The Last Straw

by Danielle Milano

It’s our first full night in our new home, and it almost became our last. We have been married for three years, Mr. and Mrs. James and Emma Wilson. I was frying chicken to go with store-bought potato salad and Kraft macaroni and cheese. I prefer to cook everything from scratch, but most of our things were still in boxes. James would be home in thirty minutes, and I wanted dinner to be ready when he arrived.

I hummed as the grease warmed and began to pop. I seasoned and coated the chicken, then put it in the grease. I wiped the splatter of the grease off the stove. As the chicken fried, I turned the fan above the stove on. I went back to unpacking a box full of clothes.

POP! I went back to the kitchen to find a huge splatter of grease all over the stove. The grease was burning on the surface of the stove and small flames were popping up everywhere. There was grease on the counter, the vent and even on the bottom of the cabinets.

I got a towel and smothered the small flames on the counter, but the flames on the stove were another story. I tried to smother the flames with the towel, but the towel caught fire. I put the towel in the sink and turned the water on. The towel was rendered useless, as part of it had burned off completely, and the rest was scorched and brittle.

Fire extinguisher! I looked under the sink, in the pantry, even outside in the storage room, but there was no fire extinguisher. How could we not have a fire extinguisher? Did the previous owners take it with them?

I ran back to the kitchen, slowing to a stop as I saw how quickly the flames had advanced. Fire was on the counter again, reaching up to the vent, spreading to the cabinets. My arms fell limp. This is not happening. Fire reached the ceiling, peeling the paint. I watched as the paint turned yellow, then brown, then black.

No. I will not lose the house James worked so hard and saved so much for. I had always been accident-prone. It was common for me to trip over my own feet, cut myself while chopping vegetables or fall down a flight of stairs for no reason. We’ve met the deductible on our health insurance every year. That’s all because of me. James was concerned that people would start thinking I’m a battered woman. He sounded as if he was joking when he said it, but I think he was at least partially serious. Now this. This was going to be the last straw.

I couldn’t get the salt since it was in the cabinet, which was burning. Of course, I wasn’t thinking about salt at the time. Our new house was on fire, and I had to do something. I had to stop it. I got a bucket, filled it with water, and threw it on the flames.

FWUMP! The flames grew even more, and I remembered why water wasn’t my first response. “This is a grease fire,” I said, slapping the palm of my hand to my forehead. The best thing to do would have been to call for help, but my eyes watered and then they burned. I coughed. I inhaled nothing but smoke. Smoke burned my nostrils and the back of my throat.

Then the smoke alarms started going off. I must’ve been right under one, pain shot right between my ears. I fell to the ground and began to crawl, but I couldn’t see, and I didn’t know where I was going. I had been rendered blind, deaf and mute. I crawled blindly out of the kitchen, eyes still watering, burning. I bumped into walls. I bumped into boxes. Boxes were everywhere, blocking my path. I was lost in my own home.

Where is my phone? I didn’t know. I didn’t even know where I was. I felt the edge of a doorway and crawled in. Thankfully, the door was open. I felt something cool, round and smooth. It turned out to be a toilet, and now I knew where I was. I was in one of the bathrooms, but of course all the towels are in a box in our bedroom.

I splashed water in my eyes, which helped. I could see that I crawled in the opposite direction from my phone. I left it in the master bedroom. I was in the other bathroom. Since I could see a little better, I crawled to a window in one of the guest bedrooms. Of course, my throat was still on fire, but at least I could get out. I opened the window and pushed until the screen fell out.

“Over here!” Someone yelled, and then strong hands grabbed me and pulled me out. “Ma’am, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I coughed in response, nodded my head, then shook it, hopefully answering both questions.

“Don’t try to talk, ma’am, that’s okay.” He looked at someone and said, “Smoke inhalation.”

They took me to the back of an ambulance and gave me oxygen. Our new yard was full of fire trucks, police officers and an ambulance. How did this happen? Who called them?

I watched as firefighters enter with a hose through the window I had exited. Within minutes, they came out the front door with smoke following. They gave a thumbs-up.

I sighed. Now to deal with my husband’s reaction when he sees the condition of the beautiful new house he entrusted me with while he worked. He came running towards me. He hugged me tight then looked me over.

I tried to smile but burst into tears instead. I took a pen out of his shirt and motioned for a piece of paper. We need a fire extinguisher, I wrote.