by Robyn Carr
He promised.
She fought hard for as long as she could and they both prepared for what they knew would happen. Ultimately she had said, “It’s time. Please. I love you so much but I can’t do this anymore.” And Cal slid the needle into her IV, injected the morphine slowly, then crawled onto the bed, took his beautiful wife in his arms, held her and told her how she meant everything to him, kissing the tears from her face as she passed into the next world.
He looked up into the rapidly darkening sky streaked with wispy clouds. “Do you still think it was a good idea, Lynne?” He wished he knew if, wherever she was, in whatever form or realm, she was still okay with her choice. That it hadn’t been even one hour too soon. Because there were so many days when he thought about what he would trade for another hour with her. He’d gladly have given ten years of his own life for one of hers.
As per her wishes, there was no funeral. There was a celebration of life, standing room only. There were poor people, rich people, common criminals mixed up with wealthy family and friends from back East. There were politicians, illegals, lawyers and well-known thugs—between Lynne and Cal, their clients had been of every stripe. The governor delivered a few words; doctors and nurses who had fallen in love with her during her illness were present. She was beloved to so many. She had been so courageous.
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a leather satchel. The mortuary had transferred her ashes from the urn for him because you don’t take an urn on a long hike. The pouch was soft and solid. He held it to his heart briefly. Then he poured the ashes in a little mound on the ground. The breeze stole a little off the top right away. He remembered her last wishes.
Here’s what I want from you, California Jones. I want to be cremated. No funeral, I hate funerals. If you have to have some kind of party, you go ahead, do whatever gets you through it. Then I want you to find a beautiful place and dump my ashes on the ground. Let the wind take me away, Cal. And then I want you to let go of me. The only way you can honor my memory is with your happiness.
* * *
Cal stayed for three days in the spot where he’d let go of Lynne’s ashes. Water was readily available from a nearby stream. He suspected he was sharing the water with open-range cattle and wildlife, but it was good, clear water and he had a great water filter. He drank it and washed in it and it was cold as bloody hell, shocking him into awareness. He spent his time ruminating on his life with Lynne and tried to come to terms with the hard parts, the end of her life. He spent the days and nights focused on her because he was going to have to leave it behind eventually. It wasn’t as though he’d forget her, but he hoped the time had finally come for moving on. The past two years had been so lonely. And he’d held on long enough.
He made a very difficult decision. He left the leather satchel on the ground where the now dissipated ashes had been. He didn’t want to carry it with her remembrance just a bit of dust inside. He might obsess on it, caress it. It was time. He thought of his promise to her. She wanted him to be happy.
He started walking north. He carried a couple of maps for the Colorado and Wyoming CDT and had highlighted water access, campsites, towns and sections of road. He walked for days and got so damn tired and dry.
But his mind felt free to wander and, unsurprisingly, he spent a lot of time thinking about his childhood and about his dad, Jed Jones. In fact, he worried about his parents a lot. Jed was so flaky and unbalanced, the range of possibilities with him was endless. He’d gotten a little steadier in the past several years, since he’d been on the farm in Iowa and wasn’t roaming, but Cal wouldn’t be surprised to hear his parents were suddenly off on a mission to save cheetahs in the Congo or... Or that his father had taken his own life. He’d attempted suicide a few times, though they were halfhearted attempts. He jumped off a bridge and broke a leg once, but it was a low bridge. He took a bunch of pills, but slept it off—it turned out he didn’t have enough for a deadly dose. He stabbed himself in the heart—missed.
In the way that the eldest child in a family with dysfunctional parents will shift into the parent role at a very early age, Cal had become the one in charge. He couldn’t say exactly when. Maybe it was when Sierra was born. He was about eight and remembered carrying her around, feeding her, changing her. His mother had usually been preoccupied with their father, making sure he was happy and as secure as possible, so Cal tended to look after the children and watch over his parents. His mother said Jed was a genius and needed a lot of room to think and of course, Cal believed it. He still believed it—Jed had an amazing mind and was charismatic. When he started talking, people couldn’t turn away. He’d lecture on everything from the solar system to the cure for cancer. Jed had studied law before marrying Marissa, Cal’s mother, and he remembered every word he’d ever read. Or so it seemed.
Cal always knew there was something wrong with his father but he had no idea what. Eccentric, they called him. When Cal was about thirteen he thought he had it figured out—he blamed it on the pot. Jed smoked daily. But it was another few years before he’d learn the truth—his father heard voices. They were back on the farm because Marissa’s father had fallen ill and she was an only child. It was a lucky break—they were stable for a while. Jed, who knew a lot about everything and had experience in farming from their days as migrant workers, had something to do and they were all warm and fed. And one night Marissa asked, “Where’s your father?”
Cal said, “I saw him by the barn, talking to himself again. I guess he’s running ideas.”
And out of the blue Marissa said, “He’s not talking to himself.”
Cal was seventeen and suddenly it was all so clear. Jed had secret friends. Their mother was completely devoted because she was busy trying to conceal his illness. His delusions conversed with him and gave him advice, not always good advice. He smoked a lot of dope to keep them quiet and Marissa watched over him like the keeper she was and made sure the drug use didn’t get out of hand. She supported him in not seeking medical intervention because the drugs doctors used would slow down his beautiful mind and he couldn’t bear it. He’d tried a couple of times, she said, and it was brutal. He became a zombie. But worse, he became depressed because he couldn’t think.
Things had been quiet in those quarters the past ten years or so. Cal’s grandfather had died a long time ago and then his grandmother, as old as the ages, had needed Jed and Marissa on the farm, so they stayed. Then Grandma passed. Cal and his siblings were raised and gone. Jed and Marissa had no other means of support. Sometimes Cal held his breath, ready for some harebrained idea that would have them off on an adventure, but so far so good. Cal, being the father to his father, could usually talk Jed out of things. I think if we burn the fields instead of plow them, the ash will give essential nutrients to the soil and make next year’s crop richer.
No, Cal said, that only works on rice fields. It has the opposite effect on corn and wheat. Besides, you lease those fields to farmers.
But God, they were exhausting. So, unable to really help and refusing to be as codependent as Marissa was, Cal limited his contact with them. He visited about once a year and talked to them every two to four weeks. He’d like to just talk to his mother but she was attached to his father and there was no way to isolate her and pull her out of that mess, not even for a conversation. They were like conjoined twins.
Interestingly, Cal, his younger sister Sedona and younger brother, Dakota, all broke out of that craziness. With a vengeance! Sedona was a psychologist, married to a businessman, mother of two children, living a very stable, happy life. Dakota was an Army major, decorated for valor. He was so rigid and conservative it almost made Cal’s teeth ache to be around him.
But Sierra, the baby, was lost. She might be schizophrenic like her father but it was impossible to tell because of her drug use. She’d seemed all right into her twenties and was an excellent student, then it fell apart. Cal and
Lynne had staged an intervention, explaining the situation with her father, and mother for that matter, and tried to get her help. But rather than finding the source of her pain in Jed Jones, Sierra found an ally. Apparently she understood about the wild notions and mysterious voices. Sierra was now on the farm with Mom and Dad, probably weaving, reading bizarre shit and toking it up with Dad in the afternoons. “Whatever works,” Marissa was known to say.
Living with, perhaps understanding how to function in such a family, had made careers for Cal and Sedona. They were the opposite of freewheeling, new-age, whack-a-doodle hippies. Maybe Dakota, too. It was almost counterintuitive—if the parents are hippies and revolutionaries, the kids end up moderate and conventional.
Cal kept hiking. Every third or fourth night he found a campground or little bit of a town where he could wash, eat a protein-heavy meal, drink a couple of beers, talk to people, resupply.
It was when his trail also became counterintuitive, when he had to hike south to hike north, that he realized how much he missed Maggie. They were a little bit alike. They were both struggling to move on from their dynamic but abandoned careers, both getting over difficult childhoods, both floundering a little as they reached for a lifestyle that brought peace and comfort. And they could both go back to where they’d been tomorrow, pick up the threads of their previous lives, and succeed in many ways. She could go back to Denver and step into the operating room and resume her role as a talented young neurosurgeon. He could go back to Grosse Pointe and his old firm would welcome him with open arms. But he didn’t think either of them would do that.
He’d been on the trail for fourteen days. He’d done what he came to do. He’d left Lynne in the wind on a beautiful mountain pass. He turned right then, in the middle of the trail, and began walking south.
* * *
Maggie’s muscles ached, and for good reason. She’d thrown herself into physical labor. She’d far rather enjoy the calisthenics of sex, but her lover had taken to the trail. He’d been gone two weeks and she was trying to accept the idea that her fling was over and she wouldn’t see him again.
Maggie ran the store, organizing, learning, stocking, ordering, even balancing the books, which was mostly accomplished by computer program, thankfully.
“Know how to make a small fortune?” Sully asked Frank. “Take a large fortune and put it into educating a neurosurgeon who decides to quit and sell picnic supplies.” Then, turning toward Maggie he said, “You’re going to ruin your hands in the garden and shelving. For the love of God, go home!”
“No,” she said. “Not yet. And I didn’t quit—I’m taking a break.”
She drove to Denver one day to meet with her lawyer and the plaintiff’s counsel, spent three exhausting hours in deposition and then stopped in Golden to visit her mother. That was a mini nightmare—it was one endless argument. Phoebe was outraged that her daughter would throw away all the prestige of her career to stock shelves in a little country store.
“I also garden, hike, do a little rock climbing and I’m thinking of going out on the trail for a couple of overnights.”
“Dear God, what if you run into trouble?” Phoebe asked.
“I have bear repellant and won’t hesitate to use it on any animal that threatens me.” And by that she meant human or animal. Phoebe didn’t seem to know about the predator Maggie had shot, thank God. There had only been a small story that included the names of the felons, the general location and had not named the minor child. Maggie had been described as the “local proprietor of a family-style campground.”
She drove back to Sully’s the same day. When she got to Leadville, she drove all around the town looking for Cal’s truck with its camping trailer. She didn’t see it anywhere. Clearly he’d gone. Lied to her and left her with a promise he wasn’t about to keep.
Going out on the trail overnight was just an experiment, a way to simulate what Cal was doing, how he was feeling wrapped in his solitude. He had to think, he said. About what? she wondered. When Maggie let herself think too much she saw all the carnage of the emergency room on one of the worst days of her life. A bunch of teenage boys in a terrible accident, three head injuries. One neurosurgeon. It just wasn’t worth the exercise.
Instead of camping in the wild she hauled stock, weeded, cleaned the public bathrooms and showers, raked, scrubbed Sully’s house from top to bottom and rearranged furniture.
“Damn near broke a leg in the night just trying to go to the john. You about got it out of your system yet?” Sully asked while they had their morning coffee on the porch at the store.
“What?”
“Cal, that’s what. I guess you think I’m just stupid.”
“Look, I admit I wish he hadn’t gone but it’s probably for the best. He’s just some jobless loser, living in a tent, who couldn’t tell the truth about anything even if it bit him in the ass.”
Sully leveled a stare at her. “You catch him in a lie, Maggie?”
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t lying!”
Sully scowled at her. “I think they need you in Denver,” he finally said. “I think I need you in Denver.”
“I have too much invested in you to leave now,” she said.
“God help me.”
One day a letter came for Cal from the Colorado State Supreme Court. “Dad?” she said. She held it out to him. “What the hell could this mean?”
Sully took the envelope and held it for a second. “Hmm. Reckon it means he’s coming back. Unless he sends me a request to forward it.”
“I don’t see how it could mean that,” she said. “Clearly he’s on the run.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sully said. “From what?”
“Well, this isn’t a jury summons! He’s not a resident!”
“Maybe he is. You don’t know everything.”
“I don’t know anything! He’s probably wanted!”
“Indeed,” Sully said sarcastically.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s a man’s private mail and as postmaster I swore an oath and part of that oath is to keep my nosy daughter from picking through the mail. You better keep this to yourself, Maggie.”
“Don’t you agree it’s pretty suspicious?”
“I agree it’s pretty personal and none of your business.”
“Well, jeez,” she said. “Not like he’s here to question, now, is it.”
“You heard me,” Sully returned emphatically.
* * *
When Cal had been gone three weeks, Maggie wasn’t sure how long she could continue to drive him from her mind with hard work and outdoor activities like hiking. She began to slow down. But just to reassure her the universe was not yet on her side, she saw a familiar black Lincoln move slowly up the drive toward the store.
She looked skyward. “Really?” she asked God. “Like this wasn’t enough?” Then she hollered, “Dad!”
Her father came running out of the store, a hunk of his turkey sandwich still hanging out of his mouth. He stuffed it back in before he could speak. “What the hell, Maggie?”
She pointed a shaking finger at the car. “Phoebe and Walter.”
Sully chewed and swallowed. “Well, that took ’em longer than I thought it would. Brace yourself, Maggie. They’re here to do war.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Phoebe hasn’t been near this place since she left and took you with her thirty years ago. Hell just froze over.”
Walter parked the big car beside the store and got out. He walked toward the porch, alone. “Where’s Mother?” Maggie asked.
“I decided to come on my own. Don’t you think she must have run out of things to say by now?”
“Highly doubtful,” Maggie said.
“Hey there, Walter,” Sully said. “Want lunch?”
“That sounds great, Sully.”
“Ham or turkey?” he asked.
“Turkey. Thanks.”
Walter came up on the porch. He wore yellow golf pants with a peach collared shirt and white sweater. He was a handsome man, she’d give her mother that. Phoebe had had two husbands and both were fine-looking men. Sully was stockier and had those strong arms and shoulders; Walter was reed-thin with silver hair and a surgeon’s long, slim fingers.
“Can we sit?” Walter finally asked.
“Yes. Right. Listen,” she said while she was taking her chair. “I’m sorry about the money, Walter. All the money you invested in my education and career and—”
“Maggie, do you think I came here to talk about money? I thought maybe we could have a conversation without your mother. Doctor to doctor?”
Maggie frowned. This was rare with Walter. “Where does Mother think you are?”
“The club. Where else would I be?” Then he grinned like a naughty little boy.
Maggie could count on one hand the number of times she’d had a serious and private conversation with her stepfather, yet each one had been meaningful. It wasn’t just that Phoebe rarely gave him time to speak, though that was often the case. On top of that, Walter was hardly verbose. And he was relatively soft-spoken. They loved working with him in the operating room. While other surgeons were swearing and throwing things, Walter was saying please and thank you.
Sometimes it seemed as if Walter saved himself for those important messages while Sully spit out weighty and sarcastic wisdom all day long.
“Here you go,” Sully said, putting a tray on the porch table. There were two wrapped sandwiches, two prepared and wrapped green salads with a packet of dressing and fork enclosed, two bags of chips and two bottled teas. “I’ll leave you alone to talk...”