Chapter Two
When I was six, all I wanted to be was a princess. I spent hours playing on my own in my room with my wooden castle and pretend princesses I’d made out of wooden spoons, glitter and fabric. They would spend all day dancing in dresses with princes and they would ride white horses into the night. I believed so whole-heartedly that I could be one too. I was already a princess to someone after all; my dad.
My dad was my best friend. We stayed up until late playing with my castle or I would dress up and sit on his back and he would parade around the house on his hands and knees, pretending to be a horse. I swayed my long blonde hair from side to side as he did so. I would giggle uncontrollably as he made horse noises as we went through the kitchen and my mom would look at us while washing the dishes, eyebrows raised but her eyes smiling. Then she would call to my dad that it was time for me to go to bed and he would look at me and roll his eyes, as if she were his mother and I would giggle even more. Then he would buck me off his back, scoop me up and tuck me up to sleep. And every night he kissed my forehead six times, one for every year of my life, and told me how much he loved me.
He was a fire-fighter where we lived in California with the LAFD and I would listen in awe to the stories he told my mom, my brother Adam and me over the dinner table. Blazing fires, rescues, scaling buildings. He was like a real life superhero to me. Sometimes he would take Adam and me down to the firehouse to see all of his work colleagues who all made a fuss of us and made extra food for dinner, dressing us in helmets and coats that were way too big for us. We were allowed to sit in the fire-trucks when they were in the station and pretend we were fire-fighters too. We had a ball. It was like our second home; a second family. I remember finding it amazing that these guys all went into burning buildings to save people. I didn’t know what being proud was when I was six or what it meant, but I know I was proud of all the things my dad did.
One November evening when I was eight, I sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for him to come home from his shift. I could smell dinner cooking in the kitchen. I watched the door intently until finally, I saw a shadow behind it and it opened.
“Dad!” I cried and ran to hug him.
He put an arm around me loosely then dropped his bag to the floor with a thud. He walked past me into the lounge and sat in his armchair. I knew something was wrong. He was never usually so quiet. Normally he would grab me as I ran to him and would lift me up into his arms.
“What’s wrong, dad?” I asked him sheepishly as I walked towards his armchair. He still smelt faintly of smoke and his hair was slightly crusted with grey flecks of ash.
“Nothing sweetie. I just had a tough day.”
At that moment my mom walked in. She took one look at him and gestured towards the kitchen. He got up and followed her. They closed the door but I stood behind it, ear pressed to the frosted glass.
“It’s Georgie.” My dad said, his voice quivering.
“Oh...?” My mom started.
“We went to a fire in one of the warehouses on the estate, pretty big one. Full of fireworks and gas canisters left over from the bonfire festival. We had gas exploding all over the place. Georgie went in first, insisted, to make sure it was safe. Then there was this huge bang, the windows shot out so I ran in to get him. There wasn’t much left, the other guys had to drag me out before there were any more explosions. We got the fire out eventually once all the gas had gone up. I went back in to get him but...”
I had never heard my dad cry. I never expected to hear him cry. He was my hero, my prince. They never cry. But he did right then. Through the distorted glass I could make him out as he sat on a dining chair with his head in his hands as my mother held him. And he cried.
I knew what death was about from then on. I didn’t fully understand what it meant. I just knew that when someone died, they never came back. For an eight year old, I suppose that was kind of heavy stuff. But it was just part of what my dad did. Sometimes he wasn’t able to save people and they died. It was nobody’s fault, it just happened. Georgie, who was my dad’s best friend for ten years, had died trying to be brave. I sometimes thought to myself that I’m glad that he did it because it could have been my dad that went in there and never came out. Then I felt terrible for thinking it because Georgie had a daughter the same age as me who had lost her father when I still got to kiss mine goodnight and hold his hand on the way to the playground.
Adam is a year older than me. We were very close but neither of us ever mentioned our fears that maybe one day our dad might not make it home.
“He’s invincible. That means he can do anything and nothing will hurt him.” Adam had told me once and that is all we had ever spoken about on the subject. Until one Christmas when we were out in the back garden making snow angels.
“Dad, what would happen to us if you died?” I asked him.
He looked at me in a very serious way, like I had just said something terrible. He crouched down and put his hands on my shoulders.
“Zoe, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with your old dad for a long time yet.” He smiled, stood up and hugged me into his padded jacket.
My dad never lied. I believed every word he said. Maybe Adam was right after all. Maybe he was invincible. After all those fires he had been in, all those people he had saved and he was still here, playing with us in the garden. I watched him over the table while we ate our Christmas dinner. I watched him laughing at the cracker jokes with my mom, his party hat on, cutting his turkey. His moustache was turning a little grey now, as was his hair. His blue eyes always had a sparkle in them. The only time I had seen it go out was the night he came home and cried about losing Georgie. He touched my mom’s arm tenderly and kissed her on the nose. Adam caught my eye and made a vomiting gesture and I giggled and tucked into my mashed potato. Yes, he was invincible.
It was nearing June and it was almost my twelfth birthday. I had asked every year for a horse since I was six. At the time it was because of my infatuation with becoming a princess. Now, it was simply because I had developed a love for horses. With two weeks to go, I was starting to doubt that I was getting one that year until my dad took me for a drive.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise.” He said. “You’ll see.”
We arrived at a paddock where three horses stood. One was a huge brown one with a black mane; another was a smaller horse which was white with large brown spots. And another white horse with a beautiful silvery tail.
“I know it’s not your birthday yet but I wanted to give you her early.” He led me towards the white horse.
“She’s mine?”
“Absolutely. White, just like you always wanted. Now you really are my princess.” He smiled.
I was almost speechless.
“Wow... she’s really mine? I love her! Thank you! Can I ride her?”
He nodded and lifted me up into the saddle. He took hold of her reins and led us around the paddock. All the way around, I closed my eyes and felt the wind hitting my face.
In the car on the way home I told my dad that I wanted to call her Skye. He nodded in agreement.
“We could both learn to ride her.” I suggested. He laughed and told me he was a little past his horse riding days.
A week until my birthday, I sat eating my Fruit Loops before school. My dad walked through the kitchen with his bag and kissed my mom on the cheek. He ruffled Adam’s hair and then kissed the top of my head.
“Be good.” He told us. “Love you all. See you later.”
He trudged in his heavy boots out of the front door and down the street to the firehouse. We were going to see Skye again that evening and I was so excited, so excited that I was ready to go hours before he was even due to get home. I had gone past the stage of sitting on the stairs waiting for him to come back so I sat upstairs doing my homework. It came to six-thirty and he still wasn’t back.
“Mom!” I called downstairs.
“What, Zoe?”
“When is dad going to be back?”
“I don’t know, soon. Make sure you’re ready to go out.”
Seven came, then half past. I walked down to the kitchen where my mother was cleaning down the counter tops. She looked a little anxious but sometimes dad was late home, it was part of his job, although it didn’t stop her worrying.
Adam was sitting watching TV in the lounge. I sat with him. We were both silent until the doorbell rang. My mom answered it. I heard a man’s muffled voice then two sets of footsteps going towards the kitchen. Then I heard it, a sound I will never forget as long as I live; my mother’s scream.
Adam and I jumped from our seats and ran to the kitchen. My mom was on her hands and knees on the floor, head bowed, hysterical. The man we had heard was one of dad’s colleagues, Doug. He had his fire hat in his hands and I could see a tear snaking its way down his red face. I looked down to see Adam had taken hold of my hand without me even realizing. Doug leant beside my mom and rubbed her back. Then he looked at us as we stood there wide-eyed, watching our mother breaking down in front of us.
Adam turned to me and without saying a word, led me out of the kitchen and upstairs. We sat on my bed, knowing exactly what was going on and not having a clue at the same time. Then suddenly, I cried out and threw myself into Adam’s chest. He stroked my hair and I could feel his shoulders jerk and knew he was crying too.
I knew what death was about. But I didn’t fully understand what it really meant. Not until then. It was then that I knew I would never see my father again.
On my birthday, it was then that I fully realized he wasn’t ever coming home. I had clung onto the faint hope for a week. I knew he wouldn’t miss my birthday if he was alive. But the day came and went and he didn’t come. I cried all night.
His funeral was three days later. Dad’s family came, my grandma, grandpa and Auntie Caroline. My mom, Adam and me; dad’s friends from the fire department. His coffin was draped in a United States flag. His workmates saluted him as a few of them carried him down the gravel towards the church. I clasped my mother’s hand as my feet crunched against the floor. I didn’t think it was possible to cry any more.
People stood up one after the other to say how great my dad was, how happy he was. How much he loved his family. Then I stood up, clutching onto the crumpled piece of paper I had scribbled some words onto and walked to the front of the church which was now silent. I stood in front of the coffin for a few seconds. It broke my heart to know my dad was in there but that I couldn’t see him; touch him; kiss him. Then I stood at the altar and faced the crowded room.
“My dad was the best dad in the whole world. He taught me how to ride a bike, he taught me how to read and he taught me that no matter what, I would always be his princess. I’m sad he’s gone. And I was angry. But I know that he died doing something he loved and that he saved an entire family without worrying about his own life. To me, he will always be my hero. I love you, dad.” And then I walked slowly to the coffin, placed both hands on the flag and sobbed. As I lifted my head I saw my mom standing beside me. She gently lifted my hands off the coffin, held them in hers and led me back to the pews. Adam hugged me as the room kind of fell in around me. Yes, I was only twelve but I felt like I had been through so much already. I had bottled everything up since the day he died, only crying when I was alone in my room. But I couldn’t do it anymore.
As I watched him being lowered into the ground I felt numb; my beautiful father. The most wonderful man I had ever known, the bravest man I had ever known, was now confined to a box in a deep, dark hole. He was meant to be around forever, like he’d said he would be. I threw a white rose on top of his coffin and stared blankly into the distance as if I expected him to walk by and take everyone by surprise.
It was then that I realized, as a naive child, that nobody is invincible no matter who they are.
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