This morning I am French pedicure-ready to have my feet photographed for a health care catalogue.
This is the first booking from my modeling agency in the month since my dad died.
The call from the sheriff plays on repeat each day in my mind.
Illustration: Jazmin Ruotolo
I imagine a large piece of metal or wood being moved by firemen, and Dad underneath.
I dont want to imagine his face being unidentifiable.
His home was an open cavity, a carcass of wood and charred metal in the snow.
Courtesy of Author
The bony corpse of the barn was all that was left.
The doors to his car were unlocked.
Dad didnt feel the need to lock his doors out in the country.
The thermos was the first thing I saw in his car, something I surely wanted to keep.
The silver stainless steel tumbler was something he probably used every day.
I take a sip of coffee from the thermos.
The warmth from the coffee I made this morning calms me.
We would sit across from each other at a small green table in the train station.
His eyebrows rising behind his large eyeglasses while we caught up on each others lives over train-station coffee.
Dad would talk fast, hyper from the caffeine.
We both were coffee addicts.
I caught him up on my modeling career.
Sometimes I would tell myself Id call him the next day.
A few weeks could pass before I called him.
I had taken our train station visits, coffee-chats, phone calls, and our relationship for granted.
I hear my arrival in Hawthorne, New Jersey, on the train announcement.
All the time Ive spent building my portfolio seems like a waste of time.
Modeling in this moment seems superficial, just shallow.
Its just a shoe.
The train is already pulling into the station in Hawthorne, though.
The doors to the train open.
I want to honor my commitment to the job and who Im expected to be.
I give a shot to focus on how I used to be, as I stand up.
I tell myself I will enter the photo studio with a friendly smile.
Im supposed to call the photo studio, someone from there will pick me up.
I sweep my long hair up into a ponytail to keep it out of the shot.
I place my feet into soft warm slippers and stretchy foam flats and more comfort shoes.
Back on set under the lights I work hard to stay complacent, content, and dry-eyed.
The autopsy results concluded Dad died of thermal injuries and inhalation of smoke from the fire and explosion.
I think of the medical examiner’s words on the phone a couple days afterward.
There was soot in his airways, throat, and nose.
The set starts to feel too hot.
I shouldnt have gotten out, I feel far from the city and my bed.
I cant find it.
My voice is choked up.
Im nauseous as I speak about what it looks like.
I imagine the photo assistants searching for it under shoe boxes and under couches in the waiting area.
I clutch the thermos close to me.
My heart aches at how close I came to losing an heirloom.
I wont use it again, I tell myself.
This thermos is as close to my dads last breath as Id ever be.
