“No … yes. I did want to talk but I got caught up at the station. I got called into an extra shift, so I’m still not off. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Hanging up without another word, I climb into my car, slam the door shut, and pound on the steering wheel.
I’m so pissed I don’t know what to do with myself. I just left the hospital after finding out that the second young man I pulled off the scaffold didn’t make it. He’d lost too much blood by the time the paramedics got him to the hospital. He was only twenty years old.
It took a few minutes after hearing that for the flashbacks to start coming. Memories of me checking and rechecking a little boy’s bedroom, only to find him hidden in his closet, burned and barely breathing.
Pushing the palms of my hands into my eyes, I try to make the memories stop but it’s to no avail. When I open my eyes, I blink and recognize where I am again. I start the ignition to my car, and a minute later am driving out of the hospital’s parking lot.
It takes me fifteen minutes to make it across town to the Williamsport Fire Department’s headquarters. I hang a left into the parking lot. Even though it is close to eleven thirty at night, there are about eight cars parked by the back entrance of the building. I park next to a familiar vehicle and hop out without thinking. Taking long strides, I reach the side door and punch in a code that very few people in the department know about. The lock unhinges and I pull the door open.
At the end of the long hallway on the right is a classroom that’s used during the day for new recruits in the training academy. However, at night, seven days a week, it’s used for other purposes.
“Man, a part of me still wishes I’d never been there,” a red-haired guy says.
I know him as Jason. He’s a ten year veteran of the department and works at station house eight, I believe.
“But, on the other hand, I’m glad it was me and not one of my other guys there to see it, ya’ know?” Jason looks around the circle of men with his dark brown, watery gaze. With slumped posture, elbows on his knees, he shakes his head pushing out a heavy breath, looking as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.
The other seven heads in the room nod in unison. I do, too, knowing what it’s like to both hate and appreciate that you were the one to witness what you’d seen.
“Thanks for sharing, Jason,” the leader, Terry, says. He glances around, his eyes widening when he sees me. “Emanuel,” he calls. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you here. Would you like to share?”
I want to tell him to go fuck himself, to demand to know why he decided to single me out. But the answer to that question is obvious. I haven’t been here in months. I glare at the other men in the room, looking at my fellow firefighters. Their faces are sympathetic as they stare. I hate that fucking expression. We aren’t a sympathetic group as a whole, but in this room the mask is removed. In this room, many of us, who ordinarily wouldn’t, reveal our souls.
“It happened again.” I run my hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. “My woman just called me.” I pause, realizing what I just called Janine without even thinking about it. I inhale a deep breath. “She doesn’t know this side of the job. And I haven’t revealed it to her on purpose.”
I sigh heavily.
“I was coming out of the hospital when she called. A young guy I pulled from a scaffold earlier today died from bleeding out. That’s bad enough, but it’s the memories that come back. I can’t shake those fucking memories when shit like this happens.”
I shake my head.
“Keep talking,” Jason urges. “It’s good to talk.”
“Jackson,” I say on a sigh. It’s the first time I’ve said his name since that night. “He’s my one.”
“We all have a one,” another guy across from him interjects.
I nod, thankful I don’t have to explain what I mean in this room. Every one of us has an incident, a rescue, a death that brought us to this room. To this group.
“He was five fucking years old,” I grit out. “A kid. And I missed him on the first sweep of his bedroom. If I would’ve caught him the first time—”
“You would’ve missed his mother and his baby sister,” Larry, another Station Two guy says. “I was there that night, remember, Emanuel? I was outside but I was there. You pulled that mother and her sleeping newborn out before going back in for the kid.”
“I know but—”
“But nothing. That’s what this shit does to us. This guilt. It eats us alive. But it’s a fucking liar. The truth is that that fire was too hot for anyone to go into. All three of those people in there should’ve been dead. But two are still alive because of you. That little boy got to say good-bye to his mother before he died because of you. I know what those memories are making you believe. I’ve got myone,too. But the only way to survive it is to tell the truth. The truth is, someone was gonna die that night. You’re not stronger than death, no matter how badass you are. None of us are. You did what you needed to that night.”
I don’t say anything. I stare down into my hands as I sit forward in the folding chair, my elbows digging into my thighs.
“We all get it, Emanuel,” another guy says. “My one doesn’t involve a kid. It was an elderly couple …” he starts.
I’m glad he begins talking. It takes me out of my own head and allows me to focus on his words. The specifics of our stories are different. Disparate times, locations, dates, and events, but the feelings underneath are all the same. The feelings of failure that come with knowing at that particular time you weren’t strong enough, fast enough, big enough. Just plain not enough for the situation you were in.
It’s a tough fucking pill for a firefighter—a person tasked with walking into hell and making it out alive time and time again—to swallow.
By the time thirty minutes has gone by the group is over and we all begin heading out. That’s when I realize there is someone sitting by the door. I was so focused on the guys in the circle I hadn’t heard him come in.
Squinting, I watch him as he struggles to stand. Someone rushes toward him to help him up.
