I started this short story a while ago and have been posting bits and pieces of it. here is the full version!
Embers
The fireman who found her
was young, inexperienced, a little bit afraid. His uniform was slightly too
large, and he always followed the rules. He was determined and earnest.
He was the kind of young man that mothers say is a sweet boy and fathers say is
a good kid.
In short, he was
unprepared for what faced him.
It was an old house,
rotting, ugly, dark. Falling in on itself. They were going to tear it down. The
fire was a blessing, in a way.
A big yard, filled with
tall weedy grasses, dry and wild. A tinderbox.
They didn’t even bother
to wonder what started it—a kid’s dropped cigarette, a spark from someone’s
barbecue a few houses down. What did it matter?
No one lived there
anyway.
Abandoned for years,
that’s what everyone said. Hadn’t seen anyone come in or out for as long as
they could remember.
So it was meant to be
easy—they weren’t trying to save anyone, weren’t trying to protect anything.
Just spray it down, keep it from spreading down the street. Contain it.
Contain the beast, the
licking orange flames. That’s all. Not vanquish, not defeat. Only contain.
They sent a few guys in
once it wasn’t raging to see if there was anything still needing to be dealt
with—no missed spots, no chance of a reignited fire.
And that’s when he saw
her.
A child. Naked and tiny
and screaming. He could barely hear her over the flames, the sound of the
house dying. But he saw her, and he ran towards her as fast as he could.
There was no blanket near
her, no clothes, no bottle, nothing.
No clues to where she
came from, or why she was here, in a house that no one cared about anymore.
Naked and tiny and
screaming. Eyes screwed shut with the effort of it.
A newborn, no more than a
few hours old. So small and red and very very alive. He picked her up, as
gently as if she were a fragile ornament that he might break.
She opened her eyes and
looked at him. Her eyes were an amber color he had never seen before, and they
were beautiful. He looked back. His heart skipped a beat. He suddenly felt
painfully warm, and he reflexively shook his fire-retardant coat, certain he
was burning.
He remembered himself
then, remembered that they were in a building that was about to collapse. He
wrapped the baby in his jacket, ran outside, performed his job. And their
miracle, their magic amber moment, it was over.
The young fireman
never saw her again after that day, but he remembered those eyes, the look she
gave him the day she began.
…
The Ashby family was enjoying the
pool and each other. Mid-june, when the air itself is full of promise.
It was a beautiful day, bright and
optimistic.
Tina Ashby was watching her little
girl play in their pool, the sun
glinting off her tight curls, splashing , pretending she was a mermaid, and
she smiled to herself. She liked looking
at Lyla when she didn’t know she could be seen, getting to look into her world.
And she was so heart-breakingly beautiful, her daughter, her features so
unusual. Skin the color of copper, hair the exact shade of rich red clay in the
earth. Eyes like a tiger’s, a deep gold. When they first brought her home,
Tina’s father looked at her and said it looked like they’d rolled her in cinnamon. He’d called
her that ever since, his little cinnamon bun. She loved him unconditionally and
fiercely, the way only grandparents can be loved.
Tina sometimes felt that Lyla was
more lovely a girl than she and Peter could ever have created on their own, by
the force of their collective genetics. She seemed beyond that. Tina had so
often wondered who it was who made her this child and where they came from.
Whose DNA coiled like a secret in Lyla’s cells? Who wrote the complex book of
instructions that built her daughter, this one-of-a-kind masterpiece? It was
like owning a beautiful painting with no signature. It pained her deeply.
But
then, Lyla would say “melk” instead of “milk” just like Pete. Or she
would crawl into Tina’s lap and settle
into the soft nook of her shoulder, the one that seemed built for her. And in those
moments, Lyla was theirs entirely. In
those moments, Tina just looked at the painting; she didn’t search for a name
hidden in the corner. In those moments, she didn’t need to know.
“Momma, can I have some lemonade?”
Lyla, dripping, looked up at her.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
She grabbed a towel off of the
chaise lounge by the pool and bundled Lyla up in it. She filled her a plastic cup from the pitcher on
the table and when it dribbled on her
chin, she wiped it for her.
She was so distracted by this task
that she didn’t even notice the red mark on her daughter’s left hand. It was so small, after all. But that night,
after Pete got home from work, he decided that he would bathe Lyla. Have some quality time. She could make him
cappuccinos out of the bubbles and serve them to him in the blue sippy cup Tina
left in the bathroom for her to play with, tell him stories. They could be together. Lyla was still young enough that her naked
body was an innocent thing, and he wasn;t uncomfortable with it yet. She was
barely more than a baby.
She was laughing at the soapy beard
he had put on her chin, making faces. He made some back. Added a tower of
bubbles to her head as he shampooed it. It was such an average night. So
comfortable.
He made a monkey face and wiggled
his fingers at her. She imitated him, and that’s when he saw it. In the center
of her palm, a burn. It was so oddly shaped
he did a double take—the irritated skin that must have been burned formed a
perfect triangle, snow white.
“Honey, did you touch something
hot? Does that hurt?” .
“What, daddy?”
“That,on your hand.” He pointed.
“A little.”
“Where did it come from?”
He imagined some creep burning his
daughter’s soft flesh and he felt angry, so very angry. How could Tina and he
not have seen it? How long had it been there?
“ I was at school sitting with
Gracie and Ms. Leonard gave us popsicles for a special treat because it was the
last day, and I had strawberry and Gracie had green, and it was so fun, but
then..then it got really ouchy.” What,
eh wondered, had “really ouchy” entailed? Who had touched her?
“Did someone hurt you?” He says
this gently even though all he feels is rage and fear, so much fear.
“No. Nobody. I just…it was too
cold. And then I got this “
He sighed, perplexed.
“Too cold?”
“Yes, Daddy. It hurted me.”
Another time he would have thought
her grammar charming. Now he is just confused. She must, he decided, be
mistaken. Children can be mistaken.
“Daddy, I’m cold. Can you dry me
off now please?”
He nodded, picked her up in her
hooded ducky towel. Drained the tub and rubbed the towel down Lyla’s arms and
in her hair, all without saying a word.
“Do you want Daddy to put some ice
on it, babe?”
“No! I don’t want ice. Ice is too
cold.”
Not so unusual, he supposed. He had
hated ice packs on his skin as a kid. They hurt, if they weren;t wrapped in a
washcloth. His mother never bothered. She said that defeated the point.
Probably, Lyla had touched the stove and
didn’t remember. That seemed far-fetched, but Lyla’s own explanation--her
popsicle—made no sense. He tried to forget it, and Tina told him not to worry
about it, it would probably go away in a day or two. But when he tucked Lyla in and turned off the
light, her hand lay open on the coverlet, and he could have sworn the triangle
glowed.
Pete went about
his next weeks the way he always did, and in the simple rhythm of work and
dinners and childcare he forgot all about Lyla’s hand. Tina looked at it
briefly and wasn’t worried. Lyla went to summer camp, Baby Ballerinas. She had
a recital. She swam in the pool. She took off her floaties. She went in the
deep end. She grew a quarter inch. Tina got a promotion. They went to Hawaii.
It was a
wonderful summer, and it turned it to a brisk fall, the kind of days that make
a person want to work hard, to go hiking, chop wood. Industrious days.
Normally, Tina
just took Lyla to Spirit in the mall to look for her Halloween costume, but
this year, she felt adventurous, and she asked Lyla if she wanted to make it
with her.
“it could be a
project, for you and me. We’ll make it ourselves.”
Tina had always
felt intimidated by those efficient, wholesome women who sewed things and baked
from scratch and had gardens, women who seemed to be taunting her with their
domestic prowess. This year she would beat them at their own game. This year
they would make it. She had images of them sitting at the kitchen table
together, cutting fabric, laughing, bonding.
Yes, Tina decided, that was just what they would do.
So she dug her
almost untouched sewing machine and went online to look for patterns. There
were plenty of amazing ideas, most of which she couldn’t imagine actually being
able to complete. The blogs she looked at said things like “and then sew on the
zipper and you’re all done!”, as if sewing on a zipper was something that Tina
would inherently know how to do, something that needed no instructions. She
felt inadequate and frustrated.
Then she found a
blog called “Simple Sewing Fun”—a good sign, in Tina’s view—that had a whole
list of toddler and children’s Halloween costumes, with step-by-step directions
written in language a kindergartener could understand. She was pleased.
She started
scrolling through the links, looking at the names and the first few directions,
scoping out a manageable pattern.
The Fairy Queen
looked too elaborate, and the Ghost much too pedestrian. The Little Red Riding
Hood story scared Lyla, so that one was
out. She was on the edge of despair when, at the bottom of the page, she saw
one more costume—“Ice Princess”, it said.
The pattern
looked relatively simple, and Lyla loved Princess dresses.
“Honey, how about this for your Halloween costume?
Come see!”
Lyla came
running in; Halloween was her favorite holiday.
“Which one, which
one, which one?”
“This one, baby
girl. You can be an ice princess, would you like that?”
Lyla stopped
dead.
“No! I can’t be
an ice princess. I’ll die, Momma!”
Tina knew
toddlers could be irrational—she’d seen it dozens of times—but this was different.
Lyla seemed so sure of herself. Like she knew something. Something bigger then
her 3 years and 54 pounds could ever explain.
“Why, honey?”
“Because I am
allergic to ice.”
“You’re
allergic? Lyla, that isn’t possible. Ice is just water. I put it in your juice
earlier, honey.”
“No. That’s
okay. I can eat it. It’s okay if I eat it because then my tummy burns it up.
But if it touches me I get hurt. ”
She points to
her middle as if this clarifies it all.
Lyla begins to
cry the frustrated tears of a child who is misunderstood, the way a hungry baby
cries when someone tries to change its diaper
instead of getting a bottle. She looks at her mother in despair.
Tina is torn
then. She considers heading t the ice machine and fetching a cube, running it
along Lyla’s skin just to prove a point. But is that cruel? Perhaps.
“How do you know
you’re allergic, honey?”
“I…I had a
popsicle. It touched my hand and I got this.
The cold part touched my hand and…ouch.”
She holds up her
hand, the white scar from the previous spring planted there.
“But honey, that
burn isn’t from your popsicle.”
“It is! The
popsicle was too cold, Mama. It happens with
extra cold things. Like ice.”
It was all too
strange for Tina to comprehend.
“I’ll put ice on
me and you’ll see, it doesn’t hurt.”
She fetched ice
from the machine and rubbed it slowly on her arm.
Lyla,
incredulous, replied, “That’s because you aren’t allergic. That’s why it doesn’t hurt, silly.”
Lyla walks over
to her mother.
“Give me that.
I’ll show you.”
Tina, surprised
at the three year old’s initiative, handed over the ice cube, which was melting
slowly now.
“Ow! See, my
hand is ouchy already.”
Lyla was not
done, however. Lyla had a point to make.
Her small face
turning red and contorted before Tina’s eyes, places the ice cube on her
forearm. Suddenly, strangely, the skin
begins to bubble, redden, hiss. It turns white. Lyla screams out.
“Stop! Lyla,
stop it! “
Tina grabs her
daughter, takes the ice and flings it across the room.
She holds her
then, shaking, the two of them crying together, crying at the odd horror of it.
Lyla looks at
her mother, her eyes serious and wet.
“It hurts, Mama.
“
“Okay. Okay,
honey. I’m so sorry, baby girl.”
Tina has no idea
how to tend to this, this unfathomable injury. But she gets some aloe. Aloe for
burns, right? She rubs a bit on the whitened spot.
“No! That’s
worse. Too cold too cold!”
Tina has an idea
then, a strange idea. An oxymoronic and bizzare idea. She turns on the tap and
sets it to the hottest it will go, so it
hurts a little against her fingers, and she fetches a washcloth, runs it under
the warm water. She places this, this makeshift heating pad, against Lyla’s
burn.
Slowly. Almost
imperceptibly. The white skin fades slowly to grey, to pink, finally to its
natural copper brown. The bubbled flesh recedes and smoothes. It doesn’t look
so angry now. Lyla’s face relaxes.
“That’s better.”
Tina doesn’t
know what to say then. This is no ordinary ailment. This is something that no
doctor, she expects, will ever be able to explain.
“It’s okay,
Momma. It doesn’t hurt at all now. I feel good.”
She pats Tina’s
arm, smiles. She had always been so sweet.
Tina lifts her
up, kisses her.
The night passed
remarkably normally after that. Pete worked late and left early and he saw
neither of them. She is glad. She wouldn’t have known how to explain.
The next day
while Lyla napped---a blessing, that she still napped—Tina did some research.
She searched,
futilely, for things like “allergic to cold” on Google. She begins to feel as
though she is going insane.
Finally, she
decides to try something else. She
types, “Healed by heat” into the search bar. Some ads for saunas pop up and a
Wikipedia article on hot stone massage. But at the bottom of the page, there is
another link—“Greekmythology.com”. She clicks it. “The phoenix”, the article
heading reads. She skims. An ancient greek mythological creature, reborn by
heat. Recreated.
Her little girl,
small and perfect. Her little phoenix.
Tina looks into
Lyla’s room, stares at her as she sleeps. She sees it then. Red hair, red skin.
Golden eyes. Cinnamon bun. Cinnamon, spicy. Hot. Hot as flame.
Her little girl,
born of fire.
She runs for the file folder they keep in her office,
the thick one, that has every detail of Lyla’s disvovery and adoption. She
rifles through court documents, the ones that made this little human hers. She
goes back to the very last paper in the stack, a thin photocopy of a police
report. That one piece of the puzzle
they never solved.
“Child found,
newborn, approx. five hours of age, in wreckage of home, 33 Elm St. No evidence
of arson. No identification with child.”
No
identification. That had always bothered her, the fact that Lyla was so unmarked,
so unknown. That no one had even bothered to stick her birth certificate to a
blanket and wrap her up. But then, that was irrational, wasn’t it? Because
anyone who left a baby in an abandoned house was beyond the ordered world of documentation, itemized
and labeled birth and death. She had always thought Lyla’s mother must have
been some kid, fifteen or sixteen, a
frightened child. She had always thought that she must have been so scared,
that girl, as she walked away. But now Tina’s eyes jumped to a different
phrase, her mind to a different scenario, a previously unimaginable
possibility, strange and beautiful.
Child found. No,
child born. Born, tina realized. Not discovered, made. Born in 33 Elm St. Born
of flame.
Her daughter had
been found alone because she had come into the world that way, with no mother
but the ashes of that crumbling house. She saw in her mind embers fusing
together, sparks flying. A face forming, a little body forged from the licking
flames.
A phoenix, rising from the ashes. Rising to meet her,
Tina Ashby. Rising to become her greatest love.
She began to cry
then, slow, warm tears. Tears at the wonder of it all. She cried for her noble little fire
girl. Her myth made human.
