Burning Down- Memoir essay

Burning Down

            “Just one more lap and you can stop.” I think that was probably the fourth time I repeated that in my head during this set:  ten 100 yard free style laps on a one minute and thirty second interval.  This workout in particular was a challenging one, but I was in the zone.   That early November, it was the start of my second season on the swim team.   I was a sophomore in high school.   I was one of the top swimmers on the team and my race was the 100 yard butterfly.   I could swim it in one minute and eleven seconds.   I remember leaving that practice feeling like I had conquered the impossible. My biceps and upper back muscles were burning red from being pushed so hard, and I remember thinking “so this is what it feels like to be bullet proof.”   I felt invincible in that moment.   An incredible high was pumping through my veins.

            That night after practice my mom had made an awesome fall time dinner:  bowtie pasta topped with a thick red sauce and chunky sausages.  This meal contained the perfect amount of carbs to replenish what I had lost during practice.   Always during that time of year, it seemed, my hair and skin oozed that thick public pool chlorine smell. “Lindsey!” Mom said with a wrinkled nose and squinted blue eyes, “You smell…overly clean.”   “I took a shower.   I think most of it is just stuck in my hair,” I replied.   “I’ll pick up some of that special swimmers shampoo tomorrow, which will help,” Mom said sounding hopeful. 

            I remember, very specifically, that night working on my math homework that was due the following morning.   I found that particular lesson to be difficult and I sat at the counter top for a long while, trying to figure it out on my own.   My younger sister, Maribeth, jumped in to me to help a few times in between her own assignments.   Kara, my other younger sister, was sitting on our couch all cuddled up in fuzzy purple blanket, playing a video game on her pretty pink Game Boy DS.   At the time, she was only nine years old.   That night she was completely invested in the game she was playing.   My dad was sitting on the couch with her watching one of his favorite deer hunting shows talking about the new Matthew’s bow and arrow which had just been released for the year and how much lighter they were making them these days.   I’m sure my mom was cleaning up after dinner and doing laundry in the basement.    She later joined my dad on the couch.

            None of us were concerned about anything other than what we were doing at that current moment.   To me, finishing my homework was top priority and I couldn’t stop thinking about my time goals for the swim meet later on in the week.   My family and I said good night, Kara gave out her good night kisses, and we went our separate ways. My bedroom was in the basement, while everyone else was on the main floor, which was kind of nice except for the fact that I could hear them walking above me.

***

            My whole body jumped and my eyes jerked open. I had heard a loud crack, like a bullet had just been fired.   I lay still for a second, listening closely, trying to make sense of what had awaked me.   I heard footsteps stomping back and forth above my head, causing the light fixtures to rattle violently.   Faintly, I heard my mom, but I couldn’t make out her words.  She sounded panicked.   I rolled over towards the small window in my room. Everything was glowing orange. More loud, booming, cracks sent shutters down my spine.

            My first thought was, “someone is shooting at my family… what should I do?”   I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911 without pressing send.   In a daze of having just woken up,   I wasn’t sure if I was just delusional or if this was really just a dream.   I got up and walked to the base of the stairs and crept up them as quietly as I could.   The whole time my mother was muttering something with straight fear in her voice.   The shots were still going off.   As I got closer to the top of the stair well, I could hear my sisters crying and the familiar beep of the home phone being dialed.   I reached the top of the stairs and peaked around the half open door.   I took a good look around as best I could, considering how dark it was, and decided it was safe to come out and find everyone.   I walked into the kitchen when Mom saw me. “Lindsey! The Veldman’s house is on fire!”   I had never heard this sort of tone in my mom’s voice before now. The way she sounded is one of the most vivid sounds I remember from that night.   It was pure terror.  Shaky.  Sort of like a vibrato in her voice.   Without hesitation, I followed her to the front porch.

            I couldn’t believe what I saw. Two doors down to the right of my house, in the middle of the cul-de-sac, was our neighbor’s two story home, engulfed in bright orange and red flames.

            I fell to my knees in awe while my sisters huddled together on the porch steps crying and praying for the family inside. My dad came running out of our house at that moment. “I called  9-1-1,   I’m going to make sure they got out!”   

“Dad!   No!   Don’t go over there!   Please don’t go inside!” I screamed.   My mom was behind him, but I stopped her short of our driveway.   She was crying and breathing heavy. “Mark! Don’t go!” she wailed. “Mom! Sit on the porch, it will be ok,” I said as calmly as I could.   Everyone was in a panic.   I just know that I wanted my family to stay in the comfort of our front yard.

            The fact of the matter was, we didn’t know if our neighbors had gotten out of their now collapsing home, which gave source to the gun shot noises I had been hearing.   They had four adopted children and Mrs. Veldman’s elderly mother living inside at the time.   My mom kept repeating “Those kids, Lord, please.  Those kids!”

            My feet were completely numb from the cold, dead grass in our front yard.   I was standing guard with my family behind me, just staring at the nearly vanquished building.   As the flames roared up towards the night sky, I looked up at the stars and saw none, probably because the flames were was so bright.

            There was a slight breeze from the east and long sheets of ash were falling from the sky like ripped tissue paper being thrown around.   The flames were growing and by now the entire house was engulfed.   The roof started to cave in.   I remember staring at the car in the drive way that was also ablaze.   I instantly erased my morbid thought that the empty seats resembled bodies sitting there enduring their irreversible fate.   My face and the top of my arms were turning red from the heat that was now so strong that it was even drying out my eyes. Our blacktop driveway felt hotter than it ever had, even in the dead of July at three in the afternoon. The house in between ours and the inferno was obviously closer and later we found out that the extreme heat melted the right side of their blue siding into a sagging piece of plastic.  

            I debated if I should go look for my dad.   It felt like he had been gone for a long time and I had lost sight of him a while ago.   I remember thinking, “Where is the fire department?  Why haven’t they gotten here yet?”   In our small town, firefighters are volunteers and our subdivision was way out there in between two corn fields, a good 10 minutes from town.

            I turned back towards my mom and sisters who were holding each other.   I joined the circle and we all prayed together for the Veldman’s safety.

            Finally, I heard sirens off in the distance.   I remember looking at my phone that I had tucked in the waist band of my pajama pants.   It was 1:26 a.m. when the first responder SUV showed up and then the fire trucks seconds after.   Only 30 minutes from when the fire first started, the whole house was too far gone to even try to put out.   The firefighters were getting out their hoses and trying their best to just contain the fire and not let it spread anymore.   You could see the look of defeat on their faces before they even had a chance to perform their brave work. 

            My dad came jogging towards our house.   With his back to the flames, his normal strong and heroic figure looked small and completely helpless. He stopped and talked to a fireman. He pointed toward the house to the left of the Veldman’s home and one of the men started jogging that way. “They all made it out safe!” he exclaimed.   “Oh, thank goodness,” my mom breathed a heavy sob-like sigh of relief.   As a family, we went inside our own home, so relieved that the family escaped, completely safe.   We all sat on the couch, in complete silence for a while, catching our breath.   Dad suddenly spoke and choked back a tear, “Eric didn’t even have his wallet.”   Eric, the father of the four adopted kids all under the age of 10, didn’t even have his wallet.   I thought about that for a minute.   Could you imagine losing all that you have, even something as simple and important as your wallet?   My eyes were definitely opened after observing such a horrific event. 

            In the days that followed the fire, of course, our tiny town was buzzing with gossip, but more importantly the entire community, it seemed, came together.   There were benefit dinners, clothing and toy drives, and hundreds of community members rallying around this family of 7 who didn’t have a single thing other than the pajamas they were wearing when they ran out of their house barefoot.   The kid’s schoolwork and back packs were all gone, along with all their pictures and even some important adoption documents went up with the house.   They were grateful, though, that they all were able to get to safety, except for their family dog, a golden retriever who was in the garage.   It was later discovered that the fire broke out in the garage and was possibly started by Eric’s work truck.

            The months that followed the fire were hard.  The wreckage (which was basically a huge hole in the ground that used to be a basement and some blacked two by fours that were more useless than a tooth pick) lay smothering and a constant heart breaking reminder of that night.  They eventually rebuilt on that same lot.  It was a refreshing sight to see.  Regardless, every time I think about the traumatic experience the Veldman family went though, it reminds me that those day-to-day issues that seem like a big deal in the moment don’t necessarily matter in the grand scheme of things.  What does matter is your family and that understanding that you are not invincible.  Life can change at any given moment.