Moth, Reversed
by Mia
Kammeyer-Mueller
I can find my way though my house
in the dark without bumping into things. I know where all the furniture
is, all the doorways and shelves. It would be easier if I were neater, put
things back in the same place, didn't leave shoes wherever I felt like
taking them off. My messiness adds to the challenge.
I practice, and I don't cheat. I take measures to prevent
temptation. Cutting the power also means losing sound cues—no refrigerator
hum to remind me where the kitchen is. Sometimes I spin, shake my head
until I'm dizzy, not sure which direction I'm facing until I bump a wall
that should have been a doorway.
I can tell you the dimensions of any part of my house, but I don't
have written floor plans. My left foot is exactly twenty-five centimeters
long; I use it to measure. I'm quick with math.
This is necessity, as certainly as brushing my teeth in the morning
and stopping at red lights: know your surroundings.
This is habit, easier to continue than stop. Not comfortable, but
in a way, comforting.
***
Before I was born, my mother and father lived on the third floor of
an apartment building. My dad was in school and worked nights washing
dishes. My mom had a job answering phones. They didn't make enough money
to have a car, but they lived close to campus. They were newlyweds and
didn't care, so bohemian to walk or take the bus.
One night while my dad was at work, fire broke out in the apartment
building. Two fires. The first, which set off the alarm, was on the fourth
floor. The second fire, they found out later, started on the fifth floor
when a woman knocked over a candle, surprised by the blaring alarm in the
hall.
My mom slept through the fire alarm. She didn't wake until fire
trucks arrived, lights and sirens urgently invading the apartment. She had
rolled to my dad's empty side of the bed. Disoriented by the noise, the
darkness, the smell of smoke, she couldn't find her way out and kept
stumbling into the hall closet. She clung to winter coats, believing them
to be firefighters sent to rescue her, and didn't understand why they
weren't guiding her to safety.
No one was hurt in the fire. My mom was finally found by a neighbor
who dragged her out of the closet, telling her to forget about the
clothes. Under a small halo of street light in the next door parking lot,
the residents formed a shabby group, a haphazard family huddled under
blankets, some sipping coffee from paper cups.
No one could go back in the building that night. Unsafe, the fire
chief said, even apartments that weren't damaged. My dad returned in time
to see the last hose get shut off, the fire truck drive away.
"When can we go back? Where will we stay?" he asked no
one.
"Figure it out in the morning," said the neighbor who rescued my
mom. "Sleep in your car tonight."
***
These things my mother demanded in our houses: brick or concrete
construction, one level, hardwired smoke detectors, electric appliances,
detached garage, no curtains or drapes, no fireplace. Later, she added
underground utilities, swimming pool, and indoor sprinkler
system.
***
Only once did I blow out candles on my birthday cake. My grandma,
my dad's mom, had the party at her house. I was eight. She brought the
chocolate frosted cake from the kitchen, carried it on a platter out to
the backyard where I sat at the head of the picnic table. My aunts and
uncles and cousins lined the benches; my dad sat by my side. My mom was
out of town, helping her sister deliver twins.
Grandma put the cake in front of me. Everyone sang. I watched the
flames, not so much red as white, if any color other than bright. Blue at
the bottom. I was surprised when they didn't leap up to my face, singe my
hair or burn my skin. The sun shining on my back was
warmer.
"Our little secret," my dad whispered after the singing stopped. He
squeezed my hand.
Everyone was watching, waiting for
me. They knew this was my first time. I knew it would be my only time. It
scared me. And excited me, too.
I blew out the candles in one
try.
***
Three times a month I get a phone call from my mom. Fire drill.
Three times so I can't rely on a call every week. She calls and shouts
'fire, fire!' while ringing a bell or buzzer, then hangs up. I'm supposed
to follow my predetermined escape route outside and call her back. She
times me. Once she called when I had a friend over. We were chopping
vegetables for dinner. After I hung up the phone, his eyes asked what he
was too polite to say—'what was that?'
My smile wavered; I excused
myself, picking up the cordless phone so I could call my mother from the
backyard. I have to call from outside. She listens for the echo of a room.
Her hearing is excellent.
***
Inside my mom's purse, I know I'll
always find extra keys to everything she owns with a lock, a rosary
(although she's not Catholic), fifty dollars in cash sewn into the bottom
lining, and a laminated emergency card stating her name, age, identifying
marks, address and phone number. It lists my dad and me as her next of
kin, her request to donate her organs, to take no extraordinary means to
prolong her life, and, in the event of her death, that she not be
cremated.
***
I stopped going to sleepovers when
I was eleven. My mom always went to the house first to talk with the other
mom, ask if she could see where I'd be sleeping. She checked for smoke
detectors and fire extinguishers, fireplaces. She mapped out escape routes
in her head, scribbled them down in the car before driving home.
My last sleepover was at Becky
Manetti's house. Not so much my friend as a friend of a friend. She waited
until we were in the basement in our sleeping bags, lights out, to say she
wanted to show me something—a candle.
"So what?"
"Aren't you scared?" She waved the
candle closer to me. It was red with white stripes, like a candy cane.
"It's a candle. Don't you think candles are evil?"
"No."
"Don't you think anyone who has
candles is a witch? Isn't that why your mom was over here asking about
them? Because she thinks candles are evil?"
"My mom thinks candles start
fires."
Becky sat up in her sleeping bag,
her chin thrust defiantly forward. "Well, my mom says that your mom is
weird, and even if you begged me to, I can never stay over at your house
because of your weird mom."
My mom wouldn't let me have anyone
sleep over anyway. I had never heard her talk about Becky's mom, but I
wanted to say something.
"My mom said you would probably be
dumb enough to try to scare me with a candle."
***
My mom spent hours at the
library—days, weekends. She looked up weather statistics. Dry spells and
drought. Risk levels for brush fire. Where was lightning most likely to
strike? She studied electricity, wiring, proper installation of ceiling
fans. She learned about the differences among fire extinguishers—gas
filled, water filled, and chemical filled. First aid was her favorite
topic. She knew how to dress all types of wounds and the best way to
prevent scarring.
***
Two weeks after we moved into the
third house I could remember, there was a fire at Mr. and Mrs. Landry's
house across the street. We knew them from my dad's softball league. We
also knew they were getting a divorce. Mr. Landry showed up after drinking
too much. He stood on his front step banging on the door. He lit and
dropped four cigarettes while I watched from my bedroom window. One landed
in the bushes instead of on the step.
It was autumn, the front bushes
perfect kindling. I called the fire department. Mr. Landry shouted for his
wife to come out, please come out, his voice sounding more strained than
before. My mother stood at our front door in her bathrobe, biting her
bottom lip.
***
I wasn't allowed to take chemistry
class in high school. Home ec. courses with cooking were also out of the
question. The homecoming bonfire was forbidden. We always skipped Fourth
of July fireworks. Having never been near a campfire, I knew no campfire
songs.
***
