Written by Emma Breckwoldt
Illustrated by Sarah Cheng
"She could have stopped it. She could have. But instead, she watched it burn."
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The water washed over Amy’s feet, bubbles from the wave invading her toes. She looked out towards the water. The full moon provided enough light to see the waves as they came to shore. She focused on the waves, in and out, because she couldn’t turn around. She kept looking ahead because she couldn’t look back. If she did, she would have to look at her past collapsing into ruin. It was an accident, she would tell them. A candle left out, a straightener kept plugged into an old socket. It was an old house, after all. No one was hurt. Just an accident.
•••••
12 hours earlier
Amy sat on her front porch swing as he drove away. His old Ford pickup truck that she had grown up fixing for him sputtered as it went down the road and out of view. The swing creaked as she sat there, trying to prepare what was to come.
When her father had called and said that he needed to talk with her, she thought that he found a new girl to be his wife for a year or two. That’s what he normally told her when he would come back to town. The house she lived in on the beach was technically his, but she was almost done saving up to buy it for herself. He never complained about paying taxes for it. But then again, they didn’t talk enough for him to complain. This house was the one place in the world where she felt safe. Ever since she finished high school, she had lived there full time. At eighteen, she had grown tired of driving to her father’s house to a different woman each weekend and made her father let her live at his beach house. She promised that she would call him all the time and visit when he asked. She found a job as a bartender at the local dive bar just down the street. Her whole life existed in a one-mile radius from this three-bedroom two bath. Soon, she would be able to call it her own house and mean it.
So now, when Thomas pulled into the driveway, but no skinny blonde got out, Amy worried. If there wasn’t a new girl, she didn’t know what he could tell her.
“How are you?” he asked as they walked to the living room. She had glasses of lemonade ready for them with some chocolate chip cookies, her diet from ages four to ten.
“I just got promoted to manager at the bar, which is exciting.” Amy sat down on the couch, but Thomas stayed standing.
“That’s very exciting. Congrats.” He looked down at his beat-up Converse, unable to make eye contact with his only remaining blood relative.
“So, what do you need to talk about Dad? You can sit down--it is your house after all.” she tried to laugh, but it came out forced and loud. She shifted into the pink chair next to the couch, where he gingerly sat down.
“Actually, the house is what I want to talk to you about.”
“What about it? I have been saving and almost have enough to buy it.” She was going to surprise him with the money, but she couldn’t resist seeing his pride for his capable daughter.
“That’s really sweet, but I’m afraid... it’s too late.” He held his hands in his hands.
“What do you mean, too late?”
“Well, I have been struggling with money recently. My divorce with Amber. And, well, I have gotten very behind on some payments. And, the bank. They are taking the house.”
“You’re out of money, again?” she asked. He didn’t reply, which angered her. “What? It’s mine!”
“I know. But it was all in contracts and everything. It’s real adult stuff. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You can come back and live with me until you find a place you can afford.” He looked down at her, but now it was Amy who couldn’t look at him.
“Dad, how could you let this happen?” Looking back on it, she wasn’t surprised he ran himself into so much debt that he lost the one thing she valued.
“I’m so sorry Amy. It’s just how the world works, I’m afraid. It was either to give up the beach house or lose my house.” He took a sip from his lemonade.
She felt betrayed. More than when he married wife number two, Marianne, after Amy met her one week before.
“This is my house. You can come live with me. You can still visit the beach. This house is old anyway.” He pointed to the peeling paint that used to be blue, but now was closer to grey.
Amy took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe it.
“When are they taking it?” She was expecting in a few months, or at least a few weeks, but not —
“Sunday”
“That’s in two days. How am I supposed to pack up everything in two days?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re not.” Amy stood up.
Thomas reached out for her. “When you grow up, you will understand.”
“Are you saying I’m not grown up? I basically raised myself. I worked my way up to be the fricking manager. I might not have married everyone that came along like you have, but don’t say I’m not grown up.” Amy yelled.
“Don’t speak to me like that. I am your father, and I have been very generous over the years. I have paid for this house even after I wanted to sell it five years ago, and it has run me into the fucking ground.” He stood up too, now towering seven inches over her.
“Don’t blame this house for your downfall, Dad. You can only blame you and your stupidity. I had a feeling that this would happen one day. That’s why I have been saving. But I guess I couldn’t prepare fast enough for your downfall.”
There was a long silence.
“Well, let me know if you want me to drive some stuff in the truck for you on Sunday.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Amy pushed past him to the front of the house and planted herself on the rusting porch swing until her father left.
•••••
CRASH.
She turned around to see the top floor and the bottom floor become one heaping pile. The firemen were still pouring water on the flames as the stars faded against the rising sun, but it wasn’t going out. The fire wasn’t as red as she expected it to be. It was more of an orange, like a tangerine where it was at its ripest. Ashes were coming out and greying the air. Parts of her house, her walls, escaping her and joining the world. But they had never truly been hers, she realized. She had just been pretending, living in a world where she had everything she wanted.
She really didn’t mean to start the fire, at least until the match was lit. She was lighting the candle in the kitchen, but as she held the match, she hesitated. She looked up at the curtains with pink flowers and lots of stains. Her mom paid for them, and now they were the bank’s. She held the match ever so closely to them, and before it really touched the fabric, it started. The pink flowers turned red, then orange, then black. The fire licked its way up and up.
She could have stopped it. She could have.
But instead, she watched it burn.
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