“We’re still mopping up, but the kitchen is gutted and part of your old room. The back porch is toast.”
I thought of the teenage leftovers I’d just considered clearing out of my room this morning. My stomach rolled again. At least it wasn’t the scrapbooks Mom had made. Those were all in a cabinet in the living room.
“I’m on my way,” I said and then hung up before he could respond.
Dad could have died.
I could have lost my father.
My hands on the steering wheel trembled so badly I had to fight to keep the truck on the road.
When I finally turned onto our street, my breath evaporated. A fire truck blocked the road, with a fire hose running from the hydrant through the front door. I winced, thinking of how much time and effort Mom had once put into the wooden floors, making sure they were waxed to perfection. Now, they’d be a mess.
More of a mess than they’d already been. The house had suffered Mom’s absence the most. While my dad and I hid our fractures behind practiced masks, the walls had surrendered, every faded corner and peeling edge marking the truth in ways we couldn’t deny. She was gone, and I’d failed to keep her legacy alive.
In my desperate attempt to put boundaries up between childhood Maisey and adult Maisey, I’d let her down. I’d let Dad and the house disintegrate before me.
I parked down the street from the Helmers’ house and ran the rest of the way. The smell of burnt plastic and wood slammed into me, a terrifying nightmare playing out in front of me.
But there was no smoke coming from the house, and I reminded myself that Beckett had said they were mopping up. They’d put it out. The firewouldn’t continue to eat away at wood and childhood memories.
I didn’t see Beckett when I got to the porch, but Dad was there, sitting in the old Adirondack chair Mom had once sanded and painted a bright blue but was now nothing more than chipped paint. Dad’s elbows were on his knees, head in his hands, much like I’d found him this morning, except this time one hand was wrapped in gauze.
Bugsy was standing over him with a hand on his shoulder.
The EMT’s face was so grim that tears pricked my eyes, and I had to fight them back. I fell on my knees next to Dad, drawing his injured hand closer. It was the same one he’d had the IV marks on.
“You’re hurt,” I said quietly, glancing up at Bugsy, hoping for more information.
“The burn is second degree. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but other than that, physically, he’s okay.” Her tone was the same clipped one she used when handing off a patient to us in the ER.
“I don’t know what happened.” Dad’s words drew my attention back to him.
His voice was thick with years of smoking. Dad wasn’t much of a drinker, and he hated drugs with a passion, but he lived off caffeine and cigarettes to ease the boredom of long days stuck behind the wheel of a semitruck. He hadn’t stopped smoking once in my lifetime, not even after Mom’s cancer diagnosis. Not even after the disease had stolen her from us.Not even when I’d cried and told him I was scared of losing my only remaining parent.
“I don’t understand. What happened?” Dad’s brows furrowed together until they were one long, thick line, and my worry grew.
“It’ll be okay, Dad. Beckett said it was just the kitchen. It could have been worse,” I tried to soothe.
He looked away, seeming to disappear right before me as he said, “I just don’t know what happened, Marjorie.”
The world blurred in front of me. A ringing sounded in my ears.
He thought I was Mom?
Heavy steps behind me had me whirling around to find Beckett emerging from the house. His facemask and helmet were gone, but he still wore his turnout gear with the SRFD logo emblazoned on the chest and back. His gloves were shoved into the pockets of the jacket, and there was black ash coating his face. He looked like a superhero. A savior.
My savior. God… Chelsea was right. I’d let my friends save me.
And here he was, saving my family again.
Cleaning up a mess we’d made.
Beckett’s warm brown eyes met mine, concern written in them as he glanced from me to Dad and back. He watched me closely, like he could pry my emotions out of me if he stared long enough, but I hid them behind the blank face I’d gotten good at showing him over the last few years out of pure self-preservation.
“Mr. Campbell,” Beckett stepped closer, looking down at my dad. “I think we’re almost done inside. We just need your statement about what happened so we can file the report for the insurance company.”
Oh God. Did Dad even have insurance? If he hadn’t been paying the mortgage, I somehow doubted he’d kept up with that either. What were we going to do?