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I look at Millie again. My beautiful empathic squishy hearted little girl.
Those with the softest hearts build the strongest shells.
Am I forcing her to grow her shell?
“I will let him say goodbye,” I say.
#
Thesky is growing darker and when we turn onto the highway it’s obvious why. Thick black smoke billows up into the air from east of town. My heart leaps into my throat and I press the gas harder.
I call Xan. There’s no answer so I try twice more. Shit.
Thoughts begin to tumble around in a disjointed mess. He’s probably out there fighting that fire. What if something happened to him? What if he gets hurt? What if we never see him again?
I slow down at a check stop and it’s the same officer that helped me out of the ditch.
“What’s going on?”
“A brush fire out by Cascade Meadows, we’re rerouting traffic. The south access is closed.”
The south access is what I need to be on. To the west of town is a short drive to the Sunshine Coast and north is up to Yukon. I need the south road that detours around the Langland Ridge mountains and then splits east to Alberta. I need to get to Alberta.
“Any word on for how long?”
He shakes his head and then waves me to the right to head to town. Millie’s eyes are fearful.
“Is Xan fighting that fire,” she says her glaze flickering over to the plumb of smoke rolling over the trees. She wants me to have the answers. The answers to everything. There is so much pressure and trust and openness in the way a child looks at a parent.
What should I do mommy?
And for the millionth time in ten years I wished I could look at my own mother and ask her the same question. What do I do, Mom?
I squeeze Millie’s hand. “It’s going to be okay. They have the best equipment.”
“But I heard Grandpa say that someone died. That’s why Xan wasn’t fighting fires. Because someone died and it made him really sad.”
I say nothing as I turn down the Main Street.
My phone rings and I scoop it up fast hoping it’s Xan.
Nothing but breathing.
I pull the motorhome to the side of the road and I listen. A slow steady breath.
“Listen, I don’t know what you want from me or why you’re threatening my family, but you win, okay.”
There’s a sharp laugh on the other end and something familiar about the high pitch. The cackle. I’ve heard it before.
“Leslie?” I ask, finally placing that laugh. I’ve heard it a lot. My gut turns to lead as the voice gasps.
“Shit,” she says and hangs up.
With trembling fingers, I move through my phone to Leslie’s number and tap it. It rings and rings before voicemail picks up.
“It’s Leslie. Leave a message.” And then that laugh.
After the beep, I’m still not sure what to do so sit silent for a long moment before speaking.
