The Year I Almost Drowned (35 page)

Business

had

been

booming.

My dad stood at the threshold of the door watching me. “The kitchen is clean,” he

said.

I took my eyes off the screen and peered up at him. “Thanks, Dad.”

He leaned against the door frame. “You’ve really got this place running like a

smooth

sailing

ship.”

“I

don’t

know

about

that,”

I

said

doubtfully.

“Aren’t

you

always

telling

me

to

take

a

compliment?”

“Yeah, but that’s different. You’re so talented, and you don’t know it,” I argued.

“I’d say running a business the way you have is true talent, Finn. You’ve got a lot

of Dad in you.” He patted my head dotingly. He had gotten so affectionate, more

than he had ever been. I welcomed it. He seemed so sure of himself, so at peace,

like he knew which direction he was headed. I envied that because I still felt like

I

was

going

through

life

without

a

compass.

“That means a lot to me,” I told him. Being compared to my grandfather was the

biggest

compliment

anyone

could

ever

give

me.

“Are you almost finished here?” he asked. “I can wait for you.”

“It’ll be a while. I need to finish this and then clean the bathroom. You can go on

if

you

want.”

“You

sure?”

“Positive,” I answered. “Besides, don’t you have a painting to finish?”

“Yeah.”

He

smiled.

“I

sure

do.”

After our visit to the folk art gallery, the owner had commissioned several of my

dad’s paintings. It was a promising sign that he could earn a living from his art,

which pleased all of us, especially him. He was a changed man. That surge in

confidence made him see things differently. Even in the way he spoke, the way

he walked, his actions–all of it, he wasn’t the same. It’s like he woke up from a

long

slumber

and

decided

to

take

life

by

the

reigns.

“I

bet

you’ll

be

doing

a

lot

more,

too.”

“You’re

my

biggest

fan,”

he

said.

“That may be a tie between Nana and me. But I’ll take that title.”

“I love you.” He kissed me quickly on the cheek before he left.

I finished entering the day’s sales and placed much needed orders. The bathroom

needed to be cleaned. I got out of the chair and stretched a little. My back was

aching. I bent over and touched my toes and came up suddenly, feeling a little

light headed. I heard the jingling of the bell to the front door.

“Did you forget something, Dad?” I asked as I stepped out of the office and moved

to

the

front

of

the

diner.

I stopped still in my tracks. I couldn’t move, I was frozen with fear. I’d heard that

statement a million times and now I knew exactly what it meant.

He swayed back and forth, barely standing on his own two feet. He looked worse

than the last time I’d seen him, which wasn’t saying much. If someone asked me

what rock bottom was, I’d tell them it was Hank Quinn. He was the epitome of it.

His blue shirt was covered in dirt and grease and other indecipherable stains. His

face was full of long, gray unkempt hair. All I could smell was the awful, reeking

scent of alcohol and body odor and other things that brought the disgusting taste

of

bile

to

my

throat.

“What

are

you

doing

here?”

I

asked

him

curtly.

“I’m hungry,” he said and started walking in zig zag formation toward me.

“You need to leave, Hank. We’re closed.” I stood my ground, although my hands

were shaking. I placed them behind my back and continued to keep my stance.

“Just

make

me

some

bacon!”

he

ordered.

“The kitchen is closed. Go on now.” I could smell his terrible, rotten breath. His

eyes were yellow, jaundiced like, and cloudy looking. Drinking that much was

slowly killing him. It was eating him alive from the inside out.

He swayed a little to the side and almost fell over. He caught himself and stood

back up, not upright. He gave me a confused expression like he had just realized

where he was but didn’t remember how he got there, or what he wanted or why

he

was

there.

He

scratched

at

his

graying

beard.

“You need to leave,” I said, trying to sound more assured, more confident,

although on the inside, I was frightened. Hank had become someone I was

scared

of.

He turned around, stumbling toward the front door. I ran as fast as I could and

locked it as soon as he stepped foot outside. My heart was racing; my palms were

cold and damp. My breathing was unsteady. Still a little shaken, I sat down in my

grandfather’s office and tried to pull myself together. It was unsettling. I knew

Hank would never hurt me, at least the old Hank wouldn’t, but this Hank, the Hank

that had been on a drinking binge for months and months, he was someone I

didn’t trust and I didn’t know what he was capable of. My instincts told me to be

afraid

and

to

go

home.

It took some time for me to calm down and pull myself together. I grabbed a

bucket, mop and bottle of bleach. The bathroom needed to be cleaned and I

couldn’t leave the diner without cleaning it. I went into the bathroom, turned on

the light and poured bleach all over the floor and started to mop.

The fumes permeated the small room. I clicked the switch for the bathroom fan,

its loud, humming noise blocking everything else out, and hoped that the blowing

air would help the strong scent dissipate. The fan needed to be replaced. It was

as old as the building. I continued to scrub away, cleaning the toilet and the sink.

Once my job was finished, I emptied my bucket full of dirty bleach-filled water and

turned

the

light

and

fan

off.

All the noises and sounds that had been deafened by the noisy fan were now

audible. It sounded like someone was humming, like footsteps were moving

about, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I sometimes doubted the noises I heard in that

diner when I was alone. It was an old building and I questioned if I spooked myself

out

because

of

its

age.

I peered toward the front of the diner and saw that door had a huge gaping hole

in it. Shattered glass was all over the floor. And then I heard the humming again.

The voice was hauntingly familiar and coming from the kitchen.

Shaking, I crept slowly towards the kitchen. Droplets of blood fell from his hand

and onto the tiled floor. He must have punched through the glass door with his

bare

hand.

“What

are

you

doing?”

I

shouted

angrily.

“Cookin,” Hank answered, still swaying back and forth, his feet unsteady. He took

a bottle of cooking oil, drenching the inside of the hot frying pan with it. Before I

could shout any sort of warning, flames rose from the burners.

I searched frantically all over the kitchen for baking soda so I could put the flames

out before the fire spread. Everything else that transpired after that moment

happened

as

if

time

had

completely

slowed

down.

He

grabbed

a

cup

of

water

and

showered

it

over

the

fire.

“No!” I screamed at the top of my lungs just as he did it.

An explosion of flames erupted, upward and over the back of the stove, catching

onto the nearby towels and pot holders and a stack of packaged napkins that had

just been delivered. The flames engulfed that part of the kitchen and continued

to dance their way around the room. It was if they were in a race to the finish line.

I found the box of baking soda and rushed to the stove, shoving a confused Hank

out of my way. I poured all of its contents on top of the flames. It wasn’t enough–

the fire had spread and was moving its way around the kitchen. A cloud of thick

smoke

and

intense

heat

started

to

fill

the

room.

Hank held a cup of water in his shaking hand and tipped it on top of the flames

that were beginning to surround him. It barely made a dent. The fire wasn’t going

to

stop

now;

it

had

taken

control.

I coughed; the smoke settling into my lungs. My body profusely sweated. I felt

like I was standing in front of the sun. Black smoke rose to the ceiling. I couldn’t

breathe. I was drowning and needed air fast before my chest caved in, before I

caved

in.

“We have...” I coughed, “to get out of here,” I said and coughed again.

I took his bloodied hand, the plastic cup falling to the floor and burning within an

instant, and blindly led him out of the kitchen. We fought our way through the

smoke as it seeped through our noses and out of our mouths. I placed my hand

in front of my mouth, trying to block it from encompassing me, but it was too

powerful.

Hank tripped over something and fell to the floor. I felt his hand slip away from

mine. In all of the darkness of the thick dark smoke, I couldn’t see him. I squatted

to the floor and felt for his hand. I touched it and grabbed onto it. “Get up, Hank!”

I ordered. His limp hand flopped to the floor the moment I let go. “Damn you, get

up!”

I

shouted

in

vain.

He

was

lifeless.

I had a firm hold of his hand and dragged his heavy body as I walked backwards

trying to make my way through the maze of smoke. The front door was several

feet away. I knew if I didn’t get to it in time, the fire would burn us both alive. It

was coming our way. The entire kitchen was on fire and spreading its way all over

the

diner.

My muscles were working overtime. My breath was short and sporadic. Pulling a

man Hank’s size was weakening me by the second. Given the state of my smoke-

filled lungs, pulling a child would’ve been a feat. I continued to tread slower and

slower toward the door. My arms were weak with pain. My entire body ached. I

felt like I couldn’t go on. I told myself I was almost there. My heart pumped faster

and faster. My pulse was rising but the rest of me felt weak. The room was

spinning and out of control. I felt nauseous; my head pounded with pain.

The fire was chasing me, following me as I took each small step toward that door.

My feet stepped onto the shattered glass. I had too much adrenaline for it to affect

me. I knew it’d hurt later. Hank’s body was being pummeled by it; shards of glass

struck

him

as

his

body

dragged

against

the

floor.

I tugged on the handle and pushed it open with all of my might, with the small

amount of strength that my body had left to give. I leaned against the door,

propping it open with my body, as I hauled Hank outside of the door. I continued

to pull him onto the concrete pavement, through the parking lot and safely onto

the

grass,

far

enough

away

from

the

diner.

My lungs felt as if they were collapsing. My chest rattled, and my breaths were

becoming more shallow by the second. I felt like I was under water, holding my

breath, and little by little, the water was creeping into my body and slowly

drowning

me.

All I could think about was getting something to drink. I was so thirsty. I wobbled

across the road, ignoring the passing cars, and kept my eyes solely on that water

fountain.

As I leaned my aching head forward, my lips opened, allowing the cool water to

flow down my dry, scorched throat. I drank and drank and drank and continued

to

drink.

Never

had

I

ever

been

so

thirsty.

I finally pulled my lips away from the fountain and stood up, my balance unsteady.

A piercing sound buzzed through my ears and then everything faded to black.

***

Minutes later, I woke up to the screeching sounds of ambulance sirens hurrying