Round and round and round I went until I felt that familiar wave in my stomach, and I found myself hovering over the toilet reliving that day’s lunch. Ben found me like that—who knows how long I’d been there—and he rubbed my back and got me a wet cloth and asked if there was anything else he could do.
And then he said something about maybe there was a reason I was sick. He looked so shy and nervous and waiting to be happy as he said this, that I knew what I had to do.
I had to keep this to myself.
And that’s what I did.
When the interviews are done, I find Ben waiting for me in the hall. The last bell has rung, and the building’s emptied out like there was a fire drill, which maybe there will be if the latest fire report has anything to say about it.
Is it ironic that investigating the fire that might burn down my house in 1.7 days has made me forget there’s a fire that might burn down my house in 1.7 days?
I’ll have to ask Ben.
“They want to put some equipment around the house,” he says, waving his phone at me.
I take it. It’s an e-mail to the ten families that live in our cul-de-sac. They’ll be bringing in equipment overnight, and tomorrow they’ll start felling trees and laying hoses. Kara’s last stand against the fire if it makes it over the ridge.
I hand the phone back to Ben.
“This is bad,” he says, “right?”
“It’s bad.”
“You get anything useful in there?”
“I can’t . . .”
“You can’t talk about it, I know.”
“That’s not what I was going to say. I just need to process everything. I feel like the answer’s staring at me in the face, but I can’t see it.”
“Like me. I’m staring at you in the face.”
I smile. “You are. Does that mean you set the fire?”
“Nuh-uh. You’re my alibi, remember?”
We grin and then drop our grins quickly as we remember why we’re each other’s alibis—because we were discussing the end of our marriage when the fire was set.
“Don’t you have that dress fitting with my mother?” Ben says.
“Oh, God. I forgot all about that. What time is it? Shit. Is it too late to cancel?”
Ben frowns. Cancelling on his mother is not acceptable. I should know. I’ve done it too many times before.
“No, right, of course not.” I check the time on my phone. “I should be able to make it. It was at 4:30, right? She said 4:30?” I sound hysterical, even to myself. “Sorry. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me. You still haven’t told your mother anything?”
“You asked me not to.”
“Okay, thank you. I should run.”
I lean forward and give him a peck on the cheek. Two students walk by, and one of them gives a low whistle.
“All right, Mr. Jansen!”
It’s so good to see that high school hasn’t changed one iota.
I arrive at the dress shop ten minutes late, despite driving faster than I should through the backstreet shortcut Ben showed me years ago. Grace is waiting for me on a velvet-covered settee, immaculately turned out in perfectly pressed slacks and a Chanel jacket she has in what seems like every shade. We hug briefly, and I catch her scent—Shalimar and expensive soap. Hugging her is like coming out of a spa treatment. But today even she is tinged with a bit of smoke. It’s taken up residence in every nook and cranny in town, and when I look out the window at the Peak, the plume rising up behind it seems darker, ominous, alive.
Caroline’s Dress Shop is a quirky place, an odd mix of designer clothes for the discerning set, and tight jeans and spangly T-shirts for their daughters. Caroline’s a former ski bum who married a biker bum she met a few years after she moved here. She opened the shop like so many do in this town when they realize they need a permanent source of income. It’s not her life’s dream, but living in this town is, so she makes the best of it. Until she opened this place, women had to travel to the next state to buy a decent dress.
The dresses Grace has picked out for us this year are Vera Wang. Not wedding dresses, of course, but from her regular collection, more affordable but still an expense I protested when Grace first showed me what she wanted us to wear. She likes our dresses to complement each other, and so she often insists we order from the same collection. Grace waved my worry away with the ease of someone who doesn’t have to think about money, saying the dresses would be on them.
“How are things, dear?” she asks. “You’re looking a bit tired.”
I haven’t seen her since early Tuesday morning—what already feels like a lifetime ago. Is it really only Thursday?
“Ben told you I’ve been working on trying to solve what started the fire?”
“Yes, he mentioned something about that.”
Grace and Gordon have never approved of what I used to spend my time doing. I think they both admired it, but they didn’t understand it, especially Grace. How I could work a job that took me away from my husband for such long stretches? Grace was particularly happy when I quit and came home, though I couldn’t tell her, or Ben, the real reason. Hours of Internet research had convinced me there was still a possibility I could get pregnant naturally, but each month I was away from Ben diminished it. I owed it to him to give us our best chance since I was the reason we needed it in the first place.
Mindy was the only one I told. She’d repaid my confidence by throwing it back in my face during out fight. And when Grace and Gordon find out about the divorce, I’m sure it will be a sad confirmation of what they always suspected: that I wasn’t as committed to Ben as I ought to have been.
Caroline comes out from the back. She’s tall and blonde and athletic in a way that so many in this town are. She’s wearing similar clothes to me—skinny jeans and a cashmere sweater Grace gave me for Christmas—but with an elegance I can never pull off.
“You ladies ready?”
“Lead us through,” Grace says.
She takes us into the fitting area. Caroline was smart enough to have two installed, one for the “older ladies,” a group I realize with a sinking heart that I now firmly belong to, and one for the teenage set. “Our” fitting room is dressed like a funky, expensive boutique in Greenwich Village. There’s even champagne available if you need to drink while you shop.
Our complementary ivory-cream ball gowns are hanging outside of two of the fitting rooms. The other two cubicles’ curtains are closed, but rustling, occupied.
“Busy time of year,” Caroline says. “With the Fling coming up.”
“Quite,” Grace says.
We go into our respective rooms. The woman next to me starts talking to her friend in the next cubicle over. I listen casually as I strip off my clothes, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. Years of fighting fires has left its scars, and it isn’t something I feel like being reminded of today.
“I can’t believe people are being such B-I-T-C-Hs about all of this,” says a voice I recognize but can’t immediately place. “I mean, it’s charity. Hello!”
“I’m not surprised at all,” says another, stronger voice which this time I know. Kate Bourne, Queen Bee of the crowd Mindy runs around in now. “Ugh, I hate white dresses.”
“But you picked the theme,” says her friend, who must be that one with the weird name. Bitty, Boopsy? I can never remember.
“What does that have to with anything?” Kate says.
I pull my own dress from its wrapper. It unzips in the back, and I step into it, noticing the pattern my socks have left around my ankles.
“They’ve been harassing poor Mindy. And then,” Kate lowers her voice, “you know they questioned Angus at school today. The police.”
I reach behind me to try to zip up the dress, but I’m having trouble. I can’t quite get a proper grip on the zipper. It seems stuck in the wispy fabric.
“Angus is such a nice boy. That Tucker, though . . .”
“I’ve told Honor more than once th
at he’s a little devil. Why, he’s been trying to lead my Chris astray for years, but he stands up to him.”
I want to laugh. Chris Bourne has a juvenile record that’s going to have to get expunged when he turns eighteen if he ever wants to get a decent job. Like father, like son.
“Elizabeth Martin was the one that questioned him,” Kate says. “Honestly, after the way she treated Mindy, I could just spit I’m that mad.”
Grace coughs in the stall next to me. “You all set, dear?”
“I’m having trouble with the zipper.”
“Come on out,” Caroline says. “I’ll help you.”
I step out, a bit self-conscious about the way the dress is gaping open at the back like a hospital gown. Caroline leads me over to the pedestal in front of the mirrors. Grace walks out to see. Her dress fits her perfectly.
Caroline stands behind me, tugging gently at the fabric to dislodge it from the zipper. It comes free, and she starts to pull it up.
“You look just the same as on your wedding day, dear,” Grace says.
I look at myself. I feel like I can see each of the last ten years etched into my face, layered over the girl I still was then.
“That’s sweet of you to say.”
“It’s true.”
Kate and Bit walk out of their dressing rooms. I make eye contact with Kate in the mirror. We’re wearing the same dress—or ones so similar it’s hard to tell the difference. She looks momentarily confused, but then her face falls back into its usual repose of hard certainty.
Caroline tugs on the zipper as the fabric tightens around my rib cage.
“I’m having a bit of trouble here, Elizabeth,” Caroline says. “I’m not sure what happened. It fit so beautifully before.”
I hear the slight censure in her voice. Have I gained weight recently? I couldn’t tell you. Eating has felt mechanical for weeks. But the dress is certainly tighter than it was the last time. It’s hurting my breasts as she works the zipper up.
“Are you . . .” Caroline lowers her voice. “Having your period right now?”
Her words fly around my brain as ten puzzle pieces snap together. How tired I’ve been. Throwing up yesterday. That I can’t remember the last time I had my period. How emotional I’ve been feeling . . . Oh my God.
Oh my God.
My hand goes to my stomach as I catch the delight on Grace’s face in the mirror.
“Don’t tell Ben,” I say without thinking.
DAY FOUR
* * *
From: Nelson County Emergency Services
Date: Friday, Sept. 5, at 7:33 A.M.
To: Undisclosed recipients
Re: Cooper Basin Fire Advisory
* * *
There has been no improvement in the weather outlook for the Cooper Basin fire, which continues to spread. It is currently only 10 percent contained, and has now consumed more than 4,000 acres of brush and timber. It is only 1,000 yards away from the north ridge of Nelson Peak, where fire personnel have been working for the past two days to build a substantial firebreak to keep the flames from spreading down the south side of the Peak and into town.
Total fire personnel on-site now exceeds 750. Air bombardments continue on an hourly basis. The Witches’ Pool of the Nelson River is being used as the main fill site for water tanks, and a road detour has been set up to keep traffic from interfering with operations. A second water-fill site is being established at Nelson Lake. The Nelson Lake road will be closed until further notice.
The evacuation advisory has been converted to an evacuation order. All residents of the Cooper Basin and West Nelson have been ordered to evacuate their homes. Fire personnel are continuing to install hoses and other protective measures around housing structures. It is important that this process not be interfered with. State troopers will be in place to keep people out of the area.
There will be a town meeting tonight at Nelson Elementary at 8:00 p.m., where the fire incident commander will give an update on the forecast for the next 48 hours. All residents, especially those living in the evacuation area, are encouraged to attend.
A map of the evacuation area is attached to this message.
More information is available at www.nelsoncountyemergencyservices.com.
Because of the current unstable nature of the fire, advisories will be issued hourly until the situation has improved.
CHAPTER 24
Flash in the Pan
Elizabeth
There’s this video on YouTube that I watch all the time. It’s from a camera that was left in the woods to catch the path of a fire. Superimposed over the image is a bar graph that shows the rising temperature. A time-lapse clock keeps pace in the corner.
The first seconds of the video are peaceful. The woods are quiet, the trees straight poles that reach up through the undergrowth toward the high-above sun. If you look toward the rear of the frame, there’s a clearing filled with sunlight. Something should be hopping through at any minute. A rabbit, maybe, or a deer.
Then the leaves start to shake, and the sky darkens. Is a rainstorm coming? White flakes flutter through the flame. Is that snow? No. Everything is green, and there’s that temperature gauge, rising slightly. The explanation hits you as the first hint of orange glow tinges the left-hand side of the frame.
It’s ash.
Things happen quickly after that. The trees let off what looks like exhaust as their sap and moisture heat to the boiling point and escape. The screen is filled with smoke and bright orange light. Flames wick through the grass and brush like they’re a conduit. The trees—so alive a minute before—go up like candles as the temperature hits four hundred degrees. Now all you can see are flames, only they’re flames like you’ve never seen them. Not campfire flames, or wood-stove flames, or even burning a brush pile.
The air is flame.
The screen is one burst of flickering orange. There is nothing else to see.
When the temperature hits nine hundred degrees, the trees reappear. Only now, they’re black, glowing sticks, like the sparklers we used to have on birthday cakes or wave around on national holidays. The fire is already retreating, whipping around the base of the trees it destroyed, creating its own atmosphere, making sure it eats everything there is before it moves on.
The temperature gauge starts the downward slope of the bell curve. As it descends, all that’s left are black poles and dirt. The flames are starving, dying. They were too greedy. If there’s nothing for them to move on to, they will die.
At five hundred degrees, a patch of sunlight flits through the frame. The smoke has dissipated enough to let the world back in.
The fire goes as quickly as it came, leaving nothing behind but ash and wisps of smoke.
And when you look at the time, you realize the whole thing happened in a minute.
I wake up sick. Sick to my stomach. Sick in my soul. I feel trapped and scared and unsure of what to do about it.
The obvious thing is to tell Ben. Shake his sleeping shoulder and confess. But somehow—is that really such a surprise to me?—I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t know what it means yet, the fact that I’m pregnant, so how can I talk about it with him, this man who, four days ago, four days ago, I asked for a divorce?
How am I supposed to think here? Here, in this house that isn’t mine. In this room that has nothing to do with my life. I’ve never been good at thinking; I just know how to do.
So I do: I get up and get dressed, and I go fight the fire.
It’s so early I need to turn my headlights on, but even if the sun was higher in the sky, there’s so much smoke everywhere I need to use my fog lamps. Smoke ghosts trail across the road and close in on my car. It’s almost claustrophobic, and I’m happy when the wind picks up and swirls them out of my path. Then I think about what the wind means for the fire, and all happiness drains away.
My phone beeps to remind me I have voice mail. The message was left last night when Ben and I were at dinner, when I’d shoved
my phone in my car’s glove compartment, determined not to check on the fire every minute, to be present in my life for once.
It’s a message from Ben’s mother. I listen to it when I’m stopped at a red light.
“Hi, dear. I’m calling to see if everything is all right. You left the store so fast you forgot your dress. Christine says she can let it out so it will be fine for Saturday. I . . . I hope we’ll all have something to celebrate together, soon.”
I’m flooded with guilt. After my blurted response to figuring out I was probably pregnant, I convinced Grace not to say anything because I hadn’t taken a pregnancy test yet, and I didn’t want to create any false hope. She agreed, reluctantly, but I knew there was a clock on my telling Ben and that I’d raised all kinds of red flags by looking more petrified than joyous. And who knows how much of the conversation Kate Bourne and her acolyte heard? Maybe it was all going to turn up in the Daily this morning.
And yet, here I am, driving away from my problems.
Again.
Only this time, I’m bringing a small part of them with me. The baby. The baby. What am I doing thinking of that prospect as a problem? Better question: What am I doing bringing her, him, the future of us, into the fire? I should turn back. I should . . . No. It’s fine. I need this. I’ll be safe.
We’ll be safe.
When I get to the site, I use my old badge to get through security and then go find Andy. He’s assembling his crew to go on shift, and I tell him only that I’d like to help. I know he wants to ask me what this is all about, but I will him not to with a look, one he knows me well enough to understand. He leads me to the equipment closet, and gets me kitted out. A pair of green Nomex pants and a yellow Nomex shirt. Leather gloves. Steel-toed boots. A helmet with a roll-up face shield. Protective glasses. A backpack, weather kit, and water bottle. An ax.
I heft its familiar weight in my gloved hand and go through my mental checks. I’m ready for this; I have to be.
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