I grew up fortunate. My mother a famous author, my father the head of a local logging company, we always had plenty of money. Whatever Father wanted, he bought - a big house in the woods with a large plot of land, a barn with a few cows, and then...
I remember when she first came, the dark-skinned girl who cleaned our house and lived in the new barn. My father called her Adda. Learning from my parents, I showed her injustice and told my friends to do the same. In my small town of Guerneville, California, almost no one had slaves - for many people, they either weren't needed or they couldn't be afforded. Of course that wasn't a problem for Father.
Every day, Adda would herd the cows into their feeding pasture, clean the floors, bedrooms, and the barn, do the dishes, then herd the cows back into the barn. I never stood up for what I knew, in my heart, was right; standing up for this girl, hardly older than me. I told myself I would. I told myself I would stand up for Adda, tell Father not to treat her so cruelly. I never got the chance.
It was the Fourth of July. My friends and I were hanging out in the barn, sucking on candy and twirling sparklers. When I tried to light the last one, it emitted a few sparks before going out. I tried again.
"It's a dud!" I called. Grumbling, we all filed out the door and I threw the sparkler on the hay-covered ground.
I don't remember much about that night. What I do remember consists of flames and fear. And Adda. Because she saved my life.
I woke up, not sure why. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the flames licking at my desk, my chair, my walls. Panic gripped my throat and overtook my mind. I threw my blankets off and yelled for help until my voice grew hoarse. But no firefighter came through my window to save me, and there was no sound of a frantic mother calling her 12-year-old girl's name. Had they forgotten me? I curled up in a ball as tears made trails down the ash on my face. For the first time, my predictable life had shoved me something I didn't know how to deal with. And as fire ate the nightstand to my right and the desk to my left, I realized I was powerless to stop it. I was alone, afraid and trapped.
Suddenly, something crashed through my window. A hand appeared. Then a face.
"Come." Said Adda. I pointed to the floor of fire that stood between me and the window. She pointed at the end of my bed that was engulfed in flames.
"Trust me." She said, and held out her arms. My eyes stung, and my lungs were steadily being choked by smoke. I glanced at the end of my flaming bed. It didn't take much thought. I squeezed my eyes shut and jumped. I was caught by strong, firm arms that hauled me out of my broken window and into the branch of a large oak tree. I looked back to see my bed collapse in flames.
We sat on the hill overlooking what used to be my house. Adda and I. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. The tears dry on my face, I just felt numb.
I don't know how long we sat there, but fire trucks soon pulled into the driveway. I watched them with weary eyes, not moving until a group of firefighters and Father started coming up the hill, calling my name. I suddenly remembered Adda.
"Go. You should...go. Before my father finds you." I said. Adda got up and hugged me. Then, from around her neck, she unhooked a tarnished silver necklace and put it in my palm. I heard Father yelling my name and turned. When I looked back, she was gone.
20 years later...
I play with the silver chain dangling from my neck. I haven't forgotten what Adda did for me all those years ago. The way she still came back for me, risked her life for me, the way I treated her. And it's haunted me ever since that I never got to thank her. I have no idea where she lives, or who she became. But I do know that it's because of her I'm sitting here in the passenger seat of a fire truck, on my way to go save a little girl. So thank you, Adda, wherever you are.
