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EGO BURNING
We've all experienced
it, I think: you're driving home and fire trucks speed past you, and for
a moment that you try to push away you pray, God, please don't let it
be my house.
Yesterday, this was me driving home from the esthetician where I had extractions
and a super-hydration facial. I turned onto Zia, crossing Old Pecos Trail,
then ran the stop sign and made a left onto Old Santa Fe Trail. It was
then, when I could see the smoke pluming above, that I knew my casita
was on fire and my cat just might be dead.
I'm standing over Cute Pea on the metal table in Room #3 at Doctor Morganstein's
office waiting for the blood test results. I reach in to stroke her as
she huddles up against the back wall inside the safety of her hard plastic
travel box. The pink fleece blanket is thick with six months worth of
black-and-white Cute Pea fur. I left my husband in Colorado for my dream
job as the Managing Editor of a very well funded upstart literary magazine.
He couldn't bear to leave his job as the director of the most sought after
rock climbing school in the country. So we decided to stay a committed
married couple who just happen to live in different states.
I'm visualizing Chas' new pumpkin-colored Honda Element surrounded in
rainbow light as he maneuvers it through the mountain passes. By the time
I was able to reach him last night it was late. A new moon sky kept me
from encouraging him to head out in the dark. I'd checked Cute Pea and
me into a cheap but reputationally clean and quiet motel knowing I might
be there for a while. I'd managed to salvage-well, nothing much. But Cute
Pea had escaped through a window I keep cracked for her while I'm away.
And when I rushed to the burning casita and found her meowing up at me
outside the back door, I scooped her up and ran back to the car, sobbing
with relief, and then laughing hysterically, then sobbing, and then laughing.
During this emotional roller coaster, the opening scene of The Producers
popped into my head, the original film with Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel.
Gene Wilder is in hysterics, and cries out, I'm hysterical . . . I'm wet,
I'm in pain, and I'm still hysterical. Zero Mostel throws water on him,
and slaps him in an attempt to sober him up. But poor Gene Wilder cannot
get hold of himself. I saw myself as the Gene Wilder character, which
made me shriek again with hysterical laughter, and then at the absurdity
of my outburst, I ended up crying again. At this point I remembered that
the scene ends with the Zero Mostel character saying to Gene Wilder, Go
away, you frighten me, which snapped me back to reality.
I opened up the hatchback then to let Cute Pea into her travel crate,
whereupon she scurried inside and did not leave until the middle of the
first of many motel nights to come. After a drink of water and a pee in
a new, cheap litter box I got at the 24-hour Walgreen's, she jumped up
on the bed and trotted over to me. I lifted the covers to let her in,
where she stayed cuddled close to me purring for a long while before falling
asleep in my arms.
Doctor Morganstein returns to Room #3 and Cute Pea shrinks into herself
like a pill bug. She does not understand the words I tell her, that she
will not be pricked again today. She was diagnosed with kidney disease
last year in Colorado and I've been administering subcutaneous fluids
weekly ever since. This morning's emergency trip to the vet is to determine
that the trauma from being stuck alone inside a burning house did not
further damage her kidneys. I look at my fifteen-year-old baby Cute Pea
hiding from the pain of her little life and start to cry.
"She's fine," says the doctor. "Actually, her blood work
indicates her kidneys are functioning better than they were when we checked
last month."
"Thank God."
"As long as she has you as her mommy," Doctor Morganstein encourages,
"she'll be just fine."
I thank the doctor as she leaves the room and sink onto the padded bench,
looking at this small, helpless animal thinking, in fact, what a terrible
mommy I've been. I bury my face in my hands, then, and cry in silent heaps
until Cute Pea crawls out of her box meowing and jumps up onto my lap.
I hold her close and let my tears fall onto her cozy neck.
"I'm so sorry, little baby girl," I cry. "I am so, so sorry."
Back in the car, Cute Pea safe in her crate on the passenger seat, I sit
frozen behind the steering wheel . . . until the immensity of what has
happened comes crashing down on me, leaving me pissed as all hell.
"Shit!" I scream as I pound the wheel with both hands, over
and over and over.
"Shit, shit, shit!"
Volume two of my magazine is supposed to get to press this week, and there's
no way in hell I'm going to manage this with the millions of fire related
tasks I need to get done. The insurance company to fill out umpteen forms
(thank God I have renters insurance), the other insurance company to see
if they'll replace burned up prescriptions, the used clothing store, the
property manager . . . Oh crap! I'm homeless!
I take a deep breath to calm myself down. And another. I've so much to
do. But I cannot muster the energy to turn the key. So I just sit there
looking at my cat. And I sit. I'm as still as a lake on a windless afternoon,
trying to watch my breath as it flows in and out the tip of my nose. Until
it all comes rushing back:
I'm remembering how sad I was feeling when I drew a bath yesterday. How
soothing the hot water felt, the scent of the rose oil, and the single
candle on the tub's ledge that attempted to remind me of the all-encompassing
Love of the Universe. I can hear my sobs echo off the tile walls as I
recall this scene. My cat jumped up to join me, and sat on the porcelain
edge close to my face. Another Sunday morning without my husband, and
I was feeling so lonely. Cute Pea knew this and pawed at me, wanting me
to connect with her. I sensed she wanted me to know I was not alone. This
gesture moved me to action. I leapt out of the tub, wrapped myself in
a bath sheet, and picked her up to cuddle her close. This animal is always
right: I do have a friend with me; at times the best friend I've ever
known. And, oh yes, I was the one who wanted the job out of state away
from my husband-away from the task of making and raising a baby with him.
I'm the one who sent the resume, without even asking him how he felt.
It is all my fault.
By the time I shut my pity party down, I was late for my appointment.
I threw on some jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed my bag and a banana, and
rushed out of the house. Without checking to see if I'd blown out the
candle.
As I sit in the car remembering this string of events, panic shoots through
my blood. The candle flame surely must have caught a breeze from the open
skylight and kissed the lace shower curtain that I had pushed completely
to the foot of the tub. Then, my anger turns to grief as it hits me how
much of my stuff I am going to miss. I think about our wedding album that
I took with me from Colorado, my emerald ring that my mother had given
me on my sixteenth birthday, that her mother had given her on her sixteenth
birthday, that her mother . . . My books, my computer, my Managing Editor
wardrobe, my ski gear. "I'm such a goddamn idiot," I whisper,
shaking my head from side to side.
I look at Cute Pea then who has her head turned toward the sun. She is
wearing a satisfied expression that never ceases to stop me cold. She
has her cozy box, the warmth of the sun, and me. In her world, all is
well. The truth is this: the insurance company will give me enough money
to replace what is replaceable. And the remainder, well, it will just
have to rest in peace. Could it have taken losing all of my possessions
for me to realize that my loved ones are all that really matters?
God I miss my husband.
It is then that I come to an awareness: until now, I've never truly missed
anybody.
On the way back to the motel, I stop at the market for a few items that
will fit in the mini fridge. When Chas arrives, I won't want to go out
to eat, as leaving my cat alone at this point is not an option. As I peruse
the aisles for some goat cheese, tomatoes, olives and a baguette, I stroll
by the baby food and feel my heart actually flutter. I push away leading
thoughts, grab a cold bottle of Gruet Brut, and check out.
Time refuses to stand still no matter how loudly I scream at it. In this
sacred moment I have become the witness of my life. In this fleeting moment
I realize how big my love has grown. I see my heart as large as the earth,
and the hugeness of its capacity to forgive myself for my many mistakes
showers me with peace.
I am sitting on the motel bed putting the finishing topcoat on my nails
with polish I got at the market. Cute Pea has jumped onto the overstuffed
chair in the corner and begun her afternoon cleaning ritual. As I plug
my phone into the charger and turn to look at her, she pauses to look
at me. I struggle to keep from breaking down again, and take a deep breath
in. How could I have left this precious animal in the casita with a burning
candle? Have I been that self-absorbed? As if she understands my thoughts,
she lets out a peep-like meow and returns to the task at hand, delighting
in the practice of cleaning herself.
These are the moments to remember, I tell myself. I realize then how fully
present I am in this motel room, listening to the sound of my cat's tongue
as it scrapes itself across her long fur. I love the way her little head
bobs up and down as she tries to beautify the hair beneath her chin. And
the way her head dips as she lifts a paw up to lick it, then stroke it
across her eyes, brings me unspeakable joy.
The ringing phone on the bedside table startles me. I feel my heart race
as I go to answer it.
"Hello?"
The front desk clerk tells me there's a gentleman named Chas requesting
my room number. I guess in the madness of our conversations about the
fire I failed to let him know what room I'm staying in. My husband is
not the kind of thirty-year-old one would expect in 2006; he believes
cell phones are a ploy to give the planet brain damage so the government
can continue to treat us like morons. Thus, he's in the lobby wondering
where the hell I am.
I open the door and my beautiful husband rushes in, his face a lined,
worried map directing me straight to his heart. He grabs me so hard I
feel my ribs crush beneath his strength. I take comfort in this pain,
cherishing my husband's need to touch me, to know that I am alive and
well.
"You feel so good," he says, as I allow his arms to nurture
me. He lightly rubs his cheek against mine, and I feel his tears moisten
my face. "Like coming home after being in a foreign country for lifetimes."
Chas picks me up then, and I relax into his embrace as he carries me over
to the bed, gently sets me down, and cozies in next to me. He kisses me
on the forehead so lightly it tickles. Then he brushes each of my eyes
with his lips, next the tip of my nose, and then my mouth. My body responds
to the kisses on my neck, my chest. And as I let him slip my t-shirt over
my head, and I watch him travel lower, I release the last twenty-four
hours from my mind's grip. I remind myself that stuff is just stuff. But
love can never be replaced. This love that I so easily put on the back
burner to pursue a path of ego gratification. This love that fills me,
challenges me, comforts me.
I notice my breath has quickened as Chas returns to meet me face to face.
I burrow into his neck, and feel time explode inside my heart: my diaphragm
is in the drawer of the bedside table that was inside the casita that
burned down. And I am ovulating.
"I love you," I whisper into my husband's ear as tears roll
down my face. "We're going to be great parents."
I turn to see where Cute Pea is and find her curled up in a ball, fast
asleep on the motel chair in the corner. And in this moment that I wish
would last forever, as I feel sunshine travel from my belly to the top
of my head, I know for sure: Everything is going to be all right.
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