“We got something going on here,” Dave says to his partner.
Together, they walk down the hallway. Through the water. Getting deeper. Flooding the house.
They reach the bathroom door.
With head nods and hand signals, they talk to each other.
Are you ready to go in?
Yes.
Okay, on three.
One, two, three.
Dave turns the knob and pushes against the door.
It’s locked.
No, it’s just stuck. A difficult door. Dave pushes hard. The door screeches open.
And they see two toddlers, a boy and a girl, two or three years old, lying still on the floor.
Covered with burns: their legs, their backs, their bellies.
Hot-water scalds.
The tub faucet pours out water. Overfills the tub. Floods the room.
It’s cold water now. Ice cold. But it was boiling hot when it overflowed the tub, when the two babies were trapped by the difficult door, when they screamed so loud that the neighbor could hear them, but not so loud that it woke their parents from their drunken stoned slumber.
“Oh, my God! Oh…my…God!” Dave shouts. “Get an ambulance here, now, now, now!”
Dave’s partner calls for help.
Dave kneels down in the water and picks up the babies, one in each arm. Their eyes are open and blue and blind. They’re gone.
Dave cries.
He wants to go back in time. He only needs to travel back an hour — just one hour — and he’ll be able to save these kids. He’ll take them away from their terrible parents, from this terrible life, and he’ll love them. He’ll keep them safe.
“They were just babies,” Dave says to me. “Helpless little babies. I couldn’t save them. I was too late.”
I don’t know what to say.
Dave weeps. I weep with him.
He leans against the bars of my cell. I don’t know if I’m the one in jail, or if he is.
Twenty-one
AFTER MONTHS OF COUNSELING, social work, mental therapy, and absolute boredom, the medical professionals and social workers and cops decide that I am not going to kill anybody. I am not dangerous.
Really, that’s what they say to me: “Zits, we don’t think you’re dangerous.”
How am I supposed to respond to something like that?
“Oh, uh, thank you, ma’am.”
I mean, jeez, I’m a fifteen-year-old foster kid with a history of fire setting, time traveling, body shifting, and mass-murder contemplation. I think I’m a lot more than just dangerous.
I think I might be unlovable.
But as dangerous and unlovable as I am, the state places me in a temporary foster home.
With Officer Dave’s brother and sister-in-law.
“They don’t have any kids,” Officer Dave says. “But they always wanted a baby.”
I don’t think I exactly qualify as a bouncing baby boy, but who am I to complain?
“Is your brother a cop?” I ask.
“He’s a fireman,” Dave says. “My other brother works for the post office.”
“Jesus,” I say. “You guys are like the civil servant hall of fame or something.”
Dave laughs. I always could make him laugh. I hope I can make his brother laugh.
Man, I can’t believe that a firefighter is going to be my new foster father, but it does make some kind of metaphorical sense, doesn’t it?
I guess they really want me to be under close supervision. Well, I’m happy it’s only going to be temporary. I’ll go crazy living with a firefighter. They always walk around looking for smoke.
I want to ask Dave why he’s sending me to his brother. Why doesn’t Dave just take care of me by himself? I think I know the answer. I think he’s scared of disappointing me.
The social workers deliver me to the firefighter’s house in the middle of the night, like some sort of major-league prisoner or something. They don’t have me in handcuffs, but I feel handcuffed, if you know what I mean.
They put me in this little bedroom. And I lie there in the dark and wonder if I can fall asleep in a strange bed. But I fall asleep while worrying that I might not fall asleep.
The alarm clock wakes me up at 7 A.M. It plays Blood, Sweat & Tears. Really.
That song called “I Love You More Than You Will Ever Know.” The one my mother used to sing to me.
It makes me want to gag. How cruel is this? I’m living in a firefighter’s house and the alarm plays my mother’s favorite song.
I turn off the music, go into the bathroom, and pee for two minutes.
Then I walk out into the kitchen.
Officer Dave is eating breakfast with his brother and sister-in-law: oatmeal and fruit and sausage. It smells great. Dave and the firefighter are wearing their uniforms. The wife is wearing a nurse’s uniform. And she’s kind of hot, you know. She’s really tall and has long brown hair and brown eyes. Her cheekbones are big, too, like Indian cheekbones. I wonder if she’s a little bit Indian. She smells pretty great, too. She smells even better than the oatmeal, fruit, and sausage.
“Good morning,” she says to me. “Do you want some oatmeal?”
“Whatever,” I say, and sit down.
The firefighter looks at me. He’s not reading a newspaper. He’s not ignoring me. He looks right at me.
“My name is Robert,” he says and offers his hand. I take it. We shake like gentlemen.
Officer Dave stares at me, too. I think he’s thinking about those two babies in the bathroom. I wonder if he’ll always look at me and see those two babies in the bathroom. I hope not. I hope someday he looks at me and just sees me.
“Hey, Zits,” he says. “After work today, I’m thinking all of us men should go to the Mariners game. What do you think?”
I want to say Whatever, but it doesn’t come out that way. I realize that Dave isn’t leaving me to his brother. Dave is going to take care of me, too. That makes sense, I suppose. I need as many fathers as possible.
“You ever been to a baseball game?” Robert asks me.
“I’ve never seen one in person,” I say.
A baseball game! Jesus, how American. Next thing you know, Dave and the firefighter and I will be playing catch in the backyard.
“Well, I got some tickets,” Dave says.
“They’re shitty seats,” Robert says. “My brother is a cheap-ass bastard. We’re going to be way up in the sky. Behind home plate. But they’re fun anyway. We’ll watch the game and eat hot dogs and drink lemonade. How does that sound?”
Before I can answer, his wife speaks up.
“You will not eat junk,” she says. “I’ll pack you some fruits and vegetables. And you’ll drink water. Lots of water.”
She smiles at me. Her teeth are the brightest teeth in the world. Every one of those teeth is a statue of somebody beautiful.
“My name is Mary,” she says. “I’m happy you’re here with us.”
“It’s only temporary,” I say.
“Well, Robert and I are hoping to make it permanent,” she says. “How does that sound to you?”
For a second, I can’t even remember what that word means. For a moment, I forget that the word permanent ever existed.
“Wow,” I say. “Permanent might be pretty cool.”
I look at Dave. He’s smiling. How often do cops smile? Not very much, I guess, because Dave’s smile is goofy and big. If he knew how goofy and big it was, he’d practice more.
He’s trying to save me. And he’s smiling about it. I guess that’s okay. Maybe I can save him, too.
“Okay, kid,” he says. “We got to go. I’ll see you back here after work.”
Robert kisses Mary and leaves. Dave tousles my hair and leaves. Yes, he tousles my hair. No father has tousled a kid’s hair since 1955. I wonder if I have dropped into some weird time-travel thing again. But no, Dave is just a decent guy. Wow.