Faces

If Isadora shut her eyes, she could sort of remember her parents. She wished she remembered them better. For two years now, they had been dead. The pain hadn't eased—if anything, it had gotten worse, even though pain should've healed with time—but Isadora wished she could remember them.

It was funny, how she couldn't really drag up their faces anymore. She had been twelve then they died, and Isadora was sure she could've been able to remember their faces. But it seemed like the more time came between their deaths and now, the less she could remember the way they looked.

Isadora could remember things they said, and did, and taught her, but she couldn't remember them. When she slept, her dreams always brought her back to the night of the fire. For the first few months after their deaths, it was perfectly clear—her mother running, screaming for them to get out, the fire is spreading, hurry, we'll be okay just go, Isadora!—but slowly, everything disintegrated. The fear was fuzzier around the edges. Her mother's features faded into a blank mask. The room was the memorable shade of gray marble and white walls, but the paintings were just blurry pictures with gilded frames. The decorations and furniture was sort of there, indistinguishable from the rest of the room. Her mother's dress was clearly green, but the pattern and details on it weren't visible.

The idea, the basics of what had happened were obvious. But the things Isadora wanted to remember, wanted desperately, weren't there. There were no photos to remind her, and Duncan didn't like talking about it.

She dropped off to sleep. The dream started again. It was so familiar to her.

"Roses are red, violets are blue—"

Isadora Quagmire, twelve years old, chuckled as she read her first poem. She had made it when she was six. It was so terrible, Isadora didn't really like looking at it. But it was nice to see how you improved.

Isadora could hear shouting going on downstairs. The house was unusually warm. Isadora shook her head and smiled. Her father was so obsessed with the heat. Her mother hated when the house was too hot. That must be it.

But wait.

There was a sizzling, crackling, popping sound that reminded Isadora of the time when her father had lit a fire in the fireplace on Christmas. The shouting had turned into screaming, and then Isadora could hear her mother's footsteps, quick and heavy, on the stairs. The door flew open. Mrs. Quagmire looked harried and scared.

"Isadora, you have to get out of the house."

"Huh?" Isadora frowned. Get out of the house?

"There's a fire. Your father is getting Duncan and Quigley. Go, Isadora!"

Isadora didn't like running, but she pounded down the stairs and then stopped, her heart beating so fast she could hardly believe it.

There, below to her left, was a fire, rich with shades of red and orange and yellow and maybe a little black. It hissed like a snake, knowing what havoc it was wreaking and enjoying it.

Isadora wasn't sure how long she stood there, but then she felt a shove on her back, and her mother yelling.

"Get out, the fire's spreading! Isadora, don't wait! Go! Hurry, we'll be all right, just go, get to safety—go, Isadora!"

Her mind wouldn't take it any farther than that. It hurt too much to remember the agonizing walk to Briny Beach—the safe haven, somewhere her parents always told her to go in an emergency, because they could always find the way there—the wait, Duncan joining her. The fall of night, the walk back. The house in shambles. The ashes that held their lives. Their world in tatters.

They hadn't known what to do. In desperation, they had walked to the Squalor house. Jerome Squalor was a friend of their parents. He would know what to do.

A few days later, they had been enrolled in Prufrock Prep. Meeting the Baudelaires...Isadora fast-forwarded those memories. She rewound, forcing herself past the fire to their last Christmas as a family.

"Mother?"

"Yes?"

"Will you always be here for us?"

Isadora's mother had smiled. "As long as I can, dear, and I can assure you that will be a very, very long time."

But it hadn't, had it?

Had her mother remembered this when she died?

If Isadora thought hard enough, she could remember her mother vaguely. The way her mouth looked when she smiled or the way her voice was soft whenever Isadora asked her serious questions. The way she would let a little, squirming baby Isadora sit on her lap and read poetry with her. The way she would laugh a melodic laugh whenever Isadora mangled up the words trying to say them as a little girl—"A pleezant wall-k, a pleezant tall-k, along the Brinny Bee-aac-ha."

If Isadora shut her eyes, she could let in the memories of parents who loved her. But at the same time, she was letting memories in of things she could never get back.

Why can't I ever write happy? I mean, I have some issues there or something. Oh well. Yeah. Too late at night for me to think up a good author's note.

- Emily