Smoke Season

CHAPTER 7

While Kim searched the radio channels for any useful information and Astor got herself Froot Loops from the kitchen, Sam used the time Annie still slept—albeit fitfully—to get the girls’ go bags ready. Mobilizing Annie was no picnic, even in the best of times, and he went through the list of necessities now: oxygen tank (never stable in an environment like an evac), heart monitor (needing power), morphine, in case of the worst (must be temperature-controlled), and her portable heart monitor and the pulse oximeter they called her Pac-Man, for the way it clamped onto her finger as though taking a big bite.

He and Mel learned everything they could about tetralogy of Fallot starting the minute the diagnosis left their cardiologist’s lips. The way the combination of four different defects—yes, four—prevented the blood leaving Annie’s heart from delivering the oxygen needed by the tissues of her small body. The way this chronic lack of oxygen wore her down day by day, cyanosis tinging her lips and nose blue.

“We can repair it with patches, but only for now,” Dr. Newman had told Sam and Mel, and Sam had leaned forward across the doctor’s desk at Seattle Children’s in utter disbelief.

But yeah, they’d heard that right. Patches .

Sam had immediately envisioned the rubber squares heat-ironed onto leaks in True’s rafting boats. Eventually they peeled and water bubbled around them, causing a distressing little hissing sound. And then True always said, “Well, that’s that,” and pried the patch off altogether and started over.

“Are you kidding me?” Mel had said, trying to rise out of her chair, letting out an involuntary moan when her C-section incision protested. “That’s the best the collective medical community could do for a human being’s heart ?”

“No,” Dr. Newman had said calmly. “She will need open-heart surgery. Most likely multiple surgeries, but for now—”

“‘ Multiple surgeries’?” Sam had interjected. Because how could a baby be expected to go through that?

“‘ Open-heart ’?” Mel had echoed at the same time. That was how they’d been back then, tag-teaming each other’s sentences.

Dr. Newman had explained with graphs and diagrams. Annie wasn’t eligible for the less invasive catheter procedures she wished she could perform. The first surgery would repair what was possible now, and a second, probably around five years of life, would be needed to widen the arteries of Annie’s heart.

Each to a tune of about $50,000. Annie’s birth alone justified a bill of twenty-two grand, and apparently her stint in intensive care cost $3,500 per day. Plus meds. Plus oxygen. The only person Sam and Mel had seen more during their eighteen days in the NICU than the cardiologist was the rep from Seattle Children’s billing department.

But at least they’d faced it together. At least Sam had had Mel’s hand to grip at each meeting across the desk from Dr. Newman, and Mel had had Sam’s shoulder for support on each slow but steady walk around the maternity wing.

True always told Sam to take a deep, long breath when he relived this stuff, reminding him that PTSD came in many forms.

“Guess I’m lucky to have hit the trifecta,” he’d retorted once. Childhood trauma, military combat, and his daughter’s birth, all contenders. True had told him she’d rather decline her invite to the pity party, but she’d laid a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder, just the same.

He refocused his mind, returning to evacuation protocol: Gas in the SUV? Check. Water in the portable can? Check. But where would they go? The most obvious answer flitted immediately into his mind, but he batted it back. Even though the smoke would be thinner at high elevation, the last thing he wanted to do was take Astor and Annie back up to Highline, to be reminded all over again of the end of their parents’ marriage.

Never mind Sam’s own reaction; he didn’t need Astor acting out today, and couldn’t stand the sight of the confusion on Annie’s face. After almost a year at the rooms above the Eddy, his youngest daughter barely remembered Highline, which stung more than any barbed quip Astor could throw at him.

He knew what people around Carbon said, because they usually said it directly to his face: Give yourself a break. Go easy ... Few marriages could withstand the challenges you two faced. But he could never seem to stop taking inventory of all the ways in which he’d failed Mel. Not able to shake the baggage of his childhood. Not providing enough for Annie. Not even knowing when Mel would call it quits. That shit day would be etched in his memory forever, when their creative math had stopped adding up and she’d thrown in the towel.

Now, navigating between the bedroom and kitchen of the little apartment over the Eddy to gather gear, all he could manage was a shallow inhale, which only made him feel worse. If it was this hard for him to draw breath, what must Annie be feeling? Every once in a while, she sat up in bed, hacking anew.

“She’s a tough cookie,” Kim said, attention split between looking after her and trying to locate the TV remote, having given up on finding valid info on the fire online. Apparently, social media searches were yielding very little so far in terms of useful information. Sam eyed Annie’s struggle, counting all the ways in which she could relapse during this fire, their hard work at ensuring she was in as good of health as possible before surgery out the window.

“Asthma is common among children with congenital heart diseases,” Dr. Newman always reminded them. As was the ultimate fear: complete heart failure.

Those three words always hit Sam like one of Chris Fallows’s childhood punches to the gut he hadn’t braced for. The doctors and hospital staff tried to counter the terror of them with words like Affordable Care Act and covered costs , but Sam spit back premiums and out of pocket and prescriptions .

When he next walked into the living room, Kim perched on the edge of the couch, coffee cup in hand, eyes on the screen. She’d found the remote but still struggled to navigate the unfamiliar menu. Sam took over, making just about as many missteps toggling from Disney+ to the local news. It had been getting darker by the minute in the apartment, and the TV screen cast an eerie glow, like it was dusk, not well after daybreak. How did this bode for Mel, out on the line? True, on the Outlaw? Sam just didn’t know.

“Dad! Here. I’ll do it!” Astor hijacked control of the remote, and Sam let her, one hand on his coffee cup to keep the hot liquid from splashing onto her pajama bottoms.

“There it is. Stop there, Astor.”

She’d found their local news channel, where a ticker at the bottom of the screen listed Carbon’s AQI zone—or level of air pollution—at red, a.k.a. “very unhealthy.” No shit. Hopefully it was at least marginally better inside the apartment.

Annie gave up on trying to rest and decided she wanted Froot Loops, too, and while Astor climbed back onto the kitchen counter for a second bowl, Sam shifted Annie’s weight on his knee, wrapping her Tinker Bell blanket more tightly around her shoulders before focusing back on the TV. In her polo shirt and overdone hairdo, the local newscaster for Channel 10, Madison something or other, looked out of place standing in the center of a dirt Forest Service road outside of town. “Thank you, Barry,” she told her colleague at the desk, then glanced up from the notes clutched in her hand. “Caused by a lightning strike at 5:16 p.m. last night, July 10, the Flatiron Fire has burned 3,245 acres per last report, and is zero percent contained.” Her eyes flicked down to the paper again. “Fire crews on-site are under BLM mandate to stand by—”

“Stand by? While the mountain burns? What is this shit?” Kim complained.

Sam shot her a look, but Annie wasn’t listening, having snuggled deeper into her blanket, ear against Sam’s chest. The sound of her cough still reverberated, shaking the blanket against Sam intermittently. Having prepared her sister’s cereal, Astor now stood by absorbing the news and studying the adults stoically, but that was Astor. Sometimes it seemed to Sam that nothing fazed her.

“... currently engaging in containment only,” Madison continued, “as the blaze continues to burn on the west and southwest sides of Flatiron Peak. We’re joined now by remote call with Carbon Rural District 1 Battalion Chief Melissa Bishop.”

“They said Mom!” Astor contributed.

Sam nodded, feeling his first tentative smile all morning at the sound of her name. The camera angle went to split screen, a little phone icon springing to life on the right-hand side. He straightened at attention on the couch, the remote forgotten in his hand as, on the screen, Madison ran her hands awkwardly through her hair as she waited uncomfortably for the voice patch to go through. Then Mel’s voice crackled across Sam’s living room, the little phone graphic vibrating, and he found himself exhaling fully for the first time in over twelve hours. Annie looked up from her blanket, and Astor leaned in.

“Thanks, Madison,” Mel said, from somewhere on the mountain. “Carbon Rural has been monitoring the fire since 6:00 p.m. last night, and as of this morning, we’ve been joined by the Bureau of Land Management, as well as county and Outlaw teams.” Mel’s voice, though clearly roughened by smoke, carried its usual smooth confidence that somehow reassured, even in an emergency. Especially in an emergency, Sam amended. She and True were strikingly similar in that way, ever tougher when the going got tough. “At this time,” Mel assured them, “with an increasing wind factor and a predicted fire trajectory to the west-southwest, precautionary measures are being taken. The community of Carbon is advised to stay on alert for future instructions or evacuation orders.”

“Stay on alert until when ?” Kim questioned aloud.

“Until we know more,” Sam shot back. He thought he’d done a decent job of keeping the fear and stress at bay until now, but hearing Mel’s voice unraveled something inside of him he hadn’t even realized was coiled so tightly. Because he hadn’t had direct word from her in far too long. Which meant that for all her on-air confidence, it was bad enough out there that she didn’t have time to run down the hill for a quick check-in.

Astor’s solemn eyes moved from her father to Kim and back again. “I hate the weird smell in here. It’s like burnt toast.”

Kim glanced at Sam, worry in the fine lines around her eyes.

“Yeah, it’s hard to think,” he said to both of them, partially by way of apology, “with this stupid smoke going to our heads.”

“Is Mom out there now?” Astor asked, eyes still on the little phone icon gracing the screen.

“Fighting the fire, sweetie, yes.”

Mel had sounded tired, Sam thought, though she hid it well for the sound bite. He watched through the end of the news segment, hoping for a glimpse of her, but KBLS Channel 10 never got close enough for a face-to-face interview. There was a long aerial shot of the blaze, but Sam knew they had a better view right here, if they were to venture back onto the deck of the Eddy. If he were to brave the outdoors now, would he see the flames lick upward to disappear into the thick smoke above Flatiron?

Sam breathed deep, just to check: yes, Astor was right. The smoky smell still permeated, even inside, so he double-checked the locks on each window, making sure he had every one sealed. He pulled a Buff over his face and stepped out onto the landing, closing the apartment door resolutely behind him before Astor or Annie could follow. He trotted down the stairs and out the side door by the grill kitchen to the deck, and ... shit! He could practically taste the smoke out here, the air thick on his tongue, making him cough again with just one breath. A layer of ash collected on the railing, reminding him of the snow that accumulated in winter; the girls liked to bring a plastic ruler from their school-supply desk out here, to make measurements. Today, Sam estimated that if he went inside to retrieve their Hello Kitty ruler, it would mark the ash as half an inch thick, at least.

God, could Sam even risk Annie in this air for the length of time it would take to buckle her into the SUV? And what about Mel, on the front lines? Her lungs couldn’t exactly afford to be exposed to that level of smoke inhalation, either, given what she put them through on the regular.

He rubbed a hand down the rough stubble on his face, unsure of just about everything. Astor banged on the glass of the upstairs window, making him jump, and Sam came back inside, trying to pass his worry off as wonderment. “If it weren’t summer, it’d be like a snow day today!” he said entirely too brightly.

Astor only frowned, shifting from foot to foot in her neon-dog-and-cat-print nightshirt. Sam wished the girls had been able to sleep in this morning, spared Sam’s restless energy as he lapped the apartment. Like one of the opossums his old man used to trap under their house growing up, poor bastards.

When he came back into the kitchen, Kim had made a second carafe of coffee. He pulled her aside. “You got a plan for where to go, if they call for that evac?” he asked.

“My mom’s in Portland. If Carbon gets to Level 2, I’ll pick up Denise on the way.” Her sister, Zack’s mother. Sam nodded solemnly. Thinking of Zack served as a good reminder that life was unfair to more folks than just the Bishops.

“But you guys should go sooner, don’t you think?” Kim jutted her chin in the direction of Annie in the living room.

“I’m not sure.” Sam eyed the darkness outside the window, where the smoke seemed to collect against the glass like lead shavings to a magnet. Annie’s small army of doctors had warned them against letting her O2 levels dip below 90, which was basically guaranteed if they got on the interstate, given the AQI. And while the idea of retreating to Highline still grated at his already raw nerves, there was also the Eddy’s business to consider. Closing even one day would put Sam behind on his contributions to Annie’s meds. “Hunkering down here is probably as good a place as any.”

Kim gave him a doubtful look. “Unless the wind shifts, bringing this fire closer to town.”

In which case the entirety of Carbon would be at Level 3. “Don’t even put that shit out into the universe,” he muttered.

“At least call Claude back and find out if the air quality is better up at Highline, like I suspect it is.”

Sam felt the resistance pull from the very core of him, like the strain of muscle when lifting something far too heavy. “My Highline house is a mess,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

“Even if it is in a state of home improvement,” Kim pressed, emphasizing her word choice, “it’s got to be better than this.” She gestured toward the window. “I’m sorry to be a pain in your ass, but it’s true.”

Home. Improvement. Basically Sam’s life’s goal, from the foundation up. He knew his inability to let that house go had broken Mel, but what she didn’t understand: nothing had ever been gifted to Sam good enough as it was. His life had been littered with leftovers: the castoffs of other kids from their lunch boxes, the clothes from the closet discreetly situated in the middle school counselor’s office, where he picked out jeans that didn’t fit exactly right and shirts in styles he didn’t like. Food from the church pantry, which consisted of everyone else’s rejected canned goods: pureed pumpkin in April, pickled beets, groceries people had grabbed by accident, while not paying attention, like no-sugar-added peaches and lima beans when they’d meant to buy kidney beans. The secondhand furniture in his house growing up? Mark had sent Sam dumpster diving for that. Everything in Sam’s life, when it came down to it, he’d had to work like hell to improve, fix, restore, or make better.

Mel had been the first thing in his life shiny and new, without strings attached. She’d come to him whole and healthy, with a sun-kissed river glow and a solid childhood upbringing behind her. Sometimes he sat back and marveled at her ability to walk through life carting so little baggage. And so he’d made sure: the things they’d bought together, they’d bought firsthand.

The dishes they’d picked out before their wedding still sat neatly stacked in the cupboard at Highline. The couch they’d selected on one of their many trips north to Annie’s cardiologist in Portland still sat in the oversize living room, directly across from the partially rebuilt fireplace. It was why he was here above the Eddy, with the girls. Eating off paper plates and sleeping on sofa beds felt preferable to seeing half-finished failure at every turn. Returning to Highline, especially to ride out this fire? He didn’t know if he could bear it.

Kim studied him, a frown tugging at her face, like she was trying to work out what exactly his hang-up was. He’d tell her, but who the hell knew where to start?

“As you’re packing,” she said at length, “don’t forget the practical stuff, like shampoo and washcloths. That sort of thing. I can still remember the Carson Fire ... back in ’98? Five days straight, sleeping on a cot on the gym floor of Carbon High School, will instill in you a healthy respect for toothpaste and a hairbrush, let me tell you. Remember two pairs of shoes for the girls. Jackets in case the weather turns.” She paused. “You’ll tell me if you hear directly from Mel?”

Sam managed a tight smile. “Yes, mother hen.”

As if on cue, his phone pinged in his back pocket, and he fished it out, surprised. “Speaking of whom ...” He read the text, probably delayed between cell towers. A simple, succinct message sending love to him and their daughters. No updates or instructions. No reassurances. He held it out for Kim to read, that damned knot settling in permanently in his throat.

“She’s okay,” Kim said immediately. “She’s saying everything is fine, that’s all.” Though it didn’t escape Sam’s notice when she dug her phone out of her pocket, too, leaving a hasty message for her sister to start looking now for the crates for her cats. And to toss some bottles of water in the car for good measure, just in case this thing turned from bad to worse.