The Call

The worst day of my life started with a call. It was midday on a random Sunday of spring semester, and I had just woken up after staying up all night. My body ached from the uncomfortable college bed and the lack of sleep.

I started getting ready for work when I got a call from my mom. At first, I answered it as I would at any time.

“Sion Ma,” I said, the usual expression most Dominican children greet their mothers with to ask for a blessing.

She replied, “Dios te bendiga,” the usual response mothers say to bless their children.

“La casa se quemó, nadie está herido, pero perdimos todo.”

The house burned down. No one was hurt, but we lost everything. She said so calmly that it took me a second to understand what she was saying.

I couldn’t believe it. My mom assured me everything was fine, and it could have been worse, but my mind still refused to process her words.

They only echoed in my head, on repeat. Her words soon became obscured by my thoughts as she said, “Solo estaba yo en la casa y salí bien. Todo va a estar bien.”

It was just me at home, and I made it out. It’s going to be okay.

I was frozen in the empty dorm with no one to turn to, still in my underwear and not knowing what to do with myself or how to process my feelings. I stayed shut, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Saying the wrong thing would make things worse; it would have made me into another thing my mom had to worry about.

After hanging up, I didn’t feel anything for a few minutes. It was like a void, like nothing had happened. Like the call never came. Like I was back to a few seconds ago, worrying only about my lack of sleep and the paper due in a week. Like I wasn’t left with a suitcase's worth of clothing and belongings. Like I still had the comfort of my home.

I wandered into the shower, still feeling nothing. Then I got dressed, put on my dark green coat, and headed for the door for a day of work. But when I held my hand up to open the door, I stood frozen, and tears flooded my face. I was not used to crying, so I wiped my tears away in an attempt to take control of myself and my emotions, but more kept coming uncontrollably.

I tried to breathe and calm myself down to make it to work, but my heart wouldn’t give out, and the door never opened. I never turned the doorknob. I never walked down the hall of my dorm. I never reached the theater where my boss was waiting for me.

I simply couldn’t stop crying. I felt weak and guilty that I was so far from my mom. We were so used to having each other. To be by each other’s side. I was her rock, her supporter, and she was mine. Now I was away and couldn’t be there for her. In a desperate attempt to feel close to her, I googled my town and street, and there it was.

Pictures infested my screen.

The water that was meant to stop the fire was turning to ice as the fire department struggled with the heavy winds and freezing temperatures. The fire exploded off the roof, the black residue descending the entire house. The broken windows, the ashes falling like snow. Everything my mother worked so hard for turned into fragile, tiny ashes.

I thought about our new fridge my mom had saved up to buy, remembering our relief when the delivery guys did everything they could to get it into the kitchen despite it not fitting through the door. The way we thanked God for letting us have this luxury. The flames would have melted it so easily without a second thought. It wouldn't have put a resistance; how could it, against such a destructive force?

I thought about the couch set we barely used, afraid of getting it dirty. Maybe if we had used it more, losing it all wouldn’t have hurt. I can picture how the flames would have eaten it up like it was nothing.

I thought about my collection of books which I had spent years acquiring. How easily paper burns, that I knew. The way “Everything I Never Told You” by Celeste Ng and its thin pages would have been easy prey to the flames, turning to nothing within seconds.

I’m not sure when or why I stopped remembering the things we lost, but eventually, I just did. I emailed my supervisor within an hour of getting the call. I texted my friend, who was returning to the dorm, and asked her mom for a ride back to my hometown. Then I called my mom back and promised to be there soon.

Nothing else was on my mind but my mom.

Looking back, though, all those rush decisions weren’t the smartest decisions I could have made. For starters, at least in college, I had a bed and clean clothes—laundry in the basement and a dining hall for warm food.

But at that moment, nothing mattered; I only knew I needed to do something. I needed not to feel helpless. So, after asking my friend’s mom for a ride, I packed a small bag, not knowing where I would be staying or the situation back home. I waited in the empty room, begging the aching in my chest to disappear. But it wouldn’t leave me be, so I started thinking. I thought about everything we lost again and all that it would take to get back on our feet. I thought about my mom and how scared she must have been.

When I finally left the dorm and got into the car, I was disassociated from the world outside. I don’t remember much about the ride back, what I said, or what I did. When I arrived at my grandma's house about two hours later, most of my family members were already there, gathered in support. I hugged my mom, pretending to be strong and trying to comfort her.

I did a lot of pretending that day.

I convinced myself that I needed to be strong. If I wasn’t strong, then who would be?

So, I decided to leave for the semester, work, and earn money. It was simple; at least, in my head, it was. I just needed to make money to help my family stabilize, and then I could return to college to how my life was before it got interrupted.

So, I emailed the dean and convinced myself that it was the best decision and that there was nothing else I could do to support my family. After all, family members sacrificed their comfort and time to help us, so I should be doing the same. The red cross was a phone call away, but I convinced myself I needed to do something. I was the only one who could answer the call and do something.

The day after I arrived, while lying on my grandma’s couch, I applied for every job I could.

Target, CVS, Walgreens, Santander Bank, New Balance, Marshalls, along with many others I cannot remember now.

After hours of applications, I still hadn’t seen the house despite it being only a block away.

My mom insisted we go after some time; she wanted to see it in the daylight after she ran away during the night as the flame expanded, destroying everything in their wake. She felt ready to see everything she had worked hard to build destroyed by the fire, but I didn’t. I wanted to stay in the comfort of my grandmother’s couch and ignore our reality, but I was there to support my mother, so I agreed to go.

I wondered what she missed the most, what her mind turned to when she thought about the remains. Was it the fridge she thought about like I did? Or maybe for her, it was the new stove she missed. The one thing that was always being used in our house either by her daily cooking or the nights I took over and pretended to be the family chef. After all, cooking was her way of showing us love. So maybe it was the stove.

Or maybe it was the bedroom set she had bought for my dad. She seemed happy, and we all loved jumping to bed to watch novelas or the news together. It is those rare moments that I go back to—the unplanned nights turned into the best nights we spent as a family.

As we walked towards the house, I could smell the unpleasant and lingering odor left behind by the fire. When I stood in front of what was left of the house, neighbors gathered, taking a closer look at the unfortunate situation. The fire seemed so far away like the remains had been there for ages. It felt like a long time ago, like a past that had cemented itself into the concrete or, in this case, the house.

“Hay Dios mío. Qué pena. ¿Saben lo que causó el fuego?” the neighbors whispered.

Oh my God. What a pity. Does anyone know what caused the fire?

My mom started making conversation with anyone who would approach her. She always had this thing about her that she could talk to anyone like she had known them her entire life. Usually, I never cared for and even admired her ability to make conversation, but for some reason, I didn't want anyone to talk to us. Yet, I stood by her side, silent at the sight of what was no longer our house but an ash-infested, uninhabitable place we could no longer call home.

As we kept looking around trying, we saw the neighbors' parking spaces covered in debris, and we slowly made our way to the back where our car had been parked. The car looked in fine condition, which surprised us, but it was a relief that at least we had a car, one less thing that was lost. My mom, whose brain never stops working even in situations like these, wanted to call key makers as her copies had melted away on our dining table.

I made the call.

At the other end of the line, the man who answered understood me without many words. He said it would take some time, but they would be there as soon as possible. He was gentle, and I will never forget how he managed to understand me without much effort.

While we waited for him, a person from a news station approached us. We had seen them set up across the street, trying to catch a full image of what was left of the house. His face is blurred in my mind even now, but I remember clearly that his questions and intrusion brought tears to my mom's eyes.

I remember getting between them and asking the man to give us space. I was annoyed at his intrusion, annoyed at the audacity, annoyed that it was us at the other end of those questions. I turned to my mother, watching her on the brink of a breakdown, and hugged her. We stayed like that for a few seconds, and while I wanted to cry, I didn't.

After some time had passed and my mom calmed down, the guy from the key company came over to help us. When I showed him where the car was, he looked at the house, and I could see his eyes filling with pity.

"It will take about 45 minutes; I’ll call you when it's ready," he said, disappearing.

The lingering smell of the flames was starting to get to my lungs. I should have brought a mask, I thought to myself. I should have done many things to prepare for this moment. I don't think I was at all prepared. That smell stayed with me for weeks. I still remember it every time something burns near me. The smell clogs my lungs.

Thirty minutes after arriving, the key company man called me. I headed to the back of the house, where a dark hole took the place of the kitchen. I attempted to pay him with money we borrowed from some family. He refused and placed the keys in my hands. I thanked him, not knowing what else to do since I'd never experienced such kindness from a stranger or friend.

I took the car and parked on the side of the street of my grandma's house. It smelled just like what was left of the house. Maybe that is why the smell lingers when I think about it too hard.

When I think about these memories, I realize I should have done things differently back then. But I also deeply believe I had no choice but to rush and make those hard decisions. We had no home, the rest of my family had no clothing, our food was gone, and we were all scattered to the houses of friends and family. There weren't many options for us. I will stand by my decision and my mistakes because that is one of the reasons I was able to bounce back so quickly with so little help from those who I expected to be there.

I mean, when the red cross gave us a few cards to stop and shop, all I could think was that we didn't have a kitchen to cook in. I thought about the ridiculousness of that when they could have given us a card for a restaurant where we didn’t have to worry about washing the fruits and vegetables and making plans to store random snacks.

I think it hurt more because, for my family, cooking was a ritual of gathering all the vegetables, meats, and pots. It was a ritual that I was starting to master. The way my mom would cut the onions and bell peppers. The order of when to throw things into the pan and for how long to cook it. How much water to add to the rice. For how long to let the chicken marinate. Did every dish need sopita added?

I guess I missed our stove too. I miss gathering everyone around the dinner table, demanding they put their phone away and be present. The way food would bring us together as a family, not just for dinner but for the holidays too. The same food that would call me home when I grew tired of the campus food. We couldn't have that after a while. How could we, with no home and other things to worry about?

In a few days from when I am writing this in the month of February, it will be the first anniversary of when I got that phone call. My family is still recovering, but here I am now. Some people say things happen for a reason. I still don't know the explanation for what happened to my family, but I know we will overcome it. Soon, this will be nothing but a memory of the past. Maybe after a few more years, I will finally know the reason or see the bigger picture.

Tal vez por fin voy a entender cuando mi mama dice, “Todo pasa por una razón, Dios nunca se equivoca.”

Maybe I will also be able to say those words as easily as my mom and mean it when I say that everything happens for a reason and that God doesn't make mistakes.