I got you… (teaser)

Saturday, March 6th, 2010 in Stories, Why

By Sarah Millar

I couldn’t quite reach her. My arms just weren’t long enough. She was dangling from the second story window, her yellow sandals just a few inches above my fingers. The back of the 2nd story apartment was on fire. Unsure of a safe exit through the front door, her mother had told her to jump out the window.

It was one of those quiet-end-of-the-day afternoons when one of our preschool teachers came running upstairs to my office in a panic. There was a fire across the street. She was on the cell phone giving the 911 operator our address. As we looked out the window, we could see the flames engulfing the back of the 2nd story apartment. Then, we saw the first child jump out a window from the top floor. At that moment, I turned and ran down the stairs and across the street. I remember thinking, I don’t hear any fire sirens or any smoke alarms ringing.
As I approached the building, I could feel the heat of the fire on my forearms. And before I could get there, another kid dropped out of the window and like a thud, hit the ground hard. I learned later that she broke her arm in the fall.

Then I looked up, and a little, blond girl about 8 years old was looking down at me from the window. Everyone else was out of the apartment. She was the youngest and the last one left. Her mother was attending to the two very brave but hysterical older girls. No one was there to help this little girl, it seemed like everyone was just watching.

I kept telling her to jump out. That she would be OK. That I was there to catch her. Over and over again, as calmly as I could with an intense sense of urgency. I kept wondering when the fire trucks would get here? Is this place going to suddenly blow-up from a gas leak like in the movies? A crowd started to gather, neighbors were pouring into the street and passers-by were pulling over to watch.

The little girl, looking down at me from the window was terrified. She had just watched her sister jump out the window in front of her with no one to catch her and subsequently broke her arm. How was I, a complete stranger, going to reassure her? Slowly, she put one leg out the window where the screen had already been broken, then the other leg. She turned around and lowered herself down until she was just hanging, holding on by her tiny fingers. Over and over again I kept telling her, “Just let go. I got you. You’re OK. I’ll catch you. You have to let go. Just let go. I got you!”

I was waiting, unknowingly, with my arms outstretched for what seemed like an eternity. My mind was clouded with doubt over my own ability to really break her fall. She finally let go and she slipped into my arms more easily than I had expected. She hit the ground running to find her sister and mother. Yet, all I wanted was to hold on to her for just one more second, as if she were my own.

Amidst the chaos and the dull sounds of the fire sirens coming up the street, I ached for my own little girls. Suddenly, I was worried for their safety. All I wanted was to hold them, to look over their entire bodies to ensure they weren’t hurt.

Their mother was in shock as she watched the flames engulf the apartment. The girls were screaming. Terrified. Overwhelmed by their own acts of heroism. I tried to calm them as best I could — telling them to take deep breaths, that they we’re safe now, that the fire trucks were coming, that they would all be OK. Soon enough the paramedics were helping to tend to their injuries and took charge of the situation as they calmly whisked them into the ambulance.

A few weeks later the little girl came to our office looking for me, but unfortunately we missed each other. She brought me a rose bush. She had forgotten her hand made card at home so she wrote a message on a red Post-it Note.

“Thank you for catching me.”

The red note still hangs on my fridge today. It’s now starting to blend in with the other notes and photos. Every once in awhile it catches my eye and I stop and take a deep breath, remembering the sweet little girl, with the yellow sandals. Then I turn around to wrangle up my own girls, begging them for bear hugs and kisses.

Sarah Millar is mama to Gillian (3) and Lucy (1). She writes occasionally and fulfills her dedication to being a science dork by turning over rocks and showing her girls all the bugs. When she is not found zipping around the woods on her bike or skis, you can find her working with Team Mamalode.