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Anna
Today’s the day.
The day I lay the love of my life to rest. The last week has been a blur. The fire. The agonizing night, sitting in town hall with the evacuees and other emergency workers’ spouses, awaiting news. The sound of the door creaking open and Corbin Tuttle—Balsam Ridge’s fire chief and my husband, Mike’s, boss—walking in, filling the room with relief. The dread as the door closed behind him without Mike or Jay. The echo of his footsteps bouncing off the walls as he made his way to our table. The feel of Susanna’s arms holding me up. The roar of the cry that tore from my body as my knees gave way.
The deafening silence as I sat alone in our baby boy’s nursery, surrounded by the furniture Mike had put together the weekend before the fire had claimed his life.
It all led to today.
I’m numb.
Sitting in the pew between my parents and my in-laws, I listen as, one by one, Mike’s fellow firefighters approach the podium that stands behind two brass-handled axes to speak about him. Everyone is dressed in their Class A dress uniforms—white shirt, black tie, black patent leather shoes, official cap, white gloves, and shrouded badge. They tell firehouse stories and reminisce about family dinners, practical jokes they played on my husband and the trust and brotherhood they shared with him. Each one looks to me and makes a vow to be there for me and our son. The fire chaplain gives a heartfelt eulogy before the local church choir sings a mournful song, and then we are dismissed and carted off to a waiting limo.
The procession from the church to the cemetery that stands on a picturesque mountainside on the outskirts of town is beautiful. A fire engine, draped with bunting, leads the way. Followed by the Honor Guard and Color Guard and a band with buglers and pipers follow on foot. When we turn onto Main Street, the sidewalk is lined with townsfolk. All standing. Women with their heads bowed, men with their hats over their hearts, and some in uniform, giving a salute. It’s a gorgeous display of respect. As we pass the firehouse, the members who are on duty today file out and stand around the flagpole, where the American flag waves at half-staff.
It’s all endearing, and in this moment, I make a decision. One that my parents and in-laws aren’t going to like.
The limo pulls up to the open grave, and Corbin opens the door and helps me from the car. Offering me his elbow, he escorts me to the front row of folding chairs. The pallbearers, all firefighters, carry the flag-draped casket and place it on the stand in front of us. The chaplain then offers a prayer before Corbin reads a statement about Mike’s last call and Chris rings the Last Alarm on the portable fire department bell, it’s toll signaling the end of Mike’s service as a firefighter. A firing squad sets off a gun salute as Corbin and Chris remove the flag and fold it. Then, Corbin bends and places it in my hands before kissing my cheek.
The firefighters file past the casket one last time, placing a carnation on top. Each one stops to speak softly to me. I don’t really hear anything said, but I force a smile and nod at everyone.
After all the pomp and circumstance is finished and I’ve received all the friends and family members at the wake, hosted by the mayor’s office at town hall, I finally have a minute to myself as I stand in the bedroom of our tiny cottage and remove my dress and pearls to let the tears out. Our baby boy kicks at my side as I sit on the edge of my and Mike’s bed and let all the sad leak out all over the envelope Corbin handed me at the wake. It’s addressed to me in Mike’s messy handwriting. Corbin holds a letter in his possession from each of his firefighters, just in case. I don’t open it. I’m not ready. I tuck it into the drawer of my nightstand before joining my family in the living room to tell them that I won’t be accompanying them back to Kansas.
I’m staying here in this town, where we built a life for the last eight years. I’m staying in this cottage, which we bought together and spent every weekend renovating with our own two hands. I’m staying here, where Mike painted the walls of the nursery and built a crib for his son. I’m staying here, where he gave his life to save the mountain he loved. I’m staying here, where we laid him to rest.
I’m staying here because this is home.
Anna
One Year Later
Itake one last look in the mirror as I step into my black stilettos—my power heels. Long-sleeved black pencil dress and simple jewelry. Hair hanging loose down my back. Makeup light and natural.
Here we go, Anna.
I grab my bag and rush into the living room, where Leona Tilson, my friend Taeli’s mother, is bouncing my eleven-month-old daughter on her knee.
“Wow, look at you,” she says as I do a little turn.
“Do you think it looks professional enough?” I ask.
“I don’t know about professional, but you sure look stunning.”
It’s too much.
I drop my bag to the floor and head back down the hallway.
“Where are you going?” Leona calls after me.
“Back to the room to change,” I reply.
I hear her feet hit the floor, and then her footsteps follow me.
“Oh, Anna, you look so nice. Don’t change,” she says.
I kick my shoes off at the foot of the bed and reach around to unzip the dress.
Leona appears in the doorway with Kaela on her hip.
