You Could Have Saved Her Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Elizabeth Ballew

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of nay part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  ISBN: 978-1-7337908-4-0

  Printed in the United States of America

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com.

  First printing edition 2021.

  Blue Elephant Press

  www.elizabethballew.com

  This book is for you.

  (You know who you are).

  “If you feel like you don’t fit into the world you inherited, it is because you were born to help create a new one.”

  -Ross Caligiuri

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  Black silk swayed like curtains caught in a breeze around my waist, falling against my legs as I paced. Chairs lined the isles, waiting to be filled with friends, family, and strangers seeking recognition. Quiet sobs and whispered condolences echoed through the sanctuary as a line of people snaked around the room and in front of the open caskets. Violet Carmichael lay inside. Wife and mother painted with make-up and dressed in her best whites. Her face held a serene expression, content in death.

  My grandmother stood at the front, her face red and puffy, wet with tears as she stared down at her daughter. Rose Carmichael wiped eyes as she thanked everyone for coming. My mother would have laughed at the show, knowing all the woman cared about was how she looked to the world. Delicate black lace draped over her shoulders covered every inch of her milky skin, but it added to her subtle beauty. She swept her dark, flowing hair to one side, styled into a low bun, not a strand out of place. Together with her husband, she stood in front of my mother’s casket. The perfect family.

  In the movies, experiencing death often brought families together, but the death of my mother only tore ours apart. I never knew my father, he left before my sister and I were even born. When my mother died, my sister, Lily, ran away without so much as a goodbye. The only thing she left behind was a note with five words: I can’t stay. I’m sorry, leaving me to deal with the aftermath.

  Pain pierced my stomach as I approached the wooden prison where my mother would remain until her body broke down into dirt and dust. I walked with lead weights dragging behind me, each step heavier that the last. My heart thundered in my ears as memories of fire consumed my thoughts, and I cupped my sleeve-covered arm, letting my fingers trail along the burn there to remind myself to focus on the present.

  “Calla, come stand with us,” my grandmother said with a wave of her hand, and I forced my feet to move forward despite the effort it cost.

  To my grandparents, appearance was everything. The Carmichaels must present ourselves as the perfect family, caring, heartbroken, shattered. Not to say that my grandmother wasn’t grieving, but she always did what was expected, and it was expected for me to stand at the front with them as we mourned the loss of a life.

  I took a breath, filling my lungs with the grief and sorrow of the room, as I took the final step forward. The step brought my mother’s face into view, and bile rose in my throat. The skin of her face, usually beautiful, unmarred, had harsh scars covering one side. What she must have gone through, what she suffered to earn such horrible scars.

  Visitors came through the line, bearing hugs and practiced words of kindness.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “She’s in a better place now.”

  “She’ll be missed.”

  “She will never be forgotten.”

  Others came bearing sympathy cards and flowers. So many flowers. My mother loved flowers. Hearing the names of her daughters was all anyone had to do to come to this realization. Violet Carmichael named her identical twin daughters Calla and Lily – the two halves of her favorite flower.

  “Calla, stand up straight. Show some respect for your mother,” my grandmother admonished low enough so only I heard, and once again I cursed Lily for leaving me alone.

  I straightened my back like a shotgun snapping into place, fists clenched at my sides, angry that I couldn’t mourn my own mother because I was too busy making sure I protected my grandmother’s image. Is that why Lily left? Resentment coursed through me. I resented that my mother died without getting the chance to say goodbye. I resented my sister for leaving when she should have stayed by my side. I resented my grandmother for caring more about appearances than her own granddaughter’s wishes.

  Complete strangers came through the line, telling exaggerated stories of adventures that did or didn’t happen. Two girls came through the line. Their lack of painful sorrow and cackling laughter captured my attention. They shook the hands of my grandparents before making their way in my direction, pausing over my mother with an audible gasp. My teeth clenched as I fought not to voice my anger.

  “Calla, my goodness, I can’t believe what happened. Are you alright? I can’t image how hard this is for you. I bet you feel horrible surviving the fire when your mom died. Do you have survivor’s guilt?” one of the girls asked.

  “I know I would,” the other agreed.

  Angry tears threatened to spill, clogging my throat and making it difficult to speak. I swallowed hard, fighting not to scream at this girl I barely knew that was triggering memories I’d rather not see.

  “Calla, answer your friend,” my grandmother said.

  “We’re not friends.”

  My grandmother gasped as the two girls looked taken aback by my statement. She couldn’t believe I dared to do anything other than comply with her wishes. Lily knew how to interact with her, knew how to traverse the minefield that was Rose Carmichael, but Lily wasn’t here.

  My shoes tapped on the tile floor in the main foyer as I rushed out of the church, ignoring my grandmother’s outraged protests. Kicked off in my haste, they clattered to the ground. The cool grass shocked my bare feet, and my dress pooled when I bent to pick them up. Yanking the elastic out of my hair, I let the red strands cascade down my back.

  My grandmother’s voice called from the porch, heels clicking against stone. I imagined her perfect bun bouncing with each step.

  “Calla, what do you think you’re doing out here? You should be inside with your family, showing your support. You are being awfully rude. All these people are here to see you, to honor your mother’s memory, and you just-”

  “Nobody’s here to see me,” I snapped, my hair slapped me in the face as I turned to look at her. “These people are here to show how nice and sympathetic they are. You think any of them actually care if I’m in there or not? The only people that care are you and grandpa, and that’s only because it would look bad if I wasn’t. We wouldn’t want anyon
e to think we’re not the perfect family, would we?”

  She reared back, eyes filled with hurt and indignance as she covered her mouth.

  “What about your mother? Don’t you think you would want her in there if the roles were reversed?” she asked.

  A rush of emotion boiled in the pit of my stomach, threatening to burst. Heat filled my cheeks, hands clenched in an effort to restrain myself from doing something I’d later regret. Memories of fire and screams of agonizing pain clouded my vision as I sought something to ground myself against the onslaught of rage. Rose Carmichael raised her brow and tapped the toe of her polished shoe against the pavement, waiting.

  “I don’t know; why don’t you ask her? Oh wait, you can’t.” I snatched my shoes and threw them in the car. “If you’re really that concerned about how you look, you can always trade places with her. I’m sure she and the world would be much better off.”

  Ducking into the driver’s seat of my Honda Civic, I slammed the door behind me and immediately felt the weight of my words. Rolling down the window, I sighed.

  “I’m sorry. That was cruel, but I can’t do this. I can’t stand in there and pretend like everything is normal because it isn’t.”

  My mother’s death was tragic, awful, and everyone had their own ways of dealing with loss. I wish I didn’t feel like the world would be a better place if I died in that fire instead of her.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, her voice small.

  “Home.”

  “You’re not going to stay for the funeral? Or the burial? Don’t you care about your mother’s wishes at all?” she asked, her suit jacket rising with the tension in her shoulders.

  “Me? You’re the one who doesn’t care about her wishes,” I snapped.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Mom wanted to be cremated. She didn’t want a sad funeral like this one where everyone was crying and giving false condolences. She wanted people to talk about happy memories they had of her and to tell funny stories. This funeral isn’t for anyone other than yourself,” I cried, getting louder and more emotional with each word before rolling the window back up.

  She knocked on the door, pulling the handle to get inside, but I’d already pressed the little black button, denying her entrance. The car revved to life, and I shifted into reverse.

  The apartment Lily and I shared was a two-hour drive from the little town we grew up in, next to the university. The large city a far cry from what we were used to. The week after Fall Break meant mid-term exams were close. I needed to get back and study or my future held more than one makeup exam. My professors understood my need to grieve after everything that happened, but that didn’t mean their patience never ended. I couldn’t expect everyone to make exceptions for me forever. Eventually, I would have to catch up or I’d end up watching all of my friends walk across the stage without me.

  “Why did it have to turn out this way?”

  The heavy weight of silence filled the car, settling into the pit of my stomach. Why did a fire have to kill my mother but leave me alive? Why did my sister have to run away, leaving me alone with the aftermath? Why did life have to be so damn terrible? The devastating reality that stood before me showed no signs any of my questions would be answered. Many never were, and that terrified me.

  The drive back home left me alone with my thoughts, anger-filled, confusing, grief-ridden thoughts. Each mile that passed brought more and more to the surface. You hear about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, but what happened if you never made it to the end? How anybody could come to accept death, I didn’t understand.

  My sleeves slid up as I gripped the steering wheel, revealing the bottom of the burn scar wrapped around my right arm.

  “Lily? Mom? Where are you?”

  The memories flashed through my mind. My own voice, terrified, confused, filled the silent space of the car.

  The rising smoke made it difficult to breathe, and my coughing drowned out the sound of any replies. I opened the door, and flames licked up the walls in the hallway, leaving it impossible to cross.

  I screamed for Lily over and over again, but my sister didn’t respond. Or she couldn’t respond.

  Doing my best to escape the burning house, I covered my mouth and nose with my sleeve and scanned the lower level through the scorched handrail. The fire consumed everything in its path. There was nothing I could do.

  I clenched my teeth and forced down the screams in my head, not wanting to remember those final moments. My mother’s voice, Lily’s voice, my voice. How no one heard our cries of fear and excruciating pain, I’d never understand. No one realizes how loud the sound of fire could be. It’s a sound I wouldn’t soon forget.

  I jumped as the loud speakers in my car started ringing, jerking me out of my reverie. Sighing, I pressed the little green phone icon on the steering wheel.

  “I can’t believe you said that to your grandmother. Do you know how upset she is? She hasn’t stopped crying since you left,” my grandfather’s angry tone echoed in the car. “That is so disrespectful. Your sister never would have done that, and if your mother was alive, she wouldn’t have stood for it either. You have a lot of apologizing to do, young lady.”

  My mouth opened to respond, but I quickly shut it, cutting off my retort. I did feel bad for what I said, but that didn’t mean I was ready to apologize for it. I also wasn’t ready to move on from my anger at the way they treated me either.

  “What do you want me to say?” I asked.

  “For starters, why don’t you explain why you left the funeral before it was over? Then you can explain why you were so rude to your grandmother,” he said.

  The steering wheel groaned under my tightened fists, and I struggled to unclench my teeth. My anger rose with each word as his voice grated against my frayed nerves.

  “I couldn’t be there anymore,” I said, forcing myself to keep my voice calm.

  “That’s it? You couldn’t be there anymore? Do you think any of us wanted to be there? Your mother is gone, our daughter, and you don’t even have the decency to stay for her funeral. She would have-”

  “Mom is dead! We don’t know what she would have wanted because we can’t ask her, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I can’t go back and take her place. I can’t change the fact that the fire started downstairs next to her room. My mother is dead, and I can’t deal with all those people pretending like they knew her, like they cared about her. None of them even know who she is… was.“

  My voice cracked, “They don’t know what her favorite food was or that her favorite color was purple. No one knows that she loved paddle boarding and bike riding. No one knew how much she loved books but never had the time to read. Nobody really knew her at all, and now I’ll never get to see her again. I don’t care about what other people think of me, and I don’t care that I upset you and grandma by leaving. I’m sorry about what I said, but I’m not coming back. I have to go,” I said, tears falling freely down my face. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up the ph-” His voice cut off as I ended the call before shutting the phone down completely.

  Our apartment building, normally bustling with energy and excitement, felt stagnant. This was a complex mostly inhabited by college students who were probably either in class or studying for exams. I guess it was my apartment now, but there was no way I’d be able to afford rent with Lily gone.

  As I entered the room that used to fill me with joy and peace, now only reminded me of my loneliness. Even with the light streaming in through the large living room sliding glass doors, the room felt dim. An air of gloom filled the too small space. Shadows strewn along the walls and floor, leaving the furniture in a shroud of darkness. The overhead lights blinked on with the flip of a switch, their fluorescence harsh. I pulled back the blinds, looking outside. Storm clouds reared overhead, creating an ominous sky. Maybe it grieved as well.

  “Fire
blazed a path up the curtained windows, and heat surrounded me as every fiber of my being told me to run. Get out of the house now. There was no time to think about what I should or shouldn’t save, and there wasn’t time to figure out if everyone else got out safely. My bedroom was on the second floor which meant there was nowhere for me to go but out,” I explained.

  Twirling my ring between my fingertips, I pulled my knees to my chest and snorted. “You know, in school, they teach you to stop, drop, and roll, but that doesn’t really help when the fire is consuming everything in its path. They also taught the importance of having an escape route, but what are you supposed to do when you have nowhere to go? I remembered when we first moved here, my sister mentioned that we should get rope ladders for the windows. Our mother agreed, but it was something we could do later. Tomorrow. We’ll go to the store tomorrow. They must be cheaper online, let’s order them. We always thought there would be time, so we put it off. No one ever expects that time to run out.”

  “We’ve gone over this before, are you sure you don’t want to talk about something else. This is your last session with me after all,” my therapist said as I stared at the floor.

  I shook my head. At first, my grandparents’ condition of continuing to pay for school enraged me, but truth be told, I wasn’t ready for this to be the last session. There was still so much anger and resentment inside me that I struggled to talk in normal conversations, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her how I still had nightmares almost every night and how I woke up in strange places sometimes. How I would black out without drinking a drop of alcohol and had missing time. No, if I told her the truth, my next stop wouldn’t be college, it would be locked up in an insane asylum.

  Dr. Carter sighed. “Why don’t we talk about your guilt. When you first started seeing me, you said you thought you heard footsteps down the hall and that’s what woke you up originally, before you even smelled the smoke.”