February 3, 2020

It smelled different. There it was, his usual place, and hers right beside it, where they left the water and the food. She followed as he walked over there. He bowed his head, and grazed the bottom of the empty water bowl with his nose. Her tail brushed by him as she sunk into the bed, where the weathered rubber toy and tennis ball lay just as she had left it. He joined her. Above them, a hand turned the tap and warm water flowed out, hitting the ground and trickling into a gentle stream away from them. Then, they rose and drank. It was their place, still.

***

Her fingers tightened around his. He held her hand because it was all he could do for her. She sobbed beside him, up and down, up and down, shuddering, heaving. He felt his tears and begged them to stay back, because it was all he could do for her. His eyes burned as he looked upon the ashen remains, his thoughts dancing a flickering requiem in step. Sunday afternoons spent mowing that charred lawn, sweeping the fallen leaves that now crunched, dead, under his toes. The fresh lick of slate grey paint he had applied last spring – major brownie points, she had joked. The sandpit he had made for his son, speckled black but still there. The old swing seat they had sat upon each night moved gently, taken adrift by the warm air. There they had laughed, argued, rocked, kissed. He had fixed that swing when it had broken, its rusty hinges and weathered boards. He had fixed it more times than he could count. But he could not fix this.

***

She coughed as she cried, for the air still carried the lingering remnants of the fire that had ravaged her home. It comforted her to comfort her son, whose legs clutched around her waist and dangled beside her thigh. She answered his many questions, dabbed his face with her sleeve. When it came to it there was only one question on her mind, though she heard it a thousand ways: What next? They would have a new place, a new home. But the rest… All at once she saw her son climb into his bed, her husband place his toothbrush beside the sink, herself sink into the chair at her desk, her hands wrapped around a cup of black tea. What came next? How? The dogs barked. She turned her hand under the running water cascading into their bowls, turned it over and over feeling it pass through her fingers. She felt the water, but thought of fire.

***

Mummy, is there still fire in the house? No darling, it’s gone.

Can I see the fire? It’s gone, darling. It’s not here anymore.

Why? Because some brave people came with water and put it out.

With a hose? Yes, with a hose.

Like Fireman Sam? Just like Fireman Sam.

Can I go to my room?

Mummy?

Mummy, I want to go to my room. We can’t go to your room, darling.

Why? Because…we can’t.

But why? Because it’s not there anymore, the fire burnt it and it’s not there anymore.

Why? I’m sorry, darling, I’m sorry.

***

Nearby, but a thousand miles away, the people saw it in the skies. Strange, how the same orange colours set above the ocean at sunset could be beautiful. Tiny specks of white ash rained, tainting the freshly washed sheets hanging out to dry. The children were to play inside today, and tomorrow, and the rest of the week. They scrolled through the images and read the headlines.

They had returned after three days. The fire had blazed for five before they had had to leave. Enough time to gather their things, as many things as they could, and pack them into every inch of the car.

The boy pointed to a large box by the letterbox. They walked over to it, lowered the boy down. He picked up item after item, turning them over, presenting them to his mother and speaking their names proudly where he knew them.

Is this a jumper for daddy, mummy? Yes, it is.

Its tuna! Three tunas. And pillows. Yes, darling.

But why? We’ve got pillows in our house. I know, darling.

Is this book for me? You can have it. Do you like it?

It’s got trucks in it, this one looks like daddy’s big tractor. What’s this book? It’s hasn’t got any pictures.

She looked over at the small, black book in her son’s hands. He had opened it in the middle and discarded it in favour of the colourful pages of a second children’s book in the pile. She picked up the black book, running her hands over its leather cover. It fell open to the first page, where words intended for her eyes had been inked. Then, she turned to the second page, and the third, fourth, fifth. Different hands had touched each page. Friends, old acquaintances, names she knew and others she did not. There were pictures, after all – a colourful heart and a rainbow. She called to her husband. As she lifted the book to show him, something fell from its pages and fluttered to the ground. He knelt to pick it up, looked upon it quickly and realising what it was, held it up to her. She took the cheque, mouthed the words and the numbers silently.

And he lost the battle he had been fighting all day, for his face glinted in the sunlight, the tears now falling freely. A small toy truck sounded behind them as the boy tugged it around.

And as they embraced, she felt the nudge of a tennis ball on her foot, waiting to be caught and returned.

They would be ok. She knew now, they would be ok. Because she knew how.