Page 62 of Gone Tonight
Catherine hadn’t responded to my cries, and she wasn’t within sight. Instinct drove me to the kitchen first.
There I saw two things that stole my breath away. The first was orange-and-gold flames shooting up from our tall plastic trash can, greedily reaching out to devour the dish towel hanging from the stove handle.
I grabbed the dish towel, throwing it to the floor and stomping on it with my sneaker, hoping to stop the spread of the fire. It worked. The flames went out.
What I didn’t realize was that I’d inadvertently provided another source of fuel for the fire to catch hold.
My pain didn’t register for a few seconds.
Then the searing sensation of my left arm burning overpowered me.
“Get it off! Get it off!” I shrieked, slapping at the long sleeve of my cheap cotton shirt with my bare hand. I pulled my right arm outof my shirt and yanked it over my head, throwing it to the floor and stomping on it.
Catherine had been staring in horror, but now she leapt into action. “Cold water!” she yelled, turning on the sink tap.
I grabbed a pot that was sitting on a stove burner and filled it, letting the water course down over my forearm on its way into the pot. Then I dumped the water into the trash can, which was melting and warping in the intense heat. I had to do that twice more before the fire was completely out.
My arm still felt like it was being burned. The skin was raw and red. I slumped down onto the floor, next to a puddle of water seeping out of the bottom of the trash can. I felt dizzy and nauseated from the pain.
“Mama,” Catherine said, her voice breaking. “We have to go to the hospital.”
I nodded. I’d seen enough burns in kitchens at various restaurants where I’d worked to know mine was at least second-degree.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to light a candle,” she whispered.
I nodded again and managed to get to my feet. I soaked a clean dish towel in cold water and wrapped it around my forearm. Knowing our insurance wouldn’t cover the cost of an ambulance, I collected my purse and Catherine’s backpack and we took the bus to the hospital, where an ER doctor applied balm and dressed my wound.
I never again allowed candles in our apartment. Not even on birthday cakes.
Because the second thing I saw that stole my breath away when I burst into the kitchen and spotted the fire was Catherine. She was leaning against the refrigerator, staring at the flames.
She didn’t look remorseful, concerned, or frightened.
She looked delighted.
Now I pluck the last piece of popcorn off the carpet, then straighten up and groan. I dig my knuckles into my lower back, which is protesting again from carrying too many trays today.
A vacuum would be an easier way to tidy up, but I haven’t been able to use any device or appliance that makes a roaring sound since I was a teenager, when my hair dryer masked Timmy’s cries for help. I guess it’s like PTSD. I don’t even own a blender.
I walk into the galley kitchen and see the silver popcorn pot and lid Catherine used sitting in the sink, coated by a sheen of oil. I wiggle off my topaz ring and stick it on its china holder, then squirt a few drops of dish soap onto a sponge and begin to clean.
I wish I had someone to confide in. But Catherine is my someone.
Maybe I should call a psychiatrist again. I found one in the yellow pages shortly after the fire and gave a fake name when I went in for a consultation. At first the balding guy with the horn-rimmed glasses sitting behind the fancy oak desk appeared bored. I swear he was sneaking looks at the document on his desktop instead of giving me his full attention as I described Catherine’s occasional bed-wetting and the incident with the dead squirrel.
Toward the end of my free fifteen-minute consultation, I stood to leave and banged my injured arm against the hard arm of the chair.
It was excruciating, even with my wound wrapped in the layers of gauze the doctor had applied at the hospital. I couldn’t help but cry out.
The shrink looked up and seemed to actually see me for the first time. “Are you okay?”
When I’d caught my breath, I nodded.
As I pulled up the sleeve of my loose sweater to make sure none of the protective bandaging had come off, he casually asked, “That looks like quite an injury. What happened?”
He was probably expecting me to say I’d fallen off a bike or something.
