Page 86 of Sparking Sara

I get out of my cot—the one in the corner that’s designated for the floaters—and put on my shoes as I wonder why the hell everyone else is already awake.

When I make it down to the kitchen, everyone in the firehouse is standing at attention.

“What’s going on here?” I ask, suspiciously.

J.D. nods to Steve. “Steve got his transfer,” he says. “And while nothing has been made official yet, I talked to Chief Mitzel and the commissioner yesterday, and pending final approval, it looks like you’re set to become the newest member of Engine Company 319. So—unofficially—welcome aboard.”

“Seriously?” I look around at all the smiling faces. “Are you guys okay with that? I mean, considering …”

“I wouldn’t have recommended you without asking them first,” J.D. says.

Bass is the first one to shake my hand. “Welcome to 319, brother.”

I pull him in for a hug. “Thanks, man. I know you had a big hand in this.”

“You did this all yourself, Denver.”

I see something being thrown around the room between the guys. It looks like a shirt. They all start playing keep-away from me. “What is it?” I ask, trying to grab it.

Bass snatches it out of the air and holds it up to his chest. It’s an FDNY Engine 319 t-shirt. “For you,” he says.

I smile proudly. I reach for the shirt, but he pulls it back and turns it around. That’s when I see the name on the back. Well, it’s not a name, exactly. It reads,‘Prisoner 3876463.’

My jaw goes slack as they all double over laughing.

“Welcome to 319, convict,” Steve says. “I can’t think of a better convict—er, man—to take my place.”

I shake my head, knowing I’ll probably never be able to get rid of that nickname. It seems like once you’ve been given one, it tends to stick. But in this moment, I don’t care. Because I finally have a home. A family.

And after all the pomp and circumstance, I realize the first person I want to tell is Sara.

~ ~ ~

“To my lovely fiancée,” Oliver says. “Five weeks ago, I thought I might lose you. But you overcame all the odds, and tonight, you’ll walk out of here on your own two legs without any wheelchairs, walkers, or support belts.” He raises his glass. “To Sara.”

“To Sara,” the rest of us say, before taking a drink of two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne.

“Oh, wow. That’s good,” Sara says, tasting the first alcohol since before her accident.

“Nothing’s too good for you, luv,” Oliver says.

Sara studies the bottle of champagne. “We don’tnormallydrink this, do we?”

“Of course we do. It’s your favorite.”

“Do I … drink a lot?” she asks tentatively. “I mean, Lydia and I, we liked to go clubbing sometimes, but I don’t remember being a lush or anything.”

He laughs and then leans down to place a kiss on her temple. “You drink the proper amount.”

Donovan leaves the room for a minute and then comes back in with a box. He nods to her painting supplies in the corner. “We can put her things in this,” he says.

I take the box from him. “I’ll do it.”

While the four of them sip champagne and talk about Sara’s time here, I pack up her paints, canvases, and brushes. She must have a dozen canvases here. Each one holds a memory for me. And as I put them in the box, one after the other, I see what progress she’s made since the first day of drawing simple circles.

Her latest paintings are landscapes. One is the street she grew up on. She painted it completely from memory. Another is the courtyard here at the rehab center. Others are places she can’t even explain or remember. The doctors say it’s not likely these are actual memories, even in her subconscious. The more plausible explanation is that Sara is trying to create a memory from the information given to her by either Joelle or Oliver.

I stare at the paintings, wishing I could take one home with me, but knowing it wouldn’t be appropriate to ask.

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