by Pamela A Mertz

Created on: August 02, 2008

I was 10 or 11 years old that day, when I came around the corner and saw the fire truck down the street. Even from the corner, I had this sinking feeling that the fire truck was at my house. I couldn't see which house it was in front of, but I just knew it there for my house. My first thought was to turn around and go back, get far away, anywhere. I did not want to face something bad. I was a kid after all, just a kid, and this was getting too much for me to handle.

My mom was an alcoholic and spent most of her time drinking and then sleeping if off. There were six of us kids, all a year apart, except the youngest, which came as a surprise nine years after my brother. I had always felt I was the parent in some ways to the other kids, as mom was physically there but wasn't there for us, and dad was always at work and wherever else he went at night. I am sure my mom drank because of my dad, the way he treated her, and the way he thought of her as a non-person, just needed to cater to his beck and call. When she was unable to meet his needs, because of drinking, that role fell on me. I cooked, cleaned, tried to keep the other kids from disturbing him, and tried to keep a lid on the place. It was not easy, because nothing was ever predictable. I too sometimes felt like a non-person.

My legs did carry me down the street to my house, and sure enough, the firemen and trucks were there for our house. I started to cry before I even knew what had happened. My heart was pounding, and I was feeling dizzy, because I was also trying to stop myself from crying. That is hard for me even to this day. It was like an unwritten rule in our house we didn't cry, we didn't show emotion; we just did what we were told and did our best to hold on. Sometimes I prayed I would fall off.

My mom had fallen asleep in her bed with a lit cigarette. The cigarette dropped on to her blanket and started a fire. The bedroom was a blaze, but she wasn't hurt. No one was, thank God. I don't know who called the firemen, but they were there, and the fire was out quickly. It didn't spread too much, and only the bedroom area was affected.

Some of my sisters were standing out front, watching what was going on, with blank looks on their faces. I don't remember how they got there, or where they came from. Maybe I was supposed to walk them home from school that day. I don't remember that part clearly. Some of the neighbors were there too, looking and watching, and whispering among themselves. They had looks of pity on their faces. I had seen those looks before.

The firemen wouldn't let us in the house for a little while, until the smoke cleared. We were lucky it could have been a lot worse. I remember finally seeing my mother. She was wrapped in a blanket, and looked sooty and stunned. She also had that all-too familiar, confused look about her having passed out and woken too soon. She looked dazed, and afraid. It was the first time I had ever seen my mother look frightened.

My father came home at some point, and everything else was a blur. I do remember that he eventually had an addition built to the back of the house, and the bedroom was repaired and there was no physical evidence that this had ever happened.

Except in my memory. I always think back to that day whenever I see a bright red fire truck from a distance. I am reminded of that scary walk down my block and the pounding heart of a little girl who was afraid to cry. A little girl who grew up too fast.

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