The Lucky Ones

Tina’s shoes were too small. They were the wrong color, too, though that didn’t matter as much. Lauren could have coaxed her daughter back into the no-longer-sparkly pink Velcro shoes if not for her insistent cries of my toes huuurt.

I should have paid more attention. Lauren reprimanded herself again as she pulled into the parking lot. Not that there had been much time to think. When the police knocked on her door last night, she’d had twenty minutes to gather up a few essentials and leave. She’d lugged the bulging red suitcase, its wheels clunking down the front steps, while Jordan carried a sleepy Tina, still in her footie pajamas, and tucked her into the car seat with her stuffed kitty, Heart–the only thing the girl had grabbed. Or had it been Jordan who’d scooped them up together?

Lauren had put on her own shoes–tennis shoes, in case she had to run, or in case the streets were littered in debris. She didn’t want to ruin her good shoes. That had been her logic in the moment. Now she thought of her boots, her heels, or whatever was ultimately left of them, soaking up the soot and smoke. Yes, she’d really spared them. Lauren laughed tersely as she swung the stearing wheel and pulled into one of the plentiful parking spots.

But Tina hadn’t been wearing shoes, they realized that morning. They had to rely on the old shoes that had been tumbling around in the trunk all autumn–the ones Tina hadn’t used since she got her sandals all muddy at the park that summer.

I’m a bad mother. The thought whispered on a loop through Lauren’s mind, steadily beneath the other bigger, louder thoughts. She must have spent a good seven minutes packing her own clothes. Or at least staring in shock at the crowded closet before she registered her favorite hoodie and a few t-shirts. She’d even counted out three pairs of socks and underwear, as if packing for a vacation, relying on old habits to keep her moving when it felt impossible. Some t-shirts and jeans for Jordan. Her laptop and charger. She scanned her bedroom one more time, her gaze darting over the pictures on the walls, the jewelry scattered over the top of her dresser. She twisted the wedding ring on her left hand as if to make sure it was still there.

“Babe, are you almost ready? Will you grab my charger?” Jordan called from the office. His voice, stretched tight with tension, broke her reverie. They could share the charger. She turned the light off and closed the door.

Now, she already hated her hoodie. She felt frumpy as she got out of the car in the wide, windswept parking lot of the shopping center across town. She ran her hand through her hair to smooth the frizzy blond strands blown out of place. She rubbed her raw eyes without knowing whether they burned from lack of sleep (they’d arrived at her sister’s house shortly after midnight and settled in on the guest room’s fold-out couch, but neither she nor Jordan had managed to sleep for a long time. His tossing and turning rumpled the thin mattress beside her and she made her body small, pretending sleep so neither of them would need to say anything. What more was there to say?) or from the tears that had only come in the morning when Lauren opened the suitcase and thought, well, I managed to save at least one wedding present (the red soft-sided suitcase had traveled with her and Jordan on their honeymoon to Greece, on subsequent trips to Hawaii and Colorado, and even to the hospital when Tina was born. Maybe those memories were preserved somehow in its fibers?) or merely because of the smoke that teased her eyes and nose, even here on the other side of town.

Lauren smoothed her face into a smile. After all, they were the lucky ones. The three of them had all made it out of the house, out of the neighborhood. They had a car. Lauren forced herself to recall the news images of black car skeletons abandoned on narrow canyon roads, unable to escape the fire, the crumpled cars pushed aside by bulldozers so crews could access the flames. Their occupants fled the traffic jams on foot, taking their car keys with them like it was stacked parking at the Hollywood Bowl. Because even in chaos–especially in chaos–our brains want to hold on to normal for as long as possible, Lauren reasoned as she slammed the car door behind her. She might have done the same thing.

And where was she now as flames licked the boundaries of her neighborhood? Shopping. She was no one to judge.

But nothing felt normal. Lauren had paced around her sister's living room all morning, glued to her phone as headlines and notifications vied for her attention.

Eleven percent contained.

Mayra has marked herself safe from the Eaton Fire.

Isabelle has marked herself safe from the Palisades fire.

Thirteen percent contained.

Lauren marked herself safe. She had family to stay with. She'd managed to grab a few things. They might still have a home to return to. Someday. When the power came back on, when the roads were cleared, the soil was tested. When it no longer smelled like a barbecue. Tina sat on the couch, content to watch cartoons while holding Heart on her chest like the real kitty Lauren was suddenly glad they'd never gotten. They were some of the lucky ones.

Tina's preschool, a mile north, had not been so lucky, the director explained in an email where Lauren stumbled helplessly over phrases like significant smoke damage or plans to relocate, temporarily or permanently or stay safe, friends, and be gentle.

Was it gentle to think of the kids’ art, shriveled and stained, or the garden, where they’d planted bulbs in fall that were beginning to thrust sturdy green fingers out of the ground? Tina had come home so excited just two days before. She had discovered the ability to create and control. To make green in a pile of dirt. What an illusion.

“Why don't you go out for a bit?” Lauren's sister had suggested, carefully as if setting down a heavy glass. “Of course you're welcome to anything here, but maybe you want to go pick up some personal items? Get a coffee? It might feel good to do something for yourself.”

Inside, under the store’s fluorescent lights, everything felt normal. The same white tile, the same high ceilings and 90s pop music waiting gently through the store. She could almost pretend to be at the big box store down the street from home--a place she want sure existed anymore.

Lauren grabbed a shopping cart and wandered aimlessly down the wide aisle, absorbing the comforting familiarity. She stopped short when she reached the back of the store, where Christmas decorations were on clearance.

Is that how it was going to be now–-her life strewn with hidden landmines that could open wounds she hadn't discovered yet? She stared at the brightly colored globes and wood birds and sisal reindeer smiling placidly on the shelves and thought of the ornaments she'd just packed away in the garage. Her grandma's felt gingerbread boys and girls, Tina's Baby's First Christmas ornament. She hadn't been thinking about them when she shoved clothes and papers into the suitcase. Only now. How many more things would remind her over the next weeks or months of what she'd left behind? Should I buy some new ones now, while they're on sale, she wondered. Just in case…

“You're going to think I'm an ass, but a part of me kind of hopes we burn,” Jordan had said as they left the orange glow in the rear-view mirror.

Lauren turned to glare at him. “Are you crazy?”

“No, think about it,” he calmly persisted. “We could have a fresh start. You could get the dining room you've always wanted. I wouldn't have to think about getting rid of my old textbooks. And how long were you planning to keep Tina's baby clothes? We wouldn't have to fight about yours and mine. Going forward, it would all just be ours.”

Lauren had listened, incredulous. She felt sparks of anger flickering in her chest. “No, you're ridiculous! That's our life back there!”

“No!” Had he laughed? Lauren felt the spark inside of her flower as she gave it this oxygen. “No, this is our life, right here,” he insisted.

“You really are an ass,” she’d said quietly, her voice smoldering.

The rest of their drive had been silent except for the drone of the newsman's voice over the radio.

She imagined it now–-where would they even put the Christmas ornaments? In her sister's crowded guest room closet? Jordan would balk. Lauren imagined the cheap ornaments rolling around the trunk of her car for months, unloved because they weren't hers in the same way as the ornaments she'd hung last month. Because her life hadn't touched them yet, only her fingers had. They held no stories.

She looked away and pushed the cart purposefully around the corner, passing the towels, the bedspreads, the aisles of spatulas and frying pans, without pausing to think about a world in which she had to replenish it all. What she needed now was shoes. Kids size 10, preferably in purple. One thing at a time.

By the time she left the store with one box tucked under her arm, the darkened sky caught her by surprise all over again. The sun was a tight, red ball burning through a blanket of smoke that gave midday the struggling appearance of dawn. Lauren felt like she was waiting for something to emerge that never came.

Flecks of ash dusted the car. Lauren's eyes itched and, instinctively, she zipped her hoodie to her throat and ducked her chin inside, away from the ashes that swirled and floated overhead in the wind.

For just a second she recalled that trip to Colorado, the way the snow floated down, flurried in the wind. So beautiful, so light, like tiny fairy wings. She'd felt so peaceful surrounded by a field of white.

Her throat grew tight and hot inside the cocoon of the hoodie. How could she compare the cremated remains of her city, maybe even her own home, with something beautiful? Was this her brain trying to turn chaos into something normal, comprehensible? Is that what Jordan had seen when he looked in the rear view mirror?

Lauren opened the car door and ducked in, suddenly burning with urgency. She wanted to see Tina, hold her perfect, pudgy feet and protect them inside the new gray and purple shoes, introduce the shoes to her daughter, make her smile part of their story. Make right now bigger than one suitcase. She wanted to wrap her arms around Jordan and assure him that right now was enough for her, even if it was one suitcase.

“We are the lucky ones,” she whispered aloud as she wove through parking lanes in the hazy yellow light. And for the first time that day, she really believed it.