Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(21)

There’s something called a “lahar,” a boiling mudslide. According to the radio, it’s what killed thousands of people at a place called Armero* in the ’80s and it’s exactly what’s happening to Rainier now. The reports seem to focus on the far side of Rainier, the side facing all those towns: Orting? Puyallup? (Did I spell them right?) I’ve heard of Tacoma, which is supposed to be in danger right now. We seem to be safe, just like Tony predicted, but it looks like we’re also cut off. The valley below us, the main road, Vincent thinks he heard something about it being covered by a lahar.

“Some people might have been killed.” That was Bobbi. “They tried to drive away and got stuck in their cars when the mudflow came.”

Yvette sighed. “That could have been us,” and she reached out for a group hug. “Imagine what could have happened if we’d all just driven down into the valley last night, if Tony hadn’t predicted the road being gone…”

Wait, wasn’t that Mostar?

Hadn’t she been the one to talk about the road being gone? What happened to Tony’s argument about false alarms and traffic jams? No one seemed to remember that. Or maybe they did, and figured the result was the same. Both Tony and Mostar had pushed for staying, but now, Yvette said with moistening eyes, “Tony saved our lives.”

I kept my mouth shut, nodded with all the others. I didn’t even react when Yvette said, “I wish Mostar was here.” This was after we broke our embrace, when we were just taking our places on the floor. “We all need each other now more than ever.”

It was a test, the kind I’ve been passing since preschool. Sometimes obvious. Sometimes snarky. This one came wrapped in concern. “I hope she’s okay.” That was Carmen. Sympathy all around. “After what she’s been through.”

What has she been through? I might have asked but got cut off by Yvette. “Has anyone talked to her?”

There it was. The line in the sand.

Shaking heads, myself included. A pained sigh from Yvette. “Maybe she’ll show up tomorrow. I think she needs healing more than anyone.”

That gave me a little churn of stomach acid. I can pass the test but it always comes at a price. I hate lying, hate conflict, hate having to choose sides. At that moment I hated Mostar for putting me in this position as much as I hated myself for allowing her to.

I tried to play along. Tried to focus, relax, feel the “physical manifestations of this traumatic event” and give myself “permission to release my pain and guilt with deep cleansing breaths.”

I tried to picture “Oma,” that guardian of the woods spirit Yvette had mentioned in our last session. The embrace. Warm, soft arms holding me. It worked the last time. Not now. I wasn’t in the mood for guided imagery.

I tried to act like my “burden had been lifted” when the session ended, and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible when asking for potatoes.

“I was thinking of making hash browns this morning.” More lies. More acid.

And all for nothing.

Again with the concern, and this time it seemed sincere. Carmen and Effie looked truly sorry that they didn’t have any, and Yvette told me to stop by for anything else.

Bobbi, though. I won’t say she acted weird. I mean, how would I know what’s weird when I don’t know her well enough to know normal. But I know what it feels like to be uncomfortable, so well that I’m pretty good at reading it in others. Bobbi seemed genuinely uncomfortable when she answered. I could be wrong. It could be the news.

I watched everyone head home, Bobbi with this, yes, weird look over her shoulder, Yvette over to Tony, who, I just realized, was still sitting in his Tesla listening to the radio, Carmen and Effie waving up to Palomino, who stared down at them from her upstairs window like in a ghost story.

I’m sorry. That’s not fair. But it is how I felt. Spooky little horror-film girl maniacally squeezing her beanbag fidgeter.

I had to go for a walk. Clear my head. Dan was asleep when I got home, and I assumed Mostar was mercifully out as well. “We’ll work at night,” she’d said before I left, “so no one will see us.”

Craziness. I had to get out, calm down. I can’t sleep when I’m overtired. I figured if I could just recapture the comfort of that first mystical day.

Bad idea. I should have gone right to bed.

Remember what you told me about empathy, about how I’ve got too much of a good thing? Picturing other people, visualizing others’ lives as clearly as I live mine.

That’s what I ended up doing on my hike, trying and failing to stop imagining those people in the path of the lahars. I pictured this tsunami of steaming mud, bulging with boulders, torn-up trees, pieces of broken homes. I pictured people in their cars, listening to the radio, distractedly looking down at their phones, complaining about the traffic while they yell at their kids in the back seat to get off their tablets and look at the world.

Maybe they see something in the rearview mirror, or wonder why people are suddenly running past their cars. I thought about what would have happened to me if I was there. My car getting bumped from behind. I’d turn back angrily, but never angry enough to raise my middle finger. I’d probably reach for my insurance first, have it in my hand, ready to talk about damages like a civilized adult as I turn to open the door. Maybe the door couldn’t open because another car was jammed too close. That’s when I’d see it, twisted halfway around to look behind me, hearing the rumble as this cliff, not a wave, a cliff, like I’d once seen in that YouTube video of the Japan tsunami.