Fault Lines

Bonnie Schroeder

Los Angeles, California, 4:30 AM, January 17, 1994 Noise yanks Amy from sleep as the bed beneath her sways. The house shudders and creaks, and closet doors bang against each other, lurching in their metal tracks. In another room, glass shatters. The tremor lasts less than twenty seconds, but it is enough for Amy to register Jason’s vacant spot next to her. A Southern California native, Amy is no stranger to the sickening rumbles underfoot when the earth throws temper tantrums, the pressure of two tectonic plates grinding against one another, intensifying until one of them gives. Amy opens her mouth to call Jason’s name. Then she remembers. He’s gone. Has been gone for a month. She’s alone. Wait. Not alone. The dog. Where is the dog? “Luna?” she calls, her voice thick with fear and sleep. No answer. “Luna?” The dog’s usual sleeping spot is a foam bed in the corner by the window. It’s empty now. Silence follows that irst tremor, but Amy knows to brace for more. Sure enough, here it comes, almost as strong as the irst. How long does it last? She can’t tell. It feels like forever. By then, of course, she is full awake, and as soon as the shaking stops, she climbs out of bed and presses the light switch, a useless attempt. Naturally the power is out. But, she remembers, there’s a lashlight in the nightstand drawer, and, miraculously, it works. The beam illuminates the closet’s sliding doors, one of which has collapsed against the other, shaken from its track. She shoves it aside and claws through the pile of tumbled clothing, looking for shoes to protect her feet from broken glass — only to remember she’d stashed a pair of sneakers under the bed for just such an emergency. Such is everyday life in earthquake country. She wobbles to the kitchen and inds wreckage everywhere: broken glasses and shattered china litter the loor. So many times she’d asked Jason to secure the cabinet doors — but it had been a halfhearted request. The inconvenience of opening and closing doors itted with earthquake latches had seemed to outweigh the possible beneit.

She remembers the dog. Poor Luna! She must be terriied. Where would she hide? Another silence descends as Amy searches the house. Then the sirens begin, illing the darkness with their wail. And, from a corner of the living room, an answering cry: Luna. Amy’s lashlight beam catches a pair of glowing eyes. Luna, a solid black shepherd mix, invisible except for the relection of those eyes. Amy stumbles over fallen houseplants and books to reach the dog. She kneels and hugs the trembling animal; Luna whimpers, licks Amy’s face and paws her arm. Another aftershock hits, milder but enough to set Amy’s nerves laring. Luna barks, then whines. “Shh, girl, it’s okay,” Amy says, but she fools neither the dog nor herself. Things are very far from okay. The house probably sustained damage, Jason has left her, the world is ending. Her watch’s glowing face tells her it’s 4:53 AM, long before daybreak, and Amy isn’t sure she wants to see what dawn will reveal. When the latest tremor subsides, Amy takes a deep breath and heaves herself upright. She has to clean up the fallen glass in the kitchen before Luna steps in it and shreds the pads of her feet. It is a small act, but it’s the only thing she can think to do. Luna is glued to her side, but Amy puts her in a sit-stay at the kitchen entrance, thankful for those hours of obedience training. She had tried to get Jason to come with her, but he always had an excuse, something he needed to do that was more important than training a dog. Amy’s dog. “Your dog,” he’d say, and she tried not to hear the sneer in his voice. “My dog,” Amy whispers, and thinks, my dog, my house, my paycheck. She’d willingly shared them all, but her gifts went unacknowledged. The moment of clarity hits her like a slap on the side of her head as she realizes, not for an instant has she thought “If only Jason were here.” Nor has she wondered where he is, or if he’s all right. Nor, at bottom does she really even care at that moment. Once the kitchen loor is safe to walk on, Amy feeds Luna her breakfast and watches her eat. The dog’s needs are so simple, she thinks. Luna is easy to please. Not like herself. Not like Jason. The land line phone is out, of course, but by some miracle Amy’s mobile phone must be working, because it chimes. Amy swings the lashlight beam

over the kitchen counter, inds the phone, and lips it open. “Hi,” she says, in a dazed voice she almost doesn’t recognize. “Man, that was some shocker,” Jason says. “Scared the shit out of me.” A pause follows, and then he asks, “You okay?” Amy sinks to the loor, and Luna presses against her as the ground ripples and the house grumbles. It’s being shaken to pieces, she thinks. “I guess,” she says. “The house isn’t, though. It’s a mess. No lights. It’s so dark. I’m amazed this phone works.” “Yeah,” he says. “I know. It’s scary the way — whoa, here comes another one — ” he stops talking as another aftershock rumbles through. Amy will later learn there were several thousand of them in the hours and days after the initial quake. Buildings collapsed; others exploded. People died. She wants to scream at the earth, beg it to stop, please, please stop and be still! Instead she takes another deep breath and pulls Luna even closer. “Yes,” she says. “That was a bad one. How about you? Everything okay where you are?” “Uh... yeah, I guess. Things are pretty messed up, but I’m not hurt or anything. Can’t see a damn thing though, in the dark.” “Yes.” “Okay, well, I gotta go. Just wanted to see if you’re all right. You hang in there.” “Sure. Thanks. You too.” And he’s gone. “Well,” Amy says to Luna, “at least he called to see if we’re alive. That means something, right?” Luna licks her paw and rests her head on Amy’s thigh. Even if she could see, there’s no point in cleaning up the mess because another shock wave would jolt it all to the loor again. So Amy leans her back against the wall and strokes her dog, grateful that, yes, the house is at least still standing, not on ire, not collapsing inward. She’s not injured, at least not from the earthquake, and neither is Luna. The house will weather this disaster. It’s old, but as her father always said, it has good bones. The foundation is strong. It’s been through worse, and maybe she has, too, although she can’t remember when. If survival counts for anything, however, she and her dog and her home will be all right. Amy closes her eyes and waits for daylight.