Convergence

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  Again, just my name and address were scrawled on the paper. No postmark, and whoever it was from hadn’t wasted money on postage this time. I crumpled the paper again and tossed it back into the can. Whether or not the boxes were postmarked didn’t change anything. The gifts were nothing to fear.

  Though, alone in the suite of offices, the nonchalant stance I’d adopted over the last week didn’t offer much comfort.

  There was something odd about the gifts, wasn’t there? Weird, as Jay had said.

  I sat back at my desk and stared at the screen of the laptop, but the focus I’d enjoyed in the warmth of my office earlier in the day had fled. Instead, clarity was elusive. The fog that had lingered most of the day seemed to have seeped into my mind. I shivered, so I got up and went to check the thermostat in the hallway. As I reached to turn up the heat, something rattled. I dropped my hand from the thermostat and froze.

  Someone was outside the office door rattling the handle. Were they trying to get in? The whooshing sound of my pulse in my ears was dizzying. I crept down the hall and peeked around the corner to the front door. The handle rattled again, and this time I could see the slight movement of the handle on the interior side of the door. Why hadn’t I set the alarm when I’d made sure the door was locked?

  I dashed back to my office, reached for the phone, and punched 9-1-1 into the keypad. When the operator answered, I reported my emergency.

  “Ma’am, if you’re ready to leave, I’ll walk you out.” The deputy who’d taken my statement waited as I grabbed my purse and set the alarm before we left the office.

  After locking the door, I pointed to my car in one of the spaces across from the office suite. “That’s it.” The other deputy was sitting in the driver’s seat of the squad car where he’d gone to make a call.

  When we reached my car, I got inside and the deputy leaned down before closing my door. “If we receive complaints from others in the office park, we’ll let you know.”

  I appreciated his comment, though I felt a little foolish. As they’d taken my report, they asked if it was possible a client who’d made a mistake about an appointment time had tried the office door. Of course it was possible. Jaylan and I both saw clients one evening a week. But I hadn’t considered that possibility when I made my call. Actually, there were several possibilities, all of them harmless, but they hadn’t occurred to me at the height of my anxiety.

  And although I’d told them about the gifts I’d received, and even mentioned the man I’d seen at the book signing and church, they had little to go on, and really no reason to link those events to someone outside the office door.

  “Give us a call if you need anything or if anything else comes to mind.” He gestured toward their car. “We’ll follow you out.”

  “Thank you.”

  He pushed my door shut and walked back to the squad car. Once I could see that he was inside, I backed out of the parking space and drove out of the parking lot. They followed me several blocks to the eastbound on-ramp to Interstate 50, where I turned off to head home.

  I’d called Keith before I left the office, and he’d said he would meet me at home. I was grateful I wouldn’t walk into an empty house. Some time at home together would also give me an opportunity to talk with him about what I was feeling.

  Although I wanted to believe, as he did, that everything was all right. I knew otherwise. I wasn’t all right, and that was something we’d both need to deal with, whatever that looked like. I suspected a generalized anxiety disorder triggered by the stress of a year filled with change and increased demands.

  When I pulled into the driveway of our home, the house was dark, inside and out. Neither of us had thought to leave the porch light on when we left that morning. I clicked the garage door opener and remembered the bulb on the opener had gone out over the weekend.

  The fog that had burned off closer to the city was still a thick fleece blanketing our suburban neighborhood. I sat in the driveway, headlights shining into the empty garage, and hoped the headlights coming down the street were Keith’s, but the car drove past our house. I reached for my phone and called him, but there was no answer.

  Still shaken from my earlier experience at the office, I didn’t look forward to walking through the dark garage and into the dark house alone.

  But it was that or drive around the neighborhood until Keith showed up. I was tired and ready to soak the tension I held in my body in a tub of hot water sprinkled with lavender bath salts. I sighed and pulled into the garage.

  With the headlights off, the garage was black as pitch. I sat in the dark car for a moment, then gathered my belongings and got out of the car. I used the flashlight app on my phone to light my way to the door into the house. Once at the door, I flicked off the flashlight on my phone and dropped the phone into my purse. I couldn’t hold the phone, my purse, briefcase, keys, and open the door. In the dark again, I felt for the door handle and keyhole as though reading braille. I thought again about the movement outside the window of the office and the way I’d seen the door handle turn, and my heart beat more rapidly and my breaths became shallow.

  I fumbled with the key, working to insert it into the lock as quickly as possible. As I did, frustration with Keith simmered. Not only had he promised to meet me at home, knowing I was shaken, but he’d also said he’d change the bulb when I mentioned it last Sunday afternoon.

  He’d done neither.

  When I finally got the door unlocked, I tapped the switch to close the garage door, and then I stepped inside, flicked on a light switch, and turned and locked the door to the garage. I dropped my purse and briefcase and leaned against the door to catch my breath.

  Was my frustration justified? Yes, but I also knew I was on edge, so I turned a deaf ear to the accusations running amok in my mind. As my heart rate slowed and my breathing returned to normal, I walked through the downstairs and flipped on lights, including the porch light so at least Keith wouldn’t arrive home to darkness.

  When my phone rang, relief surged. Surely it was Keith calling with an apology for not getting here before I did. But when I pulled the phone from my purse, I didn’t recognize the caller’s number, so I let voice mail answer.

  When the phone dinged, letting me know I had a message, I checked it to make sure it wasn’t Keith calling from another number. I stood at the kitchen counter and listened to the voice mail, but no one was there. Just as I was about to hang up, a sound on the recording caught my attention. I strained to hear the faint, rhythmic sound, which I soon identified as someone breathing.

  The “message” went on and on.

  Hands shaking, I ended the call before the message finished playing. An anxiety disorder? Maybe. Or was I deluding myself? Was it possible the person who sent the charm bracelet also knew my middle name and had my cell phone number?

  As much as I wanted to ignore the thought, it pestered.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Adelia

  May 6, 2017

  It’s just before eight on Saturday morning when I pull into the gravel lot of Ride the Kaweah, one of the most popular and respected white-water adventure companies on the river. As I pull the Jeep up next to the group of storage units where rafts, kayaks, and gear are stored, the illusion of déjà vu threatens to overtake me.

  As I get out of the Jeep, I expect to see Ryan’s truck parked off to the side of the property. He’d already be here by now, checking his watch as I pulled in, that wry smile on his face, Ray-Bans hanging from a cord around his neck.

  But this is no time for illusions.

  There is, however, little that distinguishes the property from the last time I was here more than a decade ago, and today. The old school bus, painted blue, used to transport rafters to the commercial put-ins, sits just where it always sat, and Mick’s truck, as old as the bus, outfitted with racks for kayaks, is parked at an angle in front of the office.

  I grab my backpack and make my way to the ramshackle building that houses the office. When
I enter, Mick is on the phone taking a reservation. He pushes a couple of forms across the counter in my direction, along with a pen.

  I pick up the papers—a W2 and an emergency contact form—and quickly fill them out. When I glance back at Mick, I see him eyeing me as he talks—his eyes rove over my bare shoulders and biceps exposed by the tank top I’m wearing. The look he gives me when our eyes meet is neither lascivious or embarrassed. Instead, his quick nod assures me he thinks I can still handle the physically grueling job of navigating a raft down the narrow chutes and rapids of the Kaweah or pulling an involuntary swimmer back into the raft.

  When he hangs up, he doesn’t say anything in the way of greeting. Neither of us has much to say, we covered the necessary ground late yesterday afternoon over drinks on the deck of The Gateway where the pounding rapids beneath us drowned our words to all but our ears, which is why I’d suggested we meet there.

  I hand him the forms I’ve completed, along with copies of my first aid, CPR, and swift water rescue certifications, all of which I updated over the last six weeks. He takes the copies, then glances at the forms I completed. After reading what I’ve filled in, he looks back to me, his weathered face pale, but still he says nothing. He turns and shoves the forms into the top drawer of a rusted metal filing cabinet, then comes around the counter and heads out the door. He looks over his shoulder at me. “You coming?”

  Outside he gives me a brief tour, opening the storage units and another shed, pointing out PFDs, helmets, paddles, oars, splash suits, and the like.

  “Nothing much has changed,” I observe.

  “A lot has changed, including the locks.” He tosses me a key. “That fits the padlock on the gate and the locks on the storage units and sheds. When you get here in the mornings, unlock everything.”

  I tuck the key into a zippered pocket in my shorts.

  “You remember the orientation drill?”

  I consider his question for a moment. “Mostly.”

  “You do it this morning. I’ll check you.”

  I help Mick, who’s owned Ride the Kaweah for almost three decades, pull out gear as the other guides show up and then customers who’ve made reservations for today. We’ll send out two groups: one this morning—experienced rafters who’ve paid for a guide to take them down the almost nonstop class IV rapids, and a second group later in the day for the lower section of the river only, made up of mostly class III rapids.

  At 9:00 a.m. Mick puts fingers in his mouth and lets out a shrill whistle. “Gather up!” He walks to a large cottonwood shading one edge of the property and waits until everyone has joined him under the tree.

  “This here is Adelia.” Mick jerks a thumb my way. “Or… Addie, as she’s known around here.”

  My breath catches upon hearing the nickname, and my eyes meet Mick’s. He stares at me a moment and then continues. “You call her whatever you want. The important thing is that you listen to her now, and listen good.”

  Listen well, I think. But then I remember it isn’t my education that got me here. It’s my experience. I hesitate, but only briefly, then step forward.

  I look over the group, a mix of men and women, friends come to add to their own list of experiences, and a handful of guides. All the guides are new to me and young. So young. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve aged and I’m more aware of that here than anywhere else.

  “Good morning. Looks like a great day for a trip down the river—blue skies and high, fast water.” I smile, but I can’t hold the expression. “But never forget, the Kaweah is a killer. Drowning is the number one cause of death in Sequoia National Park. Take that stat seriously. Thus far, I don’t know of any… deaths”—my eyes meet Mick’s again—“on a commercial trip. Let’s keep it that way.”

  A couple of guys who’ve already established themselves as the clowns of the group stand at the back. One of them mutters something, and they both laugh then slap high fives. It’s clear they aren’t listening and are distracting those around them.

  I pick up one of the PFDs. “Excuse me.” I point to the guy who made the remark, whatever it was. “You, in the plaid shorts, join me up here, please.”

  His buddy slaps him on the back. “Way to go, bro!” A few others laugh.

  The guy, his chest bare, saunters up to me, looks me up and down, gestures to the bandanna tied around my head, and lifts one eyebrow. “Blond or brunette?”

  “Put this on.” I hand him the PFD.

  “That’s going to make for some awkward tan lines.”

  “If you’re here to work on your tan, you’re in the wrong place. See those wetsuits and splash jackets?” I point to the pile of suits and jackets. “Those are going to ensure you don’t get tan lines. Happy?”

  “I’m just messing with you.” His teeth gleam in his tanned face as he smiles at me. “You didn’t answer my question.” He points at the bandanna.

  “Oh, right.” I pull off the bandanna. “Neither.” I turn so he can see the tattoo. His eyes widen. “You’re messing with the wrong woman,” I hiss under my breath.

  He raises his hands in surrender, but the smirk on his face suggests he wouldn’t mind messing with me. But he complies and slips into the life vest.

  “Buckle it up.” I tell him loudly enough so the group can hear. “People, this is your PFD, or personal flotation device. If you’re taking this trip, you’re experienced rafters, so you’re familiar with the device. But just to refresh your memory, you want the vest to fit snugly.” I pull the straps on the guy’s vest, making sure it’s tight enough. “If you can lift the vest up to your ears, it’s too loose. You will wear the vest at all times while on the river.”

  As I go through the orientation, I’m surprised by how naturally the information still flows. I talk about the necessity of the suits in the frigid water, footwear, and the inevitable, falling out of the raft.

  “When one of you falls out, and more than one of you will, you need to immediately assume a defensive position. Roll to your back and keep your feet up—toes out of the water. That way, if you hit a rock, your feet take the blow. Never, under any circumstance, do you want to try and stand up in the water. The rocky bottom of the river can entrap your foot, and the current will pull you under. As soon as you’re able, swim aggressively back to your raft or the raft nearest you.”

  Twenty or so minutes later, I wind up the spiel and turn to Mick. “Anything else?”

  “Nope.” He turns and walks away.

  As rafters clamber out of the bus at the put-in, I pick up one end of a raft, another guide at the other end, and we lift it over our heads and make our way down the river’s bank, stepping across rocks and boulders. We put in just above Gateway Rapid. Within minutes of getting into the raft, we’ll have to paddle as a team to slalom our way through a 250-yard, boulder-strewn rapid, then work to avoid the hydraulics at the bottom—those churning, foamy holes below the drop of the many ledges the Kaweah is known for. Holes that can trap a raft full of people in their powerful grip.

  The Gateway churns below, spray from the crashing rapid carrying on the breeze, creating prisms of color as the sun shines through the airborne droplets. I survey the rapid and then turn to see Moro Rock and Alta Peak, and take strength from their immovable stance. The easy part of my day has already passed. But I didn’t return to Three Rivers for ease.

  I turn back to face the Kaweah, a river I haven’t rafted since that last fateful day almost eleven years ago.

  I vowed I’d never step foot in this water again. But today I will conquer the Kaweah once more.

  I have come to conquer.

  And the Kaweah, with its parade of power, is a weak adversary compared to the other I’ve come to defeat.

  The one I must defeat.

  But I have not come alone.

  I cannot do this alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Denilyn

  January 26, 2017

  After my morning class, I take advantage of a break in the weather, slip into my
coat, and head across campus to the coffeehouse attached to the cafeteria. When I come out from under the shelter of trees, the sky expands before me—dark thunderheads to the east set the backdrop for patches of azure, brilliant in-between white puffs of clouds in the foreground. The air is crisp, clean. I relish the rare moment of peace and vow to work harder to keep my mind from spinning through my memories as it has for the past few weeks.

  When I swing the door open and step into the Bean, I’m met by the aroma of coffee mixed with the warm scent from a wood fire crackling in the large, rock fireplace. Students sprawl on the upholstered chairs and sofas set in front of the fire, while others sit at tables, books or laptops open, heads down. The mood is relaxed as students and faculty alike have settled into the new semester. The murmur of voices, punctuated by occasional laughter, adds to the welcome the place extends.

  I set my briefcase on an empty table, take out my wallet, and get into line to place my order.

  A voice behind me speaks just above a whisper near my ear. “Let me guess—a medium half-caff, low-fat latte with a swirl of caramel.”

  I laugh as I turn around. “You English professors have great memories.”

  “It’s all that reading we do—it’s good for the mind.”

  “It serves you well, obviously. But I was planning on having the latte fully leaded. It’s still early in the day.”

  “Ah, that’s right. You only cut back on the caffeine after, what is it, 2:00 p.m.?”

  “It depends on how the day is going.”

  “I see.” Jon places his hand on my shoulder and nudges me around. “You’re up.”

  As I place my order, he steps forward and hands the young woman at the register his credit card. “I’ve got this.”

  “No, I’ve got it. But, thank you.”

  “C’mon, allow me a small pleasure.”