A Gift from the Fire

Thea stared at the waterlogged photo. In it, her husband had his back to her as he sat on a log looking over a valley. She didn’t remember taking it, but most every moment of that backpacking trip remained vivid, a month in mountains and valleys and rivers and trees. It was an old snapshot, color fading, and now damaged beyond repair. She would have to throw it away along with the whole album from that trip. She remembered her camera, rolls of colored film and pleasure in making this album. No, she would dry this out since no one else in the family had any of the trip photos. None of the rest seemed worth salvaging.

“Why didn’t I scan these?” Thea wailed, and Will put his arm around her.

“We were busy. I didn’t ever take time to do it either.”

“Look, all of the photos from John Muir Trail, our wedding photos, and the early ones with Abigail. They’re all ruined.” Tears crawled down her face, the tension and tightness of these past four days still suppressing her ability to cry.

The fire had destroyed the house, leaving only a blackened chimney standing incongruously alone. They had finally been allowed to see the property, encountering charred chaos, an acrid smell, strong and bitter. They had been warned to wear masks, and even so Thea felt nasty particles seeping into her throat. In what had been the garage, under a fallen wall, the burned trunk had awakened the momentary hope that some of their past could be found, but opening it, Thea saw that the firemen’s efforts to save their home had waterlogged everything completely.

“Why didn’t I store this somewhere else?” Thea said in despair. “That would have been more sensible.”

Will finished texting. “I asked friends as well as family if they can look for photos of us. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Thank you. At least that’s a sensible thing to ask. They all feel so sorry for us, I’m sure they’ll try.”

He looked down at his phone. “Your mom just texted back promising copies of our wedding photos and as many photos of the kids as she can find.”

“Well that’s something anyway…”

After accepting that nothing remained, Thea said, “Will, I can’t do this right now. Take me back to your sister’s and you deal with trash pickup.” 

She took out the plastic-covered album page with the photo of Will’s back, tossed out the three other unrecognizable ones on that page, and carried it to the car.

Will’s sister had not only welcomed them when they evacuated, but insisted on babysitting while they went to survey the damage. When they stepped into the house, little Abigail put her arms around her and said, “Don’t cry, Mommy. Don’t cry.” Being comforted by an eight-year-old humbled Thea even more than seeing their devastated property. The toddler, William III, or Luca as they called him, fell against the coffee table and Thea held him while he screamed. The three adults looked at him in astonishment and then at one another. Perhaps he was the only one capable of expressing what they felt.

Will took Luca who continued to wail. They stepped outside and Will strapped Luca into his car seat as Abigail and Thea climbed into the car. FEMA had given them vouchers for a motel room with a small kitchenette, and yesterday they had moved all they had tossed into their car when they evacuated: computers, clothes, toiletries, some toys including Abigail’s important little rabbit, and a box of papers.

“Thanks, sis,” said Will.

“Any time—I’ll watch the kids or whatever you need,” she responded. Luca continued his distress despite Abigail’s entreaties for him to suck on his pacifier. He knocked it to the floor, causing Abigail to wail, “No Luca, no! Make him stop, Mommy!”

“I think he just needs to be sad, Abby.”

“Well, I’m sad, too, Mommy,” Abigail protested angrily and burst into a whining cry which only increased Lucas’ volume.

Thea tuned it out by withdrawing. The fire had begun on Wednesday in the canyon, and by Friday had come close enough they were told to evacuate. On Saturday at Will’s sister’s house, they had anxiously tracked the fire’s progress, and in the night it reached their neighborhood. By Sunday the house was gone. They spent the day in shock, canceled their classes on Monday and Tuesday while Will struggled to talk to FEMA and fill out paperwork  and she coped with her displaced, fussy children. They moved to the motel Tuesday evening, and now had seen their destroyed home for the first time on Wednesday. It had been too much to feel, accept, absorb, and Thea suspected they were all in shock. Let the kids scream.

When they entered the hotel lobby, feeling thoroughly frazzled and embarrassed by their unhappy, noisy children, Thea heard her mom’s voice calling her, “Cynthia!” 

“Grandma!” exclaimed Abigail and ran to her, turning off tears instantly. Even Luca stopped sobbing and struggled out of Thea’s arms, toddling toward his grandmother crouched on the floor to receive their hugs.

“I’m so glad to see you, Mom,” said Thea, her sobs coming to the surface as they hugged.

“Hi Will,” she said and he put an arm around her. “I have a room for the next three days.”

“Can I sleep with Grandma?” asked Abigail.

Thea glanced at Will, who nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“Will and Abigail, can you come with me? I have clothes and toys in my car for you kids.”

“We’ll all go,” said Thea, once more grateful for her practical mother. After carting all the new things to their room, Thea’s mom sat on the floor and played with Luca and Abigail, both of whom nestled close to her.

Thea found the plastic sleeve of the album she had carefully carried into the room and extracted the wet photo she had rescued. She placed it on the desk, hoping the dry air in the hotel room would have a good effect.

“What’s that?” asked Will.

“A photo I rescued.”

“Can’t really tell what it is, it’s so blurred.”

“It’s from when we hiked the John Muir Trail.” 

He looked down more carefully, saying, “Ahhh…”

Thea’s mom had brought food, and they ate the bite-sized raw vegetables and homecooked sliced beef sandwiches, more comforting than a restaurant meal. She had foreseen fussing, and even screaming, from Luca.  

After supper Will transferred the car seat into his mother-in-law’s SUV. After Abigail’s pleading he agreed she could skip more school while her grandmother cared for them for the next few days.

Luca surprised them by wanting to go with his grandmother and Abigail to sleep in their room. 

“Well, don’t hesitate to call us in the night, or bring him back here,” said Thea.

“I raised you and your three brothers and am perfectly capable of coping with a toddler,” countered her mom.

Thea raised her hands in surrender, she hugged the kids as they noisily exited with her mom, and then she took a slow hot bath before crashing into deep sleep.

In the morning, the kids and her mom came early with coffee and sweet rolls, and Thea luxuriated with breakfast in bed as Will prepared to leave for work. Thea had planned to go to the university with him even though she didn’t have to lecture until the next day, but now she knew she couldn’t.

“I need to stay here, Will. I don’t feel at all well.”

He nodded, pecked her cheek, waved to the kids and his mother-in-law and headed out the door.

“The kids and I will go to the park for a while and you can sleep or whatever you need to do. Do you need me to bring you anything?” 

“No. Sleep sounds good.” Thea hesitated. “Mom, do you think this was a punishment?

           “No.” Her mom spoke firmly. “But fire represents purification. Look for things lost and things gained.”

           “Wood, hay and stubble versus gold, silver and precious stones?”

           “Something like that. At this point you need to rest and recover. You can figure it out later.”

After they left she discovered she could not sleep. She looked into their box of papers, glad to see passports, title to the house, marriage and birth certificates, and insurance info. She should fill out forms for their insurance, but that seemed overwhelming.

She looked at the rescued photo and saw it had dried, curling up around the sides, blurrier than ever. But quite artistic, she decided. Restless, trapped at the motel without a car, and needing distraction, she suddenly decided to walk to the nearest strip mall where she had seen a pharmacy. She called her mom to let her know she would be gone for an hour and felt reassured by Abigail’s insistence she needed to see her on the phone.

“Mommy! We have a big slide, Mommy! And Luca went down on Grandma’s lap and I did it all by myself!”

“I’m so glad Grandma could play with you today.”

Then Luca held the phone and “talked”, communicating with gestures rather than words and waved goodbye.

The photo, she decided, needed to be as large as they could make it. She walked to the store and found a clerk to help her with the enlargement. The frames available ended up determining the size: 14 x 20. The abstract result would communicate nothing but shadows to an uninformed observer, but Thea thought it looked wonderful and ignored the puzzled look from the person helping her. She walked back to the hotel with satisfaction and propped this remnant of her past life against the wall on the desk.

She sat at the desk and gazed at it, chin in hands, and remembered their trip, a combined honeymoon and celebration of completing grad school. Her mom dropped them off in Yosemite. After a week of enjoying that national park, they set out for three weeks on the trail. Images came back of the peaks, lakes, sunrises, sunsets, the forests, valleys of wildflowers, challenging snow, breathtaking night skies, multiple brutal ascents and descents, and their triumphant moment at the top of Mount Whitney. She hadn’t minded the cold (too much), since they had appropriate gear, but 211 miles, 10 high altitude passes, freezing nights, and desolate rocky parts of the trail had been a challenge. Their bodies protested and several times she wanted to quit, but had no choice but continue, and they accomplished something they would never forget.  She thought fondly of her food planning and sorting, mailing boxes ahead, and fitting things into their bear cannisters. Her mom had helped her choose lightweight, nutritious, filling food with enough calories to keep them going. Will carried more than she did, but not by much. They loved the campfires, long evening talks after dinner, the moonlit view of their surroundings, the brilliant constellations, and staying up several nights for spectacular views of the Milky Way.

It took her back further to why she became a biologist—her grandfather’s scientific enthusiasm and her mom’s love of the outdoors. She admitted to herself that the wonder had seeped out in the rough and tumble of daily life, repetitiveness of teaching, grading, managing university bureaucracy, and the stress of research and writing. And childcare. The time since Lucas’ birth had stretched her, often beyond her limits. She and Will traded being with the children as much as they could, but their schedules sometimes didn’t match and they had to pay for expensive childcare. Will’s stresses in teaching the ancient classics to modern students had stretched him as well. And housework. They tried to share it, but she knew she did more grocery shopping and cooking than he did. Fortunately, they had a housekeeper who came every other week for a day of cleaning.  She wondered if she could keep up on her own with a smaller, more compact house. 

Their expensive camping gear had been consumed in the fire, too. She hoped the insurance would let them replenish it and that they would use it. It had sat there in neglect for the last several years. She needed to recapture her wonder at the natural world and inspire her students with her own delight, and not simply make sure they understood enough biology to progress to whatever else they needed to do in life. She remembered a favorite John Muir quote: “In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” And another: “The clearest way into the universe is through a forest wilderness.”

I need more forest and less screen time, she thought. It would be hard to do any strenuous camping and hiking with Luca so small, but Will could carry him in a backpack and they could discover their limits. For a moment this idea lifted her out of the foggy thinking of this anxious week.

She rose from the desk and lay on the bed. Then she slept. 

Her mom opened the door quietly in the late afternoon, and Thea heard the kids. “You don’t need to be little mice!”

“Mommy!” Abigail leapt onto the bed with a hug.

Her mom had bought enchiladas, and Will followed her, carrying a new highchair. “Look, Mom keeps buying us useful things.”

“Only the basics,” she responded. “You can imagine me buying this at Walmart with the kids running down the aisle without me and feel appropriately impressed and grateful.”

“Oh, I do!” said Will. With Luca in his highchair and bib, Thea’s mom supervising him, Will passing out food, and Abigail sitting up to the small table to eat, Thea realized she actually felt hungry.

Will asked, “Feeling any better?”

“A bit. I can lecture tomorrow, I think, and keep their attention. I’ve decided I’ll talk about serotinous cones, even though it’s not on the syllabus.”

“Aren’t those the cones that need forest fires to open up and drop their seeds?” asked her mom.

“Yes. They cling to the trees, and they restore a forest after it’s become overgrown to the point that new trees can’t take root. But it takes the heat of a fire for them to release the seeds and the result is that a whole new forest grows.”

“Appropriate,” said Will.  He picked up the photo Thea had enlarged and smiled. “If you hadn’t told me I am not sure I would know what this is. But I take it one of our new seeds could grow into more hiking and camping?”

“I think so. We’ve been too busy coping with our careers and lecturing and writing and childcare and stretching our money and buying and furnishing our new house. The underbrush is pretty chaotic and overgrown. How did you manage with your lecturing?”

“My topic was Cicero, his disappointment at the collapse of the Republic, and his tragic murder…

“…at the hands of nasty Marc Anthony and complicit, ambitious Augustus? Any analogies there?”

“Life is hard?” suggested Will. “Full of disappointments and tragedy?”

“Life is hard,” agreed Thea’s mom, “But it’s also wonderful, so don’t forget that. Setbacks are temporary.”

“Murder is permanent,” Will said dryly.

“Unless you believe in an afterlife,” she countered, and he smiled.

Thea put down her fork. “I’ve been wondering this afternoon. I’m not attached to the property enough to feel like we need to rebuild there. In fact, I think the fire might haunt me. Maybe we can look for a smaller place closer to the university. That would cut costs on commuting, hectic scheduling hassles, and other things. What do you think?”

“Really? I’d been thinking of the benefits of moving closer myself. There’s a daycare program at the U we could look into, and I think there are at least some condos not too far away.”

“If it could be walking distance from work, that would be even better.”

“We can start looking.”

“And we can plan a camping trip, too. Or at least day hikes.”

“It will help you cope,” agreed her mom.

           Another John Muir quote came to mind: “Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.” Yes, thought Thea, life is wonderful and beautiful. Thank you for Will, the kids, my mom, his sis, insurance, a reminder of why I chose biology, and memories of mountains and forests. If we persist, we’ll have a home again soon and maybe even find our balance...