Last night was awkward and sleepless for both of us; this morning’s coffee is quiet and disjointed. Sitting where we normally sit, looking at the same unapproachable view from the kitchen window, the weight of what feels like irreconcilable incidence lies heavy around me. I’m sure, I look exactly how I feel, spent and vacant. Remy’s long blonde hair tussled upon the kitchen table contrasts the black, long-sleeved Mad Hatter shirt he slept in with an old coffee pot illustration on it that reads “Pot Head”, a humor I’m not unsurprisingly tethered to today. The events of yesterday play over and over in my mind; going to bed without discussing any discordant details, I hit critical mass and shut down. After a failed attempt to soothe me, Remy finally left for his studio and slept there, marking the first time we have not slept together while sharing the same space– ever.
Immured by emotional shock, unresponsive and apathetic, an unrestrained tear attempts to sabotage my calm façade.
Breaking the silence, Remy states, “The train leaves at one; we should leave by eleven thirty.” Standing up, he takes his cup with him to the bathroom; the echo of his feet diminishing into the back hall is a relief.
I’m not working today. There’s nothing I could do that would make sense anyway. What seems like a lifetime ago, I was looking forward to the chance of being a duo again, but now that hardly seems ideal.
Heading out the backdoor, Soter leaps out in front of me like a man with a purpose, as I head to the hot tub in search of clarity. I spot the bunny on his radar as it lets out a cry I didn’t know they made, and yell, “It’s every woman for herself today!”
With my robe held close to my chin, I make my way through the brown and snow-splattered landscape, my flip flops pattering out a rhythm. Ambling over to the hundred-year-old juniper tree that stands sentinel over our four-man tub. I can’t help but notice a flock of birds flitting in and out above me, singing harmoniously, their song winsome, and carefree in the steamy branches. But they’re not fooling me. I know every movement they make is an attempt to defy the food chain; there’s always someone bigger waiting in the distance, and in one failed swoop it all ends!
Taking a breath, my chin now to the waterline, the tears fall and this time, I let them. At the park, I thought I’d lost Remy, and my world ended. Now, not even a year later, this is worse. Do I even know who he is?
Head floating, my body submerged, the light reflecting off the water allows me to lose myself. But only for a moment, as the dread of not even knowing how to compartmentalize the fact that my power as a woman has been taken away from me, becomes suffocating. Closing my eyes, I try to drift for as long as the hot water will allow.
Once I’m dry, my body steaming in our chilly bedroom, I choose comfort versus chic for the train; black leggings and an oversized, off-white cable-knit sweater-dress with a matching hat.
Setting things aside on our bed, I pack my uniforms for the trip: a couple of Mad Hatter, Dickie shirts, two black skirts, my white Doc Marten combat boots, my alternate black knee-high boots with stockings and a bathing suit along with some casual clothes. Picking out jewelry robotically, avoiding my wedding ring with a pang. I’m ready, but I couldn't care less.
Tackling the pop-up suitcase next, I empty its contents on to the carpet of my office. Soter sitting next to me makes me laugh as he watches every move I make curating tea pots, brochures and merch schwag as if approving my progress. The music in my earbuds calms my over-stimulated mind, and after a good stretch, I drag the bag downstairs next to the back door.
Grabbing a piece of peanut butter toast, I pull the drapes closed in the living room and decide which lights to leave on, placing my baggage, including Soter’s bed, by the back door.
Remy careens down the stairs towards me and tosses his bag on the rug next to mine, “You ready, sweetie?”
“Yes.” And for whatever reason, suddenly, I am.
The sky, deceivingly blue on this chilly day, magnifies how quiet and cumbersome the drive is. The New Mexico sun heats my bones through the windows, almost dulling my senses. This circuitous country road to Lamy is usually one of my favorites. Many a time we’ve driven its rollercoaster waves on the motorcycle, carefree and curious, taking advantage of a warm day; my arms wrapped around Remy’s torso, the hum of freedom between our legs, but not today.
Reaching the little depot thirty minutes later in complete silence; the charms of the station have little effect on me as I grab my bag and Soter’s leash, and head inside. With surprisingly no check-in, and absolutely no TSA, we pick up our tickets and sit down at a table for a drink in the little restaurant that occupies the adobe building. The cornerstone reads 1909, its architecture reflecting yet another romantic era gone astray. There are only two other passengers so far, but the space seems full, as our server brings over a triple shot of espresso for Remy and a decaf latte for me. Soter stands at attention next to my foot like a toxic present, wrapped in his yellow service vest and muzzle, until I give him the command for rest.
After a moment's silence, Remy reaches over and takes my hand, “We’re going to work all of this out. We just need some time alone.”
I smile silently, too afraid of what might come out of my mouth.
“We’ve had too much interference. Galax has been such a pain in the ass!”
“You can’t blame Galax for telling me something I should have already known.”
“Sure, I can.” He smiles.
My temper peaks as his phone rings.
“I have to take this. I’ll be right back.” Downing his espresso, he stands up and strides outside, speaking rapidly.
As if in a dream sequence, the world around me becomes foggy and distant, muffling the sounds around me as inconsequential. Staring out of the tall, narrow windows, I realize– I’m in the middle of nowhere; literally.
“We have to go,” Remy whispers in my ear, the urgency of his voice rattling.
“Go? Go where?”
“We need to get in the car.” Unhinging Soter’s muzzle and leash, he gives him the signal for alert and grabs our bags.
The hair stands up on my neck as we follow Soter back to the car, my heart racing. I’ve never seen Remy so nervous. Every step back to the car feels watched. Once I’m in the car, I find myself holding my breath until we are well on our way, then ask, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Profile frozen in silent discourse, a minute goes by before he finally relents, “That was Miles. Horace’s plane is in Albuquerque waiting for us.”
“Why?”
Gripping the steering wheel, he just shakes his head.
“Rem, what’s going on?”
“Steph, I need you to trust me.”
Passing the turn to our house, nestled above the hills of our town like a portly matron, she is an untouchable anchor in the distance.
Remy takes the familiar S curves like a race track, unsettling Soter in the back seat. At the entrance to Madrid, however, we slow to a stop at the hail of a fireman. The heavy-set man with a beard dangling out of his mask instructs Remy to roll down the window, “It’s one lane ahead, take it slow. There’s been a fire.”
Rolling the window back up, he takes my hand with the other, his head moving in private conversation. Our lane begins to move at a snail’s pace. Rounding the last curve into town, half a dozen firetrucks line the narrow road now flooded with water, as white smoke permeating the attenuated valley, masks the daylight, and obscures our view past the hood of our car. Flares mark a single-file path that guides us through the smoke-filled town as several police officers wearing ventilators, wave us on.
Oh my God! “Stop the car! Stop the car!” I yell, jumping out. Running past several cops, I hurtle myself into the smoke, covering my mouth with my arm, my eyes tearing immediately from the fumes. There’s nothing left of Galax’s house– just cinders, and crumpled posts. The living room fireplace is all that’s standing; black scorched bricks canonizing the inferno responsible, like an emblem of evil.
Around me, firemen continue to spray the pile of burnt debris flexing muscle memory with cold detachment as a terrible stench takes over, chemicals, and the definitive smell of death.
“Ma’am! You need to move back! This is a restricted area!” A young fireman collects me. I hear Remy calling from the road.
“What happened to the lady? The lady that lives here. Where is she?” I ask gagging, holding my breath.
“Did you know her?”
“Did? Yes, I know her.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. She didn’t make it.”
“Oh, my god!”
A hand wraps around my shoulder, “Steph, we have to go.” Remy turns me around and walks me to the car, both of us choking.
“She’s dead Remy. Galax is dead.” I say bluntly, coughing while he piles me into the passenger’s side seat, the weight of my safety belt pressing hard against my lungs.
Walking around the car, Remy climbs in, and takes off, like a bat out of Hell.
“Galax is dead!” I repeat, awaiting a response while the small miner shacks dotting the highway out of town, pass by at an alarming pace. His face remains expressionless, then it dawns on me, “You knew! You fucking knew! Stop!” I smack the dashboard with both palms. “Stop the car!”
“We don’t have time for this.” He speeds up, ignoring my demands. “We need to get to the airport.” He contends, “Besides, dying is easy. It’s living that’s hard.”
His response stiffens my back as he accelerates. Hyperventilating, my mind races, details of the last couple of days churning my belly into a froth, and like a moon fever, I’m unable to escape its pull.