Brittney from Grenfell Tower
fiction by Maryanne Frederick
fiction by Maryanne Frederick
Grenfell Tower Timeline
I've gone to bed early because of cramps, but I don't sleep. My mother and I live in a one bedroom flat. The walls are thin and I can hear my mum talking in the next room as clearly as I can hear Miss Everly and her crying baby in the next flat over from us. Next year, I hope to go to Uni on scholarship. Mum can have her own room then. From my window, I can see the rich penthouses. We're not allowed over there. That will be me someday. I won't always live here on the 9th floor of this hell hole. I'll leave Grenfell Tower and never look back.
My mum still idolizes David and the work he did to try to make Grenfell better. David Collins used to be the head of our resident's association. At least he tried to get people to listen. He had us calling everyone we could think of regarding this building and the lousy remodel job the owners forced on us. Why were there boilers in front of doors? Gas pipes sticking out of walls? No sprinklers systems? How come the fire escape wasn't a part of the remodel? Over and over again, a group would meet with my mother in my living room just like earlier tonight. Why won’t they stop talking about how no one would listen to us because we were poor? Tonight they were meeting because the Tenant Management Organisation sent them a letter threatening them with legal action if they didn't stop their campaign for improved safety. Can an organization even do that?
Finally, Mum comes in after the last person left. "Are you still awake?" she asks, as she brushes my hair away from my face.
"I can't sleep. Why do you guys even meet? It's just the same old thing every time." I flip over onto my back so I can look at her. The light from our hallway leaves her in shadows. She is beautiful even though she is my mother. Someday, I hope I will have a face like hers. The kind that makes you feel reassured just by being around her. That's why everyone wants to meet at our place- because she brings people together. Mr. Bakerston wanted to become the replacement for David and so did Mr. Everett and things got so heated. My mom stepped in and said, "Why don't we just meet at my place for a while until we really get to know all the issues and then we can figure out our next leader?" At least that's what she told me she said. Then she says something about a leader not needing to have the title in order to lead. She was always saying things like that. I just roll my eyes.
"Now, Brittney, you have no right to complain unless you are willing to try and fix it." She pats my knee.
"You mean my cramps? I'm sorry, but I'm just so knackered. I thought going to bed was doing something." I push her hand away, not wanting to be touched. My mother sighs.
"I'm talking about life," she says. She pauses, and I can tell she wants to say more so I fake a big yawn. "Well, we should both try to get some sleep." She gets ready for bed and ChiChi starts whining until my mother picks her little mutt-body up and puts her onto the foot of her bed.
I've gone to bed early because of cramps, but I don't sleep. My mother and I live in a one bedroom flat. The walls are thin and I can hear my mum talking in the next room as clearly as I can hear Miss Everly and her crying baby in the next flat over from us. Next year, I hope to go to Uni on scholarship. Mum can have her own room then. From my window, I can see the rich penthouses. We're not allowed over there. That will be me someday. I won't always live here on the 9th floor of this hell hole. I'll leave Grenfell Tower and never look back.
My mum still idolizes David and the work he did to try to make Grenfell better. David Collins used to be the head of our resident's association. At least he tried to get people to listen. He had us calling everyone we could think of regarding this building and the lousy remodel job the owners forced on us. Why were there boilers in front of doors? Gas pipes sticking out of walls? No sprinklers systems? How come the fire escape wasn't a part of the remodel? Over and over again, a group would meet with my mother in my living room just like earlier tonight. Why won’t they stop talking about how no one would listen to us because we were poor? Tonight they were meeting because the Tenant Management Organisation sent them a letter threatening them with legal action if they didn't stop their campaign for improved safety. Can an organization even do that?
Finally, Mum comes in after the last person left. "Are you still awake?" she asks, as she brushes my hair away from my face.
"I can't sleep. Why do you guys even meet? It's just the same old thing every time." I flip over onto my back so I can look at her. The light from our hallway leaves her in shadows. She is beautiful even though she is my mother. Someday, I hope I will have a face like hers. The kind that makes you feel reassured just by being around her. That's why everyone wants to meet at our place- because she brings people together. Mr. Bakerston wanted to become the replacement for David and so did Mr. Everett and things got so heated. My mom stepped in and said, "Why don't we just meet at my place for a while until we really get to know all the issues and then we can figure out our next leader?" At least that's what she told me she said. Then she says something about a leader not needing to have the title in order to lead. She was always saying things like that. I just roll my eyes.
"Now, Brittney, you have no right to complain unless you are willing to try and fix it." She pats my knee.
"You mean my cramps? I'm sorry, but I'm just so knackered. I thought going to bed was doing something." I push her hand away, not wanting to be touched. My mother sighs.
"I'm talking about life," she says. She pauses, and I can tell she wants to say more so I fake a big yawn. "Well, we should both try to get some sleep." She gets ready for bed and ChiChi starts whining until my mother picks her little mutt-body up and puts her onto the foot of her bed.
ChiChi is our illegal dog. We are not allowed to have a pet so we snuck her into our flat. She is supposed to be my dog, but she sleeps at the foot of my mother's bed. It is plain to see she likes my mother better.
I wake when I hear a banging on our door and I turn over to go back to sleep. I know better than to answer the door in the middle of the night. There is more banging on other doors and someone yelling the word, ‘fire’. My mother rises from her bed and just stands there.
"What is it?" I ask. My mum said she thinks she heard it as well. I use my phone to find out what to do in case of a fire. It says to stay put in our flat. We look out the window. It’s dark and we can't see anything.
"We should go," I say as I dress, careful to ignore the dog's puddle on the floor. "Mum? I think we should go. It's starting to smell like smoke and plastic."
She nods her head and finally starts moving. I go to the toilet before grabbing a backpack and ChiChi's leash. Mum moves to the living room while I stuff the dog into the backpack, zipping it so she can't get out. She’s whining from her place on my back, but she’ll be safe. My mother has wet some towels and pins one around my face. "For smoke," she says, tears in her eyes. She spins around so I can pin one on her.
“I love you, Brittney,” she says as we finish pinning. She gives me a hug and pushes me toward the door, “Let’s go.”
The power goes out just as we reach the front. As I open the door hoping for an emergency light, we realize we can't see a thing. Fortunately, we are not far from the stairs. "Hold my hand," I tell her as I open the door to the stairwell. There are people pushing past us and I can feel myself starting to panic. My mother begins to pull back but I pull her forward just as someone knocks into me, pushing me down the stairs. I don't fall far as the crowd is three thick. They break my fall and push me upright. It is impossible to go back in the opposite direction for my mum. My shouts become a whisper in all the noise. The surge makes me continue down the stairs.
The smoke is thick and everyone is coughing. I am grateful for my towel, but it isn't doing much good. I can't see anything. There are no lights on in the stairwell. There is nothing– just smoke. Maybe I should keep my eyes closed because they are tearing so much, but it isn't natural and I can't force myself to try.
Light-headed now, I want to sit down. Honestly, I think I would be trampled if I did. Fear keeps me going. Finally, I rush out into the cool air and run several meters before I fall to my knees and throw up, getting some on my jeans. I must have passed out, because I remember waking. There are people everywhere. It is a struggle to stand. There are still people running out of the building. Lights are flashing, people are screaming and all I can do is breathe in the taste of smoke and puke.
Flames are leaping from the other side of the building. I think I hear Miss Everly, and I wonder what she is still doing on our floor. Her window is open and she is yelling something. Next thing I know, she has thrown Baby Anna out the window. Watching Anna fall seems like a lifetime- she just cut her first tooth yesterday. I was going to babysit her tomorrow. Anna doesn't make a sound as she comes down. Everyone is screaming. A man steps forward and actually catches her. Anna is quiet for a moment then lets out a squeak and a cooing noise. A cheer goes up and then a laugh as she coos. My eyes return to watch Mrs. Everly jump. Everyone else turns to look as well. All we see is the room full of smoke. That's when we realize Anna would be an orphan.
I wake when I hear a banging on our door and I turn over to go back to sleep. I know better than to answer the door in the middle of the night. There is more banging on other doors and someone yelling the word, ‘fire’. My mother rises from her bed and just stands there.
"What is it?" I ask. My mum said she thinks she heard it as well. I use my phone to find out what to do in case of a fire. It says to stay put in our flat. We look out the window. It’s dark and we can't see anything.
"We should go," I say as I dress, careful to ignore the dog's puddle on the floor. "Mum? I think we should go. It's starting to smell like smoke and plastic."
She nods her head and finally starts moving. I go to the toilet before grabbing a backpack and ChiChi's leash. Mum moves to the living room while I stuff the dog into the backpack, zipping it so she can't get out. She’s whining from her place on my back, but she’ll be safe. My mother has wet some towels and pins one around my face. "For smoke," she says, tears in her eyes. She spins around so I can pin one on her.
“I love you, Brittney,” she says as we finish pinning. She gives me a hug and pushes me toward the door, “Let’s go.”
The power goes out just as we reach the front. As I open the door hoping for an emergency light, we realize we can't see a thing. Fortunately, we are not far from the stairs. "Hold my hand," I tell her as I open the door to the stairwell. There are people pushing past us and I can feel myself starting to panic. My mother begins to pull back but I pull her forward just as someone knocks into me, pushing me down the stairs. I don't fall far as the crowd is three thick. They break my fall and push me upright. It is impossible to go back in the opposite direction for my mum. My shouts become a whisper in all the noise. The surge makes me continue down the stairs.
The smoke is thick and everyone is coughing. I am grateful for my towel, but it isn't doing much good. I can't see anything. There are no lights on in the stairwell. There is nothing– just smoke. Maybe I should keep my eyes closed because they are tearing so much, but it isn't natural and I can't force myself to try.
Light-headed now, I want to sit down. Honestly, I think I would be trampled if I did. Fear keeps me going. Finally, I rush out into the cool air and run several meters before I fall to my knees and throw up, getting some on my jeans. I must have passed out, because I remember waking. There are people everywhere. It is a struggle to stand. There are still people running out of the building. Lights are flashing, people are screaming and all I can do is breathe in the taste of smoke and puke.
Flames are leaping from the other side of the building. I think I hear Miss Everly, and I wonder what she is still doing on our floor. Her window is open and she is yelling something. Next thing I know, she has thrown Baby Anna out the window. Watching Anna fall seems like a lifetime- she just cut her first tooth yesterday. I was going to babysit her tomorrow. Anna doesn't make a sound as she comes down. Everyone is screaming. A man steps forward and actually catches her. Anna is quiet for a moment then lets out a squeak and a cooing noise. A cheer goes up and then a laugh as she coos. My eyes return to watch Mrs. Everly jump. Everyone else turns to look as well. All we see is the room full of smoke. That's when we realize Anna would be an orphan.
"I know Anna," I say, stepping forward, "I'll hold her for now."
He looks at me as if I was taking away a stuffed animal he won at a fair. He clutches the baby tighter. "You don't mean to keep the baby, do you? I know the baby has an aunt and I can ring her later," I say, as I hold open my arms.
He stares. I tell him of the birthmark she has on her arm and uncover it to prove I know her. He shoves the baby into my grasp and I take the baby from him. "Thank you," I say, "You saved Baby Anna's life." He looks at me as if he realizes it really is a baby and he begins to sob. People are watching me. As I look into their eyes, no one challenges my right to hold the baby. One by one, they just look away and begin to ignore me. She is mine for safekeeping, I guess. There is a heat from a flare up of flames and everyone runs from the building. The moment is gone. Anna and I are on our own.
My backpack begins moving so I walk away from the crowd. So. Many. People. Between the smoke and the mob, it's hard to breath. I let ChiChi out of the bag and she promptly defecates on the ground. I have her leash in the backpack and try to put it on her collar while still holding Anna. A fire truck sounds its alarm as it rushes by and ChiChi runs off down the street. My voice is hoarse and I hardly make a sound as I yell for her. She’s gone and I know I can't look for her- I have to find my mother. No way do I have time to cry. The baby gets a big hug from me and she doesn’t even seem to mind.
The sound of helicopters breaks through all the other noise. My heart leaps. There are people on the roof. At least now, they will have a chance. Someone jumps from one of the upper floors. It guts me. As long as I live, I know I will never forget the sound of the body hitting the cement. There is no sound from the actual person- no groan proving they were alive when they hit, no whoosh of air escaping from the lungs- or if there is one, it is hidden in the loud popping noise made by the body. I can hear several popping sounds and now that I know what it is, I feel my legs start to give.
"Look– they ain't even helping!" says some guy pointing to the helicopters.
The helicopters don't land on the roof and take anyone to safety. All they're doing is filming. Filming for TV while people die. Bloody hell. What a cock up this is, all right. I clutch Anna tighter vowing to tell her how her mother died. Something cold inside me starts to build.
Like the rest of the crowd, I’m slowly encircling the building. "Have you seen my mother?" I ask Mr. Miller. He lived on the sixth floor. He shakes his head crying, and then gives me a hug. He has just come off his night shift. He says he hasn't found his family either. After a minute, we stop hugging and wander away from each other in opposite directions. He looks as lost as I feel- lost and unable to do anything about it.
On this side of the building, there is a lot of smoke pouring out the upper floors. The plastic smell is giving me a headache. Neighbors are hanging out the windows, waving white towels, shining flashlights, screaming for someone to save them. It's been well over an hour since I've left the building. Nothing is happening. They just keep wailing their pitiful cries for help. Why aren't the helicopters dumping water on the building? Can’t they airlift families to safety?
A reporter is doing an interview and I stop to listen to the woman being interviewed. "If it weren't for these young Muslim boys coming from their mosque and knocking on doors, there would be a lot more dead. Everyone wants to talk about them when they do wrong. But they saved lives today. We need to talk about that."
He looks at me as if I was taking away a stuffed animal he won at a fair. He clutches the baby tighter. "You don't mean to keep the baby, do you? I know the baby has an aunt and I can ring her later," I say, as I hold open my arms.
He stares. I tell him of the birthmark she has on her arm and uncover it to prove I know her. He shoves the baby into my grasp and I take the baby from him. "Thank you," I say, "You saved Baby Anna's life." He looks at me as if he realizes it really is a baby and he begins to sob. People are watching me. As I look into their eyes, no one challenges my right to hold the baby. One by one, they just look away and begin to ignore me. She is mine for safekeeping, I guess. There is a heat from a flare up of flames and everyone runs from the building. The moment is gone. Anna and I are on our own.
My backpack begins moving so I walk away from the crowd. So. Many. People. Between the smoke and the mob, it's hard to breath. I let ChiChi out of the bag and she promptly defecates on the ground. I have her leash in the backpack and try to put it on her collar while still holding Anna. A fire truck sounds its alarm as it rushes by and ChiChi runs off down the street. My voice is hoarse and I hardly make a sound as I yell for her. She’s gone and I know I can't look for her- I have to find my mother. No way do I have time to cry. The baby gets a big hug from me and she doesn’t even seem to mind.
The sound of helicopters breaks through all the other noise. My heart leaps. There are people on the roof. At least now, they will have a chance. Someone jumps from one of the upper floors. It guts me. As long as I live, I know I will never forget the sound of the body hitting the cement. There is no sound from the actual person- no groan proving they were alive when they hit, no whoosh of air escaping from the lungs- or if there is one, it is hidden in the loud popping noise made by the body. I can hear several popping sounds and now that I know what it is, I feel my legs start to give.
"Look– they ain't even helping!" says some guy pointing to the helicopters.
The helicopters don't land on the roof and take anyone to safety. All they're doing is filming. Filming for TV while people die. Bloody hell. What a cock up this is, all right. I clutch Anna tighter vowing to tell her how her mother died. Something cold inside me starts to build.
Like the rest of the crowd, I’m slowly encircling the building. "Have you seen my mother?" I ask Mr. Miller. He lived on the sixth floor. He shakes his head crying, and then gives me a hug. He has just come off his night shift. He says he hasn't found his family either. After a minute, we stop hugging and wander away from each other in opposite directions. He looks as lost as I feel- lost and unable to do anything about it.
On this side of the building, there is a lot of smoke pouring out the upper floors. The plastic smell is giving me a headache. Neighbors are hanging out the windows, waving white towels, shining flashlights, screaming for someone to save them. It's been well over an hour since I've left the building. Nothing is happening. They just keep wailing their pitiful cries for help. Why aren't the helicopters dumping water on the building? Can’t they airlift families to safety?
A reporter is doing an interview and I stop to listen to the woman being interviewed. "If it weren't for these young Muslim boys coming from their mosque and knocking on doors, there would be a lot more dead. Everyone wants to talk about them when they do wrong. But they saved lives today. We need to talk about that."
'I look back at the building. A long line of bedsheets is thrown out a window and a man begins to climb down. It's short by a couple of floors. All of us held our breath, hoping he'll make it. He'll have to let go and fall the rest of the way. There are no huge, inflated rescue pillows like those I saw on TV once. The popping noise continues, but I’ve lost count. I turn away from the man and his bedsheets, no longer caring.
Not finding my mother, I turn the corner to another side of the building. This side is nothing but flames. The enormity of the fire hits me. It sinks in that all those people on the other sides don't have a chance. No one can help them. My knees give way and I am on the ground clinging to Baby Anna. It occurs to me that I feel like crying. I probably should be crying, but as I touch my cheeks, they're dry. I kneel there just watching people running around. Finally, it is too smoky so I have to move.
Yet another reporter is talking in front of a camera. She is talking about cladding. Everyone in the building knows what that is- it's the plastic stuff added onto the outside of our tower. It was supposed to make it look nicer to the rich folks who will be living in the luxury flats. Damn. That's when it hits me. This building is burning because we were an eyesore for the rich bastards to look at while having tea. The coldness inside of me turns to a knot. I promise you, Anna, you will know about this. I don't know how, but you deserved to know your mother. They will pay for this. Somehow, they will pay.
I start to look for my own mother again. You'd think it would be easy- she had red hair after all. It's starting to get light and I'm tired. The baby starts to cry and I am thinking she must be hungry. I have nothing to give her so I chew off part of my baby finger nail to trim it, and then stick my finger in her mouth for her to suck. It won't last long, so I begin to look for a mother who might have formula. I see my neighbor, Amina, talking on camera to a BBC reporter.
"The police were telling everyone, 'Stay in your property. Don't come down, it's dangerous.' I'm sorry, it was dangerous to stay. I have footage on my phone as to the timing. They had time to escape. The fire happened from the outside in. Not from the inside out. Let me tell you, they had plenty of time. The firemen came two hours later. They had trouble getting in. By the time they took the water up, it was 4:25 and I have it recorded. More than fifty children are dead."
The reporter tries to tell her that the numbers haven't been confirmed. "Really?" Amina fires back. Look at the building! They only have one staircase! I'm shaking. One!"
I'm glad someone is sticking up for us. We are finally being heard. Little Anna starts to cry again and I want to look for some help but I can't pull away.
"Do you know how they count the dead?" A man jumps in and grabs the microphone. The cameraman debates on whether to cut it off, but he decides to keep rolling. The man continues, "With all this Austerity, officials just do the body count differently. All those people jumping? They didn't die in the fire. Those who die of smoke inhalation? Not killed by fire. Those who will die of second and third degree burns? Not killed in the fire. So report whatever death count of people you bloody well want. This is dodgy, is what it is. We’re treated like rubbish. All these years of complaining about this building being unsafe and this is what it takes! It's just plain off is what it is!"
Anna is screaming now and I try to look for some help. The reporter and her crew has stopped filming and is ready to move so I decide ask her. "Miss? Is there a place where I could go to get some formula for the baby?" I tried to rock her, but Anna keeps screaming.
Not finding my mother, I turn the corner to another side of the building. This side is nothing but flames. The enormity of the fire hits me. It sinks in that all those people on the other sides don't have a chance. No one can help them. My knees give way and I am on the ground clinging to Baby Anna. It occurs to me that I feel like crying. I probably should be crying, but as I touch my cheeks, they're dry. I kneel there just watching people running around. Finally, it is too smoky so I have to move.
Yet another reporter is talking in front of a camera. She is talking about cladding. Everyone in the building knows what that is- it's the plastic stuff added onto the outside of our tower. It was supposed to make it look nicer to the rich folks who will be living in the luxury flats. Damn. That's when it hits me. This building is burning because we were an eyesore for the rich bastards to look at while having tea. The coldness inside of me turns to a knot. I promise you, Anna, you will know about this. I don't know how, but you deserved to know your mother. They will pay for this. Somehow, they will pay.
I start to look for my own mother again. You'd think it would be easy- she had red hair after all. It's starting to get light and I'm tired. The baby starts to cry and I am thinking she must be hungry. I have nothing to give her so I chew off part of my baby finger nail to trim it, and then stick my finger in her mouth for her to suck. It won't last long, so I begin to look for a mother who might have formula. I see my neighbor, Amina, talking on camera to a BBC reporter.
"The police were telling everyone, 'Stay in your property. Don't come down, it's dangerous.' I'm sorry, it was dangerous to stay. I have footage on my phone as to the timing. They had time to escape. The fire happened from the outside in. Not from the inside out. Let me tell you, they had plenty of time. The firemen came two hours later. They had trouble getting in. By the time they took the water up, it was 4:25 and I have it recorded. More than fifty children are dead."
The reporter tries to tell her that the numbers haven't been confirmed. "Really?" Amina fires back. Look at the building! They only have one staircase! I'm shaking. One!"
I'm glad someone is sticking up for us. We are finally being heard. Little Anna starts to cry again and I want to look for some help but I can't pull away.
"Do you know how they count the dead?" A man jumps in and grabs the microphone. The cameraman debates on whether to cut it off, but he decides to keep rolling. The man continues, "With all this Austerity, officials just do the body count differently. All those people jumping? They didn't die in the fire. Those who die of smoke inhalation? Not killed by fire. Those who will die of second and third degree burns? Not killed in the fire. So report whatever death count of people you bloody well want. This is dodgy, is what it is. We’re treated like rubbish. All these years of complaining about this building being unsafe and this is what it takes! It's just plain off is what it is!"
Anna is screaming now and I try to look for some help. The reporter and her crew has stopped filming and is ready to move so I decide ask her. "Miss? Is there a place where I could go to get some formula for the baby?" I tried to rock her, but Anna keeps screaming.
The reporter sizes me up and rolls her eyes. "I don't know where they're giving handouts. You should have brought some with you." She turns away and I am too gob-smacked to do anything. I fade back into the crowd. It doesn't matter whether it's my baby or not– we are all just rubbish to her anyway.
That’s when I realize I have another problem and I hope I'm not showing. I begin to ask every woman I see for both formula and a tampon though I don't know where I will find a toilet. TV always shows such orderly lines of refuges getting assistance. As if everyone knows where to go for help. Are they going to be able to meet my needs?
At last, a woman gives me a tampon. Two in fact, so I will be ok for a while. After I thank her, I realize I have no idea where to find a toilet. I say a prayer and that's when I remember the church. We take a walk, the screaming baby and me, over to the church and use the facilities. There are blood stains all over the outside of my jeans. I clean up the best I can, but to my shame, I must wear these. It's the only clothing I have.
I remember the church has a food pantry and I go there, hoping for some formula. There isn't any. I stick my finger back in Anna's mouth, but she turns away and continues to scream. I start crying. I can't help her and I don't know what to do. Finally, I go back out to the street toward the building. Someone walks by me complaining to his companion about a reporter who has parked his car in the middle of the street.
"He knew he was blocking emergency vehicles from getting closer to the building. He didn't care! He just wanted his story. I got him back," he boasts, "I posted his license plate on Twitter."
My anger begins to burn. No longer was it cold and calm and resolute. It scared me with its intensity. I feel used and something inside begins to hate. My mother says it is wrong to hate. I hate and I know that no one even gives a damn. Suddenly, I remember mother telling me she loved me before we left our flat. Why didn’t I tell her I loved her? Why? I choke on my own spit with the realization I may never get the chance again.
A woman stops me. "Is your baby all right?"
"She's hungry. I don't have any formula," I say, ashamed to admit I'm oblivious to her screams by now. She just blended in with the rest of the chaos and I was only thinking of myself.
Like a miracle, she hands me a bottle. I notice her stroller and her own baby for the first time. She takes out a packet and adds it to the water in the bottle giving it a vigorous shake before handing it to me. "Here."
She hands me the bottle and then a diaper. I thank her over and over again. It feels like I am rich and I smile at my good fortune. As I walk away, she calls me back and tells me about my blood stains. Embarrassed that the stains are so obvious, I tell her I did my best to take care of them. She offers me sympathy but has nothing else to give.
That’s when I realize I have another problem and I hope I'm not showing. I begin to ask every woman I see for both formula and a tampon though I don't know where I will find a toilet. TV always shows such orderly lines of refuges getting assistance. As if everyone knows where to go for help. Are they going to be able to meet my needs?
At last, a woman gives me a tampon. Two in fact, so I will be ok for a while. After I thank her, I realize I have no idea where to find a toilet. I say a prayer and that's when I remember the church. We take a walk, the screaming baby and me, over to the church and use the facilities. There are blood stains all over the outside of my jeans. I clean up the best I can, but to my shame, I must wear these. It's the only clothing I have.
I remember the church has a food pantry and I go there, hoping for some formula. There isn't any. I stick my finger back in Anna's mouth, but she turns away and continues to scream. I start crying. I can't help her and I don't know what to do. Finally, I go back out to the street toward the building. Someone walks by me complaining to his companion about a reporter who has parked his car in the middle of the street.
"He knew he was blocking emergency vehicles from getting closer to the building. He didn't care! He just wanted his story. I got him back," he boasts, "I posted his license plate on Twitter."
My anger begins to burn. No longer was it cold and calm and resolute. It scared me with its intensity. I feel used and something inside begins to hate. My mother says it is wrong to hate. I hate and I know that no one even gives a damn. Suddenly, I remember mother telling me she loved me before we left our flat. Why didn’t I tell her I loved her? Why? I choke on my own spit with the realization I may never get the chance again.
A woman stops me. "Is your baby all right?"
"She's hungry. I don't have any formula," I say, ashamed to admit I'm oblivious to her screams by now. She just blended in with the rest of the chaos and I was only thinking of myself.
Like a miracle, she hands me a bottle. I notice her stroller and her own baby for the first time. She takes out a packet and adds it to the water in the bottle giving it a vigorous shake before handing it to me. "Here."
She hands me the bottle and then a diaper. I thank her over and over again. It feels like I am rich and I smile at my good fortune. As I walk away, she calls me back and tells me about my blood stains. Embarrassed that the stains are so obvious, I tell her I did my best to take care of them. She offers me sympathy but has nothing else to give.
I feed Anna her bottle while sitting on a curb, so no one can see my jeans. I'll tell Anna that strangers were kind. That she should never give up hope. She looks up at me, her eyes big and trusting as she sucks on the bottle. Her skin is soft. It makes me smile. My anger washes away with my sigh. Some of it, anyway. Maybe the rest will fade when I find my mother and my dog. If I find them. I still have hope.
The sun is higher now and it seems like even more reporters are here, giving the morning news. One Press TV UK reporter starts to give locations of shelters for the victims. A woman who identifies herself as Nadia interrupts her, "Why are we doing all this? The news is reporting 15, 17 people- let's say they show 30 people who died. Where is the rest? Where is the list of the 500, 600 people that live in that building? Where are the victims? Why are we packing boxes? We're sending food- to who? They all died! They need to sell those boxes. Sell all those boxes to pay for those funerals. There are 500 funerals you need to pay for…" she breaks with a sob and can't continue.
A part of me wants to go to her and tell her that I survived the fire but I'm too ashamed by my jeans. I don't dare talk with her for fear of being on the news. Something stirs within. “Our day will come,” I whisper to Anna as I move her to my shoulder for a burping, “You just wait and see– and we’ll be ready, won’t we? You betcha.”
I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to sleep and I try not to remember the luxury flats less than a block away sitting empty. I’m too tired and thirsty to care about any of that. All I can wish for is that I could be as invisible today as I was yesterday.
Read tributes from the Memorial Wall.
The sun is higher now and it seems like even more reporters are here, giving the morning news. One Press TV UK reporter starts to give locations of shelters for the victims. A woman who identifies herself as Nadia interrupts her, "Why are we doing all this? The news is reporting 15, 17 people- let's say they show 30 people who died. Where is the rest? Where is the list of the 500, 600 people that live in that building? Where are the victims? Why are we packing boxes? We're sending food- to who? They all died! They need to sell those boxes. Sell all those boxes to pay for those funerals. There are 500 funerals you need to pay for…" she breaks with a sob and can't continue.
A part of me wants to go to her and tell her that I survived the fire but I'm too ashamed by my jeans. I don't dare talk with her for fear of being on the news. Something stirs within. “Our day will come,” I whisper to Anna as I move her to my shoulder for a burping, “You just wait and see– and we’ll be ready, won’t we? You betcha.”
I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to sleep and I try not to remember the luxury flats less than a block away sitting empty. I’m too tired and thirsty to care about any of that. All I can wish for is that I could be as invisible today as I was yesterday.
Read tributes from the Memorial Wall.