Out of Order

Out of Order

Content warning: death by fire.

The bubbles rose in front of me. Tiny blue and silver circles encapsulating life. The yellow and blue dory flickered over the pink anemone in the fish tank. The tank filter hummed. A monotonous, unnatural sound.

My children had stood here when they were toddlers. Laughing and pointing. Holding hands. One in a brown teddy bear beanie with ears on her head, and one in a Thomas the Tank Engine beanie. They had named the fish from Finding Nemo. It had been a long weekend at the time and the place had been packed. We had placed them in front of the tank to occupy them while we checked in.

I pushed the thought away. Too painful.

‘Ma’am, it is ready now,’ the concierge pointed towards the lifts. His red padded shoulders and red doorman hat were dripping, the gold trim darkened with dampness.

I looked around.

Through both the glass entry on my right and the large window across the lobby to my left showcasing the beautiful Jameson Valley below, it was still bucketing outside. Waterfalls were rushing down the Blue Mountains. There was no scent of earth rising in the mist to mix with the woods, florals, and sky as the water opened the earth's pores.

Usually the smell of rain calmed me. I was numb, not calm.

I looked down at my hands. They were wet too. My jeans were soaked.

Strange. I didn’t feel cold. I hadn’t noticed the rain walking in.

Tomorrow I would walk the trail and I would feel better. Physical exertion and mother nature. I didn’t care about landslides at this point. I had walked through mud and scrambled over rocks before.

Secretly, I just wanted to feel something different. Was that such a bad thing?

I didn’t know what I felt, otherwise.

The hallway was empty as I headed towards the lifts, dragging my plain black overnight case. It had seen hundreds of trips around the world. What I would do to take them all back.

The small carousel of marine-themed characters on my right had no children bobbing up and down, no laughter. A plastic tape ran around it and a bright red sign read ‘Out of Order’, the script printed as if on a manual typewriter.

I wondered why they had bothered to go to such lengths for a typeface for something that should be such a utilitarian sign.

My daughter had loved the whale. His plastic blue and white eye stared at me knowingly, like the whale that rises next to a boat and meets your soul through his or her gaze, questioning who you were as a creature, your motives and your purpose.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Same as you,’ I answered in my mind, 'I am lost.'

Without moving, this whale was stuck in time and space.

The room was simple as I remembered. Blue and gold striped curtains, bedspread and cushions. We had had a family room. The couch had folded out for my son, and my daughter had slept in a porta-cot. The hotel had set up a little welcome teepee for the kids in the corner, with coloring-in books, a welcome plush toy each, and vouchers for the carousel, miniature train ride around the yards, maze garden entry, and use of the floating swans on the lake. The corner was empty now.

We hadn’t used the floating swans that year, it had been too cold. I remember being disappointed for the kids. But we had spent lots of time in the indoor pool. Maybe that would make me feel better now.

I slipped under the water. I could taste the salt and magnesium. A thermal spa, they had called it. Steam and condensation gathered on the glass-paneled roof. Kids voices and splashes, shouts of glee, had bounced off the glass walls and ceiling. There was no echo now. Besides the hum of the water filter, there was no sound. Is this what it felt like swimming around that tank, endlessly?

Empty, it felt more clinical and clean. It was cold, as if the colorful ribbon of life was drowned out by the weight of the water, sunk to the bottom of the ocean, buried by gritty sand to forever be forgotten.

My hands brushed my hair back as I came out of the water, breathing out bubbles. I felt the salt and sand pass through my fingers.

Why is there ash on my fingertips?

I should be warm, but I am cold.

And my shoes are soaking wet on the intricate swirling carpet of red and gold, messy like a child’s crayon box, swirling like flames in a fire.

I would trade anything for the color and the mess. I wanted all the mess back again. Every dropped green sock, every muddy purple shoe, every red drawing book, every orange dollop of pumpkin puree dropped on the floor, every grey piece of lego in the bottom of my foot, every smear of sunscreen on the car seats, every booga-covered hankie, and every brown scuff on the wall.

I would do anything to bring them back.

I am standing in the window in the dining room, beautiful Jameson Valley stretched out down below. Beautiful, pristine wilderness. Helicopters had secretly worked hard over the Australian summer bushfires to keep the rare Wollemi pines alive. Miraculously, they had saved them. The species would live on in the wilderness.

But they could not save my two little children.

This is where my son had declared the Blue Mountains to have the ‘best pizza ever’. A fussy eater, it was a bit more than just your average ham and cheese. It had been proper pizza. Stretchy mozzarella, finely shaved prosciutto, freshly cut oregano, and thinly rolled, fresh dough. Gooey in the middle suitable only for folding or eating with a knife and fork.

Or, if you are a child, lifting with your fingers until the cheese was so stretchy it dripped down your chin. Melty, stretchy, gooey cheese. My fork now lifted the stringy cheese to my mouth, a quick twirl to separate it from the mother cheese.

It was tasteless. There was nothing there. The edges of the pizza were charred. My finger tips were blackened. The fork disintegrated into a charcoal pencil in my hand.

The roaring fire by the window filled my ears. I was the only one there today, so I stood in front to figure out what was making the crackles. Seeds and oils bursting. The red flame amplified to golden as the log disintegrated.

A slight whiff of decay.

I stand in front of the fire of blackened and glowing wood. My hands are in it now, feeling the warmth my children felt. I should have been there to comfort them. I should have been holding them as their cries were snuffed out. I had arrived too late. No planes flying this day. Fire. Ash. Then hazardous, menacing, ice-cell storms. I had seen the crystallised formation in the sky flying in, like an ice hammer ready to smash down brutally on everything below.

Rain, rain, rain. Now it was here, falling and weeping everywhere. I pushed my arms fully into the fire and let out a wail.

‘It was supposed to be a holiday! I’m supposed to feel better. But all I am is stuck!’ my mind screamed. I didn’t even know if I said it out loud.

For the strongest moment since I had arrived home to find it burnt to the ground with my children inside, I, too, wanted to die.

 Without them, I would always, always be stuck.

The softball-sized pieces of hail had fallen. In some places, hail as big as a chair. Trees and street signs were shredded. Cars and buildings smashed. People and animals injured. The rain put out the fire. But by then, it was too late.

The yellow tape and red label caught my eye. The same tape at the carousel. That was my son’s name in the same font. Why was his name on a label?

A hand on my shoulder.

‘Ma’am, I think we should put him away now.’ The morgue attendant whispered gently.

I looked down at my child’s blackened and burnt hand.