Mike and Francis were in a state of shock themselves because five minutes before our arrival, they’d been walking over the slide debris, filming the devastation.
Osa’s throat was so sore from screaming in fright on the shore she’d lost her voice. In response to one of Silvaggio’s questions she managed to croak, “My house in the Landing was okay last night but I don’t know how it’s doing now.”
After ten minutes we said goodbye and Deane turned the boat away from the mudslide that was still gushing down the hill. We headed back towards Kaslo. On the ride back I lost control of myself. I’d been perfectly calm and articulate talking to the reporter. Now I screamed, I cried, I shook till my teeth rattled. I howled because I had witnessed the reality: our place really was gone, swallowed whole. Ozzie really was dead.
As the boat came level with Shutty Bench, a community a few minutes north of Kaslo, I knew I needed to ask Chelsea Van Koughnett for help. Osa had her cellphone and, even in the midst of hysteria, I remembered the phone number. When we arrived at the Kaslo house, Chelsea and her husband, Ken, were waiting.
I lay down on Chelsea’s massage table and she placed her hands on my head and gave me reiki, a soothing, calming treatment. I trembled at my core. Tears poured from the corners of my eyes, filling my ears, tickling my neck. I relived those seconds on the shore and the horrifying alternative: what if…? We’d cheated death by mere seconds. The anguish inside my head felt as massive, in its way, as the trauma suffered by our home and the landscape. What if we’d not made it back to the boat? Caught by the mud, I am trapped, dragged, smashed, beaten. And Osa lost too.
Christopher, on his way to Kaslo from Eugene, had driven through the night, stopping only for naps. He’d bought a cheap cellphone that worked until he crossed the border, and somewhere near Spokane I spoke to him. Still close to hysteria, I tried to describe what had happened. Christopher’s voice was faint and far away, filled with pain and desolation.
He arrived in Kaslo at two p.m., looking years older than when I’d waved him off on Monday morning. But it was so good to see his lean figure jumping out of the car and coming towards me in his jazzy Amnesty International T-shirt, to see his caring face and mop of blond, sun-bleached hair. He told me how kind the officer at the Canadian border had been. “He asked me the routine question, ‘Where do you live?’ and it hit me: I had to tell him I wasn’t sure anymore where I lived. We talked for quite a while; everyone there at the border seemed very shocked.”
I remember our tight hug, his bony frame squeezed against me, his strong arms circling my back, his warm breath on my neck, and a dampness as we let go and cried. At least we had each other.
Uli’s partner, Seán Hennessey, joined us from Argenta on Friday afternoon. He advised us to get lots of physical exercise to metabolize the adrenalin coursing through our bodies, and as soon as Christopher had recovered from the drive, Seán dispatched us on a brisk hike. It was good advice. Under broken cloud and sunshine, Christopher and I walked the Kaslo River Trail and sat a while at the viewpoint, watching the Kaslo River pounding below us in full flood. Glad and relieved to be safely together again, we talked, swapped thoughts, raised ideas and tried to make sense of it all.
A tiny part of me felt euphoric. We were alive! For just a little while, walking the trail with Christopher, everything seemed possible. We were free of all possessions! They’d been a burden, an albatross around our necks! All the old projects had been swept away, and a world of new opportunities lay before us! We could do anything we wanted…
The euphoria saw us through that afternoon. But when I curled up on the bed after our walk it was the wrong bed, and there was no Ozzie to feed, pet or talk to. There would be many tears.
Saturday, July 14
I dream I’m lying in the pink bathtub in our cave-like, cobweb-festooned bathroom in the Landing. In my dream it’s Thursday morning, seven a.m., and I’m going to Kaslo with Jillian in a couple of hours. I love a morning bath and lie back dreamily, luxuriating in the hot steamy water, fragrant with lavender oil. My eye wanders over the cedar shakes that cover the walls. They are dark brown, random and characterful; they add a delicate scent to the room, and repel water from the shower, but if you brush against their rough edges you could catch a splinter. A length of string pinned across the wall above the counter displays my extensive earring collection, pair after pair, a line of silver and multi-coloured trinkets.
A pattern of ripples spreads across the bathwater. I glance through the open window, then shift my gaze to the bathtub and watch fascinated as the tiny wavelets fan outwards. I lift my foot then let it sink underwater again. Odd. I’m not causing these ripples, am I? No. The tub is vibrating. Now my whole body feels it. What on earth…? An earthquake? A surge of fear follows the thought. I hear a noise, an unearthly growling roar. The whole house shakes. I grab the sides of the bath, heave my torso upright, get my legs under me and leap from the tub, sloshing water over the floor. I yank my towel off the rail and flee.
Ozzie, on the bed in the living room, holds my gaze for a fleeting moment; our eyes lock. He breaks our eye contact and streaks for the stairs. When anything frightened him he always headed for his lair: a folded blanket on a high shelf in a back corner of the basement.
I throw the towel around my shoulders, dizzy, naked and dripping. What should I do? Front door? No time to get across the yard. I sense the “thing” as it rushes towards me down the creek. Instinct shrieks: Get out of the house. Get out from under the roof! Deck! I must get onto the deck. I yell Ozzie’s name, beg him to come back upstairs.
It’s hopeless.
Befuddled by the thundering din I run, trembling and clumsy. My wet feet slither on the kitchen floor and I almost fall. I pound across the kitchen, round the dining table, send a chair flying. I throw back the sliding patio door and fumble with the screen door behind it. The latch is clicked shut and I wrench at it in rising frenzy, ripping the screen. I emerge onto the deck and the booming, ear-splitting roar engulfs me. Sharp grit on the dirty deck floor bites into my bare feet. I dash to the far corner. I want to jump but falter at the edge; the deck’s too high. I seize hold of the post and wrap my arms around it, my lifebelt, my buoy. The stinking wave of trees, boulders and mud crashes against the house...
I jerked awake from the nightmare with a yell and sat up, soaked in sweat. Thunder rumbled outside the bedroom window. Drum-beating rain pounded on the roof. Christopher rolled over and reached for me. Why was he here? Why was this bed so hard? Oh yes. Kaslo. We’re in Kaslo. I fell back, convulsed by paroxysms of coughing. I could barely grab breaths between the harsh, gut-wrenching hacking.
I thought about Ozzie. His deep yellow eyes had shot me the message that he was terrified, regretful that everything had to end this way, and unutterably sad because this was our goodbye.
After my coughing fit eased Christopher and I lay entwined like spoons, his arm holding me close against his belly. I gazed out at the crack of grey daylight below the window blind and we listened to the rain. The sound frightened me. I asked him, “Sweetie? What are we going to do?”
He held me tighter. “I don’t know, babe. I want to go up there and see it for myself.”
“No! Oh no, please, you mustn’t. I couldn’t bear it if you were… At least wait until the rain stops.” I turned to him and buried my face in his neck. He smelled so reassuring, uniquely completely himself. If anything happened to him, the last shred of meaning and purpose in my life would be gone. We held each other close for a few minutes, and Christopher agreed to hold off on his trip to the Landing for now.
Uli and Seán were up and moving around on the squeaky kitchen floor, making the everyday breakfast sounds of coffee grinding and toaster popping, punctuated by Seán’s warm, chuckling laugh. Still coughing, I rolled out of bed and put on my dreadful check-pattern dress. One of these days I’d take great pleasure in burning the detestable thing.