My parents came early on Monday morning to pick me up. They had brought me some clothes and were going to take me to school. They looked so tired and it wasn't because it was six in the morning. I had seen their six-o-clock-in-the-morning faces most of my life. This was the kind of tired that I would've associated with spending an evening futilely running away from lifeforce-draining space things.
Of course now I would associate the look with being up all night watching your house burn...

The car ride to school was silent. I was scared to ask what my parents were scared to answer. So far as I knew, only my parents, aunt, uncle, me, and my sister knew what happened. And all I knew was that there was something wrong with my sister because she never missed a day of school. But I couldn't ask. I was just a child. I still wasn't sure what had happened last night. Where was my sister? I didn't know if it was a dream. If it was, Joanie would be in the car and I wouldn't have spent last night coughing from the smoke in my lungs and hearing the radiator explode in every creak of the floorboards as my aunt's house settled. So I guess it wasn't a dream.

School was eerily normal. The red crayons colored out red. Connecticut was still part of the continental United States. One plus one equaled three, but only because I wasn't so good at math then.
And then it ended. And Joanie wasn't there to wait for mom with me.
My mother still came, but she seemed stuck somewhere else in her mind. So we waited a few minutes. When we pulled away from school, she told me that Joanie was at the hospital. I wanted to see her. So she took me.

I had only been at the hospital probably three times before that. In chronological order it would have been when I was born, when I got really sick after eating a praying mantis, and when my dad threw his back out which was partially my fault, so I felt obligated to go. I really just remember the ugliness of the hospital. It's a very intimidating atmosphere. The whites are too white. The lights glare too much. The nurses can be too cheerful and the patients can be too surly. The people I wouldn't mind so much, just the whiteness and how you can feel the sickness through the walls. You would sort of get used to it after a little bit, so I can understand how people can work there.
When we got there, we went down to the cafeteria to buy a drink, some food. Then we went to visit Joanie. She was in the part of the hospital where people nod sadly as you walk by.
My mom took me to the room. My father was standing next to Joanie's bed holding her hand, but staring at the wall.
"Noah..." My mother said gently.
He turned around, surprised to see her, even more surprised to see me.
"I thought we weren't going to... Not until..."
"He wanted to come."
They continued talking, and even though I knew I was center of their conversation, I ignored them. I walked up to my sister. Amidst the light and the white and the machines and everything in the room, she was so pretty, just sleeping there. If she was awake she probably would have been concerned that her hair was a mess. It was a fruitless conquest of hers because her hair was genetically untamable and she wouldn't accept that she looked fine no matter what her hair decided to do. It wasn't vanity. She just wanted her hair to look good.
I finally realized that my parents were watching me in silence. I looked up at them. My mother told me to give Joanie a hug and say good-bye. I guess we'd come back tomorrow. I hugged my father too, and then Mom took me home.

The fire hadn't really touched any of the bedrooms, but the rest of the house didn't fare too well. The neighbors had left casseroles and food on the front step and my mother smiled when she saw that. She pushed at the front door which swung open easily, partially unhinged from the firemen, and walked inside. There was a card table set up in the front room that she set all the stuff on. We got a few things together to stay at a hotel for the night.
The room had a microwave, so we were set. My mom and I were impressed with the cooking skills of our neighbors. She made some phonecalls after that - to friends, family, and finally to the hospital. That last call started to make her voice waver. She hung the phone up and turned to me.
"Josh... I think I need to go back to the hospital."
I nodded, "Ok."
She put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment.
"Mom?"
She composed herself and spoke again, "I... I don't want you to think I'm a bad mother. I love you so much. But I think I have to leave you here. But I need to go to the hospital."
"Ok."
"If I could bring you, I would."
"Ok."
"Oh Josh..."
She started to cry a little then. That just kills a guy inside. Rips their insides right out. Even as a kid, it's so hard to take. I can't stand to see a woman, a girl, a lady - I can't stand to see them cry. It hurts. Because they shouldn't be crying or hurting. I always feel that it's somehow my fault when I can't protect even a woman I don't know from being hurt. So I hugged her.
"I'll be fine." I thought I would be, at least.
"I can't leave you here, but I can't take you."
"I'll be fine."
"Don't open the door for anyone."
"I'll be fine, mom."
"I'll call you from the hospital."
"Ok. I'll be fine."
"Go to bed at a decent time."
"I'll be good."
She smiled, "I know. I'll be back soon."
"I know."
"I really hate leaving you."
"Mom..."
She really didn't want to go. But she had to, and she finally did.

Joanie died that night. The 28th of January. I don't mean to sound so casual. I don't know how else to write it though. My mother did call. She said that Joanie woke up for a little bit, she wished she had gotten to see me. She said she hoped to see me later. I fell asleep after the phone call. I woke up and my dad was sleeping next to me. He took me to school and told me on the way that she had died. It sort of seems harsh to do to a kid. But it wasn't. I kind of wanted to be at school so I could be with people and I could think or be distracted, whichever I wanted. My father talked to the teachers and everything and said I could call him if I wanted to leave. The only thing I really remember from that day at school was that some kid commented on hearing about the fire and how he heard that we lost our television set. I told him that I also lost my sister. His eyes got kind of wide then. I think that's how we became friends. Good old Dave.

That's really all I have to say about Joanie, I guess. My parents told me she had been found in their bedroom unconscious and that the exposure to the fire had hurt her. There wasn't much anyone could do for her. The funeral was in February.
Over the years, I never forgot her. I'd tell some people about her, others didn't know. 'Dying is a part of life, it's not anyone's fault.' I've been told that a few times and I know. Believe me, I know. I've seen death a few times in my life. Maybe more than a few times. I know it's part of life and it's no one's fault. Still, I rarely have popcorn anymore, and I always put the alcohol away when I'm done. Yes, I do feel a little guilty. She should have come outside with me. I know I was just a kid. We're all kids at some point. I understand that and I realize that I can't change things. I realize that I haven't visited her grave in a while. I really should. Tell her what her little brother has been up to. I hear it's good therapy.
Oh, and she still wears her necklace. My mother had firemen on their hands and knees searching for it while the last of the fire was smoldering. Lyman women can be very persuasive.





I'd like to thank my mom for her love and support and everything. Joanie, Dad... I miss you. Thanks to D.M. and T.Z. for the proofreading help and preventing me from making too big of an idiot of myself through my writing. I'll also thank my superiors because they allowed me to blow off at least two minutes a day to write this. I know I'll still have to make it up to them. I just ask that they don't come up with anything too heinous as compensation. Like footrubs or something. I'm probably just giving them ideas, so I had better stop. Big thanks to Aaron Sorkin. He's a bigger man than me and he's awesome and great and I promise not to make money off of the things I've borrowed from him. Thanks to myself for writing this and for not crying on the keyboard because then I probably would have had to buy a new one. And thanks to everyone who has read this for not telling everyone they know that sometimes I cry. Because I don't cry. Well, not very often. Really. Don't tell anyone. I can find out where you live. Seriously.

Maybe I'll continue this later with some more recent events - like the shooting at Rosslyn or something. But you wouldn't want to hear about that...