Diane Chamberlain - Before the Storm

I couldn’t remember ever playing in the water with my mother. In my early memories, Mom was like a shadow. When I pictured anything from when I was a little girl, she was on the edge of the memory, so wispy I couldn’t be sure she was there or not. I didn’t think she ever held me. It was always Daddy’s arms around me that I remembered.

“How’s Ben’s head?” Uncle Marcus asked.

“Better,” I said, “though he’s still taking pain meds.”

“You know who he reminds me of?”

“Who?”

“Your father.” He said this quietly, like he didn’t want Mom to hear.

“Really?” I tried to picture Ben and Daddy standing next to each other.

“Not sure why, exactly.” Uncle Marcus put his elbows on his knees as he stared at Ben. “His build. His size, maybe. Jamie was about the same height. Brown eyes. Same dark, wavy hair. Face is different, of course. But it’s that…brawniness or something. All Ben needs is an empathy tattoo on his arm and…” He shrugged.

I liked when he talked about my father. I liked when anyone, except Reverend Bill, talked about Daddy.

I was probably five or six when I asked Daddy what the word “empathy” meant. We were sitting on the deck of The Sea Tender, our legs dangling over the edge, looking for dolphins. I ran my fingers over the letters in the tattoo.

“It means feeling what other people are feeling,” he said. “You know how you kissed the boo-boo on my finger yesterday when I hit it with a hammer?”

“Uh-huh.” He’d been repairing the stairs down to the beach and said, “Goddamn it!” I’d never heard him say that before.

“You felt sad for me that I hurt my finger, right?”

I nodded.

“That’s empathy. And I had it tattooed on my arm to remind me to think about other people’s feelings.” He looked at the ocean for a long minute or two and I figured that was the end of the conversation. But then he added, “If you’re a person with a lot of empathy, it can hurt more to watch a person you care about suffer than to suffer yourself.”

Even at five or six, I knew what he meant. That was how I felt when something happened to Andy. When he fell because his little legs weren’t steady enough yet, or the time he pinched his fingers in the screen door. I cried so hard that Mom couldn’t figure out which of us was hurt at first.

When I heard that Andy might be trapped by the fire—that any of those children might be trapped—the panic I felt might as well have been theirs.

“I was worried about him,” Uncle Marcus said.

I dragged my foggy brain back to our conversation. “About who?” I asked. “Daddy or Ben?”

“Ben,” Uncle Marcus said. “He had some problems in the department at first and I didn’t think he’d last. Claustrophobia. Big guy like that, you wouldn’t think he’d be afraid of anything. But after the fire at Drury—”he shook his head “—I realized I’d been wrong about him. He really proved himself. All he needed was the fire.”

And right then I knew it wasn’t fog messing up my brain. It was smoke.

Marcus

EXCELLENT DAY FOR THE WATER, AND the boaters knew it. From the front steps of Laurel’s house, I stopped to look at Stump Sound. Sailboats, kayaks, pontoon boats. I was jealous. I had a kayak and a small motorboat. I used the kayak for exercise and fished from the runabout. Or on those rare occasions I had a date, I’d take the boat for a sunset spin on the Intracoastal. I had this fantasy of taking Andy out with me someday. Never happen, I told myself. Give it up.

I rang Laurel’s doorbell.

Nearly every Sunday that I wasn’t scheduled to work, I did something with Andy. Ball game. Skating rink. Fishing from the pier. Maggie used to come, too, but by the time she reached Andy’s age, she had better things to do. I got it. I was fifteen once myself. I liked the time alone with Andy, anyway. He needed a man in his life. Father figure.

My beautiful niece opened the door and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I’d dated a woman a while back who turned out to be too artsy-fartsy for my taste, but I did learn a few things from her. We were standing in the National Gallery in Washington one time, in a room full of paintings of women. Most of the women had thick wavy hair and big, heavy-lidded eyes. They looked like they were made of air. You could lift any one of them up with a finger.

“These paintings remind me of my niece,” I told my date.

“Really?” she asked. “She has a Pre-Raphaelite look to her?”

Whatever, I thought.

“I’d like to meet her,” my date said.

We broke up before she could meet Maggie, but since then, whenever I saw my niece, the term Pre-Raphaelite popped into my mind even though I didn’t know what it meant. I would have given my right arm— both my arms—for Jamie to have the chance to see the long-haired, heavy-lidded beauty his daughter had become.

“What are you up to today, Mags?” I asked.

“Studying at Amber’s,” she said. “I have some exams this week.”

I sat down on the stairs that led to the second story. “You can see that ol’ light at the end of the tunnel now, huh?”

She nodded. “You better have my graduation on your calendar.”

“Can’t imagine you gone next year,” I said.

“I’ll only be in Wilmington.”

“It’s more than geography, kiddo,” I said.

She looked up the stairs, then lowered her voice. “How’s Mom gonna manage Andy without me?” she asked.

“Hey,” I said, “I’m not going anywhere. All your mom has to do is say the word and I’m here.”

“I know.”

“You decide on a major yet?”

She shook her head. “Still between psych and business.”

I couldn’t see a Pre-Raphaelite woman in one of those stiff, pin-striped business suits. Her choice, though. I’d keep my trap shut.

“You’ve got plenty of time to decide,” I said.

Maggie swung her backpack over her shoulder. “Do they know what caused the fire yet?” she asked.

I shrugged. “We’re still waiting on results from the lab.”

“You’re in charge, aren’t you?” she asked.

“On the local side, yeah. But once there are fatals…” I shook my head. “The State Bureau of Investigation and ATF are involved now.”

“Oh, right. That guy who talked to Andy at the hospital.”

“Right.” I got to my feet. “Your brother upstairs?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “Wait till you see his room. It looks like a Hallmark store. Oh, and Mom said don’t mention anything about him writing a book. She hopes he’ll forget about it.”

“He’s still talking about that?”

“Every once in a while.” She clipped her iPod to her lowrise jeans.

“Your mom home?”

“Went for a run.” She popped in the earbuds. “Later,” she said, pulling open the door.

Maggie wasn’t kidding about the Hallmark store, I thought as I walked into Andy’s room. Greeting cards were propped up on his desk and dresser and the windowsills. Tacked to the cork wall he used as his bulletin board, clustered around the charts Laurel had made to keep him organized. What I Do Before Going to Bed on a School Night: 1. Brush teeth 2. Wash face 3. Put completed homework in backpack. 4. Pick out clothes to wear to school. And on and on and on. Laurel was a very patient woman.

Andy was at his computer and he swiveled his chair around to face me.

“What’s with the cards?” I asked.

“They’re thank-yous.” He stood up and handed me one. The front was a picture of an artificially elongated dachshund. Inside it read, I want to extend my thanks. Then a handwritten note: Andy, you don’t know me, but I live in Rocky Mount and heard about what you did at the fire and just want you to know I’d want you around any time I needed help!