Bound to Burn

1. I Wait

1

I WAIT

SASHA

Burning House by Cam

The camera is a liberator of sorts, in the way it can free you of something you wouldn’t otherwise be willing to give so easily. People tend to carefully erect walls or slip on masks because they are afraid to show their true selves. But you can’t conceal yourself from the lens of a camera because its sole purpose is to find what you’re hiding underneath.

I have thousands of pictures I’ve taken throughout the last twenty-three years of my life, but the one that holds me captive the most is one I didn’t even take.

But I know who did.

My father.

Only I don’t know who he is.

I hold in my hand the faded Polaroid taken of my mother, and I can tell just as much about the person taking the picture as I can about the person in the picture. The camera is a two way mirror, and it takes just as much as it gives.

That is how I know who took the picture.

It was taken by someone in love with her.

My mother had a thing for brown eyed, tattooed musicians, and it’s what cost her everything. I can only guess that my father had brown eyes because my mother’s were blue. A piece of genetic code I inherited from someone I don’t even know. When I look in the mirror I see pieces of her, like our blonde hair the color of wheat and our high cheekbones, but not the eyes. It’s like looking back at a stranger.

I tuck the picture back in its box, along with a few other trinkets of hers, and slip it under my bed. Just like my mother, I was pulled under by the illusion of love, blinded by those brown eyes and tattooed forearms of a man that knew how to handle a guitar - among other things. He was a musician, but not a very good one, although I loved to watch him play… that is until he spent all our rent money and f****d my best friend.

All things happen for a reason, but what happened means I’m back home with no money and a broken heart.

As I stare at the four walls of my bedroom that was once occupied by my mother, I find comfort in the fact that she had laid on this bed, propped her feet on the same wall, and got lost for hours listening to music. Today, I don’t have that luxury.

Before I head out the back door, I slip on my tall black boots. When I walk towards the pasture, I know that I am walking on the same dirt path my mother once had.

I stop halfway to the barn and prop a booted foot on the first rung of the worn wooden fence. Morning dew still clings to the grass that stretches to a line of maple and oak trees in the distance. Beyond that is Temescal Canyon Park, and one of the main advantages of living in Pacific Palisades. It’s a place where the mountains meet the ocean, quite literally. Its salty scent is carried on the breeze.

A few horses leisurely swish their tails as they look up to acknowledge my presence. One horse in particular ignores me. He stands imposing in the distance, pawing at the ground, trying his hardest not to look my way.

“Ivan’s upset with you,” Grandpa John comments, his voice startling me.

He has a way of walking without making any sound, even when he wears his heavy work boots. Leaning over the fence next to me, his grey hair flares out from under his John Deere hat. His weather-worn face tells a story of long hours working outside, just like his rough, calloused hands that grip the fence beside me.

I look at him thoughtfully, knowing he doesn’t like to take time out for himself. This ranch occupies most of his time. “Do you want me to cut your hair later?” I ask. Grandma Jo taught me a long time ago, when arthritis made it hard for her to hold the scissors.

Grandpa John nods, never one for unnecessary words. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“It’s like a staring contest,” he chuckles, watching Ivan take glances at me, deciding whether he’s going to come over to greet me or not.

I smile. “Something like that.”

If I stand here long enough, he’ll come.

We took Ivan in when I was in high school. He wasn’t a particularly nice horse, but he didn’t have a reason to trust humans. Even after several years he’s still stubborn, but I’ve found his weakness.

“Horse like that needs to know who’s in charge,” Grandpa John grumbles. He used to be afraid Ivan would hurt me out of an instinct to protect himself, but all he needed was patience.

“He knows,” I reassure him.

Ivan starts to trot the length of the tree line, pacing back and forth, his long, dark mane fluttering against his massive body. In my peripheral vision I see a smile start to slowly spread on Grandpa John’s face. He knows exactly what Ivan’s doing and why. Ivan is at war with himself, wanting so badly to come to me but his past experiences prevent him from trusting what will happen when he does.

I wait.

Even though I’ve worked with Ivan a lot, being away at school for long periods of time has caused him to question my loyalty. Grandpa John is right, he is angry with me for leaving him. I’ll have to give him a better reason to come to me, other than to just say hello.

From my pocket, I pull a peppermint out and take my time opening it, making sure the crinkle of the wrapper is loud enough so he can hear. One of Ivan’s ears prick in my direction and I can’t help but smile. When I pop it out of the cellophane, I hold it in my hand for a few seconds longer before popping it in my mouth.

Grandpa John chuckles, the sound deep in his throat, and shakes his head. “I almost feel sorry for him,” he says.

I tilt my head in his direction.

“He doesn’t stand a chance against your charms.” Grandpa John continues to laugh softly as he pushes off from the fence. I smile sweetly while sucking on my peppermint.

“Not my charms, just my peppermints,” I remind him.

Before he leaves, he asks, “You got a job over the summer?”

Even though I’m his granddaughter, no one gets a free ride here. It’s either I work here cleaning horse stalls, or I get a job in town.

“Yes, well, I think I do.” I place my finger against my lips as if that will help me figure it out.

It wasn’t so much a job offer, more of a forcing myself upon someone I’d just met situation. Cash said he needed help for the summer at his record store and I needed a job, at least until the fall semester started at UCLA. Granted, I applied for a couple of online classes in hopes that I would get an internship at Alt Press. The online music blog used some of my photos with the article Erin wrote about the music festival. To be able to add those photos and the credit in the blog to my portfolio is extremely helpful for someone like me who is just starting out as a photographer.

“Doesn’t seem like something you’d be confused about,” he says, jarring me from my thoughts.

“I’m going there today,” I reassure him.

“Where is this job?”

“A record store in Santa Monica,” I reply with a smile.

He grunts. “You can use the old Jeep.” He points to the dirty tan Jeep parked near the maintenance shed. I used it when I was in high school, and it still has the rack on top for my surfboard.

I didn’t need a car while I was living on campus in Austin or when I moved into the apartment with Danny because I would either take the bus or Danny would give me a ride.

Here in Pacific Palisades I need a car to get around, especially if I’m going into the valley. “I checked the tires and changed the oil,” he says as he squints his eyes against the rising sun.

“Thank you,” I say, knowing other than those two things, if the Jeep needs to be fixed, it’s my responsibility; hence the need for a job.

Before he smacks the fence to symbolize his departure, he says, “Glad you’re home, Sunshine.”

Without waiting for my response, he walks down the dirt path towards the large barn at the end of the walkway.

I turn back to the field and see Ivan slowly making his way towards me, head down, hooves scraping against the grass like a spoiled child. When he gets to the fence, he shakes his body and lets out a big breath. Dipping his head over the fence, he tries to reach my pockets, searching for the peppermints he knows are secured inside.

I move my body away from him as I touch the patch of white between his eyes and run my hand along the length of this nose. He snorts out a heavy breath and starts to push at my hand, impatient for his treat.

“Is that all you want? My treats?” I ask, and he answers by pushing my hand again.

I reach inside my pocket while laughing. With his intelligent brown eyes, he watches with rapt attention as I unwrap the mint. Pulling back his upper lip, he reveals large yellow teeth and gently uses his tongue to scoop up the sugary treat from my palm. He’s the only horse I know who sucks on a mint, making loud slurping noises before he bites into it, crunching loudly.