Burning Memories

“Tricia! Get out. Hurry!” Mom’s voice called out between coughs. “Slide down the stairs on your stomach. Stay low.”

“But I need—”

“No, you don’t. Hurry!” Her words seemed softer and farther away this time.

The entire ten-year-old memory played through my mind again as my car idled on the gravel drive. The view of the crumpled roof and the acrid smell of burning wood clung on the edges of my nightmares. The house should have been torn down after the arson investigation closed. Neither Dad nor Mom could stand to make the heart-wrenching decision.

 

The burns Dad sustained attempting to save Micah and Mitchell pushed him beyond endurance. Deep inside, Dad died the day of the fire. It took his body longer to get the message.

I turned the Fiat off and opened the door. My legs screamed in defiance as I stepped out. I grasped the top of the car till balance returned to my rubbery legs. Would the emotions ever stop berating my body?

Barely above a whisper, Mom’s words drifted from where she still sat in the passenger seat. “I can’t do it.”

I squatted beside the car. Tears dripped from her once sparkling blue eyes now deep, muddy, and dark. “You don’t have to, Mom. I just need one more look around before the house is torn down. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

 

I closed my door. My lungs fought for air. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I wiped my arm across my face. My damp sleeve pressed on my skin. The ground spun and I leaned against my car. Ten … nine … eight … the slow count continued to zero. It was the sole exercise my counselor taught me. I drew a steady breath, tilted my head back, and glared at the caved-in roof. The investigators never determined conclusively how the fire had started.

But I knew. I’d killed my brothers. How does a person make up for something so cruel? Couldn’t happen.

Drawing another breath, I rubbed my right palm up and down my left forearm. I walked to the back of the two-story house once filled with laughter, dreams, imaginative tales, and love. Where, long ago, I’d sat looking out my bedroom wishing on stars, now a gap remained. A leaf floated through the chasm. My feet crunched on broken glass.

 

The scene played in my mind again. Opening the bay window. Pushing the screen. Throwing my few possessions outside. Accidentally breaking the glass. A mad dash for the stairs. Blood dripping from my arm.

 

But the truth remained. If I hadn’t brought the cigarettes home from school, the boys never would have found them and died. Why I hadn’t gone back to the attic door to make sure the twins were following haunted me more now. Always wondering what they would be like. What would they be doing now? College? Girlfriends?

 

How could God ever forgive such selfishness when I couldn’t forgive myself?

One simple, stupid decision birthed a nightmarish life. Prayer couldn’t alleviate the guilt. Memorizing Bible verses slowed the inevitable barrage of self-abuse. The time had come to tear the house down, but what good would it do? It was too late for Dad and the boys. It couldn’t return the mom I once knew. The pain would always remain.

 

I picked up a shard of glass and touched the edge. Still sharp after all this time. I pressed it against my left wrist.

“Don’t do it.”

I jerked at the sound of Mom’s voice.

Mom strode forward, grabbed the fragment, and threw it to the ground. She reached in her pocket, removed a tissue, then pushed it against my skin. Pink tinged through almost immediately. “Why would you do this right here, right now?” She sighed.

 

“I … I don’t think I was going to, but you surprised me and well …” What could I say?

Mom pushed my sleeve up on my left arm. How did she know? The white and pink lines told what I’d never whispered.

“That’s the story of my life.” Too soon, she was back to exasperated breathy words.

“What do you mean?’

Her grip strengthened around my wrist as she looked up at the destruction of the house she and Dad had built. She released me and pulled up her own sleeve.

A gasp escaped my lips before I could stop it. “I had no idea.”

“We both have had our secrets.” Mom glanced between our outstretched matching arms. Her scars appeared less raised. Not as red. “I only quit about five years ago. I wanted … no, needed a way to relieve the pain.”

With everything inside, I tried to look away from my mom’s scars, but the draw remained.

Mom sniffed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t … no, didn’t talk to you about it. For so long, I was drowning in pain. I had no idea how to even bring it up. I didn’t want to pull you under with me. Why should I since this,” she lifted her chin to the house, “was all my fault.”

“Your fault? No, it was mine.” At that moment, I wasn’t sure which was worse. Hiding the outward scars or burying the inward ones.

Mom rotated her shoulders. “I made the boys go clean the attic. They hated it up there. Always afraid of being locked in. It was cold that day.” Several heartbeats of silence passed before she began again. “And there was that frayed chord on the portable heater. I heard the banging on the door as I called upstairs, but I couldn’t make myself go up. Then I saw you and hoped maybe they’d followed you out so I told you all to …”

“Slide down the stairs.” Unified words. Unified pain. New understanding.

“That’s when Dad pushed past me.”

She nodded. “But he couldn’t get through the flames. He always blamed himself.” Mom looked at me, her sketched eyebrows raised. “Why do you think it was your fault? You were just a young girl.”

 

“I brought cigarettes home.” My voice caught. “Maybe the boys found them and tried them. That had to be what started the fire. It was all my fault.” I spun on my heels, crunched across more broken glass, and ran to the backyard where the tire swing, crusted from age, still hung from the blemished oak tree. I leaned against it and grasped the swaying rope to keep from toppling over.

 

Footfalls sounded across the decaying leaves. Mom wrapped her arm around my shoulder and pulled me from the swing. She turned me to face her. When I wouldn’t look at her, she gently pushed my chin with her index finger. “I’m sorry we’ve never talked about this. I guess it was just too painful. And obviously, we both chose the same way to try and deal with our pain.”

 

I nodded. My vision clouded until tissue pushed against my cheeks and the edge of my eye.

“You don’t know for sure if the boys found the cigarettes, do you?”

“No.” Again the tears dripped. “But you don’t know if the frayed wire caused it either or why they didn’t come out of the attic when you called.”

“True.”

 

She pulled me into the tightest hug I’d experienced since before the fire.

“I don’t know why God allows things like this to happen, but I am sure my boys and husband are with Him now. That’s what I have to hold onto.”

I nodded again. “Maybe it’s time to forgive ourselves.”

Mom pulled back and held me at arm’s length. “More than that, I think it’s time to recognize that we need to accept God’s grace. Plus,” she drew in a shuddered breath, “cutting sure didn’t help me. Did it help you?”

I shook my head.

“Are you still doing it?”

Another head shake followed. I couldn’t tell her I’d only stopped six months ago. Or could I?

“It hasn’t been long, Mom.”

Again, she pulled me into another squeeze, then released me and stepped back. “Maybe it’s time for us to get some help together.” She took a last look at the disfigured house and held her hand out to me. “And perhaps, we can now talk about the fun times we used to have as a family. Do you think we can start making new memories?” With a quick dab of her eyes, she turned us toward the Fiat. “Ready?”

 

I took one final look behind me at our past. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Hand in hand, we headed back to my car prepared at last to face whatever the future held and deal with burned memories and scars. Together.

 

Photo Credit: My own