D.T. COLLINS | THERE’S NO FOG IN ALBUQUERQUE

THERE’S NO FOG IN ALBUQUERQUE

Somewhere along the shoreline of the northern coast, where cold and gray waves crash on rounded boulders the size of small children, the fog rolled in from the cliffs. We were playing, my sister and I, on a small sandy beach shaped like an elongated circle, with shallow waves lapping one side and a short hill of poppy clusters and manzanitas on the other. Our dad, a tall man to us, was wearing denim jeans and a button-up denim jacket. He stood still with a foot in the poppies and his hands shoved into his pockets. And there was a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

I don’t remember where the road and car were, though I’m sure we drove there. I don’t remember the name of the beach, or if it even had one, though I’ve scrolled up and down the 101 on Google maps trying to find it. My hands and feet were cold, but my chest was warm as I chased my sister around, ignoring the fog engulfing the pines. We liked to play variations of the same game: cops and robbers, knights and ninjas, He-Man and the Shredder. We had strong imaginations. Or maybe it was because we only had each other. We were never in a place long enough to make friends, and it wasn’t like our folks were going to join us. That’s why we were driving up north, to spend time with Grandpa and Grandma Barnes so Mom and Dad could work things out again. We had pulled over so we could stretch our legs and Dad could have a smoke without worrying about giving us cancer. One of those things Mom was always nagging him about.

It was while he was smoking that, in between glances, the fog took him. It didn’t register at first. I sometimes wonder how long we kept playing, oblivious to what had just happened. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had looked up a moment sooner. But mostly I wonder if any of this would have really made a difference. As it was, it didn’t. And as it was, he was gone.

It was after he was gone that I screamed.

The rest is a blur, made up more by what adults have shared over the years than any real memories of our own. The yelling and screaming got the attention of some teenagers road-tripping a gap year. Some stayed with us while one in a brown corduroy jacket ran off to use a freeway box. The cops came and asked questions. Somehow Grandpa and Grandma Barnes heard and made it down to us faster than Mom could from Albuquerque where she was interviewing for a job she would eventually hate but stay at for the benefits. The News showed up. I specifically remember a woman with frizzy hair asking questions. But after a while the story died down. They never did find him. They never did find any of them that the fog had taken.

The fog along the coast had been taking men for years. No one knew why. And no one knew when. Nobel-nominated biologists, psychologists Rhodes scholars, multi-site evangelical pastors, all and more had examined the fog along the shore, and none had an answer. No video could seem to record it. No one could claim to have seen the moment it happened. And everyone always seemed so surprised by who it took. So, people kept living along the northern coast, tempting fate and putting up with poor weather. When enough people had been taken, it became nothing more than a statistic, like unemployment or ski accidents.

Shortly after the fog had consumed my dad, Mom had us move in with her in Albuquerque. There wasn’t any fog there. We moved around a bit, from rental to rental, until Mom could finally afford to buy a single-story house with three bedrooms. She never remarried, though she did date a guy or two. Apparently, she either didn’t have any desires or just didn’t want to deal with the hassle. In high school I met a girl, we kissed, I freaked out, and ended up waiting three years till I dated again.

At first, my sister and I would share that the fog had taken our dad, slipping it in when it was time to introduce ourselves. Those types of stories were a relatively foreign thing in New Mexico, like fresh fish. But after a while, they became more and more common. And I just didn’t want to deal with any of it. When I got into high school I would just tell people my dad was a truck driver always out of state. By the time I got into college, I just wouldn’t even mention my parents. In fact, I wouldn’t even really think about it except for when it came up on the News. Usually when some guru had a new theory about the fog disproven.

The girl I married while in college was book-smart but life-dumb. When she should have ran the other way, she chose to try and fix me up. It was fun the first two years, mediocre the next five, and the last seven, well. Having two kids just poured gasoline on it. My Mom was sad. I thought it was because I had failed in the same way she and dad had, but she was just worried that she wouldn’t be able to see the grandkids. For a while, my ex-wife and I both lived in Albuquerque. It made it easier for visitation during the holidays and weekends, and the kids liked being in the same schools with their friends. But after child support and taxes, there wasn’t much left, and I hated living in a studio next to the railroad.

It makes me sound like a jerk, but it wasn’t that hard of a decision when the job offer in Washington State came up. It paid double, it was actually in my field, and I preferred the wet rain over the dry heat any day. We talked it over, my ex and I. The kids would stay there, and with the bump in pay and lower expenses, I could afford to fly them out during breaks. As far as lovers go, she was far better as my past than as my forever. And Mom was happy with the arrangement, which didn’t really make me feel that much better. What did make me feel better was how quickly I was able to find my own place. Get a dog. Buy a real sofa. I was able to kiss a girl and not feel shame when she woke up the next morning and saw my house in the harsh sunlight. But she was both book-smart and life-smart and she left before the kids came up for summer.

Kayak rides. Bear cub sightings. VHS rentals of Pokémon and burnt French toast. And right when I was getting used to it all, they were gone. And the house seemed to creak a little more than it had before, and the rain and clouds that I had preferred seemed a little more cold than they had before. Frost crept up my windows and my fingers pinched putting on the snow chains. And a phone call right before Thanksgiving break told me a stranger was to become a stepdad to my kids.

Their mom asked if they could come up after Christmas, as her soon-to-be in-laws had traditions involving church and adoptive fathers and Jesus Christ. I had stopped listening, but as I watched the droplets chase each other down the windowpane, I said yes.

Of course, due to severe weather, their flight got redirected to Northern California. I drove down a day early so I could pick them up fresh. Then their flight was delayed three more hours. Disheveled hair and dark circles under eyes met me at the luggage claim way past the time of the movie tickets I had bought. I took us back to the motel I had set up base at. They were out as I leaned in to kiss them goodnight.

I let them sleep in. Treated them to a greasy diner breakfast where the table is always a little sticky and the food not good but warm. And the conversation was all about the new guy. I didn’t mind that they were getting a new parent figure, I just wished that he didn’t seem all that involved. The road weaved along the coast. Marine, Boy Scout Leader, Assistant Coach to my daughter’s soccer team. The waves, cold and gray, crashed against boulders the size of my children as a fog slipped through the thick forest pines. I’d never disliked a decent guy more. The pain in my knees told me we needed a stretch. I pulled over to a bit of sandy beach in the shape of an ellipse, with gentle waves lapping the shore and clusters of poppies and bushes covering a tiny cliff. The children, invigorated by the salty air that bit our faces, jumped and ran around, playing some made-up game of tag and superheroes. I looked down and saw the fog begin to tangle around my feet.

I lift my right foot. The fog retreats.

I put it down. The fog begins to encircle my legs.

I look at the kids as I leave my legs planted on the ground. They continue to play. No glances my way. They are having so much fun. A chill, as if I’ve plunged into the Pacific, rolls up my back and arms to my neck. They laugh and scream. I know what happens next. There will be no trace. No footsteps. No finding. It will be easy. The boy tags the girl and turns his heel into the sand to sprint away. They have a mother. And they will soon have a stepfather. The fog is getting thicker. Its finger’s clasping my cheek. The last I see is these two children, running around and around and around, as I leave my foot firmly on the ground, and then, nothing.

Until I hear my childhood scream.

D. T. Collins is an amateur writer, college professor, Baptist believer, and full-time husband and father who occasionally writes something worth reading. Born and raised in SoCal, he spends far too much time watching (read: judging) Hallmark movies with his wife, is struggling to learn Spanish to keep up with his bilingual toddler, and has learned through much practice how to make delicious scrambled eggs while leaving a clean pan.