by Mandi Lynn
Avery watched outside the door as the firemen worked far off into the flames. They poured gallons upon gallons of water into her home, washing the house away, until all that was left to see was rubble. The flames didn’t want to die. Avery imagined the fire hose freezing in the cold air, but the flames never being extinguished.
Then there was another stretcher. Without even realizing it, Avery’s dad was pulled in, and the moment she saw him, she wished she hadn’t.
— — — — —
From the outside, Massachusetts’s Dover Memorial Hospital seemed quiet. The night was dark, but the building was bright. Patients inside were calm; most had long been asleep, yet miles away, a house was on fire. There were still flames trying to fight their way to grow and destroy. The fire had started in the kitchen, though no one knew that just yet. It would be hours, days even, before the fire marshal found the cause. Until then, there was just smoke and flames and ash.
Avery was separated from her dad once they arrived at the hospital. The drive was short, but to Avery it seemed to last hours. She closed her eyes as two EMTs worked in the small space, making sure her father could breath. The sound of lungs fighting to breathe echoed in her mind. When they carted her out of the ambulance, there were tears staining her face.
“Dad?” she tried to say, as cold air coated her skin until goosebumps formed where the burns had taken residence. A nurse heard her and took her hand as her father was taken away by another team of nurses.
“He’s going to be okay, sweetheart.” Avery didn’t see the nurse that spoke to her. Everything was moving around her, and she wasn’t sure where she was. She was rolled into the hospital, across other moaning patients in the emergency room. Her dad was no longer with her; Sam was nowhere in sight.
The nurse never let go of her hand, but she didn’t speak up again. The lights in the hallways were too white, but when Avery closed her eyes, all she could see were flames. Cold, crisp teardrops left cool trails of relief against her burnt skin. She couldn’t breathe through the tears, and coughing followed soon afterwards. With each cough, her body lifted, her muscles taunt.
“It’s okay, just breathe.” It was the nurse again. This time, Avery could see her, her dark hair coiled in braids. The woman held up the respirator again—Avery hadn’t realized she had dropped it.
— — — — —
Sam was on the other side of the hospital, conscious, but just barely. Streaks of blond hair were strewn across the pillow, sprinkled with ash. The stench of smoke coated the room. There was one nurse who seemed to hover over her the most. She didn’t speak to her patient as she worked in quick, thorough movements. Her hair was pulled back into a braid, thick curls poking out around her face.
“Come on,” she mumbled to herself, working quicker than her hands would allow. She hooked Sam up to an IV; the girl hung on by a thread. There was a slow drip as the liquid made its way into Sam’s bloodstream. There were other nurses rushing around the room trying to keep Sam alive. She was no longer coughing, but her breathing was shallow. There was a constant supply of rich oxygen to her lungs, machines and tubes running across her body, burying her under the life-saving devices.
“We have an identification on her,” another nurse said, rushing into the room. She held the chart full of Sam’s information pulled up on the computer, from her vitals to her weight. Sam Ellison, age 16. It was simple information, but with that, she was more than just a patient. She was someone with a family, with a story.
“Willow, is she stable yet?”
Willow tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Almost,” she said, staring at the machine that read Sam’s vitals. “Come on.”
Sam was pale in her bed, paler even with the dark soot staining her face. There were lines of clean skin around her eyes from where tears overflowed from coughing.
“Do we know where her parents are yet?” Willow asked.
“Not yet, but the EMTs on the scene said they pulled two adults out the fire—most likely her parents,” the other nurse said. She put Sam’s chart back in place at the edge of her bed and moved to leave the room.
“Wait,” Willow said. She held Sam’s wrist, a habit that’d formed over the years from always having to check for a pulse. “What condition are they in?”
The nurse shook her head as she stepped out the door. “Not good.”
Chapter 3
7 months ago
“It’s okay,” Randy said. The waiting room was long left behind, and now Willow stood in the doctor’s office. Tom was sitting on the cushioned bed, paper crunching beneath him.
“I’m just not sure,” Willow said. She was on the phone with her husband, Randy, trying not to pace in the small room. When she had checked her father in for his appointment, a nurse came in to check his vitals. Now, she was left to fill out one final piece of paperwork to say Dr. Gadel would not be held responsible for any side-effects during the use of Derilum.
“How’s your dad?”
Tom was sitting, his back hunched forward. The corners of his mouth were pinched down, not because he was upset, but because he wasn’t happy. It was one of those days Willow could look at her father and not recognize him.
“He’s fine.”
“What’s your gut telling you?” Randy said.
Willow’s hands shook as she held the phone. She tightened her grip.
“My gut is telling me we don’t have a lot of options.” “Do you remember what your father told you when he first got diagnosed?” he said.
When Willow looked over at her father, his lips were moving in a soft rhythm like he was singing, but no sound came out. His eyes were fixed on the floor.
“He said, ‘don’t let my disease become your disease,’” she said, repeating her father’s words. The moment felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.
“He’d want this for himself and for you, despite the risks.”
Willow hung onto Randy’s words. She blinked, and a tear ran down her cheek. She brushed it away before her father could see, though she knew the chances of him noticing were slim.
“I know,” Willow said, her words on the verge of a cry.
“I love you,” Randy said. His voice was soft, and when Willow closed her eyes, she could imagine they were both home and she was in his arms, away from this hospital.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
“Good luck, sweetheart. You’re doing your father well.”
She tried to nod with his words and looked to her father. Tom lifted his head slightly and looked at her, but his eyes were lost.
“I’ll talk to you when I get home,” Willow said, a moment before the call ended.
The silence that remained after she hung up the phone felt heavy. A clipboard sat on the counter, a paper held in place with a blank line for a signature at the bottom. She took the pen the nurse had given her, and with the all care she could muster, she signed her name. She expected the moment to feel final, but the weight in her chest did not lift.
A knock at the door sounded a moment before Dr. Gadel walked into the room.
“Good morning, Willow. Good morning, Tom,” he said, turning to each of them and foaming his hands with sanitizer by the door. His eyes passed over the clipboard with Willow’s signature. He took it and sat in the chair across from Tom. A nurse slipped in through the door, pushing a small tray with implements towards Dr. Gadel.
“Thank you, Lisa,” he said before the nurse left the room. “Did you have any questions?”
He turned to Willow after he looked over the paper. She had signed everywhere she needed to. All that was left was to inject Tom with the serum and observe what happened.
“How long will it take to see results?”
“Well, assuming it works, it would be as soon as twenty-four hours that your father’s brain cells stop dying. From there, we can hope they begin to grow back and multiply like healthy cells. We’ll have to coach your father and bring him back up to speed. He can’t re-gain m
emories that he’s already lost, but we can certainly help him retain new memories.”
“Okay,” she said. She was afraid to look at her father and know that what he’d lost was forever gone.
“Do you still want to do this?” Dr. Gadel stood from his chair and rolled the tray closer to him. Implements were arranged across the tray in a perfect order. There was gauze, a syringe, dressing tape, alcohol wipes, and most importantly, a clear purple liquid in a vile.
“I’m sure.” Willow stepped toward her father and took his arm. He looked back at her, and Willow could imagine her father the way he used to be. If he were there, he would have smiled in that moment.
Dr. Gadel slipped on rubber gloves and brought the tray over to Tom.
“Dad,” Willow said. “Dr. Gadel is going to give you a quick little shot.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tom said. He put his hand out to dismiss her away. When he did, her eye caught sight of the purple bruise on the top of his hand from the IV he had a few days ago when he came in for a test. Purple also skirted the inside of his elbow where a nurse had drawn blood from his arm. The bruised skin cried out for help.
Test after test, all in caution of Derilum. And somehow, each test came out negative. No adverse effects predicted. But there was always a chance.
“Alright, Tom, I hope you don’t mind shots.” Dr. Gadel used alcohol wipes to sanitize a portion of his arm. Tom didn’t say anything as Dr. Gadel worked. He watched Dr. Gadel moving, his sight never straying. Could he remember being prodded by a needle just a few days ago?
Gadel filled the syringe with the purple liquid. It almost glowed in the stark white of the room. His hands worked fast and fluid as he stuck the needle in Tom’s arm. Tom didn’t flinch or look away. It was Willow who took a step back.
“I love you,” she whispered to him. His eyes didn’t lift to meet hers. “You’re doing so well.”
She saw the fluid drain into her father’s skin, and from there, there was no going back.
Chapter 4
Dr. Fischer stood over his patient. His hair was disheveled, and his scrubs were stained with God-knows-what. Around him, nurses seemed to operate in a blur. They were all on a mission, a mission that was familiar to everyone that worked in the ER—save a life. Each of the staff members woke up in hopes of saving lives, to not let another heartbeat die out. The rush of energy filled the room with a desire to move on, to keep working no matter how bleak a patient’s outlook seemed.
The man on the table, the stranger in front of him, was fighting for breath that couldn’t get through to his lungs. A nurse had him hooked up to an IV and a ventilator machine that did nothing to help against the smoke that had filled his lungs.
There was a hum of machines in the room, all drowned out by the medical staff working to save the man’s life. His eyes were closed as bodies moved around him. There was a burn across his chest—some of the hair on his scalp looked like it had been singed off. But he didn’t seem to be in pain. The skin was red, almost glossy in appearance. Patches on his chest were wired to the heart monitor, the beeping too inconsistent.
A nurse handed Dr. Fischer a long plastic tube, and with careful hands, he slipped it down the man’s throat. The goal? To allow him to clear his airway and breathe. The man didn’t respond. Behind the doctor, the heart monitor played a pattern of beats that grew farther and farther apart.
“Damn it,” Dr. Fischer mumbled.
There was the prolonged hum from the heart monitor. The sound filled the room; it was the sound that took everyone’s breath away. The man’s life-line floated the air, mocking everyone in the room. Every nurse and doctor knew what the sound meant. It reverberated off the walls as everyone froze and turned to watch the monitor. Some nurses began to step back; only one nurse continued to treat the burns on the man’s body.
A few seconds passed. Dr. Fischer counted the moments.
“Time of death: 4:16 a.m.”
He stepped back and looked at his patient. He didn’t need the heart monitor to tell him his patient was gone. He could feel it. Each time a patient died, there was a pressure in air, an energy that left the room. It’s something Dr. Fischer could never describe, but it weighted on his shoulders, a whisper of a person waiting to be released. Something swept through the room, bringing with it a dark cloak. He wondered if the nurses could sense the change, or if it was just him. When Dr. Fischer looked back at his patient, the man’s body was limp, his skin already discolored from the smoke.
The death was followed by a moment of silence. The nurses’ faces were bleak as they stepped away from the man laid across the bed. The tube was still down his throat, the IV still in his arm. To anyone else he might just look asleep or under anesthesia, but the feeling of loss was all too familiar for the team.
“Damn it,” Dr. Fischer said again. The words echoed across the room. They didn’t know who this man was.
— — — — —
The hospital bed wasn’t comfortable. Her dry, sandpaper skin brushed against the sheets. When Sam finally woke, it was the stiff sheets that she noticed. Minutes passed before she saw the IV in her arm or the tube in her nose giving her oxygen. When the room came into focus, she thought she could still smell the smoke in the air.
“Good morning, sunshine,” a voice said.
Sam turned to see a nurse at her left hand. “Can you tell me your name?” she asked. She smiled gently. In her hands she held a hospital band, not yet around Sam’s wrist, but about to be.
“Samantha Ellison,” Sam said. Her voice hurt when she spoke. She needed water.
The nurse nodded her head and wrapped the band around Sam’s wrist. Sam’s skin felt raw. She remembered the fire, and she supposed her skin could be burnt, but wouldn’t the nurse have treated her burns?
“Do you want to try to drink something?” The nurse held out a cup of water over Sam and pointed the straw towards Sam’s mouth. She took a sip, not realizing how thirsty she was until the water slipped down her throat.
“Thank you,” Sam said.
The nurse smiled and put the cup down on the table next to her bed. The bed was surrounded by a curtain, forming its own private room.
“Is my mom going to be here soon?”
The nurse froze for a moment. By now, all the victims of the fire had been identified. Two girls were found upstairs, two adults downstairs where the fire had started. The fire alarm hadn’t gone off.
“Samantha,” the nurse said.
“Sam,” she corrected her, but she felt ashamed of speaking. She wasn’t ready to hear what the nurse was about to say. Sam remembered the fire, of course she did. Part of her didn’t think she’d make it out of the fire. Instead, she ended up in the arms of the firefighter. If she was safe, the rest of her family had to be.
The nurse smiled gently. “What’s your mom’s name?”
The nurse already knew. She knew both the names of the adults that were found in the fire, but she couldn’t stand to look into Sam’s eyes until she knew for sure that those were her parents.
“My mom’s name is Cheryl, and my dad is Daniel.”
The nurse stood across the room. It took her a moment to speak. “Let me talk to the doctor.” The nurse walked out of the room before Sam could say anything else.
Sam reached across to the table beside her and took a sip from the cup of water. When the doctor finally walked into the room, Sam was only thinking about how chapped her lips felt.
“Hello, Sam, I’m Dr. Fischer,” he said. He was a young doctor, his dark hair cropped close. His scrubs were clean now, a fresh pair that replaced the ones that had been covered in his previous patient’s blood. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore, dry.” She coughed, her throat feeling raw, and brought her hand up to cover her mouth, only to remember she had a tube across her upper lip, leading oxygen into her nose. Her skin felt like it had been pulled taunt. Every move she made, her skin protested.
“You�
��ll be coughing for a while. We want to keep an eye on you, to make sure the smoke doesn’t give you any long-term effects. That’s what the nasal cannula is for, to make up for any oxygen that may be having a hard time reaching your lungs because of the smoke.” He pointed to the tube under Sam’s noise.
Dr. Fischer didn’t sit. In fact, there were no chairs in the room. There were just curtains, machines, and wires. “I was the doctor that worked on your father when he came in.”
“But he’ll be okay, right? Does he have one of these like me?” Sam pointed to the nasal cannula. The doctor’s face shifted, and she knew she was wrong, very wrong.
The news set in. For some reason she had assumed she was the only one who had needed medical help. She had assumed, or maybe hoped, she was the only one who had been too close to the fire.
“Your dad was found just outside the kitchen. It’s not confirmed yet, but authorities are saying that might be where the fire started. We can only assume he tried to stop it from spreading. He had severe burns. He died within a few minutes of arriving at the hospital.”
The oxygen continued to travel through Sam’s nose and her lungs, but she couldn’t breathe. “Where’s my mom?” She wanted to cry—it took too long for the tears to form, and when they came they felt all the more painful.
Dr. Fischer frowned. “When the firemen pulled her out of the fire, she had already passed. They think maybe she found the fire first, tried to stop it, but it got more out of control.” He was babbling. He shouldn’t be telling her this. These are things the police or social services handle. It wasn’t his job to tell a girl she’s an orphan.
Sam didn’t look at him, she couldn’t. She looked at the cup, still in her hands, no longer full of water. She felt tired.
“Can I have more water?”
