The Unknown Twin

If you think you can’t, Lily, you’re right.

Frame Five:

Lily stares helplessly out at the reader. Easy for her to say.

Lauren studied her drawings. “Is it any good?” she asked aloud. Leaning back in her chair, she stared up at the ceiling; the cheerful fresco of blue sky and sun she’d painted there made her smile. She’d worked in a cubicle on the other side of the building for a week while she fixed up this office on her own time. It was so small, so run-down, nobody else at the Courier had wanted it. And since she had just started as a part-timer, she hadn’t been high priority for amenities. Rising, she crossed the room to two oversize beanbag chairs she’d stuffed in the corner, since there wasn’t room for much else. Kicking off her canvas sneakers, she stretched out on one and put her feet on the other. She continued to stare up at her own personal sky, inhaling the spicy scent of potpourri she’d scattered throughout the office and pondering the direction of her cartoon.

Her new boss, Perry O’Connor, had studied the prototype when she’d presented the concept to him in an interview several weeks ago. “It’s got a lot of potential, Conway.” He nodded to the drawings. “I like the self-effacing nature of the klutz. Cute dynamic with her alter ego. Puberty adds a lot. But you need a focus. A tack.” His expression was thoughtful. “We’re looking for something to draw readers to the Courier’s Web site. Maybe we could do this cartoon on the fly.”

“On the fly?”

“Yeah, have readers write in saying what they like and what they don’t like, and see if we can roll with it. It doesn’t have to be in every day. Then you could tailor the cartoon to public opinion.” He stared hard at her from beneath bushy gray brows. “Think you can do it?”

Could she? “Yes.”

“Okay, let’s give it a shot. You’re hired. Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t.”

So she’d moved from Benicia, in the northern part of California, to this small community of Courage Bay, close to L.A., hoping she’d be able to realize a dream she’d had for a long time. And realizing that dream was why she was at the office at midnight.

She shot a look at her battered oak desk. Tomorrow, Saturday, she would come in and strip and re-stain it.

Maybe you should come in and work on our cartoon. Ah, that voice. Her imaginary friend, Deirdre, aka Dee. Just as Deirdre advised Lily when she was at her wits’ end, she was also there for Lauren in the worst of times. There had been a lot of those lately.

Placing her bare foot on the carpet remnant she’d put down—it was thick with a geometric print—Lauren sighed. “I can do this,” she said aloud. “I want to do this.”

Then do it, Deirdre told her. Make me come alive like I am in your imagination. Like you have since we were little.

Lauren concentrated on visualizing the face of her imaginary friend—and sometimes alter ego. Lauren’s face. Red hair—though Lauren’s had turned auburn now—dark brown eyes, freckles and a bow-shaped mouth. “Come on, Dee, help me out here.”

Okay, close your eyes. Picture me on the surfboard. Picture Lily on the dock, wishing she could surf.

“Lily would wish she could swim.” Just like Lauren did.

Breathing in, Lauren lost herself in the scene. The rush of the ocean was loud. The air was hot, tempered by a delicious breeze. It kissed Lily’s skin. Overhead, seagulls swooped and dived. Ah, it was so peaceful…

BING-BONG!

Alex Shields bolted upright from his cot when the alarm went off. Lights blinked on, and ten other firefighters bounded out of their bunks alongside him as the dispatcher’s voice crackled over the PA. “Fire at the Courage Bay Courier. Engine One, Ladder One and Paramedic One go into service.”

“Hell, that’s right in our backyard,” Louis Alvarez said as they threw on their uniform pants over the gym shorts that, along with T-shirts, all firefighters wore to bed. They raced to the bays, where the rigs were parked and ready to go.

As senior captain of Courage Bay Fire Department’s Squad Two, the shift currently on duty, Alex ducked into his office and yanked the printout from the computer. He scanned it as he headed for the trucks. Fire in the newspaper office. Occupants unknown. Alex knew the presses worked until about two, but who would still be there at 3 in the morning?

At his locker, he shoved on his bunker pants and boots, grabbed his turnout coat and air-pack and snatched up his red captain’s helmet. He was on the truck in seconds, along with the other four assigned to Ladder One. The bay doors went up almost simultaneously, with a teeth-grating iron screech. Sirens blared in unison as the three vehicles raced out of the house, onto Jefferson Avenue and around the corner to Fifth. They lurched to a stop in front of the Courier’s building.

Alex bounded off the truck and took a quick tour of the exterior. Thick smoke billowed out the Fifth Street side—from lower floors, as well as the roof—disappearing into the dark, warm early morning. No flames on the west side or the back of the building, but there was an open window at the front west corner. No light on inside, though. Back at the trucks, he set up a makeshift Incident Command from which he could direct the maneuver, called for generators to be put in place and calmly gave his orders into the radio. “Engine One. Attack from primary entrance on Fifth Street. Check to see if there’s a guard.” His engineer—the rig driver and second in command—would know where to position the units. “Ladder One, get the aerial up to the top of the west side and start a master stream.” It looked like the fire was contained in one side of the building, but the flames could spread fast.

Minutes later, the hoses were laid for both an exterior and interior attack. Alex listened over the radio as his men worked.

“I got water,” Robertson shouted when he reached the basement. He’d taken one hose and aimed it at what he perceived to be the seat of the fire.

The aerial dumped water on the roof.

Two of the truck’s men had followed the hose in and were now dragging out the guard. Gonzales, a paramedic, rushed over to the unconscious man. The truck crew hurried back in to search and rescue. It didn’t appear they were going to need roof ventilation.

Now that everything was in place, Alex strode to the rig. He dragged out a single ladder, meant to mount a one-or two-story wall, and hauled it to the corner of the building.

Kellison, another paramedic, jogged over. “What’s going on?”

“I saw an open window at this end. Somebody might be in there working late.”

“Any lights on?”

“Can’t see any. Still, I’m gonna check it out.”

Together they positioned the ladder. Donning his face mask and starting his air, Alex glanced at Kellison. “Stay here. I’ll need somebody to heel the ladder if I come down with a victim.” Grabbing the rails, Alex shinnied up the rungs, then climbed inside the open window.

The smoke wasn’t opaque, but it was thick enough to do harm. And it was getting hot. He shone the flashlight he carried into the room and surveyed the area. The shapes were amorphous in the smoke, but he could make out a desk, a chair. A tiny beacon of light, invisible from outside and obscured by the smoke, lit the corner and something near it, which resembled a couch. Then he heard, “Ohhh…”

He raced over and found a sleeping woman, stretched out on something. He bent down and tried to rouse the victim. He couldn’t see her clearly, and she was tough to wake. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

“What?” She was too slow to respond, so he picked her up. She was slight and easy to carry.

Striding back to the window, he yelled out to Kellison, “I got one. Stay with the ladder. I can carry her easy.” Setting the victim down, he shook her again. Finally, she awoke, but she was groggy. Kneeling her against the sill, he climbed outside and reached in. She went over his shoulder like a bag of feathers. Grasping the ladder, he descended. She stirred partway to the bottom. “Shh,” he said gently. “You’re all right, I got you.”

When they hit the last rung of the ladder, Kellison, assisted by Gonzales, took her from him. They laid her on the ground and, in the light of the generator his men had set up, Alex got his first good look at her. Though her face was covered with a thin layer of grime, he recognized her instantly. “Dana?”

“What happened to her hair?” Kellison asked, popping the canister to activate the oxygen.

Standing over them, Alex shook his head. “I have no idea. What the hell is my EMT doing in the newspaper office at three in the morning?” She was supposed to be at an Emergency Medical Systems training seminar in San Diego.

She coughed and sputtered. Alex stared at her. Something wasn’t right. Not just the hair; she’d felt lighter, too.

“Shields,” a voice called out over Alex’s radio. “We need you on the east side.”

“She’s all right, Alex,” Kellison said. “Her vitals are good. Go.”

Alex took one last look at the woman he’d once loved, and headed around the corner.

LAUREN COUGHED and breathed into the oxygen mask. Looking at her gown, she wondered if the pretty pink sweater she’d worn earlier was ruined. She’d smelled like the inside of a barn when she arrived at the hospital. Lauren smiled, remembering the sweet firefighter who had rescued her. That was the good news.

The bad news was that everybody had lost his senses.

First it had been the paramedic. “Come on, Dana, baby, take more oxygen.”

Then the hunky, if deluded, firefighter. He’d picked up her hand as they were putting her in the ambulance and kissed it, for God’s sake. Even though he was a stranger, she’d been moved by the tender gesture. But then she’d realized the guy must have inhaled too much smoke because he’d said, “I thought I was past these feelings for you, Dana.”