Girl on the Other Side

by Deborah Kerbel

  Dear God, when that happens, I don’t know what we’ll do.

  After a few more coughs, the engine turns over. I breathe a silent sigh of relief as Daddy puts it into gear and we pull away from the parking lot.

  “So, did you get to read your poem tonight?”

  “I did,” I confess with a shy smile. It actually took me all night to work up the courage to do it. When I was done, the entire coffee shop rose to their feet and applauded. There were only about twenty people there but it was overwhelming and exhilarating and terrifying and amazing all at the same time. Maybe I’ll be a poet instead. Or maybe I’ll do both — a zoologist/poet.

  “And I think they liked it,” I add. “I guess it’s ready to hand in now.”

  Daddy looks away from the road for a quick second and raises his eyebrows at me.

  “So does that mean I’m going to get a chance to hear it one of these days?”

  “Um … maybe,” I reply, twirling my hair around my finger. “But I don’t know if it’s your taste … it’s a bit sad.”

  Hoping the subject will end, I turn my face toward the window and stare out into the night. Why is it so much easier to bare your soul to strangers than to the people closest to you? It’s late and the streets are almost deserted. Through the darkness, I can just make out the outline of a big, grey cloud of smoke rising up above the rooftops. There’s no mistaking what it is. I jab my finger against the glass and yell:

  “Look! There’s a fire!”

  Daddy ducks his head down to get a better view of the smoke and lets out his signature monotone whistle.

  “You’re right … and it’s a big one.”

  Without even a second’s hesitation, he turns the car in the direction of the rising cloud.

  I turn to look at him in surprise.

  “Are we going?”

  “Of course we’re going.”

  “But … but you don’t have any of your equipment here,” I start to protest. “And Mommy’s waiting for us at home. Can’t we just call the department and let them handle it?”

  Daddy doesn’t answer and his silence speaks for itself. I know every instinct in his body is compelling him to follow that dark cloud. He drives toward it, completely ignoring the speed limit. After all his years of firefighting, Daddy must have developed a sixth sense for smoke because it only takes him a few minutes to find the source.

  When I get my first look at the blazing building, my heart plunges into my stomach. It’s a huge house, three stories tall and set far back from the road across a massive, landscaped lawn. The entire front part of the building is engulfed in flames.

  Daddy parks our car across the road from the house, digs his cellphone out of his pocket and immediately calls 911.

  “This is Lieutenant Froggett,” he barks into the phone. “There’s a fire at 45 Thurston Road and I need backup. Send every available engine now!”

  Tossing the phone onto the dashboard, he throws open the door and unfolds his big body from the car with impressive speed. I lean across the seat and yell after him through the open door:

  “Wait, Daddy! What are you doing?”

  But of course, he doesn’t listen.

  “Stay there!” he commands over his shoulder as he runs up the grass toward the house. Before he reaches the front door, it bursts open and three pajama-clad people appear through a cloud of black smoke. A blonde woman and a dark-haired man carrying a girl in his arms all stagger away from the burning house, across the lawn to the safety of the street. A little beagle follows closely behind the family. As they get closer, I recognize the girl in the man’s arms.

  It’s Tabby Freeman!

  I watch in horror as the man lays her down on the grass right next to the sidewalk. Her eyes are closed, her body is limp, and it looks like she’s unconscious. The blonde woman is screaming so loudly that I can hear her from the car.

  “Darling, wake up! Please! Somebody help! Help my daughter!”

  Daddy reaches them and I can see him loosen her clothing and begin AR. Ignoring Daddy’s instructions, I jump out of the car and run toward them. My knees are shaking so hard, I worry they’ll give out. But, as terrified as I am, I have to go.

  As I approach I can see that the blonde woman is sobbing and clutching onto the man, whose face is scraped and bleeding down his neck. Even though they’re both sooty-skinned and dishevelled, I recognize David and Catherine Freeman from their pictures in the newspaper. They look very different — he’s grown a beard since the scandal broke and she looks much younger without all the glossy makeup.

  I stand behind Daddy and hold back tears as he tries to revive Tabby on the front lawn. After a minute, she lifts her head slightly and looks around. Even in the darkness, I can see how red and irritated her eyes are. She looks terrible. Her nose is rimmed with black soot and she’s so pale, she’s practically glowing in the dark.

  “Darling!” Mrs. Freeman cries, leaning down to hug her. Her pink, lacy nightie hangs open revealing a shocking amount of cleavage. Under normal circumstances, I might have been embarrassed for her. But with the fire raging behind us, I don’t give it much thought. “Are you okay?” she shrieks, clutching Tabby’s hand to her heart. “Oh, sweetheart! I was so scared!”

  Daddy takes Mrs. Freeman’s arm and gently tries to pull her back.

  “Please give this girl room — she needs air.”

  But she shakes her head, refusing to let go of her daughter’s hand. With a sigh of resignation, he picks up Tabby’s other hand and starts to measure the pulse in her wrist.

  “You’re going to be okay. I’m a firefighter and I’m here to help.” His voice is calm and his words soothing and slow. He looks up momentarily from Tabby and directs a question to her parents: “Is there anyone else still inside this house?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Freeman look at each other and frown, like they’re trying to figure out a math equation. Hearing the question, Tabby’s eyes dart from face to face, trying to remember the answer. Suddenly, a look of horror flashes across her features and she struggles to sit up.

  “Nanny Beth!” she cries, clutching an ashen hand onto Daddy’s sleeve. “Oh my God! She’s still inside!”

  I barely recognize her voice. She’s short of breath and her throat is so hoarse from smoke inhalation that her words crackle like dry leaves.

  Daddy takes Tabby by the shoulders and gently guides her back down onto the grass. “Please lie still … you need to rest. Just tell me where she is. Which part of the house?”

  “Her room is in the basement!” Tabby moans, resisting his help and pushing herself back up. “Please! She must still be down there. You can get there through the garden window at the back of the house. Oh God! Please go get her!”

  He looks up at the burning house and shakes his head firmly.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have my equipment with me. It’s just too dangerous. We’ll have to wait for the fire engines to arrive. They’ll be here soon and I’ll let them know where to look. Now please stay calm.”

  Daddy turns to speak privately with Mrs. Freeman.

  “Your daughter’s pulse is a bit weak. I think she’s in shock. She needs to lie down and stay warm. I need you to encourage her to do that.”

  She nods vigorously, still clutching onto Tabby’s hand. Then he points to Mr. Freeman and commands:

  “Go get a blanket from a neighbour and some clean water for her eyes. And call 911 again and tell them to get those engines here now!”

  It’s strange to watch my father giving orders to Mr. Freeman — a man who not long ago was one of the most powerful businessmen in the whole province. I half expect Mr. Freeman to refuse. Instead, he nods and runs off into the darkness toward the street. As I watch him go, I can see bright orange flames from the inferno reflecting in the windows of our car. I look back toward the smoldering house. We’re about twenty metres away but I can feel the heat from the fire on my face. It’s scorching my skin like a bad sunburn.

  Mrs. Freeman tries to
calm her daughter, but Tabby refuses to lie quietly. “No! Nanny’s trapped in there!” she sobs. “She’ll die if we leave her! I’ll go get her myself if I have to!”

  She struggles to get to her feet and it takes both my father and her mother to hold her back. She claws at them like a tethered wildcat, trying to get loose. Just as Mr. Freeman arrives back with the blanket and water bottles, the sound of broken glass shatters the night. I look back at the burning house and see that the heat from the fire is smashing the windows. One by one they burst — like there’s a kid shooting them down with a slingshot. Flames are shooting out from every opening. I cover my face and turn toward Tabby, who’s staring at the house in horror. That’s the moment when her sobs turn into screams.

  “Please! It’s getting worse! You could just break one of the basement windows and let her out. Please don’t leave her in there! She’ll die if you do!”

  I can’t imagine anybody going back into that building. But I know Daddy too well. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s going to do it. He looks at me, his face silently asking permission to go in. I want to stop him, but I know I can’t. Daddy was born to save lives. He would never leave a person in need.

  “I’ll be okay, I promise,” he says, locking his eyes with mine. “You know me … I won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Daddy, please … ” I start to say. But he doesn’t even wait for me to finish. Before I know it, he wets his sleeve with some of the water, clasps it over his face and dashes toward the burning building.

  I stand there in shock. A terrible thought creeps into my head, but I push it away. It creeps back again and again, stronger and louder each time. I keep pushing it away until I can’t ignore it anymore and it screams through my brain like a siren.

  Oh God! What if he doesn’t make it back out? What if he dies in there? What’ll we do without Daddy?

  I close my eyes and shake the awful thought from my head. As agonizing as it is, there’s nothing left for me to do but wait. With my eyes closed, my other senses are heightened. The air smells like burned wood. The house is crackling and popping like a campfire. My nose and throat scream for fresh air. I open my eyes again and see thick, black smoke billowing up into the sky. A giant mushroom cloud above our heads.

  I look at Tabby and wonder what she’s feeling. I can’t imagine what it’s like to watch your house and everything you own go down in flames right in front of your eyes. But it seems like the only thing she’s worried about is the woman trapped in the basement. Slumped on the ground, she sobs and calls for her nanny over and over in a low, haunting moan. Mrs. Freeman sits on the ground beside her and wraps Tabby in her arms to soothe her. Despite Daddy’s instructions to give her room to breathe, she’s hugging her daughter so tight it looks like she’ll never let go. Tears spring to my eyes as I watch them. More than ever before, I want my mother strong and healthy and here to comfort me, too.

  Some neighbours gather to watch the blaze and offer their help. Someone hands me a jacket and I accept, grateful for a stranger’s kindness (although with the heat from the fire, the night air doesn’t feel as cold as I know it should be). Agonizing seconds tick by.

  I hear a whining at my feet and look down to see the dark little beagle cowering on the grass. I kneel down to pet him and his little body quivers with fright under my hands. Leaning my face close to his, I rub the length of his nose and murmur soothing words into his floppy black ears. After a few minutes, I’m able to calm him down. Surprisingly, I feel a bit calmer, too. Helping this little dog is keeping my mind away from what’s going on inside the burning house. Seconds later, the beagle stops whining and starts to lick my face. I stroke his shiny fur, happy to have something to hold on to. That’s when Tabby finally notices me.

  “Lora?” she gulps through her tears. “W-what are you doing here?”

  “I was coming home from work when I saw the smoke,” I say, still hugging the little dog. “That’s my father in there trying to save your nanny.”

  My voice breaks on the last few words. Tabby doesn’t reply. She just looks at me and in that instant, an understanding passes between us. Time pauses, the flames retreat, and for that moment she sees into my heart and I see into hers. I realize that we’re experiencing this moment with the same eyes. Both of us waiting, needing, praying for the person we love most to come out of that fire.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Freeman screams, breaking our connection.

  “They’re coming out! Look!”

  With the wail of fire engines emerging from the distance, I look up and see Daddy walking across the lawn, carrying a small woman in his arms. She’s as limp as a rag doll and her face is black from the smoke, but her eyes are open and she’s definitely alive. And so is my father.

  Releasing the dog, I fall to my knees on the soft grass as my body heaves with relief. One small word pulses through my head, as if to the beat of my own pounding heart.

  Daddy … Daddy … Daddy …

  June 22

  tabby

  It’s the last day of school. With a loud clank, I lift the stiff handle of my locker, pull open the door, and start to clear everything out. Piece by piece, I shove my stuff into my open backpack. Books, binders, gym shoes, makeup, magazines, pictures. This junk in my locker is pretty much the only stuff I have left in the world … the only things that will be coming with me to my new home.

  Our giant, custom-built house on Thurston Road has been burned to a crisp. Although the firefighters worked for hours to save it, all that was left at the end of that awful night was a big, museum-sized pile of ashes. Along with the house, we also lost all our possessions — our furniture, clothing, jewellery, photos. The Bentley and the BMW had both burned in the garage. And even David’s flashy Rolex couldn’t survive the flames. The fire investigators found a scorched, twisted lump of gold where his nightstand once stood. There’s nothing of our old life left. And I don’t feel the slightest bit depressed about it.

  I’ve known for a while now that those things didn’t belong to us, anyway.

  My backpack fills up pretty fast. I squat down and try to zip it shut, but it’s too full to close completely. As I struggle with the zipper, a parade of shoes zoom past me, barely touching the floor in their rush for freedom. Last year I was one of them. Excited for summer and gushing about parties and plans. This year, they just ignore me and I return the favour. It’s easier for everyone that way. Giving up on the zipper, I stand and hoist the backpack onto my shoulders, careful not to spill anything. With a final slam of the locker, I’m gone.

  I won’t miss this place when we move. I’m actually happy for the chance to start all over again. I mean, how many people get an opportunity like this? A fresh start in a place where nobody knows my family … nobody loves us or hates us for what we own or what we’ve done. A place where kids will like me for who I am. Or maybe they won’t even like me at all. Either way, at least nobody will pretend anymore. For the first time, I’m going to have real parents, real friends … and a real me.

  I can’t wait.

  There’s just one last stop to make before I can leave this school behind. About a hundred more steps until I’m out of here forever and my new life can begin. I look down at my shoes and start counting my steps as I make my way through the busy hallway. All I have to do now is figure out how the hell I’m going to say sorry, thank you, and goodbye at the same time.

  The countdown begins.

  Ninety-nine … ninety-eight … ninety-seven … The crowd still parts for me like it used to — but now it’s more out of awkwardness than anything else. Nobody in this place knows what to say to me anymore. I’m the sour note in their fun celebration song. As I pass my classmates, I hear little bits and pieces of their conversations — lighthearted giggles, whispers of summer plans, and heartfelt promises to “keep in touch.” The hall is practically pulsing with joy.

  Seventy-six … seventy-five …

  Lined, loose-leaf papers carpet the way. The floors are littered wi
th trashed tests, essays, assignments. Words tossed aside like garbage, never to be thought of again. Kind of like me.

  Fifty-one … fifty … forty-nine …

  As I get closer to my last stop, I start thinking about yesterday’s conversation with Catherine. She’d knocked on my door late last night, just as I was trying to get comfortable on the foamy, floppy hotel pillow. A two-room suite at the Bayview Hotel — that’s where we’d been staying since the fire.

  “Hi … mind if I come in?” she asked softly from the doorway.

  “Sure. What’s up?” I replied, rising up on my elbows.

  Letting herself into the room, she let the heavy door close with a click behind her. She hovered there in the entryway. I could see the fire exit instructions hanging right behind her head — the first thing I did after we checked in was memorize them.

  I motioned for my mother to come closer. She was dressed in a simple, white hotel robe and slippers and her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. We were all making do on the bare minimum of stuff these days, which must have been especially hard on a clothes horse like Catherine. This whole experience has been pretty humbling for her.

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know that it’s done,” she said, taking a seat at the foot of the bed. At first I didn’t know what she was talking about. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes.

  “You know … the liquidation,” she explained. “Your father and I finished selling off the last of our assets today. It’s all done.”

  Of course, then I understood. Last week, my parents and their lawyers had been able to arrange a plea bargain.

  If David and Catherine paid back everything they stole with interest, they would avoid criminal charges. They were given ten days to liquidate all their assets and sell everything that wasn’t ruined in the fire.

  Liquidate.

  Funny word, huh? Before all this happened, I thought it meant what Dorothy did to the Wicked Witch of the West.