Free Heart and Soul by Sally Mandel

fantasies, he would have died a hero’s death so there’d be hundreds of firefighters in uniform. I would hold my mother and sister’s hands and weep while wearing a truly great outfit. Those daydreams were safe back when I was sure that Dutch was indestructible. But as we pulled up to the hospital emergency-room entrance I was actually kind of praying: “Don’t. Don’t do it, Daddy.”
    Angie was waiting just inside. She was wearing her Mets jacket over her pajamas and as soon as she saw me, she burst into tears. I knew she’d been at it before, too, because her upper lip was swollen like she’d been stung by a bee.
    â€œOkay, baby. It’s okay. Where’s Dutch?”
    â€œThey took him for an MRI,” Angie said. “Mumma and Pauline’re with him.”
    â€œHow’s Mumma holding up?”
    â€œAll right. I guess she’s in shock.”
    â€œYou look like shit yourself. Come on, let me get you a Coke or something. There must be a cafeteria.”
    We found a room with vending machines and sat down in the pink plastic chairs. I knew I was avoiding the sight of my injured father but it was easy to excuse myself on account of Angie’s obvious distress. The girl was just this side of hysterics. I smoothed her hair while she drank her Coke. “Tell me about the accident,” I said.
    â€œIt was a five-alarm at one of those beachfront hotels on the boardwalk in Long Beach. They thought everybody was out safe, but Dad saw a hand against a window on an upper floor. He went up the ladder; broke the window, and grabbed an old lady. She was obese and disabled and couldn’t hang on. They got the net up just in time because she had some kind of spasm and yanked them both off the ladder. Dad didn’t hit right and broke his back. It looks like he might be paralyzed.” Here came the tears again. I reached in my pocket for some Kleenex and mopped her up.
    â€œOkay, baby,” I said, holding her. Jake is always telling me that Angie is much tougher than she seems, but when we’re all in our nineties she’ll still be my little sister and it’ll still kill me when she cries. “I’d better check out what’s going on. You want to stay here and wait for me?”
    â€œNo! I’m coming with you!” She had my hand in a death grip. “Bess, what if he can’t walk? What if he dies? What will happen to Mumma?”
    â€œRule number one is no worrying in advance,” I told her. “It’s a waste of energy, which we’re going to need.”
    They had him lying on a gurney to wait for his MRI. His sunburned face had turned a sickening gray and his powerful body had no more life in it than a sack of sand. My mother sat beside him with her hand clutching the rim of the stretcher: Seeing him like that made me feel alone. Alone and scared. What did I think, that he was going to live forever in a state of superhulkness, fighting fires and being a pain in my ass? First I kissed the top of my mother’s head, and then I took my father’s hand, real carefully. It had been a long time since we’d made physical contact with any kindness in it.
    â€œHi, Pop,” I said. I hadn’t called him that in a lot of years. He turned his face to me. His eyes were swimming. “How’re you doing?”
    â€œPain,” he whispered.
    â€œHaven’t they given him something?” I asked Mumma.
    She shook her head. “One of the doctors said they would.”
    â€œAnd that was how long ago?” I asked.
    â€œAn hour, maybe. We’re waiting for the technician to do the MRI. He’s coming from Lynbrook especially, since Dutch is a fireman. Your father.”
    â€œI know who you mean, Mumma. You want to let go of that stretcher? Your hand is going to fall off soon.” She unpeeled her fingers.
    â€œWhere’s Pauline?” I asked.
    â€œShe went to get us some clothes,”