Parker #3
“I’m fine, Mom. I told you on the phone, I’m fine.”
“The hell you’re fine! You could’ve died! You could have died, Lance!”
“I had to save somebody!” he shouts back.
“I don’t care if the fucking King of England was on that side of town, you could have been roasted alive! What is wrong with you?!” She grabs him by the arm, but he pulls away.
“Mom, this is Parker,” he says.
She turns and looks at me as if I’ve just sprung out of the ground. Her gaze travels down my sooty clothes and I want to shuffle behind Lance in order to avoid her scrutiny.
“Hello,” I try, but my voice sounds raspy.
Her mouth opens. She glances between her son and me. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t even register you were there. Welcome, Parker. I’m Jackie. It’s so nice to finally put a face to the name. Let’s get you inside, sweetheart.”
I look at Lance in surprise. His family knows who I am? I’ve never once mentioned him to my mother. I want to thank her, but I’m exhausted and I don’t think I can stand up much longer. “Lance?” I call.
“Come on,” he says, slipping his arm around my waist. I lean against him as he escorts me into his home and settles me carefully onto a sofa.
“He needs to be in the hospital,” Jackie is saying.
“The medics checked him out at the school. They had him on oxygen for a while. That’s why I’m so late getting back. I’m sorry, Mom. But they’re overwhelmed out there—it was a zoo.”
He sits next to me and takes my hand. He interlaces our fingers and doesn’t let go, even when Jackie’s eyes drop to our hands. I know I’m reddening. I want to apologize, but instead I just stare at his hands.
Jackie sits on the coffee table. Her voice is gentle. “He’s not a puppy that followed you home, honey. He’s got people. They’ll want to know where he is. They’re probably as crazy with worry as I was.” She smiles at me.
“It’s okay, Mom. We left his info on the board so they can find us as soon as they get to safety.”
Jackie turns to me. “Is there someone you want me to call for you?”
“He’s got an aunt who works for the University,” Lance volunteers.
“My aunt’s name is Shelley Bishop,” I say. “I don’t know how to get in touch with her.”
She blanches at how raspy my voice sounds and gestures to her throat, cutting her eyes to Lance.
He shakes his head softly. She clears her throat awkwardly and smiles at me.
“How about I make you a nice hot cup of tea with honey? You go into the shower and I’ll boil some up, and by the time you get out, it’ll be just cool enough to drink.
I’m sure that my son has something that’ll fit you.
I’ll work on getting in touch with that aunt of yours.
” She looks at Lance. “And you could do with a shower too,” she tells him.
I thank her, promising to be quick, and let Lance guide me to a small, neat bedroom, where he pulls some clothes out of a drawer and hands them to me.
I want to tell him that I have clothes in his truck, but I don’t know what they are, and likely they smell just as strongly of smoke.
He smiles at me, rubbing the back of his neck, as he hands me a towel.
The silence of the bathroom is surreal. The air smells like Ivory soap and hot towels—nothing like smoke—and I breathe it in until my lungs ache.
At home I shower with the door open. Always.
Grandma wanders, and Elliott can’t be left alone for five minutes.
Closing this door and locking it feels like something I’m not allowed to do, and doing it anyway is heaven.
The second that I think that, a wave of guilt sweeps over me. Right now, my mom is probably at the high school, registering my whole family, and the only thing I’m thinking of is how glad I am to close the door while I shower. What the hell is wrong with me?
I take off my clothes and run the water in the bathtub faucet as it warms up. I can hear the rise and fall of their voices through the wall. The water runs black around the drain for a long time before it runs clear.
My family’s alright. Mom never keeps her cell charged, that’s all. She’ll see my note. She’ll call any minute now.
I step out of the shower and look at the clothes he’s laid out for me—socks, underwear, a T-shirt with the letters USMC stenciled on it, and jeans.
I try not to think of how awkward it is to pull on Lance’s underwear, and, to avoid looking at myself too closely, I stare at those letters reflected backwards at me.
I knew that Lance was talking about enlisting.
But this isn’t talking about it anymore, I realize. He’s going to join up after graduation.
My arms look gangly and my eyes are too big. My ribs and clavicles are prominent, and when I put on Lance’s shirt, it swims on me like a tent. It smells like laundry detergent and something else—someone else’s life.
I don’t know how to process all this. It’s too big. My family is missing. My home is gone. I’m wearing my friend’s clothes. My friend, who drove through fire to save me.
To save me.
What do I do now?