Scars Read online

  A rotating camera hums and whirs from the ceiling, recording her every move. At times, the feeling of the guard’s eyes on her becomes so intense she cannot help but make funny faces at the recording device to break the tension.

  The morning sunlight that pours through is broken by a tight succession of black wrought iron security bars bolted to the outside stucco building. It marches across the dirty floor and up the stained walls, marking long, quiet hours. Becky stretches her stiff arms and legs and paces back and forth between her desk and her bed in an effort to get her blood moving. The stale air causes her lungs to clinch, and she gags and coughs. She stands still, laboring to catch her breath.

  The distant wail of fire engines comes through the bars of her window. She leans over her desk and peers out. The air outside is hazy with smoke. A helicopter moves quickly across the small patch of orange sky. Somewhere a fire is burning. Her fingers close the window blocking the smell of smoke and the microscopic toxins produced by the fire.

  Her body inclines against the wood ledge while her cheeks press against the glass. She stares down into the courtyard at the overgrown magnolia tree decorated with snow-white flowers. She imagines their sweet fragrance. Two grey-brown mourning doves sit on a branch covered with deep green foliage and coo while they clean their black-spotted feathers.

  Becky stays there, her face resting against the window, and watches the birds until the sun’s deep orange light fades into a dark grey, acrid with thick smoke. Even after the window turns almost completely black and all she can see is her own reflection, she imagines herself lying under the beautiful green tree in a bed of lush grass. The sweet smell of its pretty, white flowers fills her nostrils with every breath of fresh, clean air, and the gentle, melodic song of the birds lulls her into a warm, deep sleep.

  The image brings a smile to her face. She closes her eyes and is back in her childhood home in Simi Valley. “One part sugar and one part water,” her mother would say as she let her fill the red plastic hummingbird feeder that hung from the tree in their backyard. Together she and Momma would stand quietly, watching through the kitchen window as hordes of green-headed hummingbirds descended on the feeder, their wings nothing but blurs as they darted about and seemed to hang motionless in midair. Within a couple of days they would devour the sweet sticky liquid, and Momma would reach up into the tree to retrieve the empty feeder and hand it to Becky to fill again.

  Looking back, the years she spent in that house on Apricot Street were the most innocent and the most secure. She remembers when her family left that house and moved to the modest two-story stucco tract house in Valencia shortly after the Hollywood earthquake when she was only ten years old.

  The thought of the earthquake still makes her stomach jump. Everything changed after the quake. Nothing was ever simple and safe again. She can’t remember ever seeing hummingbirds after the earthquake.

  * * * * *

  Becky strained to focus her eyes. The bright white canopy over her bed was shaking violently. She pulled herself out of a deep suspension of consciousness. A cacophony of noises and movements had jolted the peaceful darkness of her bedroom.

  She sat up expecting to see David jumping up and down on her bed. But he was not there. She was alone in her room. A deafening roar seemed to come at her from all sides. Her fingers and toes turned to ice while her tummy leaped upward inside her ribcage. She could not hear herself call out for Daddy.

  As the fog of sleep melted away, her mind hastily conjured the possibilities. Maybe they were in a nuclear war? The important people on television had talked about it. Tensions between the Asian Union and the North

  American Union had escalated. The threat of a nuclear strike from the Asian Union was real. Was this what it was like when a nuclear bomb exploded?

  Everything was shaking and vibrating. It felt like a giant monster had picked up their house and was rattling it like a toy. Her cold hands clung to her pink, ballerina sheets. Suddenly she was tossed to the floor. The thick gold carpet brushed against her face. Her legs were tangled in the pink-and-white striped comforter. She kicked herself free. Her entire room danced around her. The stuffed animals on the shelves danced over the edge and fell to the floor; her bed danced and slammed itself against the wall with repeated thuds; her lamp and nightstand danced; the pictures on her wall danced.

  EARTHQUAKE! As if she’d seen the word blazing across a digital billboard, she felt a rush of realization. Her skin tingled as adrenaline pumped through her veins.

  “DROP, COVER AND HOLD ON!” She could hear Mrs. Nixon’s voice repeating the words over and over in her head. She couldn’t count the number of earthquake drills she had participated in at Ronald Reagan Elementary School.

  She had never been in an earthquake before, but her mother made sure the family knew exactly where to go in case one occurred. Momma and Dad had decided the interior doors were the safest place to be as they were away from the windows or falling furniture, and Dad assured them he had made the doors sturdy and strong when he refurbished their home.

  She pulled herself up and held both arms out as she balanced herself and tried to walk to her door.

  She lifted one foot up, and the floor rose to meet it. The sensation reminded her of being on a sailboat, tossed about on rough sea swells rising, cresting and then sliding back down again.

  The walls of her room rocked back and forth. Loud sounds of snapping and breaking thundered throughout the single-story house.

  Her legs buckled, and she sank to her knees as the floor dropped like a trap door beneath her feet. She pushed herself forward and crawled on her hands and knees.

  Her hand thrust out to grab the chrome doorknob. She pulled it open and moved through to the hall. The dark of the early morning draped her.

  “Daddy!” she yelled as panic swirled through her trembling body. “Daddy!”

  He did not answer.

  She stretched out for the doorjamb to steady herself, but before she could grab it the door swung violently and knocked her off balance. She lurched forward and clutched the inside of the door and held on tight.

  Ghost-white and teary-eyed, her six-year-old brother, David, emerged from his room next to hers. The rabbit ear of his Willie Rabbit pajamas was stained from the chocolate ice cream that had dribbled down his chest the night before.

  “David! Brace yourself against the door!” Becky commanded.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! The gunshot sound of windows blowing brittle transparent glass outward was followed by the crackling sound of its falling against the ground.

  Becky recognized a prolonged series of thuds as books crashed to the ground from the oak bookcase next to the front door. She felt herself lunge forward as if riding in a car that had quickly braked to avoid a dog in the road. She grabbed the door frame to keep herself from falling out of its protective cover.

  She felt David’s small hands grab at the hem of her Happy Hearts nightgown as he pulled himself up against her trembling body. She let go of the wood with one hand and pulled David close to her. Together they pressed themselves hard against the doorjamb. Huddling within its narrow zone of safety, they felt the earth undulate beneath them as wave after wave washed through the ground under the house. Rows of family pictures cascaded down the walls of the hallway blanketing the narrow passage with shards of glass.

  Then, as suddenly as it had started, it ended. The tumult of noise gave way to an eerie silence. The only sound Becky could hear was the furious swinging of the chandelier in the dining room swaying back and forth, slower and slower, until finally it stopped.

  “Wh--what just happened?” David shuddered, his dark eyes wide with fright.

  “It was an earthquake--A BIG ONE!” Becky relaxed her tight grip on the inside of the door. “But don’t worry. It’s all over now.” Thank goodness! A temporary sigh of relief passed her lips. There was no reason to be afraid now. The earthquake was over.

  David moved, as if he was preparing to walk away.

  �
�David, wait!”

  Becky turned toward the bedroom at the end of the hallway.

  “Daddy?” There was no answer.

  “David, wait here!”

  Avoiding the broken glass on the ground, Becky carefully tiptoed to her parents’ room.

  She gently pushed against the solid-wood, six-paneled door, expecting it to glide open, but it was stuck. She pressed harder and jiggled the handle. It shifted slightly but refused to yield. Something blocked it. She shoved until she could reach her hand through the small crack and feel the hard cherry wood dresser lodged between the door and her parents’ heavy sleigh bed.

  “Daddy? Are you all right?” she called into the darkness.

  She heard a deep moan.

  “Daddy,” she pleaded. “Are you okay?”

  “Rebekah,” he answered with pain in his voice. “Princess. . .take David and go. . .get help!”

  She felt a pounding against her chest. She wanted desperately to see her father, to feel his strong protective arms around her shoulders.

  “Okay, Daddy, don’t worry. . .I’ll go and find some help.” She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and took a deep breath before turning back to the dark hallway littered with broken pictures. I must be brave, she told herself. Brave for Daddy and brave for David. Daddy is hurt so I must hurry and go find help—

  “OUCH!” David’s voice was raspy with tears. His fingertips were red and sticky.

  “Becky! I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!” Tears shone in his eyes as he cried out frantically.

  Becky reached out for him as she carefully navigated the dark treacherous hallway. She touched his small shoulders. “David, are you okay?”

  He lifted his bare foot. Red oozed from a shred of glass embedded in the bottom of his heel.

  Becky studied his injury. “Nothing serious, just a small cut. Hold still.”

  Becky gently traced her fingers over his heel.

  “Ouch!” David flinched.

  “David! I said hold still!” Using her fingernails like a pair of tweezers, Becky carefully pinched and removed the fragment from the bottom of his foot. Then with the edge of her nightgown she dabbed the blood clean. “There. That should do for now. We’ll clean it and find you a bandage later. Right now we need to go find help for Daddy. Please, David, try to be more careful,” she scolded. “And don’t move until I get your shoes!”

  Becky moved inside her bedroom door and flipped the pink ballerina wall switch. The light did not illuminate. Hmm, the electricity must be out.

  The early rising sun reflected a faint cheery glow off the mirror of her white Queen Anne vanity. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. The pastel-pink upholstered bench lay on its side. The canopy bed was still intact, but the white six-drawer dresser had toppled over. The pink ballet-slipper lamp lay shattered on the shag carpet. Her doll and Precious Pony collections lay scattered across the ground like soldiers cut down in a gruesome battle.

  Becky carefully moved across the room, edging around the white hollow closet doors that had slid off their hinges, and stepped inside the small closet. Her clothes still hung neatly, and only a few books and boxes had fallen off the top shelf.

  She reached up and pulled a pair of worn blue sneakers out of the pocket of the plastic hanging shoe rack. She set them down and slipped them on over her bare feet. She grabbed her turquoise jacket and pulled it over her nightgown. She returned to the hall then entered David's disheveled room and fetched his Robot Man tennis shoes. She waited patiently while he fastened the sticky white Velcro straps together.

  David hurried after his big sister down the hallway. As they emerged into the dining room Becky’s mouth suddenly flew open, but nothing came out.

  “OH, MY GOSH!” David pulled at her arm almost hysterically. “LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!”

  “OH, NO!” Becky gasped. “Momma’s special

  dishes. . .they’re all broken. . . .”

  Momma’s beautiful cherry wood china cabinet lay smashed; the delicate flowered china and the crystal lead glass vases, a wedding gift from Grandma Hansen, cluttered the floor in a heap of sharp, jagged shards.

  Becky had helped Dad bolt the hutch down with thick earthquake straps. Now the bolts lay against the baseboard in a pile of dusty, crumbled drywall.

  They both stood aghast at the sight of the damage. All the wall hangings and plants had fallen over. The forty-six-inch plasma television had snapped from the overhead ceiling brace and lay face up, cracked on the carpet.

  Dad’s fifty-five-gallon salt-water fish aquarium lay on its side, with emerald-colored gravel fanned out across the soaked carpet and plastic seaweed tangled with the pirate treasure chest. The deep purple Niger Triggerfish and orange-and-white-striped Clown flopped weakly and gasped in the shallow puddle.

  David bent over and picked up the two fish and held them in his bare hands, while Becky rushed to the kitchen to find a glass in which to provide temporary harbor for the dying fish. The white linoleum floor was strewn with broken dishes and scattered kitchen utensils. Every cabinet door and drawer stood open.

  She scrambled through the pile of plastic glasses in a heap against the dishwasher and found David’s tall Willie Wabbit character glass intact. She leaned over the kitchen sink and tugged at the brass handle. She heard a hiss as air choked and spit out of the faucet. Frustrated she wondered why there was no water. She knew she needed water for the fish.

  With the rabbit glass in hand, she hurried through the living room past David squatting on the carpet cupping the fish.

  “Hurry, Becky!” David pleaded, his voice choking with panic. “The fish are dying. . . .”

  As she approached the sliding glass door, cold, clammy wetness penetrated her sneakers and quickly dampened the soles of her feet. She slid back the door and peered outside. “OH! NO!” she yelled. “The water splashed out of the pool. It’s all over the backyard and in the house!” Becky suddenly realized she had become distracted by the fish and had forgotten about her father’s urgent cries for help.

  “David! Forget the fish!” she said as she shut the door. “Dad is hurt, and we must go get help for him.”

  “No, Becky. . .the fish will die!” David said fighting back tears.

  “Come on, David. We’ve got to go—NOW!”

  “I’m sorry, little fishy. I have to go help Becky.”

  David set the two flopping fish gently in a puddle of water near the toppled fish tank.

  They walked toward the front door. The large oak bookcase had tumbled over and lay like a slain giant against the doorway. Heavy books scattered across the dark grey ceramic tile.

  Becky grabbed the end of the bookcase. “David, help me scoot this over so we can crawl through.”

  She squinted her eyes and gritted her teeth as she lifted the heavy case inches off the ground. David let out a deep grunt, and the veins in his neck protruded. The bookcase moved only slightly, creating enough space for them to open the front door and crawl through.

  Becky squeezed her small body through the narrow opening then quickly turned and helped David.

  Outside, Becky and David stared in disbelief. Their familiar neighborhood was unrecognizable. Thick smoke hung in the cool, morning air. Piles of bricks lay crumbled at the base of fireplaces. Wires hung from the sky and spat bright sparks as they pranced wildly back and forth. Torrents of water gushed through the street and disappeared in a strong whirlpool down the storm drain.

  A black funnel of smoke stretched into the sky overhead where the sweet old man and lady lived two houses down. Their house was totally engulfed in bright orange-and-red flames. Becky remembered how the old woman would smile and wave every morning as she walked past her home on her way to the bus stop. She hoped she and her husband had escaped the fire.

  “LOOK AT THAT!” David pointed frantically up the street. Hissing blue flames spewed out of the top of a six-foot mound that had pushed up through the asphalt.

  “WOW!” he said excitedly. “Tha
t looks like a volcano!”

  “I think it’s a broken gas line.” Becky quivered.

  She blinked apprehensively as she reached down and tucked David’s small hand inside hers. He squeezed her hand so hard that he was cutting off her circulation. She knew he was scared just as she was.

  Avoiding the broken glass and sharp fragments that had blown out from the windows, they worked their way down the driveway riddled with large gaping cracks, to the sidewalk.

  Becky guided them up the footpath. They passed neighbors sitting in their cars in their driveways.

  “Why are those people sitting in their cars?” David asked.

  Becky shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they are just too scared to go back into their homes.”

  Becky spotted Mr. Johnson standing with some other neighbors at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  During summer vacation Becky played with

  Mr. Johnson’s granddaughter, Keiki (“kay-key”), who visited from the Big Island of Hawaii. They played “dress up” in Momma’s pretty, long, silky nightgowns, and Becky listened with fascination to Keiki’s stories of snorkeling and swimming with the spotted spinner dolphins down in

  Kealakekua Bay.

  Becky felt herself allowing panic to take hold of her as she ran toward the familiar man, pulling David behind her. “Help! Help! My dad is hurt, and I can’t get to him.”

  Mr. Johnson turned and stepped forward, his greying hair carefully combed over the left side of his head.

  “Becky?” His brow furrowed with concern. “Your father’s hurt? Show me where he is.”

  Mr. Johnson hurried with Becky and David back to the sixties-style, cream-colored stucco house with chocolate-brown trim. Mr. Johnson easily pushed the giant bookcase away from the front door and entered the house. Becky led him down the hallway cluttered with broken glass and fallen pictures to her parents’ bedroom.

  Mr. Johnson tapped on the door with his knuckles. “Joe, it’s Art Johnson. Becky says you need some help.”

  Mr. Johnson pressed his full weight against the door. It barely moved. He pushed and pushed until he created space just wide enough for a small person to crawl through.