A Taste of What's to Come

So, my husband has been out of town for the last week, which means I have had zero time to myself.  My eleven month old doesn't even let me pee by myself.  Needless to say, it has been difficult to find any time to devote to the book.  What about when he's sleeping you ask? This boy doesn't sleep. Not for longer than an hour at a time anyway (yes, even during the night), so if I ever want any work around the house to get done, it takes precedent. Unfortunately.

So, now that the hubby is back, I have hidden myself away to devote some much-needed attention to this book (and this blog).  I have a nice cup of tea and some yummy toast and jam, and I am ready to get down to business.

Ages ago, I posted the rough draft of the first chapter on an old blog.  I've decided I'm going to post the edited version here.  It's still a work in progress, and I am very open to criticism (even the nasty sort), so have at it.  I'm especially terrible at slipping in and out of present tense and using passive voice. I'm aware of these weaknesses, but a lot of errors still escape my notice.  To all of you grammar nazis out there: please use your red ink liberally.



Chapter One: The Survivor
The heat is suffocating, so we keep our distance.  The shadows of the flames flicker across our faces, and our eyes ignite as we watch the house burn.  Four eyes stare, entranced as the house sacrifices itself to the fire.
I glance at my grandmother.  Her aged cheeks are dry.  The heat from the flames prevents her tears from falling.  She stands silent, just as helpless as the rest of us.  I can’t recall a time when I have ever considered her helpless.  Yet even her well of control can’t douse the inferno before us, so we just watch it burn.
Ashes dance through the air, fiery around the edges at first, then fading as the air sucks the warmth from them.  One lodges itself in my grandmother's hair.  She’s unaffected by its landing.  I don’t think she’s even aware that a piece of her home now rests in her curls.  Although she was roused from sleep and forced to flee for her life, my grandmother's curls hold firm.  The ash in my grandmother's hair is pale gray, only a few shades darker than the hair around it.  It comforts me to see she doesn't look disheveled.  In a small town like this, and for a granddaughter teetering on the edge of freaking out, appearances are everything.  The burning would be even harder if its disaster was mirrored by her appearance.
My hand instinctively reaches up to my own hair.  Wisps fly around my face like the dancing ashes.  The elastic band just barely holds the bulk of my long hair away from my face.  I swat at a wayward piece of ash that floats in front of my nose.  The wind generated by my flapping hand catches it and pulls it further away from me, drawing my eyes back to my grandmother.  Her eyes stare at the hollow windows.  The heat of the force raging inside the house shattered them long ago.  I wasn’t here when the glass shattered.  The window frames already gaped by the time I got here.  The flames reach through the glassless frames, hungry for the oxygen in the open air.  The darkness of the night swallows the smoke as it rises away from the remains of the emblazoned house.  My grandmother's sharp eyes take it all in, her irises ignited like a setting sun.  Her face is radiant in the house's glow.
The powder blue paint bubbles and peels from the wooden siding like sunburned skin.  It cowers in front of the flames, dripping fiery blue drops onto the singed grass.  Bit by bit, the color is devoured until the siding becomes a charred remnant of its former self.  Pieces of it cling to the foundation it has held for more than fifty years, but I know it won’t be long until they, too, are torn away.  They glow bright orange when the wind blows against them, then fade into the night's blackness.
The streams of water from the fire fighters' hoses turn to steam when they meet the flames.  The water sizzles like oil in a frying pan, but is ineffective in dousing the flames.  Not long after they turn their hoses onto the house, one of them approaches us.  The bright yellow suit may be fire resistant, but I can see that the heat is still taking its toll on him.  When he lifts the visor of his helmet, I can see that his face is saturated with sweat.  Ash is beginning to clump in the wrinkles by his eyes and the creases in his forehead.  He avoids looking at my grandmother directly when he speaks.  The look on his face tells me everything that I need to know.  I don't even need to listen to the words that tumble out of his mouth, words that fall flat against the gravel driveway when met by my grandmother's ears.  The fire has defeated them.  It’s just too strong for their hoses to quell.  That look tells me that there is no more any of us can do except keep a vigilant watch to ensure the flames are contained within the house's shell.  My grandparents' house will only be able to feed the flames for a few more hours at the longest.  By then, the fire will run out of fuel and will burn itself out.  The fireman guarantees me that they’ll make sure the flames are doused completely before they leave.  There’s no reason for my grandmother and I to stay here any longer, no reason for us to witness the remaining damage that will be done.
Before he walks away, he puts a gloved hand on my grandmother's shoulder.  He apologizes for their late arrival, though it’s doubtful the house could have been saved either way.  My grandparents don’t live close to town, and the firetrucks arrived as quickly as they could.  Even if the call had been placed immediately, the fire station is at least fifteen miles from here, so it would most likely still have been too late for them to save anything.  I know he really just wishes there was more they could have done.  I wish the same thing.  I wish I knew what to say to my grandmother, or what to do to make this situation easier for her.
The fireman's last words to my grandmother assure her that it was painless.  Since the fire came while he was sleeping, my grandfather never woke up.  If the flames hadn’t taken him, the smoke inhalation would have.  The fireman tells my grandmother she’s lucky that she was able to get herself out of the house in time.  My grandmother just shrugs his hand off of her shoulder.  She doesn’t thank him for the words that were meant to bring comfort.  I know they failed to bring her relief, but at least he made the effort.
After a moment, the fireman slinks away, his duty to my grandmother completed.  I watch his hasty retreat back to the small circle of yellow coats near the fire engine with envy.  He won’t have to face my grandmother again after tonight.  He can go home to his family and never think about this fire again.  It's one tragedy in a long list that has left him personally unaffected.  Gram's eyes never leave the burning bedroom window.  I’m sure she’s not feeling particularly lucky, at all.
When they first arrived at the scene, the firemen gave us each a blanket.  The fabric is cheap and itchy against the bare skin of my arms, but it does provide minimal warmth.  Although the fire rages mere feet away from us, I drape the other flame resistant blanket around my grandmother's shoulders.  I hope the small warmth it offers will give her a little bit of comfort.  As soon as I let go, she snatches it off and throws it to the ground.  It crackles with static as it’s torn away from her bathrobe.
"I don't need that damned thing. I'm fine." She says without turning to me.  Her voice hisses like the water as it meets the heat of the house fire.  I’m a little annoyed with her for throwing the blanket onto the ground when she could have just handed it back to me, but I know she’s upset.  I let it slide.  Under the circumstances, her stubbornness is not surprising.  I pick the blanket up out of the gravel and shake it.  A puff of dirt and a few twigs flies into the air as I shake, but finds its way back to the driveway after a few seconds.  I roll the blanket into a ball and toss it into the backseat of my car.
My grandmother once made beautiful quilts.  She made one for each of us, and gave it to us when we graduated from high school.  A slave to convention, every stitch was done by hand.  She refuses to acknowledge the convenience of a sewing machine.  Quilts stitched by hand are something to be proud of.  Machines make cheap bed covers with shoddy stitching.  Her grandchildren deserve better.
The quilt she made for me is a log cabin pattern.  Every rectangle is a different pattern, but they’re all the same shades of blue and green.  I didn’t really care about it when she originally gave it to me.  I mean, how much can a teenager really care about a stupid blanket? I think I tossed it into the bottom of my closet.  I rediscovered it after I graduated from high school, and I packed it with the rest of my things when I went away to college.  Somehow, in the years I was away from home, the blanket grew on me.  I love it now.  It’s beautiful, even after years of spin cycles in the washing machine.  I keep it on my bed year round.  There’s absolutely no better feeling than crawling under that quilt on a frosty day in January.  It traps in your body heat and, slowly, chases away the chill.  My toes are always the last part of me to warm up beneath the quilt's bulk.
With the memory of my grandmother’s quilt so fresh in my mind, the fireman's blanket suddenly seems more itchy against my skin.  I take it off and throw it into the seat on top of my grandmother's.  I lean against my rear door, wrapping my arms around myself instead.  I can feel the cool metal door through my t-shirt, but it's a refreshing contrast to the heat of the fire.  I look over at my grandmother.  There isn’t a thing in the world that could divert her eyes away from those flames.  She stands in silence, wringing her hands.  I stare at her hands as she squeezes one, and then the other.  Her hands were once so dexterous, but arthritis has disfigured them to the point that they’re almost useless.  She hasn’t quilted in years, and I don’t think she’ll ever try to make a quilt again.  Her clumsy hands frustrate her too much.
After a few moments, I realize I need to get her away from here.  I know that if I don’t force her to go, she’ll never leave.  She’ll continue to watch her house get reduced to ashes, wringing her hands raw.  I walk over and touch her lightly on the shoulder.
"Come on, grandma.  Let's go back to my house." I say softly, like my words might hurt her if they came out any louder.
She's reluctant to leave, as I knew she would be.  I begin to lead her over to my car, pulling her gently by the arm.
"I'll make you some tea, grandma, and we can sit at the kitchen table and try to unwind a bit before going to bed."
My grandmother doesn’t look at me when I speak to her.  She doesn’t even make an attempt to continue the conversation.  Instead, she begins to resist me and plants her feet firmly in the gravel.  I stop pulling on her arm, fearing I may unintentionally hurt her if I don’t let go.  She looks at me and I see that her eyes are now moist, her mouth still set in a firm line.
"Please, just give me five more minutes.  I promise, then, I'll be ready to go."
Her voice wavers, and I can hear the anguish she is trying so hard not to show.  How can I refuse such a simple request?  I don't. I stand beside her for the entire five minutes.  I might even throw in a few extra for good measure.  This time, when I lead her to the car, she offers up no resistance.
Once I have her settled into the passenger side of my silver Honda Civic, I climb behind the wheel.  My grandmother's eyes are fixed on the passenger window, but I know she is really looking beyond the glass.  I can see the house reflected in her eyes.  She doesn’t turn away until the house dips below the horizon and the darkness of the night finally swallows the glow of the flames.