He leans one hand against the tile outside of the shower as I move under the water with my back to him. I hear the sound of the shower rings as they slide back, closing me in. I feel myself shutting down, something that I need to do if I’m going to start this story.
I put my face under the showerhead and loosen my hair from my ponytail. I wait until I am drenched, until the little clothing I’m wearing is clinging to my skin.
I turn around so my back is to the water and, speaking very slowly, start.
“It’s a really simple story. I don’t know why I’ve never told it. Maybe there was no one to tell. I don’t even remember all of it. Is that normal? The days right before and after are gone. And what I do have from that night is patchy and messy.” I place one hand on the wall next to me because I can feel that I am already getting unsteady. “It was summer, and we were all at a vacation house on the ocean for a couple of weeks. My parents and my brother and I. Mom and Dad had just bought a house about an hour away, where we were going to spend summers. The owners were still in that house, though, so we had to rent this other place for a little while. Pretty cool that my parents could take summers off work, right? We went boating, and swimming, and fishing. We played all those stupid board games that you find in summerhouses. Sorry, and Scrabble, and that shit. I hate those games, but they’re fun with the right people, and my family was the ‘right people.’ James and I would swing in the hammock on the porch and read thrillers out loud to each other, seeing who could give the most dramatic delivery.” I sigh. “Sometimes we’d all go clamming at low tide.
“The reason we were at that house is my fault.” This is the first of my confessions. “I chose it. You know how lots of vacation houses have silly names, like … Oh, I don’t know. The Captain’s Lodge, or Rising Tide, or whatever. I liked the name of the house. For the life of me, I can’t fucking remember what it was. I’ve tried and tried because I feel like that’s important to know, but the name won’t come back to me. I’m sure I could find out easily enough, but I don’t want to be told. I should know it.
“I do know that I chose the house from a list my parents printed out. It was an old house. Wood everywhere. Gorgeous, knotty wood on the floors and the walls. Beams that ran across the ceilings. A fireplace downstairs. James and I had really nice small rooms on the first floor right across the hall from each other. The beds had awesome carved headboards and big quilts. The master bedroom was upstairs on the backside of the house, and it had a view of the trees and the water. I’m sure it was …” My arms are trembling now, and I lean my head against the tile for more support. “The house had a special feel to it. Everything felt perfect that summer. Too perfect.
“I can see now that the house was probably not very well maintained, and it apparently wasn’t up to any kinds of safety codes. The irony is that because of that neglect the house had character. I guess that’s what I found romantic—that it was this classic-looking beach house off in the woods, near the water, and pretty much isolated. It wasn’t easy to get to. To get there, you had to drive down a skinny dirt road that wound over bumpy terrain and was hardly the width of one car. Our house was the last one on this poor excuse for a road, but that was good because it was really private and quiet. Anyway, we were there because of the choice that I made and because it was more affordable than the new house James wanted to rent. He didn’t hold that against me, though. Even when we got there and found out the hot water heater was crappy and there was no dishwasher or washing machine. The freezer barely worked, so we kept a cooler out on the deck, and every day we’d add another bag of ice to it.
“None of us cared about living like that, though. We all thought it was fun. But we should have stayed at the house James had picked out.
Next confession. “One afternoon—the afternoon—James and I went out together to get seafood because we wanted to make our parents dinner. You know, lobsters, steamers, mussels, the works. I don’t remember the first part of that day, for some reason. It’s like it didn’t happen, just like pieces of the other days around the fire are also missing. It bothers me that I don’t have the memories. They seem meaningful in some way; I feel it, even though that makes no sense. But … Anyway, I know that I went out with my brother. I remember that James wanted to drive. He didn’t have his license or even his permit, but he was such a charmer that I caved and let him drive. It’s fun to teach someone how to drive, but he was the worst driver ever. He kept grinding the gears and really fucked up my parents’ car, because after we’d bought out our favorite seafood shack, the car died on the dirt road before we got to the house. It made a totally shittastic noise and just stopped. I’m sure there was probably something else wrong with it already, but James’s driving really finished it off. I should have driven because then the car would not have been blocking the road. That might have helped things in the end.”
I rub my hands over my arms and shoulders, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the shower.
“So we left the car where it was and came home and had a spectacular dinner with my parents. The smell of everything boiling in the pots was so good. That salty, sweet ocean smell that fills the house. I love that. And we said good night normally. Just, you know, ‘Good night. Love you.’ Very casual and ordinary, done without any real thought.” I am trembling as my voice rises. “Because who the fucking hell says good night to her parents thinking she should say something meaningful because they might be burned to all shit later that night? I didn’t know! I didn’t know!”
I hit my fist against the wall and start to cry.
“I’m right here, Blythe.” Chris says. His voice is steady, gentle. “Do you want to stop?”
He pulls me back enough that I am stabilized again. “No.” I want to keep going. I can talk through tears. I know how to do that well.
“That night, it was cold, I remember, and my parents lit a fire in the woodstove in their room upstairs. The pipe was no good. The metal …” I am breathing hard, starting to gasp for air. “There was a crack in the metal pipe. I don’t know what it’s called. That black metal tube that is supposed to make woodstoves safe. But it was cracked, and the heat from the fire wasn’t contained.
“Know what most of the house was insulated with? What was inside the walls? Newspaper. Fucking newspaper. Who in God’s name does that?
“When I woke up, my room was filled with smoke. It was so dark, and I could hardly see, so I didn’t get what was happening at first. The smell. Oh, the smell. It filled my mouth … and swamped my lungs in seconds.” I turn my body so that my face is in the water, and I grab the shower handle. I hold my breath because I am remembering that I couldn’t breathe then, so I feel like I shouldn’t breathe now. I wait until I am light-headed before my instincts win and I take in air. “I turned on my cell so that I could see … and it … threw blue light into the smoke, and I could see through the haze to the door. Nothing looked right. The hall had even more smoke than my room, and I could feel the heat.”
It’s as if I am back there in the hall, with the crackling sounds, and the atrocious smell, and the belief that death is closing in.
“I couldn’t think logically, but I could feel terror. I could … smell it. I couldn’t have gone into the living room if I’d wanted to because … because the smoke was too thick that way. It was happening too fast, and I couldn’t make it slow down so that I could think. No smoke alarms were going off, so I couldn’t understand how there could be a fire. It seems stupid, but I wondered if it was something else. Like a bomb. I couldn’t make sense of it. Honestly, I don’t remember deciding what to do. I just moved. I didn’t even scream. I don’t think … I don’t think that I made any sound at all.” I’m choking now as the words tumble out. “I had my hand over my mouth. So dumb. That wasn’t going to help. But I left my room because I had to get to James. That was the only clear thought I had. It wasn’t even really a thought. It was a … a drive. I kicked my foot out and got his door open. He was still in bed, nearly unconscious. I couldn’t get him to move. I may have … I think that I yelled at him, but I’m not sure. James wouldn’t get up. He just wouldn’t get up. He was so heavy, and I wasn’t strong enough. But I tried. God, I tried with everything I had in me, and then somehow I had him half off the bed, and then I saw the fire.”