Flame (Fireborn) (8 page)

I dash up the stairs to
check if Dad is home. He is. His body lays spread eagle on top of a
futon. He's still wearing the jacket from this morning. An office
desk is shoved to one corner, and a shelf that used to hold Mom's
favorite books is tipped over. Several books have fallen out, half
opened and torn, but no one cares enough to pick them up. Or maybe we
care
too
much because it's hard, even after twelve years, to
touch things belonging to her. This room used to be an office, but
it's converted to makeshift bedroom for Dad. His own room lies
untouched, and closed.

"Dad." I
shake his shoulder gently. "Wake up. Dinner." He mumbles
something about not wanting to get up, but I know he will. Hunger has
a way of making even the most tired move. I take two stairs at a time
on the way down, landing with a thud. While I wait for Dad to come, I
do little chores such as clean the counters, and sweep the floor.

I hear the groan from
behind before I see him. "Rough night?" I ask lightly. Dad
grunts. We don't talk much about the big elephant in the room: his
drinking. The sour stench clings to him like a cloud, but he can't
take it off. It's a sickness.

I set the table for
two, attempting to find matching silverware. The only things we do as
a "normal" family is have dinner together when possible.
He's the only father I know, and I love him. But I can't shake the
sadness trembling in my heart, that I had lost more than one parent
that night. She suffered from a brain hemorrhage. And, even after all
these years, we still suffered from a broken heart.

"How was school,
Kenna?" he asks in a tired voice.

He doesn't pay
attention to the news. He's forgotten there are aliens at our school
now. I want to tell him about what happened. I want to tell him
someone noticed me. But I don't. Instead I say, "Fine."

He grunts. "Good."
His balding head bends as he eats, and his blue eyes flutter down. I
remember when they used to sparkle. His beer belly is more
pronounced. He needs new clothes.

"Do you want to go
to Wal-Mart?" I ask casually.

"For what?"

I shrug. "Clothes."
For you,
I explain silently. He hesitates. "We
can
,"
I quickly assure him. "I got paid already." He doesn't say
anything, but I know he'll go. He works in construction, and soon
winter will force them to stop working. Luckily, he inherited this
house from grandma and, the mortgage is paid for. He's smart enough
to give me half of what he makes to save for the cruel winter months.
The other half he spends on spirits to chase his demons away.

"Hey," he
suddenly says, looking up. He stands, fingers fumbling into jean
pockets that are too tight. "I found this. Here." He puts
the object on the table and slides it to me.

I pick it up, holding
the ends gently.

It's a locket. I open
it. Whatever was inside is long gone now, but I touch the shiny
interior, marveling at how warm it still is underneath my fingers.
The golden chain holding it is thin and intricately braided. Even in
the dim light, it sparkles as I examine the folds. The locket is oval
shaped and ruby red. I stare with fascination. Different hints of
reds, corals, and oranges jumble together, embedded in stone.
Curious, I peer closer. Something tells me to keep looking. For a
moment, the colors appeared to have moved. But that's impossible.

I blink.

Wiping my eyes, I check
again. Whatever I think I might've seen has disappeared.
My eyes
are playing tricks.

"We found it near
you," he says, staring at me. Mom talked enough about how they
came across me that night that it doesn't bother me when it's
casually mentioned. Without warning, a memory floats into my mind.

Lilac perfume drifts
into my nostrils as she holds me in her arms before bed.

"I love you
more than anything," she tells me, kissing my head. She traces
the birthmark on my finger lovingly. "Finding you was the best
thing that ever happened."

"How did you
find me, Momma?" She smiles, and it reaches her eyes, filling me
with love.

"Your angel
dropped you off, and made sure we would find you. You had nothing on
but a blanket!" she exclaims, tickling me. I giggle.

"Eeewww!"
I squeal. She laughs.

"You were so
chubby and round. Your eyes were wide and open. It's as if you were
waiting for us," she continues softly. Her eyes grow distant. I
reach up, tickling her neck. She smiles and I return it with my own
toothy grin.

"Tell me about
the ashes!" I demand. That's my favorite part.

"Well,"
she begins, used to telling me the story. She's a storyteller, and
she knows how to make me wait. "Your dad and I had just finished
dinner with some friends at a farm. It was a cold winter night, and
the roads were so icy your dad slipped when he was trying to open the
door for me!" She pauses, looking at me. I giggle at the
appropriate moment because that's what she's waiting for.

"He was trying
to be robantic."

"Yes, he was
trying to be romantic," she corrects. "Well, we were on
this road, driving through snow and ice when we see this big flash of
light. The stars were so bright in the sky we thought it was a meteor
shower. Without warning, Dad swerves off the road and heads straight
for it! We drive for a few minutes, following the light. We see a
figure-"

"My angel!"
I exclaim. She looks down, amused.

"We see a
figure that was your angel." She bends close to my face. "…
And when he saw us, he disappeared! Whoosh!" Her arms flare out
dramatically. "One moment he was there, and the next gone!"
She stops, waiting for me to gasp. I don't disappoint. My exclamation
is breathy and loud. "There was fire and light and colors and
when it was all done, you were on the ground, and the ice had melted
all around you." She smiles tenderly, her fingers patting my
head.

"You might not
have been born in my tummy, Kenna, but you were born in my heart."
She squeezes me gently, and I giggle.

"The ashes,"
I remind her.

"There were
ashes on and around you. Some black and some white, like an angel's
feathers." She kisses my forehead. "Like fire. And I knew
then what your name should be."

"Kenna," I
say with a big smile.

"Fire born."

The memory stays long
enough for my heart to become heavy. "Oh, ok," I say,
answering Dad's expectant stare. "Thanks."

I look away, feeling my
eyes blur. The stinging is a familiar feeling. So is the feeling of
trapping it in.

"I'm glad I have
it," I finish. I want to ask how he found it after eighteen
years, but I don't because I don't think he'll tell me anyway. My
hands close around the locket.
Now I have two things that I value
more than anything else,
I think.

"I'm going to put
this upstairs." I don't wait for him to answer. I take the
stairs two at a time. Walking into my room, I stop when I'm in front
of my favorite picture, the one Dad had pushed down earlier. In it,
I'm in Mom's arms, and she's squeezing me tenderly. I remember the
exact moment when it was taken. It had been her birthday, but she
made it feel like it had been mine.

Gently, I hang the
locket around the frame, tucking the ends in a pocket behind the
frame. The pendant lies right in the middle of the photograph,
encircling both of us the way Mom's arms are enveloping mine in the
picture. It feels right to have the locket hold us together like
this. A smile touches my lips. Feeling lighter, I return to the
kitchen.

"Let's get going
before it gets dark," I say as I walk in. Dad's waiting for me
and it isn't long before we finish eating. Dinner is a simple
occasion for us. Every meal is. The night air is chilly so I grab a
hooded sweater, and pull it on. Dad still has his light jacket from
the night before, and he patiently waits for me, staring out the
door. I don't know what he thinks about when he does things like
that. Those moments are secrets that he keeps to himself. I want to
help him, but I don't know how to if he isn't ready to help himself.

Within moments we're
out the door. The Camry puffs to life after we get in. "I hope
it lasts 'til winter," my Dad comments, eying the wheel in my
hands.

"I hope so, too,"
I reply.

It's quiet as I drive.
Muted music plays in the background, but it doesn't matter. We listen
to the silence. We're good at that.

My footsteps sound loud
on the hard wood floor of our hallway. It's a habit for me to make as
much noise as possible to announce my arrival. At first it was a
coping tactic to make sure someone noticed me, but it stayed on even
after I realized my strategy wasn't successful.

"Dad?" I call
to the emptiness. "I'm home!" There's no answer, but I
don't expect there to be. He's usually out at a bar, or at Jack's
playing cards and drinking. I was happy when my dad found another
widower friend to hang out with, but it didn't take long to figure
out that they didn't help each other in the way I thought they would.

My feet continue to
make loud, disruptive noises as I move to the kitchen. I can't
describe how I do it, how it's natural to pound my feet on the
surface like I'm jumping on a bed. It used to feel good to feel the
stomping in my knees. Now I worry my knees are going to give in early
from daily impact. But that's the thing about habits; they're too
comfortable to break.

I open the refrigerator
door to take out raw chicken breast. I'm a decent cook. I have to be
or else we would starve. The motions are automatic; washing, cutting,
and frying. Sometimes we have fresh vegetables. Mostly, we don't. So
I pair our meals with bread, rice, or whatever carb I can find.
Searching the kitchen pantry, my hands touch more empty space than
food. Finally I find what I'm looking for. Ramen noodles.
Score!
I salt the chicken and wait for the noodles to soften. When it does,
I pour the soup over the chicken, adding a touch of hot sriracha
sauce to liven it up.

I dash up the stairs to
check if Dad is home. He is. His body lays spread eagle on top of a
futon. He's still wearing the jacket from this morning. An office
desk is shoved to one corner, and a shelf that used to hold Mom's
favorite books is tipped over. Several books have fallen out, half
opened and torn, but no one cares enough to pick them up. Or maybe we
care
too
much because it's hard, even after twelve years, to
touch things belonging to her. This room used to be an office, but
it's converted to makeshift bedroom for Dad. His own room lies
untouched, and closed.

"Dad." I
shake his shoulder gently. "Wake up. Dinner." He mumbles
something about not wanting to get up, but I know he will. Hunger has
a way of making even the most tired move. I take two stairs at a time
on the way down, landing with a thud. While I wait for Dad to come, I
do little chores such as clean the counters, and sweep the floor.

I hear the groan from
behind before I see him. "Rough night?" I ask lightly. Dad
grunts. We don't talk much about the big elephant in the room: his
drinking. The sour stench clings to him like a cloud, but he can't
take it off. It's a sickness.

I set the table for
two, attempting to find matching silverware. The only things we do as
a "normal" family is have dinner together when possible.
He's the only father I know, and I love him. But I can't shake the
sadness trembling in my heart, that I had lost more than one parent
that night. She suffered from a brain hemorrhage. And, even after all
these years, we still suffered from a broken heart.

"How was school,
Kenna?" he asks in a tired voice.

He doesn't pay
attention to the news. He's forgotten there are aliens at our school
now. I want to tell him about what happened. I want to tell him
someone noticed me. But I don't. Instead I say, "Fine."

He grunts. "Good."
His balding head bends as he eats, and his blue eyes flutter down. I
remember when they used to sparkle. His beer belly is more
pronounced. He needs new clothes.

"Do you want to go
to Wal-Mart?" I ask casually.

"For what?"

I shrug. "Clothes."
For you,
I explain silently. He hesitates. "We
can
,"
I quickly assure him. "I got paid already." He doesn't say
anything, but I know he'll go. He works in construction, and soon
winter will force them to stop working. Luckily, he inherited this
house from grandma and, the mortgage is paid for. He's smart enough
to give me half of what he makes to save for the cruel winter months.
The other half he spends on spirits to chase his demons away.

"Hey," he
suddenly says, looking up. He stands, fingers fumbling into jean
pockets that are too tight. "I found this. Here." He puts
the object on the table and slides it to me.

I pick it up, holding
the ends gently.

It's a locket. I open
it. Whatever was inside is long gone now, but I touch the shiny
interior, marveling at how warm it still is underneath my fingers.
The golden chain holding it is thin and intricately braided. Even in
the dim light, it sparkles as I examine the folds. The locket is oval
shaped and ruby red. I stare with fascination. Different hints of
reds, corals, and oranges jumble together, embedded in stone.
Curious, I peer closer. Something tells me to keep looking. For a
moment, the colors appeared to have moved. But that's impossible.

I blink.

Wiping my eyes, I check
again. Whatever I think I might've seen has disappeared.
My eyes
are playing tricks.

"We found it near
you," he says, staring at me. Mom talked enough about how they
came across me that night that it doesn't bother me when it's
casually mentioned. Without warning, a memory floats into my mind.