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She was afraid that if she looked down, she’d understand that she clung to a flagpole five stories over a cement sidewalk. Mary kept her eyes on the boys. “What?” she called back.
“I have bolt cutters and rope.”
K. Those were important. Mary did a quick calculation. Should she slide down and try to reach them? Her stomach flopped, churning green bile that splashed into her throat. Yeah, that would be a no. “I need to get over on the balcony first.” And with those words, She realized just how far away she was from the ledge.
And scarily, the only way to get from the pole to the balcony would be to reach as far as she could with her hands and lean as far as she could from the pole.
She could do this. It was a basic pole sit. It was one of the first things she learned to do in her classes.
“English?” Mary yelled to the woman.
“Yes!” she yelled back, then coughed hard.
“I’m going to reach my hand toward you. Listen to me. When my hand comes near you, grab my hand and guide it to the bar. I need to get a good hold of the bar. Tell me what I said.”
“Yes. I do this. Grab your hand, help you hold to bar.”
“Good.” Not good. Just yeah, the woman understood. Mary turned herself on the pole and kicked her legs up until they stuck out long in front of her, crossing her feet at the ankles, shifting to the side so the friction of her skin tearing against the metal would hold her weight. “Yikes,” she exhaled. Her chest tightened down. “Scary,” she muttered. How many times had she said that in class mere feet off the ground? Mary looked over her shoulder and locked in on the littlest boy. Kyle’s eyes looked pleadingly back at her.
“I’m coming! I’m coming, baby. I’m going to get you!”
Mary gripped the pole with one hand, pressing her hips up, pressing her toes down, creating a taut arc with her body. Her other hand extended long as she leaned backward into a pole plank. “Help me!” she yelled.
Suddenly, her hand was grasped and gently pulled, her fingers forced over to wrap the bar.
And now Mary was good and stuck.
Literally stretched between the pole and the balcony, she had no other choice than to keep going.
Her thighs screamed.
Her survival brain screamed.
The people beneath her screamed.
And Mary wanted the silence and conviction of looking into her son’s eyes. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her boys.
Even this.
Gripping tightly with her right hand, Mary tried to force her left from the pole. But her brain bucked at the command. She’d been scared in pole class, too. So, she used that technique to motivate her body into action. “Don’t think, do. Don’t think, trust.” And as she said this, Mary heard two little voices screaming in terror, possibly in pain. That was all Mary needed to spur her into terrified action. With the first hand secure, Mary pointed her toes harder, arched her hips up higher, created as much friction as she could, then released her second hand from the pole, reaching with rigid fingers held wide toward the solidity of the security bars.
Again, she was guided into place.
The move was punctuated with a swell of gasps coming up from the street.
Ignore them. Ignore everything. Get the babies.
“Hold my wrists,” she called, and the woman complied with an iron grip. With a deep breath, Mary released her legs, swinging them hard to the right, using the sudden momentum to get her heel onto the wide lip of the balcony.
Four little hands reached through the bars and clung onto her ankle.
Using all her strength, Mary pulled and twisted to get her other leg there, too.
The heat radiating out of the apartment door was searing. She pulled her elbow over her mouth and nose as scant protection from the acrid smoke.
The little ones pressed into the bars, trying to get away from the heat.
She was here. Now, what?