The Luck Tree, part 2
A story by BlackNapalm
She couldn't believe what the doctor just said.
“What did you just say?” she asked.
“There's a 90 percent chance he won't make it out of surgery. And if he does, he probably eventually will succumb to the extensive burns on his body.”
The doctor spoke in simple, plain facts. Yet, she was having a hard time understanding him.
“Do you want us to proceed with the surgery?” the doctor asked.
She didn't know what to do. The energy escaped from her body. Her knees buckled.
Damn him, she thought. She told him not to go into that house and save those kids. She told him, she pleaded with him, begged him. It was too dangerous, she said.
Of course, she knew that was selfish thinking. Selfish, because she didn't want any harm to come to her newlywed husband, George Martin. They had just started a life together, and had so much to do together. They had made lists of their top 10 things to do together. They had only one crossed off the list – bungee jumping. So many others, surfing, skiing, snorkling in the Bahamas, to name a few, were left. What would she do if something were to happen to him? Who would do those things on the list with her?
Yes, she realized she was being selfish, but she also was torn. If she had any kids, she would have wanted someone, someone heroic and brave like her George, to go in and save them.
But at that moment, when they came across the house on fire, flames shooting out of the upper-story windows, the wood from the window frames crackling from the heat, she knew – and he knew – that his destiny was about to be met.
That's because since the first time George Martin had met her, he told her repeatedly that he was destined to be hero by saving someone from a death by fire. It was his destiny, he swore; it was what he was born to do.
She always humored him. Really, she thought, what were the odds that he would live out that particular destiny? Infinitesimal, she thought then.
Reality, she realized now.
So, he screeched the car to a halt, and barely waiting until it was completely stopped, threw himself out the car door and toward the house.
A woman, probably the mom, paralyzed with fear, was screaming and frantically pointing at the house.
“My kids,” she gasped. “My kids, they're stuck in their bedroom upstairs.”
She was in frumpled bed clothes, her hair unkempt. Heavy black tar, from the smoke, stained her young face. The white streaks from her tears left a stark contrast on her cheeks.
“Help them,” she implored George.
He did. It was his destiny, after all.
George looked at his wife, she at him.
“Please wait. Please, I can hear the sirens,” she sobbed. “Wait.”
Instead of waiting, George sprinted into the house.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty. The sirens of the fire truck were getting louder. Forty seconds. To her, it seemed an eternity.
Finally, he emerged, carrying one small child, motionless in his arms. He sprinted down the front porch's stairs, five steps, and put the kid on the ground. Without waiting, he raced back in the house.
This all happened so fast, she had no time to react. Had she had time, she would have grabbed him before he could go back in the house the second time. But her reaction speed was slow. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, — but him. He was fast, moving through the house back up to the bedroom, looking for that second kid.
Another 30 seconds passed. The fire truck arrived, and the firemen worked fast.Finally, she thought, the real heroes, trained to do this kind of daring and dangerous work, could take over.
She felt something was wrong. She had a terribe foreboding that George's destiny wasn't what he thought it would be.
A minute had passed. Still no sight of George. Ninety seconds.
Water from the first fire hose sprayed the house. Two firemen entered the house.
Two minutes since his second entry, and still no sign of George. More firemen entered the house.
“We'll do our best, ma'am,” one said to her. She hadn't even noticed that she was yelling at them to save her husband. She also hadn't realized they had moved her and the young mom farther from the house.
Three minutes. The activity outside the house was surreal, she thought. A second truck had arrived. More firemen were in the house. Other firemen were dragging two different hoses to the back of the house.
And yet, as the activity buzzed around her, there still was no sign of George.
Four minutes. She couldn't breathe. The smoke was having that effect on her. She felt weak.
Finally, after five minutes, two firemen carried a little body, it appeared to be a boy, out of the house. The boy wasn't breathing, as one of the fireman was pumping his chest even as they were moving. The young mother wailed loudly and ran toward the firemen.
Ten seconds later, two other firemen carried George's body out of the house. He was lifeless too.
Seeing that was too much for her. The stress of the moment overcame her.
She fainted.
When she came to, she found herself in an ambulance being rushed to the hospital. “Where's my husband?” she groaned.
“He's in another ambulance. That's all I can tell you,” said the medical guy.
So yes, George had lived his destiny, all right. He saved one kid's life. The other boy didn't make it. And now his own life was hanging perilously, a thread's tear from death.
Back in the hospital, the doctor grabbed her by the arm and helped steady her.
“Do you want us to do the surgery?” the doctor repeated.
“Of course,” she gasped, and then slunk into the nearest chair.
Here she was, not even out of her 20s, moved halfway across the country from her family, a great support system if there ever was one, and facing one of the most stressful times a person could face – alone.
What if George died? What would she do? Could she go on?
She couldn't even fathom the thought.
Two hours later, she had to.
She could tell from the doctor's body language that something was wrong. He was walking slowly, head down, not looking at her.
She stood up, anxiously. “Doctor?”
“I'm sorry, we tried everything we could. The extent ...”
Those were the last words she remembered. Everything else was a blur.
And in some ways, now, everything still was a blur, even two years later.
She probably never would forget that day of the fire. How could she? But she had made peace with it, and with George's stupid act of living out his so-called destiny.
She now lived in the present. And today was an important day. It was the day she chose to finally move on, to start her life again. After two years of mourning, sometimes fumbling through day after day of unsurmountable emotional grief, she had culled some inner strength that helped pull her out of the funk and left her able to smell the flowers again.
Yes, she had come a long way and was ready for whatever came next. Her bags were packed, and the car was ready.
But she had one last thing to do. It was a beautiful morning, and she was getting ready to visit George's grave and plant some new flowers next to the big old tree where he was buried.
The tree, George had told her, was planted by his great, great grandfather 120 years ago, on the family's massive ranch. The tree was his lucky charm, he told her. Many great things happened to him at the tree, including stealing his first kiss from a girl.
It was natural she had learned during the years she knew George that he wanted to be buried there.
So he was.
Since the fire, and George's sudden death two years ago, nothing had really surprised her any more.
Maybe she was numb to life and all its pleasures and annoyances, who knew? But life, well, let's just say she was ready for whatever curve ball it threw her.
That said, she wasn't ready to find this sight: a giant tree limb on the ground next to a couple of broken bottles of Jack Daniel – and a man with a noose around his neck lying on top of the unmarked grave of her husband.
Heck, who would be ready for that?
