A Night On Fire

This was a memoir assignment.

A Night On Fire

"Mom, Dad! The house is on fire!" I awoke that winter night to my older sister Jamie's panicked cry to our parents. I instantly saw the angry flames raging down our bedroom wall from the ceiling where, unbeknownst to us, faulty wiring in the attic had started this living nightmare. The electric heater which was plugged into the same wall was now engulfed as well. My skin was heated. The bedroom that we shared was beginning to fill with plumes of smoke, flames snaking toward my sister's now vacated bed. My eyes and nose burned with each breath. I sat frozen on my adjacent bed until I felt Tina, my sister's overnight guest, shake me and say, "Laurie, come on!" She lead me into the cold, darkened living room where we dodged the shadowy forms of furniture. Echoes of my parents' orders for us to get out pushed us faster. My father was a blur in my peripheral vision as he charged into the bedroom wielding a blanket to smother the ever-growing blaze.

My heart pounded in my small body. This was almost too much to take for a five-year-old. Clad in only a white and yellow E.T. t-shirt, I grabbed the gray wool jacket I had thrown on the couch after school.　 Tina and I rushed out into the frigid November night, followed closely by Jamie. Our bare feet crunched the frozen grass. The smell and taste of acrid smoke accompanied us, clinging to everything. As we stood huddled together, shivering in the frost-covered yard, I longed for my parents to appear. The red glow from the fire at the back of the house was visible to us in the front. Our fear grew as every second the dancing glow increased, devouring more and more.

Inside, I later learned, after urging my dad to get the family pictures from the closet, my mom crawled beneath the cloud of life draining smoke to the phone in the kitchen which was past the living room. In the light of day, the kitchen was a cheery yellow but on this night, like the rest of the house, it was plunged into darkness. Mom reached the phone on the wall and made a frantic call to the fire department. Long before the advent of the 911 emergency system, Mom had to explain where we lived. The dispatcher did not understand her urgent, near hysterical directions. Finally, after several attempts she shouted, "It's the one that's on fire!" and dropped the phone to let it dangle by its long spiral cord. Grabbing her purse, she ran outside to join us in watching our home succumb. She gathered us all to her as tears streamed down her face and her mouth moved in silent prayer.

Dad later told us that while Mom had been on the phone, he had opened their bedroom closet door to grab the treasured pictures. A blast of heat and smoke struck out at him like a blow to the head. A large man, he was still temporarily overwhelmed and he fell to the floor in an unconscious heap. Miraculously, Dad was able to quickly regain consciousness. Finally, after realizing any further attempts to battle the flames or save precious possessions might mean his life, my dad stumbled empty-handed out of the house. As we drove to my mom's best friend's house nearby to seek help, I looked back to see the roaring inferno making light work of destroying our home. This night would be forever seared into memory.