Art’s bare arms around me tightened. “Okay, but we’re riding in the ambulance together.”
“That should be fine.”
The fire department has entered the building from the front, dragging huge hoses through the big windows of the shop. The sound of the fire surprises me more than anything. It’s as though a roaring dragon swallowed the building, and is now being drowned by a river. When I’d thought about a fire in the past, I’dknown it would be hot and smoky, but I’d never considered the racket it would make.
The police arrive to assess the scene and are pointed in our direction as Art and I make our way to the ambulance on the main road, Art with his arm around my waist and a silver foil blanket around his shoulders.
“Any idea what happened here?” a young officer asks.
Art shakes his head. “Bad wiring, perhaps. I’m really not sure.”
I feel a pang of guilt. He told me the building hadn’t been maintained properly, but I hadn’t really listened. I’m not completely to blame—after all, I hadn’t been responsible for my aunt, I’d had enough of my own shit to deal with—but maybe a little part of me had wondered if he’d only said it as a ploy to keep the rent down.
But he saved my life, and risked his own to do so. Art could have easily run out the door as soon as he noticed the fire, but he came upstairs and rescued me instead. He said he cares about me, and the way he holds me, as though he’s terrified that if he lets go I might vanish from existence, makes me believe him.
We stay together in the hospital. After the doctors check us over, we’re both declared to be generally unharmed, but the doctors want to keep us in for a few more hours for observations. We’re fine with that. It isn’t as though we have anywhere else to go.
I sit with Art holding my hands. His thumb strokes my wrists and the multitude of lines marking my skin.
“Do you want to tell me what happened now?” he asks me.
“I lost someone,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“A boyfriend?” he guesses.
I nod. “Yes, but he was more than that. We grew up together. He was my best friend as well. He was my everything.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry, Tess.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“When did it happen?”
“He died about a year ago, but it was a long time coming. He had cancer. I thought I was ready to lose him, that it was something I’d prepared myself for. I’d even thought that it would be a relief when he finally went, that he was no longer in pain, and I could move on with my life. But then he died and there was just this huge hole where he’d been. I guess being with Brett had been all consuming, taking care of him, thinking about him. My life had revolved around him. Then in a blink of an eye, he was gone, and I didn’t know what to do with myself any more. Everything just felt empty and pointless, and everywhere I turned I was reminded of him. His presence touched every single place in our town, everywhere I looked I could see not where he’d been, but where he was never going to go again. For the first month or so, I just figured I was sad because I’d lost him. My friends tried to take me out, but I refused. I didn’t show up for work. I could barely bring myself to get out of bed and take a shower. I struggled to see the point in it all, when we could just be here one day, and then gone the next. What was the point in working, in building a career or a home, when you could step out of the door one day and never come home?”
He's staring at me, his blue eyes filled with sorrow. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
I shake my head and continue with my story. “I thought I was just sad because I’d lost my best friend in the whole world. But Ilost all perspective. I just couldn’t see past it—the sadness was all consuming.”
“Didn’t anyone suggest you were depressed? That you needed to speak to someone, or see a doctor and get medication?”
“I think they thought it was understandable I was feeling that way. They’d seen Brett die as well. They were all missing him, too. Maybe if my dad had still been alive, he’d have noticed something was wrong, but I was on my own. My friends had their own lives. They came and visited me, and maybe I hid it well when they did. I got out of bed, and washed my hair, and drank coffee with them, and smiled when I was supposed to, but it was all just an act. It was always a relief when they left and I was able to crawl back into bed. I couldn’t see a way I’d ever feel any different. People said it got better with time, but it didn’t. It got worse. I started….” I have to force the words out, still filled with such shame… “Cutting. It made me feel better for a short time. But then the cutting wasn’t enough anymore, and I just wanted it to end.”
He takes my hands, pulling me closer. “I can’t stand to think of you being in so much pain.”
“I knew I’d made a mistake the moment I’d done it, the moment I’d pulled the blade across both wrists and saw the blood turning the water red. It was like a light bulb went on in my head, and I knew I wanted to live. I grabbed a towel and managed to make it to the phone and call nine-one-one before I passed out. They broke down the door and found me unconscious. I got help after that—put on anti-depressants, which I’m still taking now—and saw a therapist. I got better, but I was still struggling with seeing memories of Brett everywhere. Then I got the letter to say my aunt had died and I’d inherited this place. I had a British passport because of my father, so I was able to come here, and it just made sense. I didn’t want to forgetBrett, but I couldn’t live my life being tortured by memories of him.”
“You needed to start again.”
I sniff and nod. “Yes, exactly.”
“I wish I’d been kinder to you when you first arrived. I feel like shit that you were going through all of that, and I was being a dick because I was pissed off that you’d increased the rent and were moving in upstairs.”
“It doesn’t matter. I needed to figure out how to function in the normal world again.” I risk a smile. “You were like a baptism of fire. Literally.”
He laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”
“It was in the end.”
