Days after the fire, I wake to the smell of stuffing and the sounds of the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade on TV. Is it Thanksgiving? I sit in my mother’s kitchen. “Morning, sweetie! Coffee’s made. Want some?” she offers.
All week long, cars pulled up to my mom’s house with donations. Calls come from friends, and they suggest a benefit concert. By night, Troy and I are plagued with nightmares. By day, we’re surrounded with love. We’ve been given the chance to feel something most will never know—to be held by hundreds of unseen hands—a comforting yet overwhelming sensation. Here we are on this day of giving thanks, grateful, yes, and also tired of being grateful and needy.
We spend the day digging through bags of stuff. Some people used the fire as an excuse to get rid of junk, and this helps us laugh again.
Used underwear? Bonanza!
A bag full of jockstraps? You shouldn’t have!
A wet suit? Skis from the 1970s? We’re homeless. But thanks!
Later, we shower and dress. With the kids looking sharp in their outfits, the doorbell rings. My mom answers it and returns to us. She says, “There’s a guy from the Red Cross here.”
It turns out the Red Cross had been at our fire that night, providing food and water to the firefighters. We hadn’t contacted it, but the Red Cross doesn’t wait for you to ask. Our representative, Frank [not his real name], is stocky, with a salt-and-pepper beard. “Right now, you’re in what’s called the honeymoon phase of tragedy,” he says. “You’re surrounded by people showing up to support you. Donations are coming in. You’re getting phone calls every day. But soon, those things will taper off, and you’ll be left picking up the pieces.” He hands me the card of a therapist. “We’ve arranged some free counseling for the four of you.” He gives us bags with toiletries, and teddy bears and blankets for the kids. “Here are gift certificates so you can get personal items like underwear and socks.”
There is something about Frank’s ease that makes my shoulders relax. He is the first person we’ve talked to who gets it. He understands we have no driver’s licenses, no Social Security cards, no bank cards, no birth certificates. He knows utilities have to be canceled and mail rerouted because there is no house where the charred mailbox stands. He gives us directions and advice on how to begin again.
We go to my aunt Laura’s house for dinner, Troy with a sprained ankle and me with a bandaged wrist and a burned ear. Aunts, uncles, and cousins descend upon us with hugs and sniffling.
We chat in the kitchen, and every time Troy and I cough from smoke inhalation, we receive more hugs and choruses of “Are you OK?” Somehow, after meeting with Frank, I feel I am.
At dinner, we hold hands, and
everyone thanks God for looking out for us. Then it comes time for the prayer. Aunt Laura and Uncle Bob, born-again Christians, always say grace. We bow our heads, waiting for the opening line, “Heavenly Father.” Instead, Aunt Laura says, “Troy, would you lead us in prayer
tonight?”
We all jerk our heads up. My husband has faith in people, in goodness, in love. But he has no faith in religion. After a moment of hesitation, he says, “Yes. I’d love to, actually.” He begins, “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal tonight and for all the love in this room. We thank you for our family and friends, for the opportunity to be here together”—he pauses—“and that we are alive.” His voice breaks. “Please, God, help me get back on my feet, so that I can give back.”
I squeeze his hand tight. There’s a loud chorus of “Amen.” A few of us wipe tears away as we pass the mashed potatoes and pour the wine. Oh yes, please pour the wine.