Our Home

            by Maddy Trumble

 

            Dad built our house with his own two hands. Alone. My first few years are filled with memories of a yard occupied by wood and tools and the stiff smell of sawdust in the air. There’s a picture of me standing in the middle of my playground- the frame of our new house. In the picture, my arms and mouth are spread in celebration, standing in what was to be, my very own room. In the background, my dad is hard at work using a table saw. That picture, and the feelings and actions it illustrated, never changed. I remained happy about the room the entire time I lived in that house, and my dad never stopped working on it. It was a constant work in progress that he could never seem to finish. The walls never got the paint job they were originally promised, and the upstairs carpet was never put down. The house was growing and changing all the time.

            I lived in that house for six years.

            Before moving out of the house and our lives, Dad built an almost life-size pirate ship for my brother, Simon. Hours and days went into building that ship. He was the only kid in town, or even in the whole wide world, who had his own pirate ship to play on as he liked. Simon discovered and explored plenty of new lands in his ship. He fought off droves of sailors and enemy pirates. Many, many times, I was saved from drowning in an ocean of green and brown grass. The best pirate Berkeley has ever seen.

            My third birthday party was held in our roomy front yard. It was a teddy bear theme. Mom made a teddy bear cake. There were teddy bear games and teddy bear party favors.

            Every other night was show night in the Trumble family home. Back then, there was no homework or late night parties. My siblings and I discovered our love of performing in the “Big Room” which was one room with everything in it: kitchen, living room, and dining room. We sang and danced and sometimes acted out scenes in front of Mom and Dad, who sat on the navy couch that was sprinkled with rows of delicate white flowers, watching us and applauding our many talents. We pranced through the kitchen, gliding across our hardwood floors. Simon was more of the dramatic type as well as the comedian. I was just the cute sidekick who could belt out “Tomorrow”.

                                                            *          *          *         

            I came home and collapsed on the couch. It was just after the closing night party of “Happiness is Remembering Charles Schultz”, an original musical about the Peanuts comic strip. I played the part of Sally and Simon was Charlie Brown. I never quite got over the fact that we were siblings in real life and on stage. I thought it was the coolest thing ever, even though the sentiment wasn’t reciprocated.

            I threw my stuff in a mound on the living room floor. My bags were brimming with makeup and costumes and closing night gifts. I took out everything to show my mom. She was forced to listen to me squeal as I waved, in front of her nose, the T-shirt that the boy playing Linus had made for me. He had drawn pumpkins on the front with highlighters. I pulled out cards and Sally memorabilia. There was a squeaky dog toy and a doll and a key chain. My  oversized makeup bag stuffed with lip gloss was revealed so I could add the two new additions to my collection. My mom rolled her eyes at the bulging bag. I simply smiled, opened my new gloss, and applied it to my smiling lips.

            Mom told me it was time for bed. As I looked at the clock, a shrill of delight was released. It was 11:00 on a Sunday. I was convinced that I was the only fifth grader in town still awake. I washed my makeup off, changed into my PJs, and went to sleep, hoping to dream enchanting dreams.

                                                *          *          *          *

            “GET UP! GET UP!” my brother’s piercing scream woke me.

            “Maddy! Get out of bed now! Hurry up! My room is on fire!” his voice was serious and frantic. I could hear he was crying.

            I pushed the covers off and sprang out of bed.

            Surely, he must be joking. My leg was often sore because Simon, the actor, had nothing better to do than pull it most of the time. I sniffed the air as I ran through the bathroom toward the Big Room. The faint smell of smoke struck my nose like an unexpected, unwanted visitor.

            I rushed into the Big Room, hoping to find out what was going on. I was met by Mom and my little sister, Emily. Mom was panicked as she pounded into the phone those three numbers that you learn about in school. Those numbers you can’t imagine you will ever need to dial. There I was, standing in my living room, looking at my crying brother, wanting to ask him what had happened. I didn’t understand. His room was on fire? I searched for the words but couldn’t find them. I couldn’t speak.

            “Please come right now! My son’s night stand caught fire. His room is on fire. Please come now! My house is on fire!” Mom shouted into the receiver, repeating the same words over and over and over again.

            My eyes shot to the VCR clock. It was 12:03.

            Mom slammed the phone down and told us all to get out of the house. She was the first out the door. Simon had Emily by the hand and was running with her. I raced after them, sprinting through my front door and leaping down the porch steps. Running down the path, I stopped when I came to the outside of Simon’s window. My family kept going, but I just stopped. Frozen. The window was open. Looking into his room, all that was visible was orange. A beaming glow had taken over my brother’s room completely. I was paralyzed, overcome with awe.

            In a sudden surge of flames and glass, my brother’s window was shattered by the fire and an enormous puff of orange escaped the room. I jolted back as the glass and surging flames flew right in front of my nose. I erupted in tears that streamed down my face and into my mouth. I wanted so much to run to my mom and escape our crippling house. I sucked in, ducked down to avoid the fire, and dashed to my family.

            Together we ran out of our front gate and into the street.

            “I don’t know what happened,” my brother managed to say, through the tears. “The fire woke me up.” His hands were covered in black soot and dead, hanging skin. He had burned his hands and feet trying to put out the fire that had started on his night stand. He had climbed out of his window, wet a sheet with the outside faucet, and returned to his room where he tried to put the fire out himself. After being unsuccessful, he woke the rest of us up. He said his palms stung and his feet hurt.

            All at once, my whole family remembered that not every member of the family was present. Our puppy, Kaya, and three cats were missing. A new wave of panic crashed, knocking us sideways. Mom hurled into a new level of despair as she considered going back inside to try to save our beloved pets. We all screeched in protest, stopping her from entering our hazardous house. I knew our pets were smart. They would find safety, somewhere.

            The giant red fire truck came a few moments later. The firemen all stepped off the truck casually, as if they weren’t standing in front of a house being consumed by something they had the tools to stop. They weren’t charging, trying to save our home and lives that were contained inside. I started screaming at them. Words rushed out of my mouth in a surge of anger and fear. I was using words I had never used before, shouting, asking them what did they think they were doing? Save our house!  I didn’t even consider the fact that I was standing in the middle of the street in my underwear surrounded by my on looking neighbors. The cold air was brushing against my legs, but that simply lit the fuse of my anger. I yelled until my voice became tired and started to disappear. I kept trying to scream, trying to hold on to what was left of my fleeting voice, but  couldn’t. I stood defeated.

            After ten minutes, a second fire truck came and the firemen started doing their job.

            My mother, brother, sister and I all stood across the street from our house in a line, watching the unsightly fire. We watched it with the intensity that you watch a great piece of art. Each one of us studying, trying to figure out how this feat was achieved. We watched until the orange fervor reached the roof of our house, answering the question we all had: what would be lost?

            In that line, standing there, we all thought about what we wouldn’t have anymore.

            Emily was surely thinking about her stuffed animals, wondering what would become of her American Girl doll. Simon was thinking about his music collection, his new unicycle and stereo he had just gotten for his birthday the week before. He was thinking about his posters and sixth grade yearbook.

            I was thinking of my bed. Dad had made it for me when I was little. He built a headboard that looked like a little cottage. It had shelves and storage space for me to hide my deepest secrets in. Endless hours were spent in that bed, dreaming of the perfect boyfriend, or what my life would be like when I was 16. I thought of the gifts I had just received that night. I longed for my lip gloss collection.

            My mother stood in the street thinking of the boxes of baby pictures that were  crackling and fizzing as the colorful faces smeared then disappeared forever. The countless videos that captured us at an age when innocence was all we knew. The pictures we had drawn for her. The mother day cards and the Christmas T-shirts. The bathroom wall covered with pencil markings, cataloguing our growth.

 

            Our neighbors from across the street came out of their house with looks of amazement and terror on their faces. They brought me a blanket and tried to usher me into their house. I told them I didn’t want to go inside; couldn’t go inside. Something had to be done. I had to help. But there was nothing I could do.

            I stood watching my house and the red truck and the firefighters that pumped water into my yard and into my room with a heavy, white hose. I stood and watched until my legs screamed in protest, refusing to hold me up anymore. I was too tired and needed to fall asleep.

            Mom had taken Simon to the ER to see about his burns. She left Emily and me with our neighbors, whose house we had never entered and whose names we barely knew. The couch I slept on was green and unfamiliar.

            Before falling asleep, I called my best friend Emma. The fact that she wouldn’t answer was irrelevant. I called to hear her voice on the answering machine; the thick, heavy voice that made her sound like her mother. I dialed the number on the strange white phone, and after five rings her voice came through.

            “Hi. You’ve reached the Mayersons, leave a message and we’ll get  back to you!”

            -beep-

            “Hi. This is Maddy. I don’t know why I’m calling you, but um... My house is on fire. Everyone’s ok, I just wanted to tell you because you’re my best friend. I want to see you. I love you.”

            I hung up, feeling embarrassed and ashamed at the ridiculous phone call I had just made.  I just needed to know she was still there. Nothing was the same. Nothing was there for me that was there the day before. I wanted to remind myself that I still had my friends. The people that cared about me remained.

            Mom and Simon came back very early in the morning, after I fell asleep. Simon was okay. His hands were going to recover. No big deal. The Doctors had told him he was very lucky. He didn’t think so; his burns were painful, and losing the house hurt even more. The doctors told him he was brave and he had done a good thing, that it was because of him that everyone got out of the house alive. But part of me believed it was because of him that we had to get out of the house in the first place. I was angry at him for being so careless and leaving the light on. The fire started in his room because his reading light got too hot and somehow set his entire night stand on fire. He hadn’t done it on purpose, but if he had turned his light off, our house would be fine. I knew he didn’t actually burn it down, it was just easy to be mad at him. There was so much anger and fear but nowhere to put it. I was confused, not knowing where to unload my frustration and sorrow. These thoughts were soon put aside, as I realized the blame should not be placed on him, or anyone else. It was just a freak occurrence. Not Simon’s fault.

 

            The next morning, the firemens’ voices woke me. They were finishing up. I got off the couch and walked outside into the air that smelled like sandalwood, only not as calming. Mom was talking to someone about the house. I knew not to interrupt.

            When she finished, Mom came over to me and told me what all the fireman had told her. They had waited so long to put the fire out because they thought the closest fire hydrant was a few blocks away. They didn’t realize there was one on our corner, three houses down from us. The firemen waited for the second truck to come so they could access the far away hydrant. They had made a mistake, one that possibly had cost us a great deal of our house. The ten minutes spent waiting could have made an enormous difference. Mom didn’t seem too angry, which was funny, because she should have been. She was too tired and crushed by the night’s events. I let her continue. She told me that my room had not been on fire, but there was plenty of smoke and water damage. The firemen had found Kaya and one of our cats, Moonie, in the house. Our pets had died from smoke inhalation. They were both found in my room. Charlie was still missing and was never found. Amaryllis, our little gray cat, had shown up in the middle of the night, unharmed. We could go inside the house to see if there was anything we could salvage. All the firemen told me and my mom that everything would be ok. We were very lucky to be safe. They told us it was remarkable that we all got out.

            The firemen informed us that the frame still stood, our home wasn’t completely gone. All I could think was, that isn’t a home. I couldn’t call it a home. What good is skin without everything inside it? It wasn’t my home anymore, and it wouldn’t ever be again. It was just a stack of wood with memories seeping through the cracks. Memories and life that had been written in sand and washed away when the tide rose .

 

            Emma and her mom, Arlene, came over as soon as they got my message. Emma got out of the car and ran over to hug me. She didn’t say anything, just hugged me for a long time. Arlene embraced me and kissed my forehead. She told me she was so happy I was okay; she was so happy all of us were okay.

            I stood there talking with my family and best friend in a massive T-shirt and sweatpants that belonged to our neighbors. My sister was wearing only a borrowed T-shirt, and my brother had on corduroy pants that were too big for him. Arlene soon noticed the state of our wardrobes and told us she was going to take us shopping. 

            Arlene drove me, Emily, Emma, and Simon up to Hilltop Mall. We went to Penny's first. I wandered through the girls section, not seeing anything I wanted. I looked at beautiful pinks and blues, velvets and cottons. I didn’t want them. Nowhere was my blue velvet skirt I had worn to every party I was ever invited to. I didn’t see my floral dress I wore for my fourth grade school pictures. I saw clothes that weren’t mine; clothes I didn’t want. I wanted my old things.

            “Maddy? You don’t have anything to try on?” Emma asked me.

            I shrugged my shoulders, not being able to admit my reasons. I should have been ecstatic to be buying new clothes, but happiness was not an emotion I could feel that day.

            “What about this? This is nice.” Emma held up a light blue, sparkly hoodie. Blue and sparkles were two of my favorite traits in clothes. She knew that. She was manipulating me!

            “Yeah. That’s nice. I like that.”

            “Well, good. You’re trying it on.”

            The rest of the shopping trip was like this. I was removed and Emma picked everything out for me. She would carry arm fulls of skirts and jeans and T-shirts into cramped dressings rooms and then wait outside, telling me come out when I had something to show her. I picked out a pair of jeans with flowers and sequins up the sides, a shirt with a picture of a monkey on it and sweaters and shoes and hats. Emily and Simon each carried bags of clothes out of the store. Arlene paid almost 600 dollars for our clothes. I couldn’t believe it. Over the next few years, Mom would try to pay her back, but Arlene never accepted the money.

 

            I couldn’t go back into the house for a while. For a long time, I didn’t go in because I was worried about what I might see, or not see. A couple of weeks after the fire, I finally decided it was time to venture beyond the fresh, blue air into the fire-bitten house. Fear was a factor that almost prevented me from going in, but curiosity soon got the better of me. I knew I might be scared and sad, but I wanted so badly to see what my house had become.

            We all had to wear masks into the house because the smell was harmful and quite offensive. After putting the mask on, I was ready to go. I couldn’t even walk up the porch steps; there were no more steps to walk up. There was a board put up so people could even enter the house. I stepped across with Simon’s assistance, then stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath through the mask. Simon was by my side. He had already experienced the inside of the house. I was among a veteran.

            “It’s okay, Maddy. You can do it.”

            “Yeah, I know. I’m just kind of scared.”

            “Well, I’m here.” Simon squeezed my hand extra tight.

            “Okay,” I said.

            I stepped into the house and made a right turn, entering the big room. It was a hollow  room, bigger than I remembered it being. Every surface, every crevice was painted a dingy black. Each inch had been burned to a dusk crisp. If you touched anything, it would fall apart, turning to ashes in your fingers. I stood with my eyes opened wide in wonderment. This was my house? Unbelievable. I could see where the kitchen and stove once were. There were melted wires and plastic where the TV was. Stacks of burned pieces of paper made up the book shelf. Our couch left behind rows of springs and nothing else; no navy or flowers anymore. As I examined this skeleton, a chunk of something that looked almost gooey, and definitely sparkly, became noticeable. It was kind of pink with pieces of yellow, purple, and red. A rainbow of colors midst the black. I looked closer to see what it was, and realized that it was my lip gloss collection. It had melted and designed itself into a clump. I picked it up slowly and turned it around and around, examining the rich colors. Some of the labels could even be picked out. This was my collection I loved so much. The collection it took me years to put together. I walked back outside and handed the chunk to Mom, telling her to put it in a good spot. I wasn’t ready to part with it yet.

            I went into my room next. It wasn’t so much black, but gray. My room had not burned, but everything was wet and covered in soot. All the colors of my vibrant room had been washed together creating what looked like nothing, a dullness that is indescribable. I was told that nothing could be salvaged. The wood of my bed was too damaged to save and everything already had mildew growing on it. My little cottage had to be thrown out. I tried to save as much as I could. There wasn’t a whole lot.

 

            The next few months were spent going through our damaged belongings and deciding what was worth trying to save. We were required to make lists of everything that was lost, along with their prices, so we could receive insurance money. Mom filled up three notebooks with lists written in red ink of the material items that we had lost. Nowhere in that book could we put a price on the pets gone or the baby pictures and videos lost. Oh! A VHS. Well, that’s only two dollars a piece, right?  The insurance company was not sympathetic.

            As we made these lists, my family and I were living out of suitcases and our blue mini van. Our weeks were filled with sleeping on couches and eating continental breakfasts. Staying in a hotel for a month was almost fun. I slowly began to allow myself to enjoy this different life. It was a life that was unpredictable. I didn’t always know what I would be sleeping on every night. While I was beginning to adjust, the drives to and from our hotel in Walnut Creek proved to be too hard on Mom. While I loved the maid service and free food, I knew it had to end. It would take up to two years to rebuild the house. Though it would have been fun to live in a hotel for that long, I knew a hotel wasn’t a home.

 

            We, or really the insurance company, rented a lavender house on Carlton street. It was a town house. This was a new concept for my family: having to be quiet because there were people were living on the other side of the wall. Our singing got to be quieter and our music softer. I shared a room with Emily, though we both slept in Mom’s room every night. The fear of sleeping alone was too great. Mom provided a comfort that I couldn’t get from Emily. I slept with Mom until we moved back into our house.

             There was a hot tub. I had a birthday party at the lavender house and there are pictures of me and my friends sipping root beer floats from wine glasses while we burn up in the hot tub.

            The first day of sixth grade. I took pictures in front of the door of the lavender house. I wore jeans and a jean shirt. Head to toe in comfortable, easy denim. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I’m smiling because I’m starting sixth grade. In the next picture, as I realize my surroundings, I’m no longer smiling because I know that the traditional first-day-of-school pictures are supposed to be taken in front of your home. This isn’t my home. This isn’t my home.

 

            As our house was being rebuilt, my life was rebuilt as well. Middle school changed me. My friends, my perception of people, and my relationships with them get taken in for alterations. I lost touch with Emma. I gained new best friends. The friend that used to mean so much to me, slipped away into the shadows. I lost her number and we didn’t talk for years...

            Dad helped out with building the new house. He made the cabinets for our kitchen and the front door. His painting skills were put to use and he helped in choosing the new bamboo floors. Dad wasn’t on board at first, but the thought of a house without Dad’s touch was not appealing to anyone in my family. After a slight amount of begging from me and my siblings, he agreed to help.

 

            The insurance company tells us that we can’t stay in the purple house anymore because they won’t pay for it. We move to a hotel in Emeryville. This one is really nice. There’s a pool, happy hour with free food, and a gift shop in the lobby with cheap ice cream. We stay there for a few weeks while our new house is being finished.

            While we’re staying in the hotel, I begin to complain one day because I’m sick of not having a dresser to put my things in or a blanket that’s mine. Right as I’m complaining, we drive past a house that looks like ours did after the fire. It’s black and the windows are boarded up. My words stop as I looked at the image of the black, lost home; it that reminded me of the way my home used to look. In the paper the next morning, there’s an article about how the house burned down. It was an electrical fire. There were four people living in the house and only two made it out. An older man and a younger woman both died in the fire. Two people died. The thought of death and the image of the ruined house, combined, silenced my complaints.

 

            It was winter when we moved into the new house. The old house had been emptied out, all the blackness had been thrown away, tossed somewhere. The new house was similar to the old one, but improvements had been made. There were four bedrooms now, instead of two and an attic. My room was upstairs and I got to choose my paint color and carpet. Blue and blue. Sky blue walls and soft navy carpets. My sister’s room was right next to mine: purple and purple.

            When we moved in, the house was just that: a house. There was no furniture, no heating, and for the first week, no running water. The insurance company refused to pay for anymore hotels, so we were forced to move into our incomplete house. Mom, Emily, Simon, and I all slept in one room to keep each other warm. Four mattresses lined up side by side, accompanied by open suitcases and school books. We all stumbled around wearing coats, hats and gloves. The day we got heat and electricity, we celebrated with a feast of Boston Market (there was still had no gas for cooking).

            The house slowly got put together. Each piece of the puzzle began to fall into place. My carpet got put down. I got a bed and a desk. We bought a couch and a chair. Shelves were erected and a refrigerator/freezer installed. I began to hang posters on my walls. By the time I started eighth grade, the house seemed to be looking like a home again.

            Everything that could be replaced was replaced. Phones and computers and clothes and appliances were all purchased again, this time better than before. There are still items and thoughts that could not be regained. There are things my family mourns, but nothing was lost that we need. My family is still my family. We still cry together and sing together and, on occasion, drive each other absolutely nuts. My mom still takes pictures every first day of school. My dad is still here, making furniture, still finishing up the house. My brother still acts and is still the star of the family. My sister remains loud and clear. I’m still here, singing and trying to be all that I can be. We are all still here. My family is still here.