Like The Wind

by Bengtsson, J.

  Think.

  If the garage door had an emergency lever, the security gate was bound to have the same mechanism. A fail-safe for situations just like this.

  Willing my body to keep fighting, I jumped out of the vehicle and headed straight for the breaker box. Frantically, I pulled and pressed everything inside until I heard a loud click as the lock on the gate disengaged.

  I should have been ecstatic, jumping for goddamn joy, but my strength and resolve were zapped. The only fight I had left in me was being used to swallow back the vomit threatening to spew from my guts. Even though my body appeared to be shutting down, my mind was screaming for me to flee.

  The fire was bearing down and, in a few minutes’ time, the road would no longer be passable. My body would just have to wait its damn turn.

  I’d just begun the arduous process of sliding the fence along the track when a series of loud cracks drew my attention to the house. Turning in time to witness the roof collapse, my jaw came unhinged. I’d been in there less than five minutes before. I could’ve easily been crushed under a pile of smoldering ash.

  It wasn’t so much relief I felt, but sadness for the place that had given me such comfort for the short time I’d been there. My therapy spot on the base of the twisted tree in the Eucalyptus grove was decimated, the arcade with my winning time – gone, and the little kids whose Nanny’s car I’d just stolen, had lost their home. With newfound vigor, I made quick work of the gate, then climbed into the Range Rover and drove off the property without looking back.

  6

  Breeze: The Pet Sitter

  We were at a stalemate, Sweetpea and me. I’d been caring for my canine charge for five days and we were no closer to an understanding now than we were upon first introduction. I tried not to take it personally. After all, I was the one who rescued strays off highways. And as a child, I’d insisted on only adopting the hard-to-place, physically challenged pets. Heart issues, missing limbs, or stinky skin conditions— the more debilitated, the better.

  Perfection was overrated. And that included the human race. I drifted toward complicated companions. Maybe it was the nurse Nightingale in me, but I was a sucker for the bruised and battered. It was what had attracted me to Mason when we were only eight and I saw him crying on the sidewalk after being locked out of his house by his schizophrenic mother. And Brandon. He was all misplaced anger and resentment. But I was ready and willing to roll up my sleeves and get to work fixing the hell out of him.

  The problem with these people, I’d since found, was they soaked up the nurturing like a sponge but weren’t as good at giving a few drops back when I really needed it. Knowing when to cut the cord on the emotionally needy was what kept a compassionate, loving person like myself from becoming a doormat. I’ll admit it was a fine line, one I’d been walking my whole life, starting with my immature, non-committal father and continuing on with my cheating ex-fiancée. Certainly, it would’ve been easier to harden my heart and close it off to the wounded, but then I would’ve missed out on the hidden gems, like Mason and my poor sweet, old Hugh.

  And in that same vein, I was convinced my current challenge, Sweetpea, had a heart of gold buried somewhere deep within that itty-bitty bitchy body of his. Sure, on the outside he appeared to be the devil’s spawn. There was nothing sweet, or pea, about him unless you counted the puddles of urine he left all over the house. But, the bleeding heart in me reasoned, even inappropriately named Chihuahua mixes were worth the effort.

  Still, the short-tempered pup was depleting my reserves. Feeding time with Sweetpea was an exercise in survival. He was a carnivore with a taste for blood. When it was time to eat, I gingerly placed his bowl on the floor and pushed it over with a broom. I’d been warned about fingers near his food, and the loss of said digits, so I wasn’t taking any chances with the miniaturized meat grinder.

  Playtime with Sweetpea was about as fun as a bikini wax following a long, cold winter. Both scenarios usually ended with me quivering on a chair screaming for relief. My hero came in the form of Hercules, the family’s enormous Saint Bernard, who was as sweet as his little brother was rotten. Herc was not only a peacemaker, but also a Chihuahua-whisperer. He seemed the only one able to talk my nemesis off the cliff.

  Nighttime with Sweetpea was reminiscent of a hostage situation, with the diminutive dictator cuddling up next to me for warmth but not allowing me to move a muscle. If I had the gall to pivot in my sleep, I could expect a splinter-sized tooth planting itself deep in the tender flesh of my patootie.

  Maybe I was just rusty in the pet-sitting arena. After all, I hadn’t owned an animal since relocating to Southern California. My current landlord, a cranky, rules-oriented woman, didn’t allow pets or the cooking of certain smelly vegetables. The veggies rule I could live with as I wasn’t the biggest fan of leafy greens anyway, but I struggled with the other. There were times I missed animals so much that I snuck into dog parks under the guise of being a pet owner just to frolic with other people’s pups.

  So it was a no brainer when I was asked to pet sit for the Kufrin family. Cindy, the mother of one of my child clients, presented the offer to me after an animated conversation about a baby bird I attempted to return to the nest before getting browbeaten by his irritated mother. How was I to know the little guy was testing his wings?

  Anyway, Cindy’s proposal was one of those too-good-to-be-true deals and I should have known there was something fishy about it. But a hundred and fifty dollars a day to spend weekends and evenings with her family’s pets in a multi-million dollar mansion while they were in Europe for twelve days was just too good to pass up.

  And then I met Sweetpea. You know you’re in trouble when the pet owner leaves a copy of his rabies certificate right next to the number for the nearest urgent care. Thank god he was up-to-date on his shots or I’d already be foaming at the mouth. It soon became clear that Cindy hadn’t offered the job to me out of the kindness of her heart. She was offering it to me because Sweetpea was very likely blacklisted in the canine community, his mug shot hanging in animal establishments all along the coast as a warning to unsuspecting pet sitters like myself.

  “Please, Sweetpea,” I pleaded with the tiny Napoleon. “If you let go I’ll let you spoon me tonight, no questions asked.”

  Our current deadlock was over a cat toy. He’d swiped it from Lucy, the mansion’s cat, and she wanted it back. With both hands on the toy and the dog’s teeth clasped securely over the sparkly mouse, Sweetpea and I began our stare down. It was going on three minutes, twenty-eight seconds and neither of us was budging.

  Until the lights went out.

  * * *

  Time goes by so much slower in the dark, especially when sleep was off the table. Had I known I’d be spending the evening in obscurity, I wouldn’t have taken a nap earlier in the day. Now I was wide-awake and bored to tears. With no television, and the Internet only accessible on the front porch with my arm lifted and tilted at a seventy-degree angle, my options for entertainment were limited. Since my mom and Terrance were teaching their evening couple’s relaxation class, I took to texting or calling every human I’d ever known. In a moment of extreme weakness, I even dialed up my wayward father.

  Four rings later and he was on the line.

  “Hello?”

  His intro was less a greeting and more reminiscent of a person trying to figure out how the strange talking device worked.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Silence filled the space between us. I pulled the phone away from my ear to make sure we were still connected but, sure enough, the call time was still ticking away.

  Confused, I tried again. “Dad?”

  “Who’s this?”

  Since I was the only one qualified to use the moniker, I was instantly pissed.

  “It’s me. Your daughter.”

  More silence as I held my breath, waiting for his reply. I’ll admit, it had been a while since we’d spoken, but certainly not enough time to forget his own child.
r />   “Breeze,” I added quietly in an attempt to jog his long-term memory. This pretty much summed up our entire relationship. He had to be repeatedly reminded of my existence.

  A long, relieved exhale. “Ah. Right … Breeze.”

  “Who else would I be?” I asked, rolling my eyes. “Unless you have another daughter somewhere.”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he chuckled. “Sorry, I’m just a little distracted right now. Got some old high school buddies over for a few beers. You just sounded so old, baby girl.”

  “Old?”

  “Yeah, like a woman. I got confused.”

  “You do know I’m twenty six, right?”

  “Shut the fuck up! Are you shitting me right now?”

  My shoulders slumped. Sure, he’d missed every birthday since I was seven. But still, this was a new low. “No, not shitting you at all. If you will recall, I was born back in 1992.”

  “Wait a minute! How old does that make me then?”

  “Forty-five.”

  I didn’t need a calendar to remember his age. John had become a father at the ripe old age of eighteen and had been forgetting his responsibilities ever since.

  “Well, fuck!” My father paused a moment to address his buddies. “Do you guys know I’m forty five fuckin’ years old?”

  There was commotion in the background as all his friends replied in the affirmative.

  “Okay, this sucks. Why didn’t someone tell me I was old as fuck?”

  My father was still engrossed in the far-off conversation while I waited on the line.

  “Vic, get off the table,” he yelled, forcing me to hold the phone away from my ear. The get-together sounded bigger than just a group of high school pals sharing a few beers. I had a sinking suspicion I’d just interrupted a smoke out.

  “Who’s Vic?” I asked, grasping at straws to hold the conversation together.

  “Just some asshole I know. He thinks he can fly. Anyway, sorry, baby girl, what have you been up to? And don’t tell me you’ve got some snot-nosed rug-rat of your own or I might just have a full on heart attack.”

  “No, no kids.”

  “Oh, whew. I so couldn’t handle being a grandfather.”

  Right, like he couldn’t handle being a father?

  “So, what’s happening?” he asked. “Why did you call?”

  “No reason. Just thought I’d say hi. I’m sitting in the dark. There’s a power outage.”

  “Really? That’s weird. I have electricity.”

  “Right, but you live in San Francisco. I’m down south.”

  “What the hell are you doing down south?”

  “Well, I’ve been living in Ventura County for two years now.”

  “Huh, really?”

  I may as well have been talking to myself. Clearly he was preoccupied or just too wasted to offer me any attention.

  “You know what, you sound busy. I’ll just talk to you later.”

  “Okay, baby girl. That sounds good. Have fun.”

  And with that, he hung up on me. I stared at my phone in disbelief and then wanted to kick myself for being surprised. If I thought he’d fight a little harder to stay connected to me, I was sadly mistaken.

  Stroking the silky fur of the cat curled up on my lap, I fought back tears. Why had I called him in the first place? People didn’t magically change just because you needed them to. My father couldn’t offer me any more solace than Sweetpea, who routinely bit my butt while I slept.

  “It’s his loss.” I whispered the words my mother had used to soothe me when my father had skipped a weekend visit, or a birthday. Or my entire life. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  Lucy lifted her head, rewarding me with the affectionate attention I craved. I’d known this brown and white ragdoll cat for five days and she already appreciated me more than my own father did. That’s why I loved pets. They didn’t care what you looked like or how much money you made, all they required from their humans was basic necessities and a gentle touch.

  I bent down and kissed the top of her head, and she purred her approval. Who needed a dad when I had my Lucy?

  “I’m going to take you home with me,” I mused. “Maybe your family won’t notice.”

  A text pinged on my phone, and I shifted my focus to the message from Mason.

  Sorry, just got your text.

  With a sigh, I tapped out my response. Took you long enough. I sent like four.

  Twelve, Breeze. You sent twelve.

  I flinched at his reply, knowing how needy that made me sound. Did I? It must have been a glitch in the phone because of the blackout.

  After a moment, he returned, Whatever you say

  Fine. I’m bored. I have no one to talk to, Mace. I was so desperate I even called my father.

  The dots danced on the screen and I imagined his surprise.

  Your father? Jesus. What’s John up to nowadays?

  I wouldn’t really know seeing as I had to spend our whole conversation reminding him of who I was.

  Mason dropped a laughing emoji. Sorry. He’s a Dipwad.

  Yeah, a giant one. Anyway, why didn’t you answer me?

  I’m in Vegas. It’s not like I can just drop everything to keep you company in the dark.

  Ah crap. I forgot you were in Sin City. Are you sinning?

  What do you think?

  I think that was a stupid question. What are you doing now?

  Shitting.

  Ew, Mason, you disgust me.

  You wanted me to text back and I am. Don’t question my methods. Anyway, a friend of mine just told me there’s a fire off the 150 highway.

  I’m not surprised. The wind and the heat are brutal. Even without a bunch of pyromaniacs running around, the conditions are still perfect for a fire.

  I know, but Breeze, what I’m saying is that could be the reason for the blackout.

  Oh great. If the fire burned through the power lines then the electricity could be out for days.

  Sucks for you. I’m in the City Of A Billion Lights. Even the hookers are lit up.”

  How nice for you.

  Look on the bright side. If the electricity is still out by the weekend, you could always take your zoo to the Bay Area and go to the family reunion.

  Oh right because nothing says, “I’m over you” like a woman arriving at a party with pet rats.

  Yuck. That family has rats too?

  Mason, they have everything. I wish you weren’t in Vegas. You could come over and we could pretend to be on an awkward babysitting date. It would be so fun.

  You are bored.

  So, so bored.

  Well, as fun as it is to be shooting the breeze with you, Breeze, I’ve got a Neon party to go to.

  Nooo. You can’t be done crapping already?

  Oh, but I am. Goodnight, Breeze.

  Goodnight, Mason.

  I stayed put on the sofa, not sure what to do with myself until Hercules nudged me with his nose. He’d had enough of my hibernation and needed a little action. To drive home the point, the Saint Bernard stuck his snout up Lucy’s backside causing a sudden and swift retaliation from the bundle of fur in my lap. Personality wise, Lucy was more like a dog, sweet and friendly with a tendency to follow me around wherever I went. But when pushed to the limits, as Herc had done with his ‘nose to the butthole’ bit, the mild-mannered kitty flipped to all fours and went into full on ninja mode, delivering a ‘Me Too’ movement beat-down for the ages.

  Sweetpea wanted nothing to do with the current state of affairs, preferring instead to sit at my feet in a near catatonic state. It occurred to me then that I’d inadvertently stumbled upon the best method of emasculating the cocksure Chihuahua—turning off the lights on the whole damn city. Totally doable. Yep, the pup barked a good game, but that’s all it was. Deep down, he was just an insecure little man compensating for his tiny package with belligerence.

  Taking the long way around to avoid Lucy and her paws of fury, Herc dug his head into my shou
lder, making me laugh at his antics.

  “Okay, fine. You win.”

  With the animal parade following my every move, I wandered the house trying to figure out which light switches were in the up position because nothing sent panic through me like waking up to a house coming alive after a power outage. Shivering at the thought, the first feelings of uneasiness crept up the back of my neck and tingles fanned out over my skin. Something didn’t feel right, like evil was lurking right around the bend.

  Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to hide in a closet. Instead, I did the next best thing—I ate. It proved to be an appropriate distraction, and the dogs and I worked our way through the pantry with enviable precision. My phone rang, echoing through the darkness and startling me so badly I nearly choked on a mouthful of dried mangos. Lucy shot out of the kitchen like a bullet, Sweetpea peed where he stood, and Hercules dug his head into my leg, whining. I patted his wide, furry forehead. The blackout was getting to all of us.

  “I know, Buddy. It scared me too.”

  I checked my screen before answering. Mason. “Hello?”

  “Breeze!” he shouted my name, fear and anxiety threading his tone.

  “Mace, what’s wrong?”

  “Get out!”

  “What?”

  “Listen to me. You’ve got to get out of there right now. A fire is coming your way.”

  “It’s on the 150,” I replied, confused by his urgency. “That’s a good ten to fifteen miles away from me.”

  “Not anymore. The winds shifted. My buddy’s up there. His house is on fire. It’s coming straight for you and it’s traveling fast. They’re calling for immediate evacuations. You have five minutes. That’s what they’re saying for that area. Get in your car and get the hell out of there. Right now!”

  “Okay. I’m… okay. I’ll leave.”

  “Now, Breeze. Call me when you’re out.”

  “Okay. Bye.”