Pieces

I can remember vividly Isaac Torres and my house on fire. His face was blue. Everything was blue. It was after 6pm and the sun was taking off with all the day’s vibrant hues.

There was a stark emptiness in Isaac’s expression, but I can’t seem to picture that particular detail, like a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces, even though you know what it’s supposed to be based on the cover of the box it comes in. 

His smile, though, I can recall at will; the smile of a welcoming presence, of a confidant without having to work for the distinction, of one of those few souls that anchor the word trust to this plain of existence.

But he was not smiling when my grandma’s curtains were burning. The fire spreads quickly. The color was back but it was bright and angry and violent. I watched the fire grow, its heat washing over me, it’s smoke drowning me. 

I didn’t move. Grandma left me this house in her will. How could I have let this happen?

“Baaaaaby.” Her voice is soft and airy. “Wake up, Danny-bear.” Fingertips, gentle and warm, caress my bare chest. “Are you hungry, baby? I made your favorite. Blueberry pancaaakes.” I smell something hot and sweet and open my eyes to her, her skin fair and silky, her eyes deep and blue like the ocean, her hair blonde and glowing in the sun’s rays such that I almost think she has a halo over her head. 

I smile. I don’t know why. I don’t know this woman. I’m waking up on her couch, I think.

“We missed you last night,” she says. “But we oh so appreciate you letting us sleep while you work on your next best seller.”

I’m lying on her couch. She sits on its edge next to my hip. She takes my hand and places it on her large, round belly. Ah, “we.” She looks like she can pop that little thing out at any time.

 She leans in, presses her lips to mine. This is too much. I don’t want to vomit from nervousness.  

We walk around the neighborhood while hardly speaking. I match her pace, which is excruciatingly slow and casual. Her pretty face makes up for this insipid activity. She rests one hand on her stomach, while the other holds my hand, our fingers interlaced. 

I’m closest to the street, so I let the sun’s light reveals to me the pleasures of suburbia: the animated squirrels chasing each other through the emerald leaves of an American elm, the glossy Jeeps and Hondas and Teslas parked by homes where people rest away the day, the cotton clouds posing their fluffiness for absentminded gazers from below. A Canyon Wren sings somewhere as an added bonus. 

A guy walks by us while walking his Siberian husky. The husky sniffs her belly. She scratches its ears, making cute noises, but she never lets go of my hand. The feeling of awe fades and shifts into something more patent, like how two puzzle pieces fit together. It’s obvious that her hand fits so well in mine. 

That afternoon, it all flows back to me like sweet tea pouring through ice cubes. I discover from her tongue brushing against mine that her name is Caroline. I taste her neck and remember that we’ve been married for thirteen months now. I take in her swollen breast. She was the sexiest Mandalorian I’ve ever seen at the college Halloween party where we first met. She nursed me back to health when I broke a rib in Colorado during our honeymoon. We’re making love now, and I remember the names of her parents, of her friends, of her favorite bands, of our unborn daughter. Hera.

We have dinner at a hibachi restaurant ten minutes from our home. The stir fry is cooked in front of us by a chef who juggles eggs and shrimp with his knives and served us large portions. We sit at one of three connected tables surrounding him, and next to us just so happens to be Isaac Torres and his date for the evening. 

It’s so good to see him again. He’s showing me photos of Milan and Paris and Osaka. I’m showing him photos from the wedding and Colorado and the latest ultrasound. His date looks to have fake breasts and no exciting stories to share. I hope she gives Isaac a good time tonight. 

He still has his smile, that smile that forgives us for losing touch for so long, that assures me everything will be alright with whatever this life has in store for me.

Whatever happens with marriage or fatherhood, at least I have tonight. Caroline’s been craving stir fry all pregnancy, and I never tire of it. Dinner was perfect for us. 

I look at my wife as I’m driving to take in her features when I spot an eighteen-wheeler charging at us from the passenger side. 

Slobbery. So cold and wet. And foul. My eyes open to a vizsla licking my face. I push it off, keep it at bay by holding its collar. I wipe slobber from my face and my fingers travel through my beard. When did I get a beard?

It’s a bit challenging to get up with all this gear strapped to my back, this puffy Patagonia around my torso. 

I damn near stumble (again?) when I steady myself on a snowy slope. My heart races. I can see my breath and it clouds my vision for a moment. I see a mountain in the distance, coated in smooth and unblemished white. Before it stand red firs balancing thick clumps of snow on their branches. Beyond it a golden ember permeating into everything I see, as if a higher presence blesses this land. 

I don’t know I am. I look at the vizsla, who stares at me, painting, waiting for my direction seemingly. There is a trail before me of which I follow, although I haven’t the slightest idea where it will take me. A woman should be with me, I think. Carol…or Carly? Perhaps I made her up in my dream. Still, I walk in a haze that palls my past and shrouds my present. Everything was warmer half an hour ago, wasn’t it?

The vizsla keeps pace with me easily. She is strong and loyal and patient. I feel no ounce of loneliness with her around despite seeing no other sign of life. I am layered for the cold, yet the occasional winter breeze tickles my beard and feels refreshing against my face.  

What’s most jarring to me at this moment is the lack of obligation, or even expectation. I have nowhere to be. No one to meet. Maybe I have something important to do but can’t remember it. Oh, well. I’ll suspend such thoughts, and enjoy the splendor of the outdoors. 

Eventually the curiosity to know more of my circumstance takes hold. I remove my backpack. A rolled up sleeping bag is attached to its outside. Some of the things zipped up inside include but are not limited to: protein bars, doggy biscuits (I feed one to the dog), a headlamp, a knife in a snakeskin sheathe, a gun, a flare gun, an adjustable trekking pole—which I remove from the bag—and a first-aid kit. I dig though the backpack’s other compartments to find my keys and wallet. Things are coming back to me. I live in a condominium in the Mammoth Meadow, with the vizsla, Hera, as my only family. I have a fishing license. I fish for a living. My friends fish and play board games. 

I have no obligations to anyone, at least for today.

I’m hiking at Mammoth Mountain to separate myself from other humans. Just me, Hera, and the quiet.

It’s getting dark. I cut through the forests for a quicker route home. Although I have no reason to hurry home, I don’t feel like camping tonight. Our footsteps sloshing through fallen snow grow louder as light fades. I slip on my headlamp and let its shine take the lead. 

I hear sounds, subtle, not far off, not in synch with Hera’s steps nor mine. Is something…

I quickly turn around. A mountain lion crouches a couple of yards away. Its eyes glow as the light of my headlamp shines directly upon it. 

No time to look for my gun or my knife. In a fraction of a second it lunges. My eyes take in its large frame, its muscles contracting. I can only take one step back but nothing more. It pounces on me. I fall under it, this starving creature, this horrifying monster. Its teeth pierce my throat, and I feel them wiggle and pull me, and then the tearing, and then the blood. And I hear growling, manic and feral. And all my strength leaves me, that’s now instant and intense the pain is. I can only writhe in the snow stained under me. 

There is barking. More growling. The weight of the lion is released from me. Wresting snow. Hera yelping. My own gurling, blood bubbling out my torn jugular. 

“Oh God, oh shit, oh God!” It’s Isaac Torres’s voice. I’m hallucinating, but a gloved hand covers my wound. But by then I’m travelling towards the light.

The lights here pour down on me. It doesn’t help that I’m staring directly at one of the stage lights. For how long I was looking up I don’t readily know. I look down, blind several times until I stop seeing stars. When my eyes settle, stars still surround me. Mohamed Shafir, Mary Beckinsale, Tommy Goodman, Lily Flint, and these are just a few of my contemporaries. The room is filled with actors, actresses, musicians, directors, producers—all of whom are gorgeous, famous, and supremely talented.  The younger ones, the ones a generation or so after me, shine a little brighter, at least to me. I’m seated in a section above almost all of them, high enough to see them all and make up constellations as if I’m staring at a starry night. 

My table is framed with white orchids and topped with champagne glasses. Seated with me are my mother, my adult children and their mother, and my previously mentioned contemporaries. Flattering images of me are digitized and expanded on giant screens behind the stage and along the walls for everyone to see. I’m wearing wildly contrasting attires, a variety of expression, a plethora of personas. I massage my forehead. What exactly is tonight about again? It’s on the tip of my tongue.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Isaac Torres,” a deep, projected voice announces. The room claps respectively. Isaac waltz on stage, looking dapper in his tuxedo. I’m wearing something just as handsome, but I don’t remember putting it on. I don’t remember entering the building. I don’t remember this award show. I don’t remember consenting to these cameras pointing at me. I don’t remember these people who’ve shaped my life profoundly. I only know that they have.

I’m trying to remember something tragic that just happened. 

“Danny, Danny, Danny,” says Isaac with his signature smile that deserves its own star on the walk of fame. Everyone is silent, attentive to his words. His voice projects through speakers and sounds more compelling. “When I worked with Danny Dennis on Grandma’s House twenty years ago, I was so nervous every time he talked to me that I thought I’d piss myself in front of him.” Everyone laughs cordially. “It was my first major film. I was a nobody. And he…he was Danny Dennis! A superstar, man. I still rewatch Pieces to this day, that’s how good he was in that film. Anyway, in the scene in Grandma’s House when my character stands in front of the burning curtains, and I'm looking at the camera as menacing as a privileged nineteen year-old from Toronto can look,” He makes the audience laugh again, “he walks up to me and I was sure he was going to tell me to get off his set and go back to Burger King, and my acting career would be done before it even began. But he worked with me. He gave me advice. He was patient with me. He believed in me, and he kept believing in me until I was able to believe in myself. I would not be standing here today if it weren’t for Danny Dennis. I truly believe that.”

His words are warm like the spring sunrise. They fell that warmth and applaud in gratitude. I do the same, as it would look awkward of me not to. 

I’m trying to remember.

I know the facts of the movie, but I only remember Isaac in the snow, with a dog and a mountain lion. 

He finishes his speech and calls me to accept the Lifetime Achievement Award everyone was there to honor me with. On stage, we embrace, as old friends would on a special occasion. He whispers in my ear, “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll get you home.” He keeps his million-dollar smile. He tells me to keep up my smile for the cameras. I’m trying my best.

4440 Turnbridge Dr. 4440 Turnbridge Dr. 4440 Turnbridge Dr. Can’t sleep for fear I’ll forget that address. I eventually write it down on my palm with a pen. Then I carve it into my forearm for fear of it fading in my palm. 

It was my grandmother’s house, I remember. 

I ask my mother that morning if she remembers where my grandma on her side of the family lived. She told me somewhere in Reno, Nevada. She doesn’t know about my grandma on dad’s side. I cut off the conversation before she asks why I care about two women I never knew. And, it’s true, I don’t know any of my grandparents. The grandmother in Reno died when I was four, her husband a decade before that. Neither Mom nor I have any relationship with Dad’s parents.

But I remember a little blue house in Sacramento where a stern old lady taught me the importance of making my bed every morning, the art of baking an apple pie, and waiting patiently for my blessings. 

In those memories, Mom and Dad have already passed. 

I drive my 2022 Lamborghini coupe for six hours, seemingly on a whim, from LA to Sacramento. I give no notice to my mother or my children or my agent or anyone else for whom I’m obligated to stay safe and sane. I am positive I am safe, but with every minute of this road trip I’m questioning my sanity.

It is late in the afternoon when I make it to 4440 Turnbridge Dr. The one-story house is white, not blue, but the dimensions are as I recall. A Toyota sedan is parked in the driveway. I park next to it. Maybe they won’t mind. 

The sky is an empty blue void, except for the sun, which stares frustratedly at me. What am I doing here? I’m so tired I can sleep on the lawn that’s a week overdue for a trim.

Tentatively, I knock on the door. 4440 Turnbridge Dr. Grandma’s house. 

The woman who answers the door is not Grandma, but she might be someone’s grandparent. Short, round, wide-eyed. She covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh my gosh, are you Danny Dennis?” she asks in a gasp.

“Uh, yes. I am. May I come in?”

“Can I, too?” says someone behind me. I look over my shoulder to see Isaac Turner and his smile that negates any sort of awkwardness from the moment. The woman is ecstatic, practically jumping up and down more than her knees will forgive her for. Two famous actors showing up at one’s doorstep unannounced would have that effect on a person.

“Well, I don’t know why he’s here, but I would like to for you to tell me everything you know about the house,” I say as myself and Isaac enter her humble abode.”

“Are you wanting to buy my house?” she asks, still excited. 

“Not exactly,” I laugh. “Just, you know, anything you can tell me about the previous owner would be much appreciated.”

“But first, do you think you can make us something to drink? Do you have any sweet tea?” asks Isaac.

“Yes! Definitely! I’ll be right back!” She rushes to her kitchen. Nothing about the living room is as I remembered. The furniture is not organized the same. There’s no wallpaper covering the walls. The TV is much bigger than the one I watched Saturday morning cartoons on. In the pit of my stomach I know I’ve made a mistake.

“Okay, listen to me,” Isaac says at a low volume. “You don’t belong here. I tried to be subtle but it’s not working. You’re hopping from timeline to timeline. That’s why you remember this address even though your grandma never set foot in this house. Your presence here complicates everything. And I’m risking everything to get you back.”

Isaac isn’t smiling. He wears an expression so foreign to him that I think he’s a different person. 

The owner of the house comes back before I can retort, before I can take anything in. Her scowl is also foreign to her. Instead of two glasses of sweet tea, she presents to us a shotgun, its double barrels pointed at our heads. 

“Gimme your wallet and any jewelry you got,” she barks. 

“You don’t want to do this,” says Isaac. Calm and cool, he slowly steps toward her, his hands extended. I don’t know if I’m on a prank show, but my heart beats wildly. 

The woman pulls the trigger; the kickback almost knocks her over. Isaac’s chest is gone, and he drops. 

She aims at me now. There’s an apologetic look about her, but we’re at the point of no return. What’s happening? I have so many questions.