The Ghost of Red

The sirens. The screams. The flashing fire truck lights fronting a flaming background of red-orange heat. Unbearable heat. My mother is still in there. I’ve got to save her. I feel the tightness in my throat as panic claws at the back of my neck.

“Ma’am, please come with me.” I turn my head to a very concerned firefighter holding out his hand to me. Ray. The embroidery on his coat ruffled with his movements. His sandy blonde hair clung to his damp, tan forehead. He looked so young. Too young.

I want to take it, his hand, and follow him to safety. But I can’t. My feet are cement, melting into the quicksand beneath me. I hear the crackling drawing nearer and nearer. Fear gropes at my chest and I feel my hands go to my neck, clawing to find air. The flames have me now, engulfing me. All around me, on me, in me…

Sweat. I sit up panicked, gasping for air. Darkness and cool air replace the menacing flames. My own bedroom. “Ok…ok, ok. You’re ok,” I close my eyes and slow my breathing as I release my tight, unforgiving hold on the sheets. My sheets. My bed.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and turn to the soft glow of the alarm clock; it reads 2:46 a.m. Sighing, I press my hands to my face and stand to go get some water. Every room of the apartment is pitch black, save the rays of moonlight shining through my back window. If I wasn’t terrified and disoriented from my dream mere minutes ago, I could appreciate its delicate beauty. But a glass of cool water is the only thing on my mind.

I shuffle into the kitchen and retrieve a glass from the cabinet, semi-blind from the sleep still in my eyes. The flames are still running through my vision every time I close my eyes – with each blink. My mother’s face flashes behind them. I shake myself out of my trance and fill up my glass in the sink; the coolness of the glass on my palm is refreshing.

And then I hear it. Footsteps. Soft, pattering footsteps. And then my name. It floats softly through the walls of the kitchen. Somehow I am not overcome by fear, but rather comfort. I know that voice.

“Momma?” I feel the words form in my mouth; I hear them break the heavy air. I sound almost hopeful. How I wish to hear her answer, to reach out and feel her warm embrace again. Then I feel the tears sting my eyes as I remind myself that she can’t possibly be here. The footsteps fade and the voice dissipates, as though they were never there in the first place. I sigh and close my eyes.

Not real.

I retreat back to my bedroom, the water glass still in hand. Maybe I can fall back asleep… I kid myself. That's not happening. So I pull out a book – I don't know which one – from my nightstand, turn on my lamp, and prop myself up on three pillows. Since I can't seem to face my own reality, I’ll face someone else’s.

….

Beep. Beep. Beep. I awake to the annoying blaring that is my alarm clock’s “good morning”. It now reads 10:30 a.m. I must have actually fallen asleep. I look down to see my book lying half open in my lap, unmoved from last night’s reading endeavor. I figure I need to get up; I can’t waste away — as much as I’d like to — at the hands of silky sheets and captivating novels. Sun rays in my living room have replaced the moonlight that shone there the night before. I can see the dust suspended in their radiance; they seem to guide me and follow me all at once. I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash the sleep out of my eyes. Mom always called it sleep in our eyes. I guess I picked it up from her.

Mom. I remember last night, the episode. It sticks with me as I saunter back to the kitchen to raid my pantry. I don’t get very far before I hear the footsteps again. And that voice. The pain of guilt shoots through me, this time more sharply than before. I know it’s not real, yet I want so badly for it to be. And right now my brain doesn’t quite have control of my body. I stand petrified, my back against the kitchen sink, as I fully relive the horrors from that night.

The smell of smoke was pungent as it awoke me from my sleep. I remember it — see it — clearly: my confusion and disorientation as I, at seventeen, stumbled out of my bedroom and into the living room, thick with smoke and scorching air. Immediately, my thoughts centered on my mother. Where was she? Was she awake? Was she safe? And then my siblings. Do they smell it? There’s a fire…do they know? Am I dreaming? No, it wasn't a dream. The memory is vivid: I ran into the kitchen to find 3-foot flames growing from the top of our gas stove. The stove. Oh. Shit. I must have left the burner on after dinner. I was rushing to get the beans off before they burned, and the stove was on a low setting, so I couldn't see the flames unless I really looked. Mom wasn’t home; it was just me, Taylor, and Cane. Good going, April. And then the rest of the house was awake. Mom came running, her eyes widening more and more with every step. Taylor and Cane bounded down the stairs simultaneously, just as horrified. But by then, I was too scared to move. My mother forced us outside while she called 911. I remember running to safety, along with my brothers, as the firefighters rushed into our driveway.

And I remember it so well: turning around to hold onto my mother…and her not being there. And then I felt the overwhelming shock, fear, realization, and ultimately guilt. She was stuck. Part of the kitchen ceiling had collapsed on her before she could get out. And we had left her. My brothers were screaming – we all were. But I could barely hear anything. It was all fuzz and chaos pounding in my ears. I could see my mother, and I tried to run to her. But then Ray caught my hand. It was the worst moment of my life. I was safe, but my mother wasn’t. A child might be supposed to outlive her mother, but not like this. And her death was never supposed to be her own child’s fault.

I melt onto the floor as the memory plays over and over again in my head, crushing me. I guess this is what they mean when they say you have to face your past to move on. It sure doesn’t feel like it’s possible to move on, though.

I stay there, sobbing, for half an hour. Eventually, I gather myself and head to the couch, but not before popping two aspirin in my dry mouth. I grab the remote, curl up in my purple throw blanket, and begin to surf cable channels. Unimportant characters floating through a meaningless plot in a perfect little bubble. I'm so cynical. And jealous. 

By now it’s almost noon, and the outside world is awake. A knock comes at my front door. I grab the remote and mute the TV.  Must be the Amazon delivery guy. I roll off the couch and wrap the blanket around me, shuffling down the short hallway. I don’t even bother looking through the peephole; the delivery guy would have dropped the box and should be gone by now. Nonchalant, I slide the chain lock open and fling the door open, bending down to grab my box. I stop. Feet. There are feet planted before me, attached to legs…I slowly rise, my eyes traveling up the body as I go. I am face to face with a man, and he is not the delivery guy. The wide stance, dark skin, sandy hair, and brown leather jacket and pants. A firefighter’s uniform. 

The flames have me again, but they’re different. This time they fill me with passion and vivid memories, connection and heartache and desire. The tightness in my throat is now of love and reunion after loss; it is absent of fear. The blanket around me drops to the floor. I know this man.

“Ray?” I gasp quietly. 

He smiles.

And I know.

Real.