Page 15 of Hearts to Mend

For some reason, this admission from Dad reminds me of Rico. It’s remarkable—and a little disturbing—the resemblance between their situations. Both married to drug addicts they didn’t love and both working to raise a child on their own. But Mom’s death broke my father in ways I never understood. Still don’t.

Rico, on the other hand, seems stronger than ever, resolved to give Mateo a good life. And, with his mom to help him, I have faith he’ll succeed. For Mateo’s sake, I hope he does.

Chewing his food between words, Dad asks, “So you and Ricardo, is it a thing?”

“No, it’s not a thing.” I toss my stripped chicken bone into his basket and wipe my fingers with one of the napkins Polly delivered in a stack. “And the people of this town need to mind their own business and stay out of mine.”

Dad sips his beer, and, trying to sound wise, he says, “The people of this town want to see you and Ricardo back together again.”

“Well too bad because they don’t get a say in my relationship with Rico.”

“Aha, see, you just admitted it’s a relationship.”

I roll my eyes and steal another wing as I spin off the barstool and head out the door. “Later, Pops!”

“Stay frosty, little firecracker!” Dad hollers to the back of my FIRE T-shirt, and his friends all wish me well as I step out into the blazingly bright afternoon sun, chewing the meat off the wing bone as I cross the street to the firehouse.

“There she is!” Rooster’s deep baritone voice rumbles up through the rafters of the apparatus bays to announce my arrival on shift.

I toss my chicken bone in the trash, scoring a three-pointer, and celebrate with a little dance, bragging, “Nothing but net.”

Watts acknowledges my shot with a disinterested nod as he messes around on his phone. Drew ignores me completely, busy checking over his turnout gear for today’s shift. Rooster doesn’t seem impressed either.

I stand there, staring at the tops of their heads, waiting for the inevitable hazing, the torrent of poor-tasting jokes to rain down upon me, but nothing happens. Unlike everyone else in this damn town, my fire crew does not subject me to harassing questions and intrusive assumptions. And that’s just one more reason to love my boys.

After a bit of idle chatter, Watts directs us to the station’s meeting room, where we review rope and rescue knot techniques for different swift-water rescue scenarios. And it’s so boring.

These slow days at the station are the worst. They leave too much time for thinking, and today, all I can think about is Rico. Which pisses me off.

Up until now, I’d done a decent job of keeping my mind off him, avoiding thoughts of our dinner and our stroll up Lazy River Road. I’d emptied my mind of the memory of the old oak tree on Jonas Fogler’s farm. The way its wide spindly shadow shimmied in the breeze, black against the brilliant blanket of stars.

That had been our tree, claimed by our initials when we were kids. That tree saw our first touches, our first kisses, our first… So many firsts. It was also the place where I suffered my first heartbreak, the day Rico told me he’d enlisted in the Army. Like a sixth sense, I’d known, even then, he was leaving me.

The other night, the sight of that tree had stopped me in my tracks. I’d stood there in the center of the blacktop, the day’s baking heat radiating into me through the soles of my shoes, melting me to the spot. Stuck, staring at the one place in this entire universe that held more memories—both terrible and wonderful—than any other.

I’d nearly burst into tears, but Rico saved me. Without even knowing it, he stepped in my way, forcing my attention away from the ghosts of our past. I’d stared up at him, the boy I used to love, all grown up into a man I didn’t know.

Then, he’d hugged me, and it felt so good, and he smelled so good—too good. It was all so good it hurt, smarting like a thousand bee stings straight to the center of my chest. So I’d left him there, on that hill beside our old tree.

A dispatch alert chime sounds throughout the station, and Doris the Dispatcher’s voice rings over the announcement radio. “Attention Engine 31, Attention Medic 3, need to respond to 4227 East Elm, Unit B. Caller indicates seventy-five-year-old female suffering heat-related illness.”

“That’s Margaret’s apartment,” Watts murmurs as we all come to attention and rush to the bay where Engine 31 waits.

All of us love our engine, but I’m chauffer, and Number 31 is my girl, my fire-engine red, screaming she-bitch from hell. I drive her with a vengeance, like I have something to prove. And maybe I do. When I was at the fire academy, some asswipe suggested women were too weak to handle this much power. I’d proven him wrong when I mastered driver training while he washed out of the academy.

Drew and Rooster clamor into the cab, and Watts takes his spot at shotgun as I crank up the engine. With a quick check of mirrors, I hit the gas, and we rumble forward to the end of the station driveway as Watts hits the siren. I put my shoulder into a left turn, and we race toward Elm.

The drive is a short one, and with a squeal of our air brakes, I set us at the curb in front of Margaret’s apartment complex: Stonehaven Court. It’s a collection of four squatty buildings, six units in each: three up, three down. Margaret and the other elders tend to fill the ground-floor units to avoid the stairs. Margaret’s apartment is front and center, a prime location for gossip and socializing, and right now her porch is crowded with worriers and onlookers.

We move seamlessly on scene, each of us well versed in the tasks of our roles. I strap on my radio unit while Drew and Rooster grab the paramedic gear. Watts communicates with dispatch, checking on the status of EMS as we assess the situation.

Due to the advanced age of many of the Stonehaven Court residents, we get called out here a few times a week, and Margaret is one of our frequent flyers. She calls 911 anytime she hears a strange noise or a neighbor burns dinner. Once, when her cable went out, she called 911 asking us to use the ladder truck to check the connection at the pole. This time, though, the tone of conversation in the crowd surrounding Margaret’s door suggests this is not a false alarm. Something is wrong.

The screen door opens with a metallic yawn, and I hold it so the guys can file inside before following. The air in Margaret’s apartment is stiflingly hot. While outside it’s a breezy ninety-five degrees, inside it’s got to be triple digits.

It’s crowded in here. Neighbors linger, looking concerned, while one woman uses a damp washcloth to cool the back of Margaret’s neck as she sits on her couch, looking rose-cheeked and wilted from the heat.

Rooster and Drew act as the EMTs on scene while we wait for the ambulance to arrive. Watts and I see to crowd control, clearing the room of all these extra people so we can work. When it’s just the five of us, I turn my focus toward investigating the source of the problem.

---