Wildfire

by Toni Draper

  He was now thankful he had learned how coniferous trees, such as pines, contain an oily substance called resin. How such pitch ignites and burns quickly, allowing fire to pass through fast. And how, because of that, the granddaddies of old growth forests, head and shoulders above the rest and out of reach of a ground fire’s flames, stood a good chance of making it out alive. The more substantial the timber, the better the odds. The ponderosa’s characteristic thick bark and deep roots also serve to increase their rate of survival, as did the fact that as the trees grow taller, the lower branches fall off, adding to the kindling often found on their forest floors and providing more fuel for a quick burn through. Even though that had been so in this fire too, dead snags—pieces of trees that were not quite as resilient—littered the ground of the decimated land. Like bone fragments in the urn of a recent cremation, they jutted out like tombstones from the ashes.

  After more than two full days of mop-up, a process by which the firefighters lined up side by side, dropped to their hands and knees, and literally crawled on the earth to feel for fire seeking refuge underground, spirals of smoke still swirled and danced around. With shovels and flappers, they turned over and under the duff, now mostly soot and ash, and stirred water from five-pound portable containers they carried on their backs into the mix. A dirty and exhausting job, it could sometimes take weeks, depending on how many acres were involved in a burn. This one, although it had its moments, hadn’t been quite that bad.

  Mena thought she finally had the proof she needed in an image captured on one of the camcorders she was monitoring. Unfortunately, it had been too grainy to be of much use. Still, she knew who it was, even without seeing his face. Regardless, she curbed her enthusiasm and prepared for a sojourn in Albuquerque, where she would spend the remaining weeks of her summer vacation. As part of an interagency effort, she’d join forces with men and women from all over the country—from the US Forestry Service, Bureau of Indian Affairs, Bureau of Land Management, the National Park Service, and Fish and Wildlife Services—all of whom were coming together for extensive classroom training and field experience to learn about prescribed fires and fire management at the Southwest Fire Use Training Academy.

  She’d had a lot of time to think about and plan the direction of her life’s path, which fork in the road she would follow, while recovering from the fall she was now convinced had a purpose for taking place. She had awakened to the reality that she was not as young as she used to be, that it was time for her to think about scaling back. Her recent research into arson investigation had proven to be a consideration. She planned to look into it while there. She was excited about the prospect and couldn’t wait.

  She’d planned for Peña’s wife, Traci, to take care of Chesa and Emi while she was gone, though she hated the thought of leaving them again so soon and for so long.

  “What exactly did you think would happen? Better yet, what did you want to happen?” Liz asked Sydney, who had just spent the better half of fifty minutes outlining her journey to Arizona while anxiously pacing around the room. Liz couldn’t recall ever having seen or heard her so agitated as she listened to Sydney recount in detail each word of every conversation that had taken place, from the telephone call that had alerted her to Mena’s life-threatening situation to the hospital visit.

  “Well…I guess I wanted her to be happy to see me.” Sydney sighed sadly. “Truth be known, a part of me has always held onto the fantasy that someday we would get back together. I believed what we had was special, that it didn’t come along every day. But then, what did I know? I’m not exactly a paragon of any kind of relationship or love guru. I often wondered what would happen if and when our paths would cross again. The reality of what happened, however, was far different than anything I’d ever considered in my wildest imagination. I guess I was fooling myself to think she still cared.”

  Liz stopped her monologue there. “You did share some precious times together, and I’m sure she does still care. Maybe just not in the way you had hoped she would. Correct me if I’m wrong, but for months, didn’t she try to reach out to you by way of calls and letters? I have a somewhat vague memory of you reading and sharing quite a few of them with me in our sessions. Isn’t it possible that she, like you, had to find a way to distance herself from the pain of ending the relationship? I doubt seriously that she ever expected to see you again. She must have been shocked by the unexpected appearance of her past in the present.”

  Sydney unsnapped her purse and pulled out the chain Mena had returned. “This arrived in the mail this morning.”

  Liz’s eyes widened, then her forehead creased. “I don’t understand. Are you telling me that Mena has sent you a gift?”

  Sydney explained, “I gave this chain to her after removing it from around my own neck the first time we made love.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “I didn’t want it back. I’d given it to her. She’d kept it all this time, apparently worn it as recently as the day of the accident.” Sydney struggled not to lose control of her emotions as she attempted to recount the experience.

  “It’s hard to let go of someone we’ve loved. Especially someone we have loved as much as you loved Mena. It would be difficult if she had been taken from this world by death, but in its own way, perhaps it’s better to have thought that you still had a chance then to now know that may never be so, by her choice.”

  In her own way, Liz validated what the grieving woman was feeling. As she continued to watch her fight for control over her emotions, Liz asked a point-blank question. “Sydney, why don’t you just let yourself cry? You know, it really is okay. What do you think would happen if you simply let the tears fall? Would that be such a terrible thing?”

  Sydney laughed, a reactionary response, before revealing one of her greatest fears. “They might never stop coming.” Over the years, she had acquired and honed coping skills and strategies in response to earlier trauma that she still used today. In an environment that had been, for a while, out of her control, she found solace and felt safe when she was able to maintain some semblance of dominion in the face of a threatening foe. It had become her way of surviving.

  These days, she rarely admitted the truth, opting instead to tout the virtues of an adopted stoicism as a preferred and more acceptable character trait. Unfortunately, it was more a character flaw, a crumbling facade, a charade.

  Sydney continued to choke back a sob as she put the necklace back in its place, and Liz asked, “So, where do you go from here?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  Such a response from a woman who planned absolutely everything, and had often insisted that to do otherwise, “Like a fish out of water, I would flounder,” surprised not only Liz, but even Sydney herself.

  “Please think about it. Our time today is just about up, but we’ll make that the focus of next week’s session.”

  As they walked down the stairs to the center’s front door, Liz turned to her. “I understand how difficult this must be for you. Just know I’m here for you and will make time if you need to come in before next week.”

  Sydney nodded. “Thank you.”

  “And remember, no matter the outcome, you reached out. You’ll be fine. Just keep your chin up.”

  As the door closed behind her, Sydney heard Liz greet her next client and thought, That’s easy for you to say, before stepping down off the porch.

  That evening, when night fell and she was again set adrift on a sea of profound aloneness, Sydney reflected on what she didn’t say to Liz. Why didn’t I tell her that I hadn’t returned to see Mena as promised? Did I try as hard as I could have to reach her? Couldn’t I have delayed my return flight just one more day? Mena would have stopped at nothing if the roles had been reversed. I know it. But I’m not her. Surely, she’ll understand when I finally tell her what happened, won’t she? Or am I simply falling back into my old ways? Have I really changed?
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  She reread the words Mena had written and sent along with the chain.

  I’ve heard it said that people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Sometimes we get confused about which it is, sometimes the three overlap, but in the end, I think the theory holds true. Sydney, we had a reason, and a very good season. We both have memories to cherish that will last a lifetime, but somewhere along the way, we stepped into a Robert Frost poem. You know, the one about the road not taken. We could have gone either way, but a decision had been made, and it was made by you. Not that I’m casting blame. Our paths diverged by way of so many winding bends and turns that, after a while, even if we had wanted to, we couldn’t go back to where we’d parted ways. We’re different people now. We’ve both been affected and changed by experiences we’ve had along our separate paths. Even if we could find our way back, it wouldn’t be the same. You’re not the same, and I’m not the same, and together, we surely wouldn’t be the same. Of course, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  Sydney paused for a moment and reflected. She imagined the dimpled smile that would appear on Mena’s face if she were saying these words to her right now in this space.

  I meant each and every (what you referred to as sappy) word I wrote in my many, many letters, emails, and cards. And I don’t regret telling you how I felt. I will always be grateful for the time we had together. Ours was a magical love. But I’ve come to realize that the romance and fantasy is not enough. We could never survive the ups and downs of everyday life. Like someone special once said to me, ‘we simply weren’t meant to be,’ but if you keep your heart open, don’t give up, and believe, you’ll find your soul’s mate, someone else to love.

  The note had been handwritten and tied with a ribbon around the small box into which Mena had carefully coiled the chain. Sydney thought she knew what was inside even before she’d lifted the lid and separated the cotton to see. However, no amount of forewarning had prepared her for the torrent of emotion that gripped her heart or the deluge of tears that came.

  Sydney had no words for what she felt, maybe because it was a cathartic numbing. Paralleling Mena’s fateful departure on that decisive winter day, Sydney looked at the necklace and felt her heart breaking. Suddenly, she felt inspired by the awareness that Mena had also worn the chain. And, by putting it back around her neck, in a way, she’d be keeping her close, as she had suggested when she first gave it to Mena.

  As if it were instilled with magic, she knew what she had to do.

  At the end of August, Mena was back home in Yuma, proudly wearing her newly earned patch depicting a lightning bolt embroidered in the center of a bear paw on the sleeve of her jacket. The outer design represented power and leadership, the fearlessness required to stave off panic and unwise decision-making, necessary when fighting fire. The inner stitching, a sign of natural ignition, symbolized their power and control over fire management.

  Her life began to settle back into its former routine. Thus, she began to pack away her fire gear and get out her school supplies, put aside fire analysis papers and put together lesson plans.

  On a Saturday morning that found her knee-deep in such a mess, she was surprised by a knock at the door. Chesa started barking excitedly, and Emi seized the opportunity of the distraction to bat wadded-up balls of discarded notebook paper back and forth across the living room floor. In the time it took Mena to disengage herself from the boxes and textbooks she’d been perusing and that had piled all over the floor, the solicitor or visitor had found the bell and was now laying on it hard.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming! Hold your horses!”

  “Hold my horses?” Mena heard repeated from the other side of the door. She smiled at the recognition of a familiar voice.

  “Well…hello, stranger.” Mena managed while stumbling across the threshold and nearly knocking Isa off the porch.

  “It’s so good to see you, Mena.” Isa greeted and hugged her friend. “It’s been a long time. How’ve you been?”

  “I’m hanging. Although, by the looks of it…” she gestured around, “the thread is fraying.” Using her foot, Mena pushed the books and papers to the side and invited Isa in. “What brings you here?” she asked.

  “I wanted to visit my family, spend a few days with them before the semester starts.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. You’re in school, too.”

  Isa laughed as she looked around and surveyed the damage on the floor. “So this is how teachers plan for classes, is it? I often wondered.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure most are more organized than this.” Mena laughed. “Have a seat on the sofa. Let me grab a few beers and a bowl of chips. I’ll be right back.”

  While she was gone, Isa happened to look down at what she assumed was a discard pile. On top of it, the title of what appeared to be a short story caught her eye. But before she could reach for it, Mena returned.

  “So, what’s new?” Mena crunched around one of the salty triangular treats, sat back for a rest, and waited to be filled in.

  Isa told her all about the last days of the fire and what she knew about the rest of the crew before saying, “Guess what?” But when a shrug of the shoulders was all she received, Isa blurted out the news that she’d been dating Mike Davila. “You know Mike?”

  Mena pursed her lips, and a crease appeared between her eyebrows.

  “Mike, about 5’10”, dark hair, mustache, real cute.”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t have noticed. Wait a minute.” She thought she remembered the name, and she asked, “The guy who found me?”

  “…and carried you up that steep slope. Uh-huh. That’s him. He saved your life, you know.”

  “And you fell for him because you suffer from a hero’s or savior’s complex?”

  “Oh, don’t even go there.”

  Both women laughed, then Mena—who they’d all thought had been home, taking it easy and recovering—told her about her stint at the academy and about how she was playing catch-up to transition to the role of teacher from student these days.

  “What’s that?” Isa pointed to the short story she’d seen earlier.

  Mena looked to see what she meant. “It’s nothing. A story I wrote a long time ago.”

  “I love the title. It sounds interesting. Do you mind if I read it?”

  Mena considered the ramifications for a moment before deciding, “Sure, go ahead. I was just going to throw it out.”

  Isa pulled it onto her lap and changed the subject, “So tell me, what have you got planned for your kids this year? What will you be teaching? Any exciting, new stuff?”

  “I guess that remains to be seen.” Mena responded. “You know, I’m still trying to get used to coming at language from the other side. I mean, I started out helping Spanish-speaking kids with English so they could get by with their other classes in school, then I taught Spanish to kids so far removed from the border that they didn’t know where Mexico was. Now, here I am, practically sitting in Mexico, where there’s a huge need to teach Spanish to a generation whose families speak it at home, but they don’t understand all of what’s being said. That would be my guess, but we haven’t received our assignments yet.” She stooped to pick one of the picture books up. “I’ve missed reading to the younger kids and sharing with them about Hispanic and Latino culture. They loved this book.” She opened it and flipped through the colorful pages.

  Even though Isa hadn’t asked, Mena, caught up in the memory, offered a synopsis, “It’s about a little girl, the daughter of migrant workers. The only thing she wants is a place to call home, to stop moving around so much, so she can make friends at school. You wouldn’t believe how quiet and still those kids could be when I’d read. They loved it. It would amaze me. I liked to use the stories to help build their vocabulary, that way they were learning culture and language at the same time. I think, I hope, it made learning for
them more interesting. Teaching that way was fun for me.” She smiled, put the book in one of the boxes, and stayed silent for a moment, thinking.

  Until Isa asked, “Why don’t you just call her?”

  As fate would have it, at that precise moment, the phone rang.

  Mena raised both eyebrows to her hairline, hunched her shoulders, and cocked her head in mock wonderment before picking it up.

  “Hello.”

  There was no answer for a minute, but just when Mena was about to hang up, she heard another voice she recognized at the line’s other end.

  “You haven’t been out fighting fires again, have you?”

  Mena looked at Isa, her eyes wide open in surprise, before laughing. “No. Doctor’s orders forbade it for the rest of the season, which is almost over now, anyway. At least, it is for me. How’s it going, Alex?”

  “Busted, I am. I was just organizing and moving around some files here at work when I put my hand on yours and thought I’d risk a firing offense by calling to see how you’re doing.” Both women laughed before Alex said, “Anyway, I’m glad to hear you’re taking it a little easier these days. I don’t know how you do what you do. It’s such a risky occupation.”

  Mena couldn’t resist. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Some of those eighth graders, especially, under the influence of raging hormones, can be pretty scary.”

  “Yes, they can. Wait. I’m sorry. What? What are you talking about? What did you say?”

  “Alex, fighting fires is only a summer job for me. I teach school for a living. Call me crazy, but I love kids and learning and teaching, watching their faces light up. I especially love the little ones when I read them stories or help them create a work of art that bridges two worlds and promotes an understanding of differences. For our last project of the year, we used yarn and glue to make Eyes of God, and I must admit to a certain amount of pride in the discussions that came out of their weaving, not to mention their beautiful handcrafted creations.”