The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [155]
I turned away, sickened; there was nowhere to look any longer, no escape to try—all was hopeless. Sliding to the floor, I buried my face in my hands because I couldn’t bear to look at Charles. For the first time in my life, I was all out of ideas. Charles slid down next to me and, like a loyal, trusting puppy, laid his head on my lap. Automatically, I began to smooth his brow.
My heart, which had been racing so fast, fueling my fear and desperation, began to slow down, and I was painfully aware of it, wondering how much longer it would continue to beat, wondering what would come first—the smoke, or the flames. Oh! A great cry almost tore my heart open right then; I did not want to die! Not in this way—smoke was beginning to snake in beneath the closed door, despite my wadded-up dresses. But we could not jump—not six floors! That was too high for even a normal-size person; for us, it would be like jumping from an even greater height.
Had Minnie known, just before her heart stopped beating, that it was her last breath? Oh, Minnie! Had she forgiven me? Had she even blamed me, in the first place? Before she died—and she must have known that she was dying; she must have known she could not keep losing so much blood—had she been angry? I was angry now—I was furious! To think that I would die here in this way—why, if there had been someone nearby whom I felt was responsible, I would have yelled, I would have screamed, I would have accused and blamed.
But Minnie hadn’t done that, and so, as I strained to see her dear face one more time—but the smoke was so thick it was obscuring my memories as well as my vision—I had to believe that she wasn’t angry with me, that she didn’t blame me. If only I could forgive myself—
And then my eyes flew open wider as I peered through the smoke, trying to see one last image; my heart, with one final, mighty burst of energy, opened up and flooded my sinking spirits with one last thought. It was of a face; it was of an apology. It was of an acknowledgment that there was one person I would miss—and one person that I hoped would miss me. But that could happen only if I forgave us both.
Charles was coughing, his head still buried in my lap. So was I—my chest was already aching from the effort, although I hadn’t realized it. My throat was burning, as were my eyes; perspiration was running down my neck, between my breasts, my thighs.
But I had strength enough left to whisper, “I’m sorry, I was wrong, I forgive us both, I forgive you—” His name was upon my lips; that name I had withheld, for no reason. For every reason.
I was just about to utter it, wondering if it would be the last word I ever spoke, when I heard a voice cut through my fading consciousness.
“Hello?” it said, in a brogue almost as thick as the smoke filling the room. The wall behind my back shuddered, and an enormous thud was heard in the window above my head. “And would there be anyone in here now?”
I leaped up, knocking Charles to the floor; there, in the window, was the tip of a ladder, and a round, beautiful, blessed Irish face, covered in grime and wearing a fireman’s hat, staring at me.
“Oh! Thank Providence!” I burst into tears; I couldn’t believe that he was real. I climbed upon the chair just so I could touch his face; without a word, he grabbed my arm and started to haul me over the windowsill.
“Wait! I can’t—” I gazed down at the ladder; there was no way I could traverse it, for the rungs were far too widely spaced. “I can’t climb down! And my husband is here!”
“Your husband?” The fireman blinked, just as Charles scrambled up on the chair next to me. The three of us stared at one another for an almost comical moment, considering the circumstances. “Ach—you’re wee! Both of you!”
“Yes, and we can’t climb down the ladder ourselves!”
“Then