The Firefighter. Susan Lyons
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I’m supposed to be looking after her, not encouraging her dreamy notions.
She’s grinning. “The closer I get to Oz, the more me I become.”
Oz. She’s always called it that, and it always makes me think of the yellow brick road. Here we are, Nana and me, off to meet the Wizard. An odd pair we are, because she’s delighted and I’m thinking, there’s no place like home and I’d rather be there right now.
“Back in Vancouver,” she says, “there have always been so many expectations. From your granddad and his folks, your dad and your Aunt Liz, then all you grandkids. Everyone tried to put some label on me, fit me into some role. I never got to be just Delia.” She nudges me in the ribs. “Believe you me, Tash, when Delia was a girl, she was a lot of fun.”
Delia’s still kind of fun, to tell the truth. Now that she’s forcing me to start seeing her as a real person, not just a grandmother. It isn’t fair, is it, the way we slot labels onto people. Like, if someone is “nana,” we don’t see past that, don’t ask about her hopes and fears. Her dreams.
But…“You’re thinking you can go back to being that girl with Trev?”
“Or be a whole new Delia. My family’s all grown up now, you don’t need me. I’m free, for the first time in sixty years. Just like you, Tash.”
“I’m free?”
She laughs. “Footloose and fancy free, if you’d only let yourself. You wait and see, you’re going to be a different girl in Oz.”
But why would I want to be? I like the woman I am.
“You might even stay there with me,” she adds.
“You’ve lost me. Stay where?”
“In Oz.”
“But…what do you mean? We’re selling the house and coming back home.”
She shakes her head, her eyes dead serious. “I know that’s what the family wants but I’m not a child and I’ll make my own decisions. Tash dear, for me home is Australia. Always has been, always will be. If you go back to Vancouver, you’ll be traveling alone.”
I gape at her. My first thought is, she’s nuts.
But she’s an adult. Maybe a little eccentric but not stupid. It hurts to think she might be happier in Australia than with us in Vancouver, but she’s right that the decision is hers to make.
No, of course she won’t stay. This whole thing is a fantasy she’s built up in her head. Once she sees the reality, she’ll realize she belongs back home.
Of course, if by chance she does decide to stay, the family will kill me.
Oh, damn. What have I gotten myself into?
Our friendly flight attendant stops beside me. “’Ow’s it goin’?”
Crappy. Please God, won’t someone come along and rescue me from this impossible situation?
Maybe he reads the desperation in my eyes because he leaps to my rescue in the best way he knows how. “Another glass of the bubbly?”
“Oh, why the hell not.”
2
Smoke? Do I smell smoke?
I’m only about a tenth awake and my body’s saying, no, let me sleep! My exhausted brain recalls travel, travel and more travel. Four airports, three flights and a long taxi ride, transporting me across a nineteen-hour time difference. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.
But still, there’s that smoky smell and it irritates the back of my travel-dried nose and throat so I have to cough.
Where am I, anyhow?
I remember. Australia. In the spare room of the house Nana inherited. The pretty cottage across from the ocean, where the air is warm and humid and scented with flowers as well as the sea.
But now the air reeks of smoke. I fumble for the switch on the bedside light but nothing happens. The power must be out.
The smoky odor’s getting stronger. Not cigarette smoke. Nor is it pleasant and woodsy like the old-fashioned fireplace at Nana’s house in Vancouver. It’s more like—
Jesus! I think the house is on fire.
I leap out of bed. From groggy I’ve gone to so awake my heart’s racing triple-time. The air’s hot and dense with that horrible smell. And in my ears there’s a strange crackling, rushing sound. Weird, and scary.
“Nana! Nana!”
“Tash!” Her call is faint, almost eaten up by that spooky sound.
I grab my cell from the bedside table, praying the battery hasn’t run down. I open it, dial 9-1-1. An operator voice says, “Your call could not be connected. Please check the number and try again.”
What the hell? Don’t they have 9-1-1 here?
Nana calls again and I toss down my useless phone and run across the room. The hallway’s dark and full of smoke and—oh my God, there are flames to my left! Not many, just a few licking out a door and across the ceiling. They’re the feelers; the animal is behind them, gathering itself to pounce.
Where’s Nana’s bedroom? I was so tired last night, I wasn’t paying attention. All I remember is, it’s a one-story house, with the living room at the front and the bedrooms at the back. Please, let her bedroom be to the right, away from the flames. “Nana? Where are you?”
The floor’s warm, making me aware I’m barefoot, wearing only a lace camisole and the skimpiest of bikini panties. I have a lot of skin exposed, and the hot air’s stinging every centimeter of it. I turn to my right, stumble down the dark hall, squinting against the smoke. “Nana!”
Behind me I hear a crash and a vigorous, “Shit! Damn. Tash?”
Oh, God, she’s behind me, where the fire’s burning.
I turn to face thicker smoke and that darting border of flames. Terrified, I walk toward the fire. “Where are you? What was that crash?”
“I fell!” She coughs. “Damn it, I’m trying to get up but—” Her voice breaks off and I hear a moan, then more coughing.
“I’m coming.” The smoke scratches at my throat and I have to cough too.
Those flames are mesmerizing. Beautiful, in a strange way, as they curl and dance across the ceiling. I move toward them, staring up into their red-gold depths, unable to look away even though my eyes burn from the smoke.
My feet meet an obstacle and I trip and fall. On top of my grandmother.
“Watch where you’re going!” she snaps between coughs.
She’s sprawled across the doorway, face down, and I’m crossways on top of her. She must’ve tripped, then I stumbled onto her.
I pull myself off, glancing past her into the room. And freeze.
Yes, it’s her bedroom. I remember it now. The old-fashioned four poster, the picture window with lacy curtains.
Except, the window and curtains aren’t there anymore. Instead, there’s a wall of flame. Not pretty curls of reddish-gold but a fierce conflagration eating the wall, moving across the ceiling and out the door. Over our heads.
I scramble to my knees. Thank God I’m here to save her. “We’ve got to get out of here! You have to get up!”
“You think I haven’t tried? I must’ve broken my leg.”
We’re both coughing, I can barely see her—it’s dark, smoky, my eyes are burning and watering.
“Oh, Jesus! Okay, then…” I try to think. I’m not tiny, but nor is she. Can I lift her?
Do I have a choice?