His eyebrows raise.
“I know how it sounds,” I say quickly, “but I was capable of making easy dinners, sandwiches and bagged salads and things like that. I knew how to dial 9-1-1 in case of an emergency, which”—I make ta-da hands—“turns out I needed, but not until much later.”
“So you took care of your sister?”
I feel it. How my chest puffs out. “Yes.” I cannot mask the hint of pride in my voice.
“Who”—Dr. Ruben leans forward, pressing his hands together between his open knees—“took care of you?”
“Me.” I’ve always felt a deep sense of pride at having taken care of myself and Camryn. But right now, the pride is gone. It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt sad about it instead.
Dr. Ruben sits back, letting the revelation simmer. "What happened after your sister took you home from the hospital?"
CHAPTER 3
The back half ofthe house is almost gone. Burn marks decorate the rest, as if the flames became fingers and caressed the home. From my spot here on the sidewalk I see directly into my room. Weirdly, it looks intact, but I know better than to try. The stairs are not safe enough for me to climb.
On the drive over I scoured the internet, reading about house fires. Between the extreme heat and the smoke, even minor fires leave more damage than you’d think.
There is nothing here but a ruined home. I should be crying, but the receding shock has returned. There is no other explanation for the feeling of numbness where anguish should be.
I still haven’t showered, and I’ve changed into Camryn’s clothes. Sweatpants, and an oversized sweatshirt. Being unshowered and in unfamiliar clothing only adds to this out of body experience.
Sabrina’s parents arrive at the same time as Sabrina. Her mother bursts from the car, running as if she herself can go back in time and put out the fire, or stop it from happening at all. When she sees me, she changes course and comes to me.
“Avery,” MaryAnn cries, taking my face in her hands. She is beside herself, her eyes wide, her face a mixture of shock and disbelief. I feel a pang of guilt for not having called my father yet, and a second feeling, far more uncomfortable than the first. Sabrina’s mother’s reaction makes me miss my own.
“Everything is ok,” I say, covering MaryAnn’s hands with mine. “Well, maybe not. But I’m ok.”
MaryAnn’s lips press together when she releases me. “What happened?”
Sabrina and her boyfriend Cross are here now, followed by Bill, Sabrina’s dad. Camryn hangs back, gaze going from me, to the house, and back again.
I do my best to explain it all to them, but I don’t know much either.
“What happened to the smoke alarm?” Bill asks, eyebrows drawn.
Sabrina shrinks away from the accusation in his tone. “It was beeping, so we took it down. I meant to get batteries, but I forgot.”
Bill tucks his hands in the pockets of his khakis and rocks back on his heels. He takes a deep breath, then two more before pulling out his phone. “I’m calling the insurance company,” he says, and steps away.
Sabrina and I walk around the house. She cries, and I stop to hug her.
“You must have been so scared,” she says, voice wavering.
I nod. “It was really awful.”
“I’ve thought about fires before.” She pulls back and wipes under her nose with the back of her hand. “Growing up, I imagined being home by myself and my house suddenly being on fire. I planned out what I was going to grab on my way out.” She sniffs. “What did you grab?”
I look up at the house, where my room sits half-exposed, and picture myself with my face pressed to the carpet. “There wasn’t a lot of time to save anything. The 9-1-1 operator instructed me to stay down. But I did crawl to my nightstand and take a photo of my mom.”
Sabrina considers this. “I would’ve grabbed my grandmother’s locket. Not my fancy red-bottomed shoes, or that expensive purse Cross gave me for Christmas. Isn’t it funny what we hold on to? That locket isn’t even real gold.” She looks wistfully at the room that was hers. It is next to mine, just a little closer to the back of the house. In terms of damage, it looks an awful lot like mine.
“You might find it,” I tell her. I don’t actually have much hope, but it seems like the right thing to say.
“Avery,” my sister calls. She’s coming my way with a petite, dark-haired woman I don’t recognize.
“This is Domenica Santiago. She’s a reporter for the Arizona Times.”
