I remember my hands smelling of the grease from an old hydraulic door hinge that had been blown ajar and was banging on the back of the house. The night was forecast to be windy and apparently I had left the screen door to the spare room open slightly. A gust took it open and bent the piston. Using nothing but will and hope, I held the piston and the rest of it there, and bent it back to at least closeable. This Left my hands smelling of the grease I mentioned.
I hadn’t been sleeping well at all for the past several months. My mom has been fighting a few different kinds of cancer, and there is nothing left of her but a hope wrapped in weathered feathers. I took five tranquilizers at around four this afternoon, along with a quart of Mexican beer, and succumbed to the pillow by eight. At two-thirty I was up again; dry mouth and intrigued by all of the wind and rain, normally my favorite sleep track. My wife on the couch with babe on the breast left the bed to my oldest and me. I was snoring and Emeline had fallen asleep watching an animated feature about a man turned beast, and then man again. As I said, the dry mouth had me up for a swig of Coke and then back to the bed. I lay there tossing and turning as the wind screamed warnings to the awakened and to them on the wing.
I am insane. I have always had a plan. After years of running, shooting, burning and sleeping with one eye open, it seems one develops a sixth sense; kind of how a Jamaican dog can sleep in the sun all day just behind the tire of an auto and jump up from sleep mere seconds before the driver carelessly pulls away. Tonight I had been listening for one thing; the crack. There are several dead or dying trees near our bedroom; trees that once made homes for owls and flickers, trees that have long since given up the ability to bend in these Northeast breezes. Every one of us alive has these seasons. And every season brings its beatings and its gifts. I lay there thinking of the poetry in that, my dying mother, and my sleeping daughter to my East.
I was almost asleep when I heard it. I knew when I did that one of two things would happen; the tree would lay down easy in the midst of vines and seasons of underbrush out on the back lot, or it would come crashing through the roof. There weren’t many branches left, but its trunk was heavy with rot and rain. With my head pointing north and laying supine, I could hear the immediate and thunderous crack, followed by the tearing of vines just outside my right ear. Instinctively I rolled left and grabbing Eme’s pajamas, pushed her over the edge and laid her down gently on the floor. A split second later I was covered in it. I could feel cold rain on my neck and shoulders, but nowhere else. I could taste and smell the dust of thirty year old insulation that used to be part of the attic. A quick explosion of dust from the drywall ceiling turned quickly to a thin paste, covering it all. I tried to call out to Holley, but I could not. Either something was crushing my chest or my back, but I could get no air. I could barely sip shallow breaths in the seconds there, silent.
Holley quickly appeared. By this time Emeline was in full throat, safe, unscratched, but scared out of her mind. Everything that little girl had ever known of a home, a world, a life had just exploded as she slept. She looked up from the floor screaming, her perfect face next to mine. I smiled at her, shushed her, tried to reach out but could not move. “Don’t worry sugar, Mommy’s coming, it’s alright.” I tried to mouth the words, but again, with very little wind behind them, barely audible.
Holley rushed in and scooped Emmy up. She took her into the bathroom and placed her in the tub with the youngest, my Ella. I could hear them all screaming as Holley rushed back in to help me. It felt like a million pounds lay on my back. I felt crushed but not in pain. I assumed that a section of the ceiling or the fan or something must be pushing down on me, but all I could really feel was the cold, dirty water dripping down onto my cheeks and neck. As Holley struggled to push and pull at the debris; roof joists, soaked sheetrock and the fell tree I heard her yell to the girls “don’t come in here! Daddy is going to be FINE!” Her voice cracked as she said it. She rushed to the bathroom and quickly returned with a cool, damp washcloth. As she wiped my face and brow I noticed her fighting tears. “You’re going to be alright baby,” she said, “just a few more minutes; people are on the way, I called 911.” It seemed that hours had passed when in fact it was probably six or seven minutes at best.
Things began to suddenly look differently. I could barely see out of the window from underneath the rubble, but a strange glow was replacing the black and wet and dust. I thought about my mom, the hamster I had when I was eleven, my girls, and my wife; and then I heard her again. “Wake up baby, please…” she pleaded as I opened my eyes again to see her, tearfully staring into mine. It was like she was looking at the entirety of me through my face, my eyes, my lips, my nose, my chin. Her eyes leaped like flames from one point to the next, her gaze pained. “They’ll be here any minute.” She said calmly.
In that instance, I began to see tiny phosphorescent orbs floating around me in the room there, and it appeared that the sun was coming up. I could hear the first responders on the scene, and it was clear that nothing lay on me, but through me. Some lucky rotting branch had just the right angle in to enter the upper half of my right lung as I rolled over to push Emmy out of the bed. It missed my spine somehow, although not completely, and had made exit between my navel and my appendix. “Son of a bitch” I thought, “after all of this.”
I had almost made it, I thought. After all of the running, the revenge killing, the arson, the snakes, the clowns and hairdressers, my boss and all of his guests, and thirteen years without a raise, I had almost made it home, and the day before the world would end to boot. Ah well I thought, makes sense in the same way it always had. Holley was there, in and out, wiping away the sweat and grime, mumbling to herself, eyes closed then open, and all the while clutching my beads.
It must have been around three in the morning when I heard the first saws begin to rip and felt the first dull tugs of what would be the attempt to free my body from the bed I had made. Holley noticed a fragmented smile and asked “Pete? Are you okay? Pete! Hey! Talk to me!” I smiled and mouthed some words, still unable to find much air. I remember trying to tell her that the sun was coming up, that I could see it, but I doubt if she heard me. The men managed to free my right arm first. I had no feeling there but she took my hand in hers and placed it on her cheek. It felt warm and soft, like the first face I had ever felt. She leaned in close as I struggled to get the next few words out. I was feeling weaker, but better. “It’s sunny.” I said. I don’t think she understood. “And it’s the craziest thing I have ever seen,” I continued, more slowly now, “it all looks the same to me as it always has, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.” I watched her eyes close and thick tears begin to stream as I felt sleep approaching. “Don’t worry hun,” I whispered, “it’s all going to be just fine.”
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