I Carried My Elderly Neighbor down Nine Flights During a Fire – Two Days Later, a Man Showed Up at My Door and Said, ‘You Did It on Purpose!’
A man knocked on my house two days after I carried my elderly neighbor down nine floors during a fire and stated, “You did it on purpose. You’re a disgrace.”
I am 36 years old and the only parent of my 12-year-old kid, Nick. Since his mother passed away three years ago, it’s just the two of us.
Without her, our tiny, noisy flat on the ninth floor is far too quiet. The hallway always smells like burnt toast, and the elevator moans.
Mrs. Lawrence resides next door. A retired English teacher in her seventies with white hair and a wheelchair. Sharp memory, soft voice. When she fixes my SMS, I genuinely say “thank you.”
I am 36 years old and the only parent of my 12-year-old kid, Nick.
She became “Grandma ” to Nick long before he really uttered it.
She makes him redo a whole essay about “their” and “they’re,” bakes him pies before important tests, and reads to him when I work late to keep him from feeling lonely.
The Tuesday began as usual. It’s spaghetti night. Nick’s favorite since it’s inexpensive and difficult for me to spoil. He pretended to be on a cookery show while he sat at the table.
She became “Grandma L” to Nick.
With a flick of cheese, Nick asked, “More Parmesan for you, sir?”
I remarked, “That’s enough, Chef,” “We already have an overflow of cheese here.”
With a sly smile, he began telling me about a math issue he had figured out.
The fire alarm then sounded.
“More Parmesan for you, sir?”
I initially waited for it to end. Every week, we receive false alerts. That time, though, it became a single, irate scream. Then I smelled it, heavy and harsh, actual smoke.
As I stated, “Jacket. Shoes. Now,”
After a moment of freezing, Nick ran toward the door. I took my phone and keys and opened ours.
Every week, we receive false alerts.
Curling along the ceiling was gray smoke. There was a cough.
“Go! Move!” shouted another.
“The elevator?” inquired Nick.
There were no lights on the panel. Doors close.
“Stairs. Stay in front of me. Hand on the rail. Don’t stop.”
Curling along the ceiling was gray smoke.
People were everywhere on the stairwell: pajamas, naked feet, and sobbing children. When you’re flying nine flights with your child in front of you and smoke floating down behind you, it doesn’t seem like much.
My throat was burning by the eighth floor.
My legs hurt by the fifth.
My heart was beating faster than the alarm by the third.
Nick coughed over his shoulder, “You okay?”
People were everywhere on the stairwell: pajamas, naked feet, and sobbing children.
“I’m good,” I said in a fib. “Keep moving.”
We rushed out into the chilly night and into the lobby. Some were barefoot, while others were bundled in blankets as they gathered in small groups. I knelt down in front of Nick after yanking him aside.
“You okay?”
He nodded too quickly. “Are we going to lose everything?”
“Keep moving.”
I searched everywhere for Mrs. Lawrence’s amiable face, but I was unable to locate it.
My response was, “I don’t know,” “Listen. I need you to stay here with the neighbors.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“I need to get Mrs. Lawrence.”
It struck him at once.
“Where are you going?”
“She can’t use the stairs.”
“The elevators are dead. She has no way out.”
“You can’t go back in there. Dad, it’s a fire.”
“I know. But I’m not leaving her.”
I touched his shoulders with my hands. “If something happened to you and nobody helped, I’d never forgive them. I can’t be that person.”
“You can’t go back in there.”
“What if something happens to you?”
“I’m going to be careful. But if you follow me, I’ll be thinking about you and her at the same time. I need you safe. Right here. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay.”
“What if something happens to you?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too,” Nick muttered.
Then, as everyone else was leaving the building, I turned around and went back inside. It seemed hotter and smaller on the stairs leading up. The ceiling was hugged by smoke. My head was pierced by the alarm.
My legs trembled and my lungs ached at the ninth story.
Everyone else was hurrying out of the building, so I turned and went back inside.
In her wheelchair, Mrs. Lawrence was already in the corridor. In her lap was her purse. The wheels made her hands shake. Her shoulders drooped with relief when she spotted me.
“Oh, thank God,” she exclaimed. “The elevators aren’t working. I don’t know how to get out.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“Dear, you can’t roll a wheelchair down nine flights.”
In her wheelchair, Mrs. Lawrence was already in the corridor.
“I’m not rolling you. I’m carrying you.”
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’ll manage.”
After locking the wheels, I hoisted her by sliding one arm behind her back and the other under her knees. She weighed less than I had anticipated. She gripped my shirt with her fingers.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
She whispered, “I’ll haunt you if you drop me.”
“Deal.”
My body and brain were at odds with each step.
The eighth floor. The seventh. Sixth.
Sweat seared my eyes, my back yelled, and my arms burned.
“I’ll haunt you.”
“You can set me down for a minute,” she said in a whisper. “I’m sturdier than I look.”
“If I set you down. I might not get us back up.”
For several floors, she was silent.
“Is Nick safe?”
“Yeah. He’s outside. Waiting.”
For several floors, she was silent.
“Good boy. Brave boy.”
That was plenty for me to continue.
We arrived at the lobby. Even though my knees were on the verge of giving out, I continued until we were outside. She sank into a plastic chair with ease. Nick rushed over to us.
“Dad! Mrs. Lawrence!”
He took hold of her hand.
“Brave boy.”
“Remember the firefighter at school? Slow breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
She attempted to cough and giggle simultaneously.
“Listen to this little doctor.”
Fire vehicles showed up. Hoses uncoiling, sirens, and yelled commands. The eleventh story was when the fire began. Most of the work was done by sprinklers. In the end, our apartments were undamaged but smokey.
The eleventh story was when the fire began.
A firefighter informed us that “elevators are down until they’re inspected and repaired.” “Could be several days.”
People let out a moan. Mrs. Lawrence fell silent. I lifted her up once again when they eventually allowed us to return. This time, there were nine slower flights that rested on landings.
Throughout, she expressed regret. “I hate this. I hate being a burden.”
“You’re not a burden. You’re family.”
“I hate being a burden.”
Like a little tour guide, Nick announced each floor as he moved along. We helped her settle in. I looked at her phone, water, and medications.
“Call me if you need anything. Or knock on the wall.”
“You saved my life.”
I said, “You’d do the same for us,” even though we both knew she couldn’t have made me go down nine stories.
I looked at her phone, water, and medications.
Stairs and aching muscles characterized the next two days.
I moved her table to make room for her wheelchair, carried groceries up for her, and put out the trash. Her red pen hovered like a hawk as Nick resumed working on his schoolwork at her house.
She thanked me so profusely that I simply grinned and said,
“You’re stuck with us now.”
Life seemed fairly peaceful for a while.
Stairs and aching muscles characterized the next two days.
Then there was an attempt to smash my door. I was preparing grilled cheese on the stove. Nick was grumbling about fractions at the table. The door rattled with the first blow. Nick leaped.
“What was that?”
The second blow was more forceful.
With my heart racing, I cleaned my hands and headed for the door. With my foot braced, I cracked it open.
Then there was an attempt to smash my door. I
There stood a man in his fifties. Dress shirt, fancy watch, red face, slicked-back gray hair, and cheap rage.
Growling, “We need to talk,” he said.
“Okay,” I murmured softly. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I know what you did. During that fire.”
“Do I know you?”
“Oh, I know what you did.”
He spat out, “You did it on purpose,” “You’re a disgrace.”
I heard Nick’s chair scrape behind me.
I moved, filling the doorway. “Who are you and what do you think I did on purpose?”
“I know she left the apartment to you. You think I’m stupid? You manipulated her.”
“Who?”
“My mother. Mrs. Lawrence.”
“You think I’m stupid? You manipulated her.”
“I’ve lived next to her for 10 years. Funny, I’ve never seen you once.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You came to my door. You made it my business.”
“You leech off my mother, play the hero, and now she’s changing her will. You people always act innocent.”
I felt a chill when I heard “you people.”
“That’s none of your business.”
Silently, “You need to leave,” I said. “There’s a kid behind me. I’m not doing this with him listening.”
I smelled stale coffee from the way he leaned in.
“This isn’t over. You’re not taking what’s mine.”
I closed the door. He made no attempt to halt it.
I pivoted. Nick was pallid in the hallway.
“You need to leave.”
“Dad, did you do something wrong?”
“No, I did the right thing. Some people hate seeing that when they didn’t.”
“Is he going to hurt you?”
“I won’t give him the chance. You’re safe. That’s what matters.”
I turned back to the stove.
“Is he going to hurt you?”
The beating resumed two minutes later. Not at my door. on hers. I opened my door with a yank. Now he was at Mrs. Lawrence’s apartment, banging the wood with his fist.
“MOM! OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!”
I carried my phone into the hallway, its screen illuminated.
I said, “Hi,” as if I had already been on the call. “I’d like to report an aggressive man threatening a disabled elderly resident on the ninth floor.”
The beating resumed two minutes later. Not at my door.
He turned to face me after freezing.
“You hit that door one more time,” I responded, “and I’ll make this call for real. And then I show them the hallway cameras.”
We gazed at one another.
He swore under his breath and walked briskly to the stairway.
Behind him, the door banged.
“I’ll make this call for real.”
I softly rapped on Mrs. Lawrence’s door.
“It’s me. He’s gone. Are you okay?”
A few inches of the door opened. She appeared pallid. She gripped the armrests with trembling fists.
Whispering, “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want him to bother you.”
“You don’t have to apologize for him. Do you want me to call the police? Or the building manager?”
“I didn’t want him to bother you.”
She winced. “No. It’ll only make him angrier.”
“Is he really your son?”
“Yes.”
“Is what he said true? About the will. About the apartment.”
She started crying. “Yes. I left the apartment to you.”
“Is what he said true? About the will.”
Leaning against the doorframe, I tried to take it all in.
“But why? You have a son.”
“Because my son doesn’t care about me,” she replied. She sounded exhausted, not irate. “He cares about what I own. He only shows up when he wants money. He talks about putting me in a home like he’s throwing out old furniture.”
“Because my son doesn’t care about me.”
She raised her gaze to me.
“You and Nick check on me. You bring me soup. You sit with me when I’m scared. You carried me down nine flights of stairs. I want what I have left to go to someone who actually loves me. Someone who sees me as more than a burden.”
“We do love you. Nick calls you Grandma L when he thinks you can’t hear.”
She let out a dripping laugh. “I’ve heard him. I like it.”
“We do love you. Nick calls you Grandma L when he thinks you can’t hear.”
“I didn’t help you because of this. I would’ve gone back up there even if you left everything to him.”
“I know. That’s why I trust you with it.”
“Can I hug you?”
She gave a nod. I entered, bent over, and put my arms around her shoulders. She gave me a rather strong hug in return.
“I didn’t help you because of this. I would’ve gone back up there even if you left everything to him.”
“You’re not alone,” I replied. “You’ve got us.”
“And you’ve got me,” she remarked. “Both of you.”
We had dinner at her table that evening. She was determined to cook.
“You already carried me twice. You don’t get to feed your child burnt cheese on top of that.”
The table was laid by Nick. “Grandma L, you sure you don’t need help?”
“You already carried me twice.”
“I’ve been cooking since before your father was born. Sit down before I assign you an essay.”
We had bread and plain pasta. It was more delicious than anything I had prepared in months.
Once, Nick glanced between us. “So, are we, like, actually family now?”
Mrs. Lawrence’s head cocked. “Do you promise to let me correct your grammar forever?”
He moaned. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Then yes. We’re family.”
Grinning, he returned to his plate.
“Are we, like, actually family now?”
Her son’s fist still has a dent in the doorframe. The elevator continues to creak. The stench of burnt toast is still present in the corridor.
However, the silence doesn’t feel as oppressive when I hear Nick laughing in her apartment or when she knocks to deliver a piece of pie.
People with whom you share blood may not always be present when it matters most. Occasionally, the neighbors would jump back into the flames on your behalf. And you don’t always save someone’s life when you carry them down nine flights of stairs.
You create space in your family for them.
