The Wednesday before my birthday, I remembered trying to do homework and producing nothing but sweat. Even with the doors and windows opened to screens, the air just wasn't moving. I even tried staring at the mountains and vegging. But my mind kept hearing whispers from town—that the fires raging across its East Ridge would turn on us when the wind changed.
Right before dusk, Aunty Meg called me out for evening chores. As I tossed out scratch for the chickens, a gust blew through, dropping the temperature. That must have been an omen, as a cherry-red Jeep came to a skidding stop outside our gate. Genie stepped down from it—like a movie star who knew everyone was watching—and sang, "Happy Birthday!"
She looked like Genie, but her hair, her flowing locks of black attitude—all gone! In its place, a pixie mullet, roughed up from her country drive. I dropped my feed pail, ran over, and tackled her with hugs and kisses. I barely stammered off, "You made it! I wrote for you to come, and you did!"
Genie tucked back loose strands of hair behind my ear and said with her trademark smile, "C'mon, Suzie-cat! It's not every day my only niece turns sixteen."
Aunty Meg must have been listening and chose then to burst our bubble. "Craziest thing you've done yet. Driving in with an inferno bearing down."
"Meg. Glad to see you, too."
I knew better than to get caught laughing at Genie's zinger back, so I turned away. But I was never fast enough for Aunty Meg. "Susan Winona. Stop your fidgeting and warm up some leftovers."
#
The kitchen, like the rest of the weatherboard house, was built by kin we never met. On the trail for California gold, they broke down not far from the house—busted wagon wheel, dead horse, whatever. Each re-telling had a different reason. Their crossroad moment never changed—fix up and somehow rejoin the wagon train or settle. They chose the latter and, mindful of all winters, integrated early with the natives. Over time, wars, heartbreaks, or diseases have worn down the family until it was just us. The last to go was my mom, Laurie—God rest her soul. I want to remember her as the ideal middle sister—who kept the peace and laughed at both sisters' jokes.
Aunty Meg said grace over dinner: reheated chicken soup. Not another word was spoken. Having had enough of their Cold War, I asked for help to clean up. Those ladies couldn't move to the lounge fast enough, with chairs scraping as their thanks.
I joined them afterwards and caught the tail end of an Aunty Meg sting. "—You're changing your college major again? What are you? Twenty-seven?" She mellowed on seeing me enter. "Susan. Darling. Come sit next to me."
