Taylor
Outside, in the back of one of the ambulances, while she’s given oxygen and assessed, Taylor provides some sort of statement to the police. But she’s distracted, trying to search for faces in the crowd. Where’s Vivian? Where are the others? It’s confusion and smoke and bedlam. She sees periodic black robes flit through the night, like phantoms. More fire trucks arrive, their sirens roaring. Onlookers are gathering by the second.
“Tomorrow we’ll need you to come to the station, or in the next few days, when you’re up for it,” the officer is saying.
Taylor nods. She can still taste fire in her mouth, sense the heat on her skin.
“Holy shit,” she hears one person say, and another says, “Can you imagine the secrets going up in flames right now?”
People are clinging to one another, their faces alight from the reflection of the flames and the flashing emergency lights. She thinks she hears an ambulance peel off, hopefully with Vivian, but it’s hard to differentiate between all the alarms and the ringing in her head. Her muscles feel tensed, a hard board.
“Is this your cat?” another officer asks, approaching. He’s struggling to contain China in his arms.
“No,” Taylor says, relieved to see that the cat escaped the fire, though she looks as spooked as Taylor feels, her tail puffed up like a dandelion. Then Taylor says, “Wait! Yes. Yes, she’s mine.”
Taylor! Taylor!she thinks she hears someone yell, but when she listens more closely, she realizes it’s just chatter from the growing crowd.
“Okay, we’ll put the cat in one of the patrol cars,” the officer says. “Any other animals inside?”
“Not in the Knox…I don’t know about the servants’ quarters.”
“Servants’ quarters?” the paramedic who is taking her blood pressure repeats, surprised.
“Taylor! Taylor!” Someoneisyelling her name. It’s Sam; he must have gotten her note.
“Stand back,” the paramedic barks.
Sam edges as close to her as they will allow. He shakes his head at her, wordless. His eyes are red, as if he’s been crying.
Are you okay?he mouths, and it’s all she can do to nod.
Taylor
One Week Later
Taylor sips her coffee on a bench at Piers Park in East Boston, waiting impatiently for Tara to arrive.
She finally accepted the Instagram follow request from @tdgarden33__, when it occurred to her that TD might just stand for Tara Doyle, not the stadium where the Celtics play. Well, to be fair, maybe both.
Tx for accepting, Tara immediately messaged.I’ve been wanting to talk with u. You prly have lots of questions?? Can we meet?
While Taylor waits, her gaze travels across the water. The city of Boston looms in the near distance, its tall, stately buildings piercing the sky in a picturesque scene that would normally fill her with awe. But not today.
She hasn’t heard from the others; she was hoping she’d run into them at the police station, when she went a couple of days earlier to give her statement, but no such luck. For a week now she’s been frustratingly waiting for word, for any updates about Vivian.
So to say Taylor has “lots of questions” is an understatement.
She quickly checks her phone, which has been buzzing in her pocket. Aunt Gigi is already at it, suggesting nursing jobs.A position opened in the PACU! No nights and weekends. Or what about a job in dermatology??
Aunt Gigi was beyond relieved that Taylor hadn’t been at the middle-of-the-night fire at the Knox—or so she thought. “Thank goodness,” Aunt Gigi said, when she called first thing the following morning. “Can you imagine if the fire had happened during the day, when you were at work? Do they know what caused it yet? It looks like a total loss. Lisa—Phil’s sister’s daughter, who’s dating that cop—she said she heard a few people perished. All I know is we didn’t get any burn victims on the unit.”
Taylor slips the phone back into her pocket when she sees Tara approaching. She moves hesitantly, as if she’s a scared animal. She’s thin, her small shoulders exposed in the white tank she wears beneath overall shorts. He hair is plaited in two braids, and on her feet are a pair of black Converse. If Taylor didn’t know better, she’d think Tara was about fourteen years old.
“Hi,” Tara shyly ventures, and offers a big, crooked smile, the sincerity of which catches Taylor off guard.
Taylor rises, unsmiling. “Hi,” she brusquely replies.
“Thanks for coming.” Tara rummages through her canvas tote. Her profile is a watered-down version of her brother’s. “I brought you a soda. Want it?” She holds out a Coke, her hand shaking slightly.
