"It never snows in New Mexico. That’s what our real estate agent said when she showed us this house in April. But it was sixty-five degrees out, and the New Mexico sun was shining in a peerless, blue sky, so I believed her. I remember sitting outside with Remy at a café in Santa Fe signing the offer papers thinking it was like California, but without the crowds, smog, traffic and of course the sea, sadly. But, eight months later– look at this.” I turn my laptop around so Esmé, can see out the window. “I just trudged through a foot of snow walking to our mailbox this morning.”
She laughs, her opalescent skin confirming she spends more time below water than above. Settling into my chair in the living room in jeans and three sweaters, my computer in front of me, my head is full of concerns that propel me to maintain casualness at all costs. But there is caution in the air, as I change the subject, “How is my favorite sister-in-law?”
Removing several, dark head scarves, she seems relieved to be undressing. “Well, I am excited the day is over. I can tell you that. I have sand everywhere.” She grins; her blonde tresses piled on top of her head as her Beroe– signature hazel eyes emanate a world of happiness. “Life in Egypt is magical, Stephanie,” she declares. “My work here is incredible. The Mediterranean Sea is a spectacle of life from the past, present, and future. Our team is uncovering monumental works on the ocean floor daily. I’m shocked the news isn’t full of pictures from the site,” she rambles with excitement. “Yesterday, we finally lifted the tenth stone Sphinx out of the water completely intact.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“I know. You would love this. I remember the first time I witnessed one of these magnificent creatures being released from the sea for the first time. I actually held my breath. I was worried it would disintegrate.” She laughs to herself. “If only you and Remy could see them underwater.”
Taking in her excitement, absorbing her unyielding curiosity for life and history, I’m elevated for a moment before consciously continuing to contain my own worries. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to work on a project like that. We would love to come to Egypt.” I respond. “It holds so many mysteries for me.” Waiting in an awkward silence for the opportune moment to breach a delicate subject, I brush a stray hair from my eyes, and admit, “It’s crazy that I’ve studied Arabic and Egyptian mythology so extensively but have never been to Egypt. I feel like . . . an imposter.”
“You’re no imposter. I can barely keep up with you. But you better get a move on because I don’t know how much longer we’ll actually be here.” She lowers her voice, “There are rumors circling around about funding expirations. As you know, my team was contracted to lay out the proposed one hundred million dollar, underwater museum of Alexandria, but now it looks like that may be on hold again.”
Her lovely face diminished by disappointment, I don’t know what to say.
“I do have other prospects, though, if only for work. Wah, wah.”
We both laugh, before I offer, “I’m so sorry Esmé, I know how much this project means to you.”
“Yeah. Well, anyway, enough about me,” she marshals on. “Imogene is loving life here. “Your niece, has endeared herself to everyone on my archeological team. They call her “the grand dame”, but the locals call her “mulawwan”, like it’s her name.
“Oh, my gosh. That’s hysterical.”
“Yeah, her latest fascination is head scarves. You should see her, she layers them around her head like Auntie Mame, but instead of wrapping one or two around her head and chin in the traditional style, she layers eight or nine.”
“Oh, I love that.”
“She’s the Mr. T of scarves.” We both laugh. Her hazel eyes animating her story as she continues, “and they’re all really brightly colored. You can see her coming for a mile away.”
“No wonder they call her colorful,” I reply, giggling.
Lowering her voice again, she adds, “The other day, I found her haggling with a hawawshi vendor. She had forty-five cents left of her allowance and she was seriously negotiating for a dollar meat stuffed pizza– in Arabic!”
“I feel sorry for the vendor. Who could say no to her? But that’s impressive for a ten-year old.”
“I know, I’m very proud.” She thinks for a moment, placing her hand under her chin in repose. “Anyway, tell me all about New Mexico. I hope the two of you are finding some peace.”
I look around to make sure I’m alone, “I must say, this grand old place has a lot of potential. We actually found hardwood floors buried under the carpet and two layers of linoleum. But whoever varnished them one hundred and forty years ago, piled the furniture in the center of each room and varnished around it.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, I’m hoping our monstrous to-do list will be a benefit, and throw your brother a much-needed lifeline.” I pause. “He did convert a rickety, old barn in the backyard into a studio-mancave. He’s also started painting again, which is great.” I almost whisper, “I’d like to say it calms him, but . . . we’re not quite there yet.”
“Yeah. Your last letter was a bit alarming.” Esmé inches closer to her screen conspiratorially.
“We literally just got home from a convention in Phoenix, two hours ago. It was– interesting.” I state, stopping my head from bobbing.
“I’ve reached out to him several times on social, Stephanie. But he’s not responding. He’s such a Scorpio”.
The view from our southwest facing windows of the morning light changing against the desert hills of the Galisteo River Basin sends a wave of trepidation through my spine. I take a deep breath. “By the way the lemon tree you gave us is still alive.” I scrunch my face, “Barely.” Turning towards the scraggly branches in the corner, I add, “It’s adjusting to zero humidity. Literally, my weather app says one percent.”
She lowers her head with a gentle smile, “Knowing how much both of you have been through, Steph, I believe anger would be a natural response in his healing process. But I will keep trying to reach him.”
Her eyes lighten, “Someone wants to talk with you.” Imogene climbs onto her lap.
“Hi, Aunt Steph.”
“Hi, honey. I love your scarves.”
She touches her hands to her wrapped head and glows. “I miss you and Uncle Remy.”
“We miss you too, sweetheart.”
A knock from their apartment door draws their attention, “Someone’s at the door Steph, give Remy a kiss for us, and stay strong.”
“We love you!” They both exclaim.
“We love you too.” Ending the call, I stand up and stretch, slightly chilled from sitting. Throwing more wood on both fires in our library off the main living area and foyer fireplace, I huddle my hands together with the blaze to my back in a futile attempt to defeat the charming, constant draft.
Remy walks in from the kitchen across the creaky floor behind me, a bundle of wood in his arms. His face flush from the late, winter storm, is piqued and rugged. “Hey, baby.”
Smiling, I ignore the snow print tracks behind him. “I just talked to Esmé.”
“How is she? How’s Imogene?”
“They’re both great. But I don’t think they’ll be in Egypt much longer. The Underwater Museum of Alexandria has funding issues.”
He shakes his head with disgust.
“Sounds like she has another gig lined up, though.”
“It’s crazy. We’ve never had so many billionaires and trillionaires in the world, and they can’t even build a museum. I mean for the cost of some stupid, super yacht,” he issues, “One guy could build that museum. What do they do with all that money? How could you live like that?” He throws the wood into the fire bin with a bang, then asks, “Are you sure you want to go to that party tonight?”
Whoa. I place my hand on his shoulder, “Yeah. I think we should go. It would be nice to meet some of our new neighbors. Don’t you think?”
His eyes say it all.
I change the subject, “How’s everything going with the New Mexico kitchen?”
“It’s fine. I wrapped it up in an hour.”
Waiting for clarification that doesn’t come, I add, “Good.” Knowing we left Phoenix in a hurry. I’m almost relieved when I hear my phone vibrate.
“Where is that coming from”
Remy reaches in his back pocket and pulls out my phone. “You left it in the back hall.”
“Thanks.” I pick up the call.
“Oh my God! Are you okay? Where are you? Why haven’t you picked up your phone?” Laure, panic-screams in my ear.
“We’re home. I’ve been busy. What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Thank god! Have you not seen the news? Do they not have internet out there? Girl! There was an attack!”
“A what?”
“A terrorist, attack! In Phoenix!”
“Are you okay? Are you still there?” I demand.
“No. I mean yes, we’re fine. We left late last night, change of plans.”
We– can only mean one other person. “We left early too.”
Remy impatiently taps my arm.
“Let me check the news. I’ll call you back.”
“Okay, girl.”
Hanging up, I jump on the headlines:
A CLASS 7 VEHICLE TRANSPORTING NUCLEAR WASTE EXPLODES IN PHOENIX.
Hundreds of cars buried under a massive collapse of concrete from the I-10 and I-17 highway interchange near downtown Phoenix are unreachable while emergency crews and The Radiation Authority battle an unprecedented, toxic fire. The cause of the morning rush-hour explosion has not been confirmed, but a terrorist attack has not been ruled out. The FBI and Home Land Security are on the scene as a radiation evacuation for all residents living or working within a fifteen-mile radius of the epicenter is in effect. The governor has called for a state of emergency.
“Oh my god! This is unbelievable!” The hair on my arms stands up. “That could have been us! If we hadn’t left early . . .”
Remy is silent as I ramble, hastily gleaning the article.
“What about all of the people we know there, Rem?”
“I’ll put a call out to Armando and Tony,” he reassures me. “But maybe now, everyone who thinks I’m overtly passionate,” he air quotes, “will open their eyes.” Glaring at me for a silent moment, he states accusingly, “They’re transporting nuclear waste like its bread on a fucking truck. Their moving the most, toxic substances on earth around on our highways.” His hands move about wildly, “And they’re not telling anyone about the danger! What did they expect?” he spits out, before walking out the door, leaving a second set of snow tracks on the floor and my eyebrows raised.
“Wow!” My hands now shaking, I fumble through news feeds, sick with vulnerability and anguish for the victims. But Remy’s irate response feels so . . . personal, I can’t focus.
Planting myself on the couch, I think about how moving to New Mexico, an atomic nuclear waste playground has incited this reactionary behavior. What’s worse, is I know there isn’t a billionaire in the U.S., who became a billionaire, without a direct connection to weapons contracts or energy development, and we know several of them. Remy has them all over his radar. His public discourse about cannabis over-regulation and the lack of nuclear regulations is extremely important, I get it, but I feel like he may become a target, again.
A black inky spot on the floor catches my eye. What is that? Reaching down, I’m pleasantly amused by one of a small population of crickets attempting to winter in our house. Picking up the little critter, I place it in the geranium in the kitchen window with the utmost care because it’s probably someone I know, and I feel like we need all the help we can get.