Things You Save in a Fire - Katherine Center Page 0,70
of my life avoiding everything about fires—and to be duty-bound to join the fire service.”
“Why are you duty-bound to join?”
A little shrug. “My dad wants me to.”
“It’s your apology,” I said.
“It’s the shittiest apology ever, but it’s all I’ve got.”
I studied him a second. “You just want to bake cookies.”
“Pretty much.”
“But you can’t. Or you think you can’t.”
“I brought my dad indescribable grief.”
“Are you atoning for the fire?”
He gave the tiniest shrug. “He’s still grieving, in a way, my dad. Even now. If there’s anything I can do, I have to do it.”
“I get that,” I said, and I really did. I wasn’t sure I agreed with it, but I got it.
“I’ve never told anyone the whole story like that,” Owen said then. “I can’t tell you how strange it feels.” He let out a big breath.
“You were a kid, you know. Kids do stupid stuff all the time. It was an accident.”
“That may be true. But my uncle Ryan is still dead. My dad’s only brother. Because of me.”
I wondered if maybe he was emphasizing the wrong parts of the story. “That’s just such a burden for a kid to carry.”
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“For anyone to carry.”
He nodded. “Anyway, that’s why I can’t quit the fire department. That’s why I have to win that spot—even though I know you deserve it more. If the captain gives it to me, I have to take it. This is my dad’s dream. And I have to make sure he gets it.”
“Maybe your dad’s dream is just for you to be happy.”
The rookie looked at me like I was so wrong it was almost cute. “Nope. Firefighter first, happy second.”
“You are talking to a person who has watched you turn pale, faint, or throw up on every medical call. Sometimes all three.”
He let out a long breath. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Well, first of all, I’d find yourself a therapist.”
“Did that already,” he said, like he’d already checked it off the list. “Third grade. I didn’t speak at all for almost a year after the fire, and they made me see a grief expert twice a week.”
“Did you talk about what happened?”
“Parts of what happened.”
“The important parts?”
He shook his head.
“I think,” I said then, “you should start thinking about forgiveness.”
He raised his eyebrows like I was crazy. “Are you saying you think I need to tell my dad?”
“Have you thought about it?”
The rookie shook his head, like, Nuh-uh. Nope. No way.
I shrugged. “I don’t know that you need to tell him, necessarily.”
He frowned. “But you think I need him to forgive me?”
I shook my head. “No. I think you need to forgive yourself.”
He was quiet, as if that thought had never occurred to him. Then he said, “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“It just so happens I could help you with that. My mother has been educating me on the joys and challenges of forgiveness.”
He couldn’t tell if I was joking.
“It’s easier than it sounds,” I said. “It’s more a shift in thinking than anything else. You have to think about the person you’re angry at—in this case, your eight-year-old self—and try to be compassionate with him. Empathy soothes anger, you know,” I said, suddenly feeling very wise. “Then you have to work to find some good things that came out of what happened, even despite all the bad. And then you have to decide to let it go.”
“That’s good advice,” he said.
“I am full of good advice.”
“Doesn’t really change anything about our situation, though, does it?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “No.”
“You still want this job, and I still need this job.”
I kept doing that: forgetting who he was. I nodded, like, That’s right. “We’re still enemies.”
He frowned at the word choice. “Friendly rivals,” he corrected.
“To-the-death combatants,” I said.
“Sparring partners.”
“Look,” I said, “no matter what we were before, now we’re enemies. We’re competing for the same position.”
“You really love that job, huh?”
“What’s not to love?”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking out the window. “The blood? The guts? The diarrhea?”
“The heroism? The camaraderie? The saving people’s lives?”
“Sure,” he said. “There’s that.”
I looked him over. “I’ve seen worse rookies,” I said.
He gave a nod, like, Maybe. “I’m throwing up less often now,” he said. “But you’re the one they’re going to keep.”
I honked out a laugh. “You’re the one they’re going to keep.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “The captain’s not going to choose me.”