I am very alone. So I let it happen—I cry myself dry, I sob, I shriek. What else can I do? I walk around the house, crying, my arms tucked around my belly. I stop in doorways, clinging to the solid wood frame for comfort. In the living room, the TV is still on, the Brady Bunch, of all things. The episode where Marsha gets hit in the nose with the football, and its replayed over and over again. My mother’s partially knitted orange sock and knitting needles lie on the braided rug. I don’t go upstairs; it feels too far away from them. Instead, I pick up the sock, disentangle it from the needles, and lie down on the couch with it pressed to my cheek, to my nose. The orange alpaca wool smells like vegetables, her work and also patchouli—her scent.
I need to wait this storm out. Something’s wrong with the phones. My parents are dead. They’re not coming back. Afghan pulled over me, sketchbook kicked to the floor, I fall asleep.
Radiance streams from the windows surrounding me. Morning, and with it, an end to the tempest. Dizzy with exhaustion, my head killing me, I sit up and don’t even entertain the thought that perhaps I was dreaming.
I know I wasn’t.
In the kitchen, I try the calls again, 911, everyone I know, numbers I don’t know, the operator. Again, ringing or answering machines, and again I leave a ridiculous amount of messages. Struck with the irony that I can still taste vomit on my tongue, and that my stomach is growling, I get myself a glass of water and swish it around before spitting it over the dishes in the sink. God, those dishes.
Famished, I sit with the leftover pie and a clean fork, and eat the remaining strawberry, juicy half, delicious and perfect. I refill my water glass with raw milk from the fridge, amazed we didn’t lose power. We.
“Me and you, little one,” I whisper, patting my belly.
Resisting the urge to peek into the basement, I head to the kitchen door and pull on my Bogs boots, which reach almost to my knees. I hesitate in front of our line of parkas, mine tiny to fit my five foot two frame, army green with faux brown fur hood, my mother’s pale blue, my father’s bright red, size extra-large. I grab the red, slide my arms through, and let it engulf me before stepping outside.
There must be at least thirty inches of snowfall, glistening quiet, smooth like bleached Saharan sands. I can hear my parents’ cow in the barn, forty feet away, mooing in irritation. Her little calf is separate from her, to keep him from draining her milk supply. So she’s waiting for my father to milk her.
“It’ll have to wait, Sylvia!” I holler. Named after Sylvia Plath, of course. My father was still tossing around her calf’s name—a tie between Alfred, after Lord Tennyson, and James, after Joyce. I voted for James. I guess it’s my choice, now. It’s good—he looks like a James.
The need to escape my environment overwhelms me. The nearest house is a half mile away, if I use the snow-covered dirt road. Shorter if I cut through the woods in the back. I head for the woods.
The snow between the trees is deep, each small breeze freeing more from the branches above, the storm’s last throes. I sink through the fresh powder with each step and occasionally break through the firmer, old snow, up to my thighs. A clunky, inconvenient way to travel. I should have taken the road; at least it had been plowed before this snowstorm. And, as I reach the old white farmhouse, I remember my parents have snowshoes. Idiot. They raised me better than this.
I tramp up to the neighbors’ front door and knock. A lion-headed golden retriever pops into view at the window to the left of the door, paws up on the sill, barking, panting, happy to see me.
Snow melts inside my boots. It’s freezing out here, definitely below zero. The wind picks up. Snow flings from the roof, the ground, whirling around me, picking at my skin. My nose hairs are frozen. I go to the window on the right and peer into the house. The dog again pops up into view, paws on the sill, enormous fluffy red head, and tongue to the side. He’s nearly as tall as I am, and I press my ungloved, reddening fingers to the glass to shade the view into the house above his head. I can’t see much, a living room, typical New England fare.
In classic, private New Hampshire style, living in the woods, my parents and I rarely associated with our neighbors. Once or twice a year felt like enough, like neighborly. Not that there were many neighbors to begin with, and all at least a half mile away. I think I’ve talked with these people—a young couple with maybe one or two children—twice. Both times, years ago.
They’re not answering. The beautiful dog barks wildly, and I decide to try the door. It opens easily and immediately a tongue laps my face, two heavy paws on either shoulder, the dog as desperate for company as I am. I glance at the driveway. A car sits, heaped in snow. The dog is alone...but not.
Like me. Pushing past my fears and this frenetic, spinning ball of red fur, I step inside.
6
AUGUST
Snow in Phoenix. It doesn’t happen often, but winter occasionally vacations in the arid South long enough to leave a white residue. It’s not snow, I think, not allowing myself false hope. The thin coating of white, covering the ground and buildings, isn’t melting under the glow of the morning sun, or sixty degree temperature. At least it’s not in the air anymore. The trip to Phoenix took four hours instead of the usual one. Poor visibility and abandoned, still running vehicles, not to mention a few pile-ups, slowed my progress. As the sun returned to the sky, the winds died down and the dead dust slipped from the cloudless sky.
I’m stopped in the middle of Route 60. The freeway is mostly empty, but enough vehicles dot the road to make speeding a dangerous prospect. The buildings’ windows gleam in the bright, orange light, dulled slightly by the white dust clinging to the surfaces.
I look at my front windshield. It’s coated in a thin film of white. Static, I think, and turn on the wipers, spraying the glass with cleaning fluid the color of a tropical ocean. The dead smear back and forth across the glass until the view becomes clear. I turn the wipers off and watch the last of the white run down the sides of the windshield.
My phone chimes, sending me sprawling away from it. I recover from the violent flinch and descend on the phone like a peregrine falcon. Is it a text? A voicemail? I fumble with the device, nearly drop it, and then clutch it tight, pressing the power button. The screen flicks on, displaying a thin red power indicator and the message, ‘20% battery life remaining.’
“Damnit!” I shout and drop the phone before I can smash it into the floor.
The near contact spurs me onward. I throw the SUV into ‘Drive’ and speed around a yellow VW bug. Old school. Pot leaf bumper stickers on the back. Typical Phoenix youth. Not Claire, though. She’d been straight-laced and focused on achieving her goals. She could have picked any path and excelled. Her mind is a laser, precise, powerful and sharp. She’s a perfect creation, and while I don’t really believe in God, if there is a creator, erasing Claire from the world would be like Michelangelo setting fire to the Sistine Chapel. If God does exist, and spared me, why not her?
It’s a thin argument, especially given my beliefs, but I’m grasping. Desperate for hope.
Phoenix passes in a blur. Claire lives on the north side of the city in a nice apartment building that I help pay for. Manicured grounds, a gym, a shimmering pool and an interior that would cost a fortune in other parts of the country, all painted in hues of warm brown and adobe red. Southwest city living at its best.
The streets are far from empty. I’m not sure what time this... whatever it is...happened, but it couldn’t have been past midnight. The number of vehicles littering the streets hints at an active night. Clogged intersections force me onto the barren sidewalks as I work my way through a section of town housing more than a few clubs. But in some spots, even the sidewalks are blocked. Cars on the move when things went to hell continued forward, crashing into each other, store fronts and in one case, a fire hydrant. While the skyborne torrent of water—the only thing moving besides me—holds my attention for a moment, it’s the crashed vehicles that fascinate me. Although the front end
s are crushed, there’s no evidence to suggest a violent end to the vehicle’s occupants. No shattered windshields. No blood. And certainly no corpses. Just still vehicles and flaccid airbags.
As I close in on Claire’s neighborhood, my stomach starts to seize, cramping tightly. My first thought is that I’m dehydrated. It’s been a while since I drank anything. But my other symptoms—sweaty hands, nervous jitters and short breathing—reveal nerves frayed like old corduroys. I’m terrified by what I’ll find.
Relief comes in the form of distraction when I catch the scent of a burning fire, chemical and acrid—burning city, not woods. That the city, or part of it, is burning, heightens my sense of urgency. In Arizona, fires can get out of control even with half the nation’s fire departments chipping in. Without a fire department or even a single firefighter, the entire city might burn—and then take half the state.
As I round the corner onto North 7th Street, the fire comes into view, a few blocks east of Trillius West, the posh name for Claire’s apartment complex. The slick black sign is straight ahead, the gates closed. I take one last look at the blaze. It must have started recently, perhaps from a stove left on or a candle left burning. I didn’t see smoke from outside the city. But the blaze is already large, sliding through neighborhoods like stop motion mold over fruit. A slight breeze carries a cloud of white dust west.
It’s coming this way.
I slow to a stop, staring at the gate. It’s steel, two halves joining in the middle. A guard house sits off to the side. I’ve visited enough that the guards just buzz me through, but no one sits behind the security glass. A flicker of orange pulls my attention to the West. A store front, four blocks away, erupts in flame.
Conjuring every ounce of fuck-it manliness I can manage, I cram the gas pedal down. The monstrous Highlander roars and charges forward. To my surprise, the gate is far more flimsy than it looks, and it folds inward, granting me passage to the complex with only a metallic shriek for resistance.
Tires squeal as I push the SUV through the clear parking lot, racing toward the far end, where Claire’s ground floor apartment awaits. The heavy vehicle skids to a stop across three parking spaces. I spill from the driver’s side door, nearly slipping on the dust covered pavement. Outside, the scent of smoke is overpowering. I’m coughing before I reach the door. I try the knob. Locked.
I reach into my pocket for the keys, but find it empty. I didn’t recover my keys. They’re in my coat, hanging in my office. The only key I have is inside the still running Highlander.
“Claire!” I bang on the door, first with my fists, and when that hurts, with my feet. The jarring impact of each kick confirms that I won’t be kicking my way past the lime green-painted metal door.
I look around for something to throw at the large bay window beside the door, but find only plants, woodchips and parked cars. Then I spot a brown paper grocery bag on the walkway leading to the neighbor’s apartment. I met her once, the neighbor. She was nice. Late thirties. A single mother. Claire told me to ask her out. Thought we’d be a good match. All of this is fresh in my mind as I crouch by the bag and peer at the woman’s groceries, doing my best to ignore the flower pattern skirt and tank top lying beside it.
She’s dead.
The thought slips through my mind, an unwelcome intruder. Fighting tears, I stand, shout in anger and kick over the bag. Green apples roll free, followed by a package of sausage and two boxes of kid’s macaroni and cheese. Amid the tumbling food there is a clink of glass striking concrete.
Wiping away tears, I crouch and look in the bag again. A bottle of wine sits at the bottom. I grasp the bottle’s neck and carry it back to Claire’s apartment. Without ceremony or pause, I hurl the bottle into the window. The shattering glass feels like an explosion, and for the first time, I’m aware of the absolute silence surrounding me. I stand still, holding my breath. In the near perfect silence I hear the crackle of distant fire.
I kick away the few shards of glass still in the window and carefully hoist myself up and over the sill, using a living room chair on the other side for balance. Sliding out from under the curtain, I get my first look at the apartment beyond. It’s fairly Spartan, decorated with funky, brightly colored furniture that reveals Claire’s artistic side. Compared to my house, this is like a modern art museum. An entire wall of her dining room is a print of cut limes, matching the front door.
“Claire!” I shout, despite feeling certain I won’t get a reply. “Claire!” My voice cracks as I begin weeping, and I clumsily run from the living room to the kitchen. It’s pristine. No dirty dishes. No food left out.
No dust.
I check the dining room.
The bathroom.
And finally the bedroom. I pause in front of the open door, steeling myself for the most likely scenario: loose blankets covering a pile of dust. I step inside, primed to fall down, wailing in despair, and I find a made bed. I wander around the room, looking for signs of my daughter’s passing, but find nothing.
Feeling more confused than hopeful, I head for the guest room where I sometimes stay, and find it equally pristine.
She wasn’t here.
I wander back to the living room, feeling denied.
Sometime during the drive here, I came to terms with what I would find. Claire is gone. Along with everyone else. Some kind of cosmic event has reduced life to dust, and I, being more than a mile below the ground, had been spared. It was a crazy theory, but as a scientist, I couldn’t ignore the evidence. I knew she was gone, but had to complete the journey anyway. If I couldn’t have Claire, at least I could have closure.
But now...she is just absent, perhaps part of the dust cloud last night, or coating a building, or scattered—her dehydrated cells as distant from each other as the stars in the sky. I would have collected her remains. Would have buried them, or spread them out at the ocean. Something to say goodbye.
I sit on the couch. The leather squeaks under my weight. I feel empty and emotionless, primed to implode, but denied the catalyst.
What now?
I search the room and stop on a framed photo of Claire and me. She’s fifteen in the photo and I’m about fifteen pounds lighter. There’s a lake in the background. I’m holding a fishing rod. She’s holding the line where a hooked sunfish dangles. Neither of us was good at fishing, but that wasn’t the point of fishing. Not for the average person who doesn’t catch fish to eat, or care about landing the largest bass. That quiet time spent with a loved one is about the best feeling on the planet. Bonds can be forged without ever sharing a word.
I stand from the couch, take the photo from the wall and carefully undo the backing. With the image free from the frame, I peer at it, into it, trying to live in that moment in time, but I fail.
Motion from outside the broken window spins me around. Smoke, black and violent, rises into the air, on the far side of the adjoining apartment building. Time’s up. I pocket the photo.
Despite my despair and loneliness, burning alive isn’t a fate I’m willing to resign myself to. I hurry back to the guest room and retrieve Claire’s backpack from the closet. The bottom drawer of the room’s dresser is filled with two sets of my clothing. I stuff both into the bag and head for Claire’s bedroom.
At first I’m not sure why I’ve come to the room again. She’s not here. But then I spot something intimately familiar and realization dawns. I hurry across the room and pluck the baseball cap from the bed post where it hangs. Claire is a Red Sox fan. I’m not sure why. She grew up in Arizona and I’ve never been into sports. But I took her to a game once, Red Sox and the Diamondbacks, when she was ten. Bought her that hat. She was the only one in the stadium wearing a cap with a bright red B on it, but she didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. At the game’s conclusion, she stood solitary, cheering for her victorious team. It’s why I came back to her room; a memento to accompany the photo in my pocket. I place the hat atop my head and make for the kitchen.
Seeing the fridge, my empty stomac
h rumbles. I’ve missed two meals and at least two hefty snacks. I open the fridge and take four water bottles, two cans of soda and a quarter gallon of milk. I raid the cabinets next, taking a box of protein bars, four apples and a bag of trail mix. It’s not exactly meal material, but it’s also not going to go bad. I’m not sure why I’m taking so much food and water. I don’t live too far from the office. I can be there in four hours. Something about the end of all life in Phoenix has turned me into a hoarder. No, I think, I’m just preparing for the worst...like it can get any worse. Stuffing everything but the milk into the back pack, I take a step toward the door, but pause, remembering the freezer’s contents. After opening the freezer door and retrieving a single box, the view outside the living room window turns orange.
The building on the far side of the parking lot has just gone up in flames. Windows shatter and fire roars. A hot breeze flows through the apartment, carrying smoke and white flakes that could be people, or ashes, but is most likely both. With wide eyes and full arms, I run toward the blaze.
7
POE
“Aren’t you a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” He’s gigantic, his dark red fur gorgeous. At my heaviest, I’m a strapping one hundred and fifteen pounds, and he’s probably not much less than that. He whirls around me as I step past the threshold, around and between my legs, slapping me with his tail. I rub his sides and he stands, paws balanced on my shoulders, tongue cleaning my face. My eyes tear up with the recognition that I was badly in need of connection. His loving attention overwhelms me. If he wasn’t so huge, I’d pick him up and carry him over my shoulder like a baby, nuzzling.
“Where is everybody, big guy?” He drops down from his position on my shoulders with a thud and leads me into the house.
“Hello?” I call down the hallway. The walls are covered in family photographs and old, floral wallpaper. Lamps glow from the living room as I pass into the kitchen, following his wagging behind. A static sound, maybe an untuned radio station, emanates from somewhere in the house. The beautiful, wide plank oak floors creak. The corridor opens into the spacious kitchen, which smells chocolatey.
The Distance Page 4