Nothing Left to Burn

by Heather Ezell

  I pull her into me. I did this, and it’s hard to not hate myself for it. “We don’t know that. Maybe she got out.” I rub her shoulder. “And the house might be okay. The firefighters were all over it. Anyhow, cats are resilient. You found her outside, right?”

  Maya nods. “She was so skinny.”

  And I can’t not ask. “Was she a kitten or just a skinny cat?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did she look like?” I’m talking low, as if there’s a risk of Brooks overhearing, like he might pop out behind the curtain and insist she’s gone. “Grayish with some darker cloud-like spots?”

  “I guess, yeah.” Maya shakes her head. “Why does it matter if she’s dead?”

  “She’s not dead,” I say, willing it to be true, and a shiver shoots through my toes.

  “You actually went back to look for her?” Maya asks.

  “I think I almost got arrested.”

  She rubs her nose. “That’s crazy. What if you got hurt?”

  “Sam said you loved her.”

  “But still.”

  “I wanted to save her for you, Maya.”

  “You saved Donny.” She steals the elephant from me, hugs him close to her chest. “You’re not as selfish as you think.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you found a cat in the first place?” I ask. “We could have gone to the pet store together, found her a collar.” My chest is tight. I still have the purple collar for Miss Cat on my desk, if my desk isn’t ash by now. “You can always come to me, you know that, right?”

  Maya nods. “You’re more of a dog person. And you’ve been, well, kind of grumpy all week.”

  I rub my eyes. “I’m so sorry. This week has been—bad.”

  “What happened?”

  The Zippo is heavy in my pocket. My phone is quiet. I want to tell her. Tell my sister something, even if only a fragment of the truth. But Mom stops me, pulls back the curtain right then. She takes in our puffy faces and our tangled huddle on the bed.

  “You broke the news?” she asks me, and I nod and Mom says, “Okay. It’s okay. The house will be fine. Let’s get going and see if we can find something to cheer us up.”

  “Wait,” Maya says. “Is Brooks out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When did you last hear from him?” This comes from Mom.

  “A few hours ago.”

  “Are you worried?” Maya asks.

  I only came to say goodbye.

  “Audrey?” Mom says.

  My mind froths. “Maybe he’s already dead.”

  51

  Muddy

  A week after our tree talk, Brooks and I sat on the overwatered grass at the park near my house. The intention had been to relax, to kiss, to simply be together. But he was too frantic, too angry, pulling up fistfuls of grass.

  “Nine hours of crawling on my hands and knees,” Brooks said. “Nine hours of crawling through nothing.”

  He’d called me down from my bedroom where I’d been studying. I was a sponge, intended to soak up his misery.

  “They chauffeured me all the way out to Riverside so I could press the back of my hands to the ground.” He nearly shouted. “I was praying I’d feel something hot just so I could do something other than inch around like a dumbass.”

  “Did you?” I asked.

  “Did I what?” he asked.

  “Feel something.”

  “No. The fire was done. Eighteen thousand acres.” He held a sliver of grass to the flame of his Zippo and let it shrivel in his grasp. “All of it done.”

  “Well,” I said. “That’s good, right? You guys got it out.”

  “Right. You’re right.”

  “Brooks.” It was past midnight. The triple-digit days were now stacked into weeks—the heat exhausting. The high winds building too quickly—my skin chronically dry and wind-burned. I had to wake up in a few hours. I had a Geometry quiz and Psychology unit exam waiting. I wanted to go home, go to sleep. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m tired of missing him,” he said, under his breath, squeezing his Zippo. “I’m tired of feeling inadequate, you know?”

  “You do so much,” I said. “You’re so far from inadequate.”

  He closed his eyes. “Please don’t.”

  I reached for his shoulder, and he jumped at my touch, his hand still holding the Zippo. His fist flew out, white knuckles, silver flashing. I lurched back onto the ground, my arm protecting my face. A response I didn’t know I had in me. A fear I didn’t know existed.

  “Audrey,” he whispered. His hand was now open, twitching but relaxed, the Zippo dropped in the grass. “Audrey, what the hell was that? You didn’t think—”

  “You’re not inadequate,” I repeated, slowly, sitting up. “Stop saying that.”

  We headed back to my house, to where the Audi was parked. The wind pushed against us, and we walked tensely, Brooks’s low mood still palpable.

  “How is it still so hot?” he muttered.

  I managed a laugh. “Welcome to fall in Orange County.”

  It felt like a midafternoon on the hottest day of summer. But I didn’t mind it: The night sky was so bright, as if the ninety-degree temperature gave it a finer shine. The trees that lined the street swayed erratically, somehow so loud, their leaves wind chimes. And, across the road, the hillside that rolled up to the national forest rustled, from the wind or from animals or both.

  While others complained about the Santa Ana winds and the heat, I secretly loved the season. Nostalgia made the winds take on a tint of magic—my pulse high when branches smacked and scratched my bedroom windows while I slept, the feeling that the morning gusts could push me into flight as I walked to the bus stop.

  I was feeling it then—the hum in my chest from the wind—as Brooks and I walked that night. And it was obvious that he was spellbound too. His dry lips were parted, looking ahead to where a large branch had splintered from an olive tree and fallen across the sidewalk. We walked around it in silence, and I wanted to say, See, I told you so, the worst has yet to come, these winds bring the fires, you’ll get what you want soon, but I was afraid it’d only set him off again. And I didn’t want his dream of a wildfire to come true.

  We approached my house, where my mom’s beloved oak swung its branches against my bedroom window and—before heading up the driveway—I turned to him.

  “Eucalyptus,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I decided,” I said. “The eucalyptus is my favorite tree.”

  I was thinking of the Toll Road, how the line of eucalyptuses always feels steady, like home. I was thinking of Grace’s room, her incense, and the oil she burns by her window to set a mood. I was thinking of Vick’s VapoRub, my mom slathering my chest when I’m sick, the scent calming the aches in my head. I was thinking of pressing the eucalyptus oil onto Maya’s wrist when nausea from chemo slammed.

  I was thinking of a solid tree, tall but lean, always there, somehow reviving.

  “You would pick a selfish, explosive tree,” Brooks murmured.

  The wind gusted and my hair tangled behind my back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do some more research,” he said, a small smile, not bothering to push his own overgrown hair from his face.

  * * *

  * * *

  So I did.

  Eucalyptus trees are not only total water guzzlers and invasive to California, but they’re supposedly horrifically flammable. Ignited, the tree can explode. But otherwise, combustive tendencies aside, with its thick and regenerative bark, the tree is exceptionally fire-resistant.

  So the eucalyptus might be a tad temperamental, a wee bit selfish, but at least it’s a survivor.

  I decided it was still my favorite tree.

  * * *

  * * *

 
When I was done studying the eucalyptus—had decided that it was indeed the tree for me—I paused on my homepage. The cursor blinked.

  I tried again. The same keywords I’d used the night before, and the night before that. I squinted at my laptop screen, trying to find some hint of a puzzle piece that would give light to the story.

  Cameron Vanacore

  Seattle, WA

  Stars, “Your Ex-lover Is Dead”

  Suicide by fire

  Fire suicide

  Alki Beach

  Self-immolation

  Cats

  Burning cats

  Brooks Vanacore

  No internet search has ever been so unsuccessful.

  Brooks said Cameron was twenty years old when he committed suicide. Not a minor. Something about his violent public death would’ve been reported online, right? But there was nothing. Not one report of any self-immolations in the state of Washington. I weeded through gruesome images of Thích Quảng Đức—a monk who self-immolated himself during a political protest—yet there was no evidence that a Cameron Vanacore had done the same. No evidence that a Cameron Vanacore ever even lived. No school records. No awards. No recognition. No old Facebook page, dead and floating. No obituary.

  Brooks hadn’t given me an exact date of Cameron’s death. Only ever said it was a year ago this month. September. It was mid-month, so the anniversary had maybe already passed—that would explain Brooks’s mood, the change. And suicide. Brooks had never talked about the Cameron before death aside from when they were kids—had there been a trigger, years of mental illness beforehand? And was Brooks okay, was Brooks seeing anyone to help with the loss? I was too afraid to ask, wouldn’t dare suggest it.

  I searched every day of September of last year, paired with Seattle and suicide.

  No link led to Brooks or Cameron Vanacore.

  * * *

  * * *

  When I finally slept that night, I dreamt of a bathtub full of cats, burning alive.

  52

  4:29 P.M.

  Apparently Sunday is the day for shopping, and apparently the vast majority of Orange County is not the least bit deterred by the fire swarming the southeastern portion of the county, because I’ve rolled through Row A and Row B and Row C and I still haven’t found a parking spot.

  Released from the hospital, Mom and Maya returned to OCIB on a mission to request a makeup audition—to explain the fluke of the fainting incident. I was sent to the Hilton to pick up their bags from their stay last night, because if I didn’t want to accompany them to the academy, I might as well make myself useful.

  Our plan was to meet at our new hotel in Foothill, but a text from Maya directed me elsewhere: YAYGOODNEWS! Meet @ Fashion Island for happy early dinner in 30ish minutes! Picking up Dad from airport and then Fig & Olive for yummy time.

  Fashion Island. Of course. Thank goodness Grace convinced me to wear her shorts. Forget cooking, she should get into the business of fortune-telling.

  Fashion Island, though not an actual island, is just a short drive from Balboa Island—where Brooks and I evolved into a we. It’s also practically down the street from OCIB and some twenty minutes west of CHOC. I’ve only been here once for a dance-friend’s birthday party when I was ten. Each guest was treated to a salon makeover and handed ten bucks for individual shopping sprees. I bought blue eyeliner and pocketed the rest. I’d probably do the same today, only trade out the blue for black.

  I’m kind of cracking. Maya is okay. She’s great. And I told her I’d talk to somebody about my depression, getting help, and that’s good. I think I really will. But right now I’m losing it, because now that I know Maya is fine, now that I’ve confessed about the muck in my brain, my focus is lost and my mind is all live wire. Shadow is probably howling in our home as she burns alive, and the fire, Brooks—

  Another text comes in, breaking me out of my spiral.

  It’s not from Brooks but from Hayden.

  How’s it going? Still on for the memory dance tonight?

  A minute passes, and I’m rolling through the lot. Another text from Hayden arrives.

  I mean work on our psych project, sorry, that was dumb.

  I could hug him. I should have. I will.

  An empty parking spot in Row F. I park but don’t get out, because I drove too fast so I’m here early, and I’d rather wait alone in my car than alone in a restaurant.

  I swipe at my phone and reread Hayden’s texts and write back.

  Memory dance is so on. Logistics to be confirmed at a later hour.

  I read Grace’s texts next. Questions about Maya, proclamations of love, and photos of her and Quinn on the start of their road trip: Quinn with crown braids posing in front of her car trunk filled with camping gear, her smile a laugh; a selfie of them on the road, Grace grinning so big; a blurry photo of the central coast.

  I reply: These texts give me life. You and Quinn deserve the happiest of times. And, more good news, Maya is healthy!

  But then I turn to the not-so-stellar news. CNN. The Orange County Register. NBC. Big surprise: The fire is growing strong.

  What was originally considered a small, contained brush fire was aggravated late Saturday night when erratic offshore Santa Ana winds collided with onshore coastal winds—

  Air currents from the fire, creating a microclimate that made fighting the fire more dangerous and unpredictable—

  Within an hour, the fire’s containment dropped from 50 percent to 10 percent; it is now 4 percent contained with over 20,000 acres burned—

  Crews hope to find reprieve with the lower nighttime temperatures, but what they really need is rain—no moisture on the ten-day forecast—tomorrow a high of 103 degrees—winds with gusts up to sixty mph—

  Ten minutes of reading and my mouth is chalky and my hands are sweaty and any calm in my bones has been sapped dry. It’s only getting worse. Thousands of families floating, lost, breaking. Do they feel this crack in their hearts?

  Eleven minutes lost to crying.

  But that doesn’t stop me from searching: Audrey Harper, Brooks Vanacore, Caspers Fire, Orange County, California . . .

  Nothing.

  I have to stop. I jump out of the truck and inhale deeply, leaning against the warm cab.

  Here, minutes from the coast, the inland smoke is subdued. Compared to back home in the canyons, the frantic Santa Ana winds are almost cool and tamed—the oven no longer on broil. Don’t mind the rusty clouds smudging the mountain line. Really, it’s just another beautiful Sunday in Southern California. A warm, glowing October.

  I’m officially falling apart. I close my eyes for a beat and then push off from my truck. I make my way through the parking lot. I pretend my legs aren’t shaking, that my palms aren’t sweating. Grace was wrong about my need to dress to impress: Today is a day to get away with sweatpants. Fashion—attempts at exterior perfection—loses meaning when you’ve lost what keeps you rooted, when your roots are being turned to air and ash. Many evacuees wander toward the mall in gym clothes, oversize shirts, and leggings with patterns you wouldn’t normally see in public. I know which ones are part of my community by the finger-brushed hair and stricken expression. Sadness blooms even here. Hands are clenched around shopping bags, around children’s hands, around Starbucks cups. Eyes are puffy, too red for concealer to hide. Arms are locked around loved ones, clutching what remains.

  My heart bangs in my throat.

  I want to text Brooks and ask him why he hasn’t called me back and what the fire looks like up close. I want to tell Brooks I’m scared and I miss my home and I’m ready to call it quits. I want to tell him to go home to his dad. I want to inform Brooks I’m done, we’re through. Goodbye, thank you for last night. I want to text him and remind him I love him, tell him I forgive him. That I’m sorry he’s hurting so bad. That I’m sorry I kissed Hayden, that I’m c
onfused. That whatever happens, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.

  I want to text him a simple question: how are you?

  Instead, I hop from the asphalt to the sidewalk and yank lavender from a jumbo-size planter outside of Nordstrom’s. Stealing lavender is a necessity because my sister had a day as shitty as my own, and she received good news from her oncologist and probably good news from her dream dance academy.

  I should have walked slower. Here I am: Fig & Olive, a rustic breezy place.

  Did Brooks get a lunch break? Was the Starbucks muffin the last thing he ate?

  A hostess leads me to the patio. My family always eats outside when it’s time for celebration. The patio’s exposed honey wood beams and pillars remind me of a house—the outlines of where that wall, that room, that life will go. It reminds me of a house after a fire has torn through it: only blackened foundation and spare beams remaining. What does our house look like now?

  I don’t think I have a house anymore.

  Dad and Mom and Maya sit by the massive cement fireplace in the center. Even today, the fire burns. Dad looks beat with travel-fatigue, but when he sees me, he stands.

  “Our warrior,” he says. Dad hugs me and I hug him, almost crying, so I pull away fast, too fast, because there’s no way am I going to make a scene in a restaurant. He grasps my shoulders and looks at me. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, and I have to blink.

  It’s just past 5 P.M. and I’m going strong, because I’m fine, but I wish I could just go hide in my bed. I don’t know if I still have a bed. And it’s so absurd—eating out and celebrating after today, when we don’t know if our home is okay.

  “Audrey hugging,” Maya says from the table. “Where’s the camera?”

  “So what happened?” I lower myself into the empty chair. My water glass is filled, a lemon slice floating above the ice. “What did the committee say?”

  “It turns out Maya fainted in the two last minutes of her solo,” Mom says.