Page 72 of The Last Thing You Said

Oh, no, please. What if something’s happened to one of my grandparents? Or Daniel?

By the time I make it downstairs, Mom’s standing in the kitchen in her fuzzy peach-colored robe, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock or terror or pain, I don’t know which.

“Oh, God, no,” she says into the phone.

My dad is standing by the back door, pulling a long-sleeved denim shirt on over his white T-shirt. His face is pale, stubble lining his cheeks and chin. His brows furrow together.

“Get dressed, Luce,” he says.

“What’s happening?”

“Oh, God,” Mom says again. “We’re on our way.”

She hangs up the phone. “There’s a fire. The restaurant is on fire. I’ll get dressed and we’ll go.”

She’s amazingly calm, but her gray face and wide eyes give her away, flashing from one object in the room to another as though she’s not sure where to focus.

I race upstairs but don’t change out of my pajamas. I throw a Twins hoodie on over my T-shirt and yoga pants and slip into a pair of flip-flops. I’m back downstairs in less than a minute.

Mom’s right behind me; Dad’s already waiting with the car running. Flashes of lightning fill the night sky, but it’s not raining.

Why isn’t it raining?

This cannot be happening.

The Full Loon cannot burn down.

We get to town just after midnight. Dad can’t drive any farther than Sweet Pea’s. The block is cordoned off, the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks cutting across the darkness, an ethereal orange glow stretching into the black sky.

A crowd has gathered on both sides of the block. Mom gets out of the car before it’s come to a full stop and pushes her way through the crowd toward the Full Loon. Dad and I follow her until a Crow Wing County sheriff’s deputy stops her.

“That’s my restaurant,” she says. “Please.”

The deputy must know her. He takes her arm and says, “Ginger, there’s nothing you can do. Let the firefighters work.”

“How bad? How bad is it?” Now that she’s here, now that she sees the great orange flames leaping into the night sky, she’s beginning to crack. I can hear it in her voice.

“Well, now,” the sheriff’s deputy says slowly, “they’ve done a good job of containing the fire. It hasn’t spread to any other buildings, and that’s a good thing, wouldn’t you say?”

“What happened? How did it start?”

“Can’t say for sure. Nature’s giving us quite a lightning show tonight, so that’s a possibility. Or maybe it started in the kitchen, or from some faulty wiring. You never know.”

“Bill,” my mother says in her firm tone, “there is no faulty wiring at the Full Loon.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you or your fine establishment,” Bill says. He turns to Dad and me. “Hey there, Cal.”

Dad nods at him, then takes Mom by the arm. “Come on,” he says. “We can see better from across the street.”

I follow them. They stand on the sidewalk in front of the auto parts shop and huddle together, Dad’s arm around Mom. A tear, watery orange with the reflection of the flames, slips down her cheek. I squeeze her hand, and she grips mine tightly. She doesn’t let go for a long time, not until Daniel arrives and pulls her into a hug.

“Sis,” he says, “don’t you worry. We’ll bounce back from this.”

We stand and watch our family restaurant burn.

Eventually, the crowd thins. The fire chief and county sheriff talk to Mom and Dad and Daniel against the backdrop of thick, gray smoke. I’m so tired. I want to go home.

“Dad?” I reach out to touch his sleeve.