Sprinting through the death tomb, I wisely headed in the opposite direction of the fiery savage consuming my five-day wellness retreat. Thankfully, my earlier quest for the nanny’s car left me somewhat familiar with the general area of additional exits. With the guitar strapped to my back like a terrified turtle, I stumbled down the hallway, using my hands along the walls as a guide. An orange glow reflected in the glass, the only light in this part of the house. But it was enough to guide me to the safety of the courtyard.
Hope swelled the moment I flung open the French door. Yanking the pillowcase off my face, I drew in a healthy gulp of air. My relief was short-lived as I took in my surroundings. Instead of the safe passage I’d envisioned, I’d collided headfirst into the apocalypse. Not only was my vacation home on fire but so, it appeared, was every other house on the block. Some appeared to be in the very first stages of a scorching smackdown while others, like mine, had already been battered enough to have been assigned hospice care.
But it wasn’t the burning structures that had me in a frenzy. It was the blanket of red creeping up the ridge. The fire’s frontline had spread wide and was flanking both sides of the hillside road where I’d be expected to make my escape. As I weighed my options, embers whizzed past my head like flaming arrows aiming for their next target. This wasn’t just a wildfire. It was an uncontrolled firestorm. With no passable way out.
I could try my luck on foot, but it was a long way down the mountain.
I might actually die.
Memorial shrines with embarrassing pictures of me would spring up everywhere, maybe even one on the exact spot where firemen would find my charred remains. Little girls the world over would mourn, all because their teen idol couldn’t formulate a plan to save his own damn life.
I needed a car.The nanny’s car. And it wasn’t far away. The garage was on the other side of the courtyard in a structure that had yet to be touched by fire. Maybe I could save myself after all.
But all optimism faded when I thought of the keys on the counter in the kitchen – the part of the house that was currently up in flames. I looked down the street and then back at the house. There was no real choice. I wouldn’t survive on foot. I needed a vehicle, which meant, I was going back in.
Reluctantly, I stripped off the guitar case and reaffixed the pillowcase back over my nose and mouth. Before the rational half of my brain could talk me out of it, I darted back into the house. With the flames now ominously bright, I had no trouble seeing the nightmare in front of me. In minutes the place would be fully engulfed and if I miscalculated, the coroner would be identifying me through dental records.
Zigzagging my way through the house, I headed for the kitchen, which was now probably just a liquefying pit of stainless steel. But if there was still an intact island counter that meant there was also a set of keys just begging to be spared. Sprinting through a cavern of flames, the blazing temperatures baked my unprotected torso and I felt the little hairs on my skin melting from the searing heat.
Emerging into the kitchen, I zeroed in on the prize— the shiny metal ring on the counter. The roar in my ears was deafening. It was as if everything the fire touched shrieked in agony. Goddammit, I hoped death’s spindly hands didn’t get a hold of me because there was no doubt in my mind I’d be a screamer.
Pushing the thought aside, I scooped up the keys. Holding the little lifesavers tight enough to cut off circulation, I retraced my steps. Somewhere along the way, the pillowcase had fallen from my face and was now just a useless bandana hanging limply around my neck. I tried to lift it back into place, but my arms were no longer functioning properly. The smoke. There was so much smoke. It seared my throat and with every step I took I could feel the thick fog closing in on my airway.
Still I forged on—each breath more labored than the last. The adrenaline rush had evaporated, and now I existed on sheer power of will. Although my dream destination had been the garage, I knew I couldn’t make it there, at least not without some fresh air. The courtyard loomed ahead, and I longed for its saving graces.
Stumbling out the door, I dropped to my hands and knees coughing up billowy white smoke. Where was the oxygen? Why couldn’t I get air?
Taking a series of shallow gulps, I finally drew in a deep breath, surprised when air filled my lungs. After securing the pillowcase once again, I grabbed my guitar and reentered the inferno for the last time.
The fire had now staked its claim on this half of the house and was swirling upwards in a powerful display. But I was no longer afraid of the bully. It could take the Eucalyptus grove and the house, but I’d be damned if it took me.
At the entrance to the garage, I searched for my salvation in the darkness. Fumbling with the buttons on the key, my shoulders sagged when the interior light flickered on inside the Range Rover. I tossed my guitar in the backseat, flipped on the headlights, and found the emergency tab so I could manually raise the garage door.
Once I was behind the wheel, I maneuvered the car out of the garage and down the driveway, only to come to a screeching halt at security fence. What the hell? How had I forgotten about the gate? With no electricity, I was stuck. Slamming my balled fists against the steering wheel, I swore as loud as my lungs would allow.
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.
