Our Daughter
I don’t think I noticed how alarmed my daughter was at the time. She only told me many years later when we were telling the story to someone. She revealed the fear she’d felt that afternoon when I told her what was happening. I probably used too many words and explained the situation in too many different ways at the time, all with varying scenarios and radically different outcomes, thinking the more information I provided her the better, while simultaneously projecting all my anxiety straight onto her. She seemed fine, and discreetly disappeared to her room upstairs and began to collect her most prized stuffed animals and a few other possessions in case the house burned to the ground, leaving only ash and melted artifacts.
We’d been out of town and the evening we arrived home, we opened the front door and noticed a faint smell of smoke. Something was burning, but there was no visible cause. I spent that night periodically searching the house for the source without any luck. The following morning we started to see a haze of layered smoke in the air. It was slowly getting worse. We walked through every part of the house countless times again that morning and still couldn’t identify the source.
That afternoon I called the health care office where my wife’s appointment was and asked the receptionist if she was done and able to come to the phone. Coincidentally, she’d just finished and was standing at the receptionist’s desk. “Hello? What’s wrong?” she asked. “I think I figured out where the smoke and the smell are coming from.” “Where?” “From above the ceiling in the bathroom.” “Why do you think that?” “Because I noticed that the paint is discolored in a weird pattern and the surface is really hot to the touch. I’m calling because I’m hesitating to call 911. I think I can manage it.” “Really? How?” “I’m not sure yet”, I said. “Don’t you think you should call them just to be safe.” “No… I don’t think so… well…. maybe… yeah, probably. You’re right… yeah, I should call them.” I needed her to gently nudge my ego so I didn’t have to. After I hung up, I called 911 and told the operator what was going on. She said she’d dispatch the fire department. “Ok! Could you do me a favor?” “What’s that sir?” “Ask them not to run their sirens” There was a brief silence. “I’ll let them know,” she said. Our neighborhood fire station isn’t far away and within five minutes, I began to hear distant sirens. They got closer and louder, until they were parked and screaming in front of our house. I guess she forgot to tell them. Seeley was sitting at attention on the couch with her full backpack when the front doorbell rang, followed by numerous loud knocks.
Are all fire-fighters required to be enormous? Because they usually are, like the ones at our door were. I wonder if there’s a minimum height requirement. Some commonly accepted six foot minimum like in other parts of society, usually pointed out by men and women who are only that height wearing boots, or think about that type of thing frequently. I hope there isn’t a height minimum and that it’s just a coincidence, because I feel like if I was 35 years old again, in good shape, still short, but with my high tolerance for heat, I could have been a fire-fighter. I’m certain there are fire-fighters that are my height. There must be. These four weren’t though. When I opened the front door I was staring at their chests. I scanned them from there to the top of their head-lamped helmets. Their rubber suits, other protective gear and pickaxes made them feel even bigger. They were giant first responders.
After investigating the situation, they confirmed that they’d need to punch through the ceiling in the bathroom. So, one of them took his pickax and did just that. He broke through and as soon as he did, smoldering sheet rock and burning wood embers dropped out and landed in the bathtub. It was shocking because there was a significant amount of material burning and smoldering in front of us. Seeley and I sat together in the living room while they stabilized the situation. They left soon after and then an investigator arrived to determine the exact cause and had us shut the power off to the bathroom. It was an electrical fire caused by some incompetent DIY exhaust fan work completed years before we even bought the house. The fact that it caught fire at this time was completely random which made it even more unsettling. I asked the investigator a few questions and he said that by late that evening we would’ve had a full blown fire.
That same night, the electrician we called arrived to repair the wiring, replace the exhaust fan vent tube and sign-off on turning the power back on. The next day he returned to repair the sheet rock in the ceiling. We were lucky. We were safe. Our cat was safe and the stuffed animals were back where they belonged.
Songs :: The Book of Love by The Magnetic Fields and Peter Gabriel, Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough by Michael Jackson and My City Was Gone by The Pretenders
© C. Davidson