Nothing Can Hurt You Now

“Momma, Momma, help me!”

“Sarah, I’m right here, Sweetheart. It was only a bad dream.”

“But Momma, it was so real, so terrible!”

Twelve-year-old Sarah sat up in bed as her momma snuggled next to her. “I was trying to help her, but I couldn’t. Jennifer, what happened to Jennifer?”

Momma stroked her hair, kissed her only child on the forehead, and quietly asked, “Why don’t you tell me about the dream?”

Sarah shivered, although the room was warm. “I finished reading Jennifer’s journal last night, right before going to bed. I turned off the light and lay in bed staring at that old painting over my dresser. The moon was shining on it just right, and I lay there studying every detail. The old cobblestone road was crowded with all kinds of horses, wagons, and buggies. The skyline glowed with a brilliant sunset. And the leaves, they were the best. I couldn’t take my eyes off the leaves – the dazzling golden yellow ones and the beautiful deep maroon ones, and the dark pumpkin-colored orange ones – it was like my eyes couldn’t stop staring at them. And then, suddenly, she was there.”

“Who?”

“Jennifer. She was at the far end of the road. But she wasn’t in a buggy or on a horse. She just stood there, helpless, speaking to me, begging me for help, but without a sound coming out of her mouth. I tried to run down the cobblestone road, but I couldn’t get by all the people coming towards me. Then I smelled wood burning and felt the sting of smoke in my eyes. I got confused and lost sight of Jennifer. All at once the painting burst into flames and I heard Jennifer screaming, ‘Sarah, don’t leave me!’”

Momma whispered, “Don’t fret, Sarah. Nothing can hurt you now.”

Sarah and Momma sat curled up together for several minutes, as Sarah drew strength from Momma’s embrace. Before long she drifted back to sleep. As Momma started to get up, she noticed the old journal that Sarah had been reading. She opened the dilapidated book that had been in the family for years and began reading where Sarah left her bookmark.

October 10, 1871, 11 am – It’s been two days now, and even I now know we can’t get out of the city. The fire has surrounded our neighborhood, and there’s nowhere to go. Mother keeps waiting for Father to come back with a wagon. Jake is coughing constantly from the smoke. I try to help Mother all I can, but what can a ten-year-old do?

October 10, 1871, 1:30 pm – The noise of the fire is so loud that we can barely hear one another. Screams and hollers come from all over and melt together into one mournful, helpless wail. I wish Father would get home.

October 10, 1871, 4:30 pm – Father just got home but without a wagon or a horse. When we opened the door to let him in, the heat of the fire rushed into the house. Father took Mother to the other room, but I heard him say that it was impossible to get out of Chicago. ‘The whole city will be destroyed. It’s like a living hell out there!’

October 10, 1871, 7:30 pm – This might be my last entry. The heat is getting worse, and the air is nearly too thick to breathe. Father and Mother are trying to comfort Jake, but even he knows something terrible is about to happen. I am going to put this journal inside an oil canvas bag. I hope someday someone will find it, when this fire is over, and understand that real, everyday people died in this tragic event. I hope that someday no one will ever have to die in such a fierce, helpless inferno. My name is Jennifer Logan. I was born in Springfield, Illinois, and I expect to die in our house in Chicago on this date, October 10, 1871. There is no one to help us. No one.

Momma closed the journal, held it close to her bosom, and silently wept for the girl in the book, and for her own daughter who took the account so personally. “Sarah, my dear Sarah. I wonder if you realize that it was 100 years ago this very night that Jennifer made her last entry.”

The same nightmare plagued Sarah each night for two weeks. Momma did everything she could to comfort her, but she couldn’t. Then suddenly the dreams stopped. The two never spoke of the dreams after that time – not once during the next thirty years.

“Hi, Momma, it’s Sarah!”

“Sarah, it’s so good to hear from you.”

“Momma, I call you each morning at 8:30.”

“I know, Dear, but I don’t ever take it for granted. I love hearing your voice. So, has Brady gotten back from his trip?”

At 42, Sarah Jenkins was at the apex of her career. She owned her own investment firm. Her husband was a successful artist, who was on his way back from his first exhibition in Europe.

“He should be coming through my office door any moment. He found a rare painting that he thought I would love. I can’t wait for him to get here. Oh, here he is!”

Brady Jenkins entered his wife’s office carrying a wrapped painting under his left arm and a dozen roses in his right hand. “Oh, if that’s your mother, don’t hang up. Put her on speakerphone. I want her to hear your response to my find!”

With much ceremony he unveiled his prize, expecting a shout of glee. Instead, Sarah gasped and cried, “Where did you get that piece of trash?”

Brady didn’t respond, but Momma shouted, “Sarah, what is it?”

“Momma, do you remember that old painting in my room that caused me nightmares when I was twelve? You know, the one with the leaves, and the horses and the cobblestone road, and Jennifer. Well, I’m staring at it again! Momma, I’m scared. What’s going to happen to me?” Sarah shivered, just like she did thirty years ago.

“Sarah, listen to me. Nothing is going to happen to you. The Chicago Fire happened 130 years ago. You live in New York, not Chicago. Your name is Sarah, not Jennifer. It’s 8:45 am, and you’re with your loving husband on your 20th wedding anniversary, September 11th, 2001, in your office at the top of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Remember, Dear, nothing can hurt you now!”