Granted, I’d probably have questions about everything she tells me about herself—I’m hungry for information, hungry for her, in every way possible—but the way she shied away from telling me about what happened for her to need her kidney removed is still heavy on my mind.
I need to know more about her—need to spend more time with her.
I needher.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ava bring her phone up to snap pictures as Rumi lights the one candle on the cake Annie made just for Evee—it’ll last for a quick song and photo op before Evee sinks her little fingers right into the light green frosting.
I watch the small spark of fire appear in Rumi’s hands, and I feel the air in the room grow thin. The faint smell of lighter fluid from the Zippo fills my nose, and I struggle to keep my breaths even and deep as she brings the light closer to Evee and toward the cake’s candle.
While therapy twice a week is helpful, the strategies we discuss when it comes to my PTSD from the fire is easier said than done. My adrenaline during calls, along with the familiar urgency and muscle memory that takes over, can often help me stay in the right headspace—as well as keeping my distance from the fire and knowing I’m in the right gear, and no one I care about is in any danger.
Repeating that to myself is what my therapist taught me, and it has gotten me through the few active fire calls we’ve received since my panic attack in the field four weeks ago.
But right now, watching Rumi with that flame in her hands and so close to Evee, you’d think this whole building was on fire with the pain in my chest.
I rub my palm back and forth just below my throat, trying to alleviate the pressure building as Rumi lights the candle, gently holding both of Evee’s hands in one of hers so she doesn’t try to reach for the lighter.
The room of people begin the opening line to “Happy Birthday”, but it sounds like they're hundreds of feet away, the pounding of my ears growing louder and louder with every second I watch the candle burn, the orange flame reflecting in Evee’s eyes as she stares at it makes my fist clench at my side.
I feel my jaw tick, my entire body tensing as I resist the urge to pull Rumi and Evee into my arms, away from the candle.
An open flame is dangerous, no matter how small.
A spark as small as one from a space heater too close to a blanket is no different than a birthday candle too close to the streamers hanging from the ceiling or the sleeve of Rumi’s top getting too close.
All it takes is the smallest spark to start a fire, one that can grow to be unmanageable, one that can eliminate buildings, destroy lives, kill someone you love.
I never heard how the fire inspection here went—did it get done? Does Luke uphold the necessary precautions? Does he even have a fucking fire extinguisher? I look up, seeing the fire alarm and sprinklers, hoping like hell they’re up to date and code.
I feel Emerson’s eyes drift to me as the song comes to a close, the last “Happy Birthday” ringing out as the people around us begin to clap. Rumi’s still holding Evee’s hands together, bentbehind her chair, her arms wrapped around Evee as she sways her from side to side along with the song.
My eyes travel up, aching to find some sort of solace in her eyes—the ones that remind me of the calmness, the peace, I can only find when I’m on the lake.
I’m not in the field.
We’re not in any danger.
She’s okay.
Evee’s okay.
I amokay.
I have yet to fully let go of all the guilt I have from the fire that killed Bennett. I know, logically, it wasn’t my fault—I didn’t set the fucking house on fire—but my PTSD, my grief, my anxiety all has a way of mixing together to create this overwhelming panic.
But no matter how many times my therapist tells me that I couldn’t have done anything to stop Bennett from running in there—there’s nothing I could’ve done to save him once he made that choice—I just can’t get myself to admit it or let myself believe it.
When my eyes meet Rumi’s, I’m met with a crease of her brow and a look of concern, her blue eyes filled with confusion as she watches me, no doubt seeing the tension riddling my body.
The crowd around Evee begins to clap, and the noise helps Rumi come back to herself, a smile coming back to her face as she helps Evee blow out the candle, and I finally feel like I can breathe again.
“What’s wrong with you?” My sister bumps her shoulder with mine as the crowd around Evee’s high chair disperses. People start to grab cupcakes from the dessert table while a few hang back to snap pictures of Evee taking handfuls of her cake into her hands, the green frosting all over her mouth as she eats from her hands.
Tension from my body subsides, and my lungs properly filling with air again as I watch her. Rumi and Ava both laugh at the sight, pulling the corners of my lips up.
The panic attacks don’t last as long, but they're every bit as jarring as my first one on the side of the road a year and a half ago.
Every time this happens, every time I detach from my surroundings—my reality—repeating the same worst-case scenario in my head over and over again, no matter how irrational it is, I’m able to come back to myself quicker.
