouched breakfast tray.

  The pain, unlike her memory, was acute and constant and localized wholly around her left hand. It was elevated and bound in burn dressing, the wound beneath it a mystery. When a nurse came to change the dressing, a sheet was draped over the arm to block Tilda’s view, maintaining the mystery of the wound. Tilda tried to move her fingers and a new, startling pain raced up her arm and that was when her memory came back, as if jolted back into place by a bombshell of pain.

  The coven and the fire, the rooftop and the warmth of the rising sun.

  Gil, eaten alive by the flames.

  This time there would be no coming back. He was well and truly gone and for the second time in her life, Tilda lay in a hospital bed contemplating Gil’s death. The déjà vu was eerie but the grief was manageable. Hell, she was an old hand at it now. Her fingers tingled and she looked at the gauze wrapped over the hand, hiding it like a prize waiting to be revealed. Under normal circumstances, her mind would be racing ahead, imagining the extent of the damage and how it would affect her but the pain killers kept her brain flaccid and calm and after a while, she slept.

  A tug on her hand woke her and she saw a doctor gingerly peeling away the burn dressing. He said hello and asked her how she was feeling, just as the last of the dressing came away, some of it sticking to the flesh with stringy tissue. That first glimpse of the mystery was too much, the boiled-looking skin and patches of charred flesh. The angry rawness of it made her turn away.

  She fixed her eyes on that brown water stain on the ceiling tile and kept them there. The doctor told her that the burn was severe. In a calm monotone, as if discussing weather or engine trouble, he explained that she had suffered a third degree burn and that the reticular dermis had been damaged. Skin grafts would help to restore the surface of her hand to an extent but her motor skills and mobility would be severely limited. Over time, she may learn to grasp simple objects, a tennis ball perhaps, but that would be the extent of it.

  The doctor droned on but Tilda stopped listening. What was the point? They should have just amputated the damn thing, instead of leaving it to mock her. When the doctor finally left she closed her eyes again, suddenly loathing the sight of the water stain above her. She didn’t bother opening them when she heard someone else enter the room. Another nurse come to poke and torture and drug her with meds.

  “That looks nasty.”

  Officer Whittaker stood in the doorway with her hat in her hand. She offered up a hesitant smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit.”

  “Sorry.” Whittaker crossed to the bedside. “Silly question.”

  Whittaker studied the bandaged hand and how Tilda’s frame tapered to almost nothing under the thin hospital sheet. “What happened?”

  “Is there water in that cup?” Tilda tried to swallow but her tongue was paste and a faint ashen residue lingered. She sipped the straw as the officer brought the cup to her lips. “Have you called Shane? Or Molly? Do they know I’m here?”

  “I saw Shane yesterday.” Whittaker set the cup back onto the table and refilled it from a pitcher. “It was kind of convenient you two winding up at the same hospital. He was just being released, so I told him you were here.”

  “Did he come see me?”

  Whittaker turned the hat in her hand and looked into the band as if some answer was proscribed there . “No. He went home.”

  Tilda didn’t move. That should have hurt but it didn’t. Whether it was the meds or a limp sense of finality, she didn’t know. Logically, she should have been furious or heartbroken but she felt neither. She had made this bed and here she was lying in it.

  Whittaker shifted her stance, creaking the leather of her thick belt. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. What about Molly? Does she know?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t call your mom-in-law. I don’t know if Shane did or not.” Whittaker sought out Tilda’s gaze and held it fast. “Tilda, what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s all kinda foggy.” Not exactly a lie. The details and chronology were a jumble of hazy snapshots. “Did I call you?”

  “Yup.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You said you needed help. You told me where you were and said to hurry. Then the line went dead.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I gunned for the location you told me, the old building in the round-about on Spadina,” Whittaker said. “I was only a few blocks away when you called. The
re was a fire call on the campus.”

  “A fire?”

  “In the Knox College building. Damn thing went up in a massive blaze. Four alarmer.”

  Tilda tried to picture the building but couldn’t remember which one it was. It must have been above the lair. “How did the fire start?”

  “Who knows? Those old buildings, it could have been anything. The fire forensics crew will be pulling overtime on that job.”

  Tilda nodded, as if this was common knowledge. “So I called you. Then what?”

  “I tore off to the building in the crescent and ran up to the roof. You were passed out on the gravel, not moving and your hand was still smoking. I thought I was too late. I radioed for an ambulance and carried you downstairs myself. The paramedics pulled up just as I got you out the front doors. They took care of you and I humped it back up the stairwell.”

  Tilda tilted her head. “Why?”

  “There was another body on the roof, but there was no saving that one. It was still burning.”

  The bitter taste of ash returned. “Who was it?”

  Whittaker shrugged. “No idea. There was nothing left of it. I grabbed a tarp on the way back up and threw it over the body to douse the flames. It just crumbled. When I pulled the tarp away, there was nothing but ash. Damndest thing too. I’ve seen bodies burned before and there’s always bones left behind. This? Nothing. Powder, that’s it.”

  The image of that drifted up in Tilda’s mind. Ash floating away on the breeze.

  “Tilda,” Whittaker cleared her throat. “Who was on that roof with you?”

  Her eyes floated back to the stain on the ceiling tile. She had neither the strength nor the brains to lie anymore. “His name was Gil. He died a long time ago.”

  The police officer regarded her coolly and Tilda could almost read Whittaker’s thoughts, trying to determine if she had lost her mind or was simply babbling in a medicated stupor.

  “That’s going to cause a stink if I put that in my incident report,” Whittaker said.

  Tilda raised her good hand and rubbed her eyes. Her skin felt oily and she suddenly wanted a shower. “Then I don’t know who it was. My memory of that night is really scattered. Can you put that in your report?”

  “For now, but you have to promise me something. When you’re feeling better, you have to be straight and tell me what happened. Deal?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” Whittaker smiled and crossed to the chair by the door. A plastic shopping bag rested on the seat and she held it up. “The clothes you were brought in with were pretty much destroyed, so I stopped by your house and grabbed a few things. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Thank you,” Tilda said.

  Whittaker dangled the bag on a finger then settled it back onto the chair. “They’re here when you’re ready to go home.”

  Tilda sat up and swung her legs over the side. Waited for the dizziness to pass. “I’m ready to go now.”

  “Hold on. I meant when the doc says you can go home.”

  “I don’t care what he says. I have to get out of here.” Tilda held out her hand. “Will you pass me those clothes.”

  FITTING Tilda’s arm into a sling, the doctor prattled out a dozen reasons why it was too early to go home but Tilda ignored them all and got dressed. Pressing her luck, she asked Whittaker for a lift home. The officer sided with the doctor but saw that Tilda was prepared to walk all the way home if she had to. Shaking her head, she pushed the wheelchair through the lobby and out to the sidewalk. Tilda breathed in the smell of fresh rain on old concrete.

  As Whittaker cruised down College Street, Tilda looked out at the people on the sidewalks. Hovering outside of restaurants with cigarettes in their hands or filing into the gelato shops that peppered the strip. It all seemed so normal and routine and Tilda felt an anaesthetized disconnect from all of it. These people going about their business, falling in love or breaking someone’s heart, drowning in debt or bitching about their car insurance, all without a hint that under their feet glided sharks waiting to eat them up.

  “Busy night,” Whittaker said, breaking the silence.

  “It’s like nothing ever happened.”

  The radio squawked, police jargon that Tilda couldn’t decipher and Whittaker lowered the volume. “You know, that offer still stands. I got a couch you can crash on if you’re not up to going home yet.”

  “Thanks.” Tilda smiled. “But I need to get home.”

  Whittaker nodded solemnly and drove on. “Not to pry or anything, Tilda, but do you know what to expect when you get there?”

  “No. I don’t. But I still have to go.”

  The congestion on the street cleared away and within minutes the police unit wheeled onto Tilda’s street and pulled to the curb opposite the house. The yellow police tape was gone and a length of plywood had been squared into the broken picture window.

  “Thank you.” Tilda climbed out and bent down to the open passenger window. “For everything.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” the officer said. “I still need answers about how you got hurt. I’ll drop by in a couple days and we’ll go over it again. Get some rest, okay?”

  The prowl car pulled away and Tilda looked up at her house with its faded brick and parched front lawn. It looked a little forlorn with its patched-up window, like a smile with a tooth punched out.

  The front door was unlocked and noise leeched from the kitchen. The dull clink of utensils against china. Tilda tiptoed inside.

  Shane and Molly sat at the kitchen table, eating but not talking. Take-out cartons steamed on the table, the aroma rich and heady. They both looked spent, glumly going through the motions of chewing, joyless as monks at their cold gruel. Blissfully unaware of another presence in the room.

  Tilda shifted her weight and the old floor creaked under her heel. Shane and Molly looked up, forks frozen halfway to their mouths. The surprise washing across their faces dropped to an unfamiliar wariness.

  Unsure of how to respond, Molly looked to her father for a cue. Shane slid the tines of curried chicken into his mouth and lowered his eyes back to his plate.

  Hard as a fist to the breadbasket, Tilda took it in the guts. As unwelcome as a cockroach in her own home. Running away right now would be so easy that her wobbly knees stiffened, anticipating a bolt for the door. She shushed her frayed nerves to be still.

  Molly lowered her fork. “Mom. Shouldn’t you be at the hospital? What are you doing here?”

  Trying to patch up my family, she screamed on the inside. Can’t you see that? I know I screwed everything up but let me fix it.

  Let me try.

  Tilda cleared the hook in her throat. “I’d thought you’d still be at Grandma’s. Did she spoil you rotten?”

  The chair squeaked back as Molly shot up and came around the table. Tilda blinked in disbelief when her daughter caught her up around the waist. A tight embrace was the last thing she expected.

  Molly leaned back. “Why didn’t you call so we could come get you?”

  “I just had to get out of there.”

  “Sit down.” Molly led her mother to a chair at the table opposite to Shane, then buzzed across to the cupboards. “Did the doctor say you could leave or did you just book it?”

  Tilda looked up at her daughter with no small blast of amazement. Gratitude even. “I’m fine. I want to know how you’re doing. Did you and Grandma go down to the beach?”

  “You booked, didn’t you?” Molly set plate under her mom and clattered a fork beside it. “What did the doctor say about your hand? Will it, you know, be okay?”

  “It’s burned pretty bad but… we’ll see.”

  “Don’t be stoic, mom. How bad is it?”

  Tilda grasped at some way to flip the conversation or allay her daughter’s concern but the effort required was an Everest. She sighed and decided to simply come clean. “It’s useless. I can’t even feel it anymore.”

  Unprepared for the frankness, Molly spooned lentils onto her m
other’s plate. “I’m sure they can fix it up. Not right away but over time, with some physio. You’ll be back to flipping off stupid drivers just like before. Playing guitar.”

  The instinct to dismiss the truth was suddenly and powerfully ridiculous. Who benefited? Not a soul at this table. “It’s all but dead, honey. No more flipping the bird, no more guitar. Nada.”

  Too harsh. The brute force of it rippled across the table like spilled water, dripping cold into everyone’s laps. Molly rigored, stiff as a shop window dummy, and once again looked to her father for a cue or a reaction. Anything.

  Shane took a napkin and wiped his mouth, finally raising his eyes to meet his wife’s. But his gaze was cool and Tilda could decipher nothing in it.

  As ever, Molly was pinned down in the crossfire like a bead jerked taut on a string. She got up and came around the table, kissed the crown of her mother’s head and left the room without another word.

  The charge in the air dialled up to fill the vacuum left behind by the third party. Shane pushed his plate back.

  Tilda felt her hand throbbing so she propped the elbow on the table to keep it raised. And then squared Shane up. “Are you not speaking to me?”

  Shane tilted his head like a dog at a strange noise. “What do you want to talk about? Your infidelity? Or maybe our joke of a marriage. Your ex-boyfriend maybe or those things that attacked us? The state of the house?” He snapped his fingers. “There’s a neutral topic. Home repair.”

  “Stop. I don’t have the energy to fight.” It felt silly having her bandaged hand pointed towards the ceiling but it eased the throbbing. Hard to be serious when you look like an eager pupil with a perpetual question for the teacher but she took a breath and gave it a shot anyway. “Do you hate me?”

  He took his time before answering, letting the question just hang there. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t. I’m still angry. Furious, in fact, but I don’t hate you.”

  The noose slackened, the hangman’s grip easing back on the trap lever.

  “Okay.” She took another breath. “Where does that leave us?”