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Chapter Eighteen
Rhenn
I startle awake, trying to recall exactly what I was dreaming about. I remember taking a blow to the chest, and maybe one to the jaw, as I think back to what karate class I was rewinding in my dream.
But I come up blank.
And then I come under attack again with an elbow to the gut.
“Mom,” Marissa whimpers, her hands reaching and tugging at something that isn’t there.
“Marissa?” I whisper, not wanting to startle her. She thrashes to the side, nearly punching me in the balls. “Angel, honey, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.” I try to keep my voice calm and even, gently shaking her shoulder to try to rouse her without fright. Reaching up, I tenderly cup her cheek, stroking her jaw with my thumb.
She startles, her eyes flying open and connecting with mine.
“Hey, beautiful.”
Marissa looks around, trying to catch her bearings before returning those deep green eyes to me. “What’s going on?”
“You were having a bad dream.”
Her eyes fill with tears. She doesn’t have to say a word for me to know whatever she was dreaming about affected her deeply. And then I remember Nick telling me about a conversation Marissa and Meghan had, about how she’s having nightmares about the fire.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, rolling to my side and taking her with me. There’s something wildly comforting about holding her in my arms at two in the morning. I try to ignore it, but I can’t. When have I ever woken up at two and offered to chat with a woman? Never, that’s when.
Marissa is silent for a bit, her face pressed against my bare chest. I run my fingers up and down her spine in a reassuring manner, rather than a sexual one. I feel the wetness of her tears hit my skin before I hear the sniffle. My gut tightens painfully as I think about her upset enough to cry. I don’t like the feeling, not one bit.
“I keep having the same dream over and over again,” she says quietly, her voice timid with emotion.
“What’s it about?” I ask, reaching down and swiping away the tears on her cheek.
She swallows hard. “I can’t get her out. My mom is trapped in the house when the fire breaks out and I can’t save her. I can hear her screams,” she whispers, her hushed voice full of pain and fear, as another tear spills from her eyes.
Not really knowing what to say, I hold her close and continue to rub her back. “Can you tell me what actually happened? You mom wasn’t even there when the fire broke out.”
“You’re right, she wasn’t. We had two couples staying that weekend, and Mom was on the fence about going to see her brother after so long. We convinced her to go, especially since the bed and breakfast wasn’t full. I could definitely handle two couples for two days.
“So she went and I took care of business. After dinner was cleaned up and everyone had retired to their rooms for the night, I went back to my place. It was a beautiful night, one of the first real warm ones of the spring, so I went for a walk on the beach. I was gone, maybe forty-five minutes, when I came back up the path to the house. I remembered that Mom had left a few windows open in her part of the house to let the fresh air in so I went back up to the main house to close them. As I approached, I could smell the smoke. It was this horrible burnt plastic smell.” She looks up at me. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get that smell out of my head.”
“It’s definitely not pleasant,” I confirm, having smelled it plenty of times in my line of work.
“Anyway, I went running inside and into her wing of the house just as the sparks jumped from the outlet in the wall and the smoke alarms went off. I called 911 and grabbed one of the extinguishers we have in the house, but by the time I got off the phone with them and could engage it, the outlet had flames shooting out of it, the fire starting to devour the old plaster and wood in seconds.
“They say that the extinguisher definitely helped it from getting worse, but it wasn’t able to completely put it out. It was in the wall, which is why they had to remove so much of her bedroom and bath outer wall.”
She takes a deep breath and continues. “The couples upstairs had come down to find out what was going on and pulled me from the house. When the fire department arrived, they were able to contain the fire to Mom’s bedroom and bathroom, and a bit of damage to the ceiling. I don’t want to think about what could have happened had I not been out for a walk that night,” she adds, shaking her head.
“How did it start? I haven’t read the report.”
“Hairdryer. It was plugged in and the fire marshal says it was caused by dust. Dust. Can you believe it?”
“Actually, I can. I’ve heard it happening more than you think, especially in older homes. The wiring and receptacles aren’t quite as good as the newer stuff.”
“We had updated everything in the kitchen when we bought the place, but were told the rest of it was fine.”
“And it was. It probably could have been fine for a lot more years, Marissa. It was a fluke thing that happened, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it or change it,” I assure her.
“I know that, I do, but I can’t help but think ‘what if my mom had been home?’ Every time that thought enters my mind, I want to throw up.”
