Will Rise from Ashes

by Jean M. Grant

  “There! They have a pool!”

  “We’re not swimming, Will. I didn’t bring your bathing suit. We can shower and eat a hot meal.”

  I pulled into the campground entrance and called today a wash. A family—a woman, man, and two young children—exited the office. The children laughed. The adults exchanged a shared look of concern but got in their fully packed car and drove to their campsite. Their license plate was from New York. In fact, I recognized their red sedan. It was strange how when on the road, that you’d see the same few cars cross paths with you more than once.

  Minivans, sport wagons, standard cars, and the occasional camper or RV all filled the other campsites. Nothing appeared sketchy. Nowadays, what the hell qualified as sketchy?

  I released an audible groan as I emerged from the car. I rubbed my neck and did quick hamstring stretches. Soreness radiated throughout my legs and back. The lack of workouts and being cramped in a car were already fatiguing my muscles. I tugged on my sweaty T-shirt and wished I had worn lighter pants instead of jeans.

  Will strolled to the welcome office.

  A weathered, older gentleman with striking white hair and dark skin greeted us inside. “Good day, ma’am. You in need of a campsite?” His face gleamed with kindness, and he spoke with an old-fashioned gallantry and slightly southern twang.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Many folks are checking in today…traveling west. Are you from out of state?”

  “Maine.”

  He nodded and pulled a paper from a folder beside the register. “Need you to fill out this form. The pool is open until eight p.m., and bathroom is open all night.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey there, sonny, would you like a pop?” he asked, smiling at Will. Will was already in recon mode. He moseyed around the modest gift shop, touching all the knick-knacks for sale. The man’s gaze returned to me. “That is, if your mother allows it.”

  I nodded. “Just can’t bite it, Will.”

  “I know,” Will said.

  The man leaned over the counter, offering the canister of lollipops. Will mused indecisively, but ultimately picked the green one. “Fine choice!” the man said. “Many delicious flavors in there.”

  Will beamed at him but said nothing to the man. “Mom, can we go swimming?” he asked again.

  “Thank you,” I said for him.

  Will parroted, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am. My name’s Frank if you need anything. Tillie serves a breakfast in our kitchen here at seven a.m.,” he said, pointing. “Biscuits, eggs, and bacon. Coffee. Three dollars a person. Checkout is at eleven a.m.”

  I fought the urge to ask if he had heard any updates on the situation in the West, but I saw no TV or radio. With a nod, I said thank you again.

  Just then a gray cat jumped on the counter. I gasped.

  “Awww!” Will leaned in to pet the cat.

  Thick eyebrows lifted over Frank’s eyes. “Oh, Lucky’s a good ol’ boy. He’d love a nice pet or scratch,” he said in response to my questioning look.

  Will was already stroking him. The lanky, long-haired cat pushed its black nose into Will’s hand, purring loudly.

  “You got a cat, too?” the man asked.

  “Yes! His name is Snow. But he isn’t white. He’s all black! Like the color of your skin, mister,” Will said, nuzzling the cat.

  I repressed a moan. The man smiled, wrinkles creasing around his eyes. “Fabulous name for a cat. Lucky here was named after a few of his early mischievous years.”

  Will perked up. “Did he make a lot of poor choices?”

  “You could say that.” The man’s smile widened, displaying coffee-stained teeth. “He got chased by a coyote once. Then got himself stuck in a fence. Another time, he wandered off and got too close to a porcupine. Tillie was pulling quills out of him for two weeks!”

  Will continued to rub the cat. “Sounds like my brother Finn. He gets into trouble a lot.”

  That was my cue. “Come, Will.”

  “Enjoy your stay,” the man said with a wave as we left the office.

  After replenishing supplies in the camp store, setting up our tent campsite, and triple-checking my car locks, I brought Will—and a large kitchen knife, which I hid in my towel—with me to the showers.

  “Mom, I hate showers! I’m not that dirty,” he protested, turning to leave.

  I spun him gently by his shoulders. “Let me see your nails.” I reached. He showed them to me.

  “Were you eating dirt?”

  “Mom…,” he said, his face dimpling the way it did whenever I teased him lightly.

  “Joking,” I said with a kiss on his cheek. “You first.”

  “This is the girl’s bathroom.”

  I gave him a look not to be reckoned with. I pulled out the soap and shampoo. “Do you need help?”

  “No.” He undressed and wrapped a towel around himself, then stepped into the stall. He handed me the towel, then turned on the shower. I sat on the counter, listening to him hum as he washed. I stole a look inside after a few minutes. His body, though wet and cleaned from water hitting it, was not scrubbed. The shampoo had remained untouched, and his hair was bone dry. I took the shampoo and squirted it in my hand and massaged it into his hair.

  “Yuck! Mom, that stinks!”

  More tersely than I liked, I responded, “Well, it was the only one we had because you and Finn dumped the other bottle in the sink.”

  He mumbled grievances, but he didn’t press it. “Under the water, rinse, all of it,” I ordered robotically. “Scrub your neck, Will. Right there.” I pointed to the spot on his neck and behind his ears where the dirt and dead skin accumulated.

  A few minutes later, he was dressed, hair patted flat, and sitting in my place. I stepped into the shower. “I remember when you were a baby and would keep me company in the bathroom while I showered.” I pulled off my towel, tossed it over the shower curtain, and turned on the water.

  “Yeah?” His voice lifted with interest.

  I poked my head out to be gifted with a wide smile, short a few teeth, grinning at me. He loved to hear his baby stories. “Yup! You’d sit on the floor, content to play with your toys while Mama showered.” A twinge of sad nostalgia infiltrated that sweet memory. My yet-to-be diagnosed son exhibited such joy in keeping himself quietly entertained even at six months old. Lord, he had been an easy baby. Finn had never done that. I was lucky to get a daily shower with an investigative toddler tottering around and a screaming newborn that was only appeased in his swing. They couldn’t have been more opposite in that regard.

  I shifted gears. “Will, tell me about your favorite parts from our Yellowstone trip.” Talking about the volcano was the last thing I wanted, but I needed to hear his voice. I needed to make sure he was okay and right beside me. He was an affectionate, tender, and inquisitive child. His personality reminded me so much of his father.

  I inhaled the tangy mint of Harrison’s tea-tree shampoo, the only one I’d had on hand in my frantic haste. This shampoo, like many of Harrison’s things, had remained untouched in the past year. I couldn’t bring myself to use it or toss it. Now here I was, scrubbing my fingers raw as I massaged it into my scalp. It tingled. It burned.

  Will rattled off about Grand Prismatic Spring’s rainbow of colors and steam percolating the sulfur-infused air. Then he talked about the shape of the lower Yellowstone Falls, how the water cascaded straight along one side but curved on the left side, due to the geology beneath it. He talked about how much fun he had with the infrared thermometer gun, detecting the high temperatures of the hot springs in Upper Geyser Basin. How Finn dropped the gun and Brandon had to squeeze through the railing and hop down to the delicate crust to get it from the edge of Morning Glory Pool. Thankfully, neither it nor Brandon had fallen in!

  His enthusiasm was a comforting melody on my ears, and the warm shower a hug to my soul. God, I missed hugs. I missed Harrison’s lithe arms around me. I missed his k
isses on my neck. I missed my sweet Finn’s exuberance and back-scratch requests.

  As I scrubbed away the dirt, I scrubbed away the painful recollections. Salty, quiet tears fell down my cheeks. I’d truly not let myself cry much on this journey. I couldn’t. Even in the past year, I hid the tears from the boys. I had to. I had to be strong for my sons. I’d gotten through Harrison’s death; I could get through this journey, too. Finn would be with us soon.

  Like Will, Harrison had been quirky. He and I had both suspected that he hung on the very high end of the autism spectrum, too. Harrison had prospered in life, partly due to Patsy’s diligence. He’d acquired the coping skills, attended the best schools, and worked hard. Albeit, he may have been socially awkward at times, but oh, I loved him. I loved his eccentricities. Only recently had Patsy admitted that the words autism and ADHD were thrown at her by doctors when Harrison was a child in the early years of diagnosis. Her revelation explained a lot about Harrison and gave me renewed hope for Will’s future. When a person dies, all that remain are the good memories…the bad ones seem to disappear like vapors, and longing and regret dwell in your spirit.

  I stood under the water, done with my cleaning, but needing the massage against my tired heart. Will spoke about a geyser, asking me questions about eruption frequency. I mumbled some “uh-hmms” and “yeahs.”

  Finn had loved the Upper Geyser Basin as much as Will. A tightness filled my chest. I had to find him. I had to find Finn. Oh, Harrison, be his guardian angel. Watch over my brother and our son.

  The water transformed to pins barraging my skin, my muscles unusually sensitive. I swallowed, triggering a scratchy throat. I vainly willed the cold away. Or was I already reeling from withdrawal symptoms? I had felt subpar ever since we’d left Maine. No amount of orange juice or elderberry would deflect this attack on my stressed body. I eventually turned off the water, dried, and got dressed. I slipped on Harrison’s oversized slippers, my daily companion since his death. He’d teased me for always stealing them from him. I’d told him that I liked to walk in his footsteps.

  “Ready?” I asked Will, who had shaped his wet towel into a volcano.

  A few hours later, after enjoying fire-roasted hotdogs, I tucked Will in with a kiss. I laid my trusty hiker’s whistle, more for my sake than his, next to his pillow.

  “Why do I need that?”

  “To scare off bears.” And creepy strangers, I wanted to add. I was taking no chances after those truck goons.

  “Mom, can you sing the states song?”

  “Sure,” I said and reluctantly sang his favorite song that I had taught him years ago—all the states of the U.S.A. in alphabetical order. I found myself stumbling on the last lines of it when it got to “north, south, east, west,” but I finished it with a smile and a stroke of Will’s hair.

  “Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

  I did, and he fell asleep quickly. Pain prickled my spirit. I’d never consulted Will on his feelings about leaving on this trip. Or how he felt about Finn being missing. We had to be strong together. We could do this.

  We could do this. We had to. There was no other option.

  I was about to rise and dampen the fire, when I heard the shushing of rubber tires kicking dirt. I grabbed my kitchen knife and popped out of the tent as I heard a voice say, “Hello?”

  Across from the low-burning fire, about ten feet away, stood the man who had helped with my flat tire.

  I released a startled gasp, followed by an audible sigh. “Jesus!” I said, for lack of better words.

  “Hey there,” he said again, his hands raised.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You won’t need that.” His wary gaze fell upon the knife.

  I probably looked like a crazed person from a horror flick. I didn’t release it, and I stepped back a foot.

  Strange shadows played across his face. I hated that eerie look firelight cast upon faces. It made everyone appear possessed. “I’m Reid. Reid Gregory,” he offered.

  “Are you following me?” Quivers scaled my throat. “H-How did you get here?”

  “Same way as you.”

  “You’re on a bike,” I observed, unconvinced.

  “I got a ride in a truck.”

  I tightened my grip on the knife and stepped closer to the tent, keeping a watchful eye on it, as well as on the campsites around. The noise of the evening had quieted to murmurs as people found their way to their beds or sleeping bags, but there were a few people awake, talking around fires. I could scream and they would come running. “What color truck?”

  Now it was his turn to look baffled. He shrugged off his heavy pack, which fell to the ground with a thud, a hiker’s metal cup clinking and a water bottle sloshing. “A silver beater. Nice old couple.” He stepped no closer but lowered his voice. “Why?” His gaze darted around the various campsites.

  “Why are you following us? My tolerance has room for only so many coincidences.”

  “We travel the same roads, that’s all. There aren’t many primary interstates leading to Colorado. I saw your car and wanted to check and see how the tire’s doing. Mind if we share a fire? No other sites available, but they told me to buddy up at somebody’s site.”

  I stared at his bag for a long moment, shifting my weight between feet.

  “How’s the tire?” he repeated.

  Same roads? I had taken more detours and bypasses than I would have preferred in the last two days. We were no longer on the straightaway west. “How did you know we were going to Colorado?”

  He looked at the tent and rubbed his chin while covering a yawn. “Your son said Denver, didn’t he?”

  Oh, yeah. I blinked away fatigue.

  “I got a ride from New York on Route 80 all the way to Chicago, then diverted south on 57,” he explained, his eyes on the knife. “You guys okay? You seem…on edge?”

  I lowered the knife as my heartbeat slowed a fraction. “Yeah. The tire’s okay.”

  “I parted ways with my ride in Champaign. Legs are beat.” He tapped his thighs and moaned. “And my back.” He guided his bike to a nearby tree and propped it there.

  I turned away briefly and zipped the tent closed. I settled on the log Will had laid for me in front of the tent entrance. My legs could also use a stretch. I blew a breath.

  “Can I rest a few?” he asked.

  “Sure. Just a few though.”

  He sat on the ground across from me and the fire. He thumbed in his bag and withdrew a hiker’s meal, his water bottle, and a metal cup. Putting it all together, he then nestled the quick meal into the low fire.

  I released my grip on the knife and set it beside me.

  Thoughtful eyes assessed me, and he stepped closer. He thrust his hand in full greeting. “I’m Reid,” he repeated.

  I stared at his hand.

  “I…” He waited, then retracted his hand.

  I found my senses, shoved mine out, and shook his hand, his grip warm and full around mine. “I’m AJ.”

  Attentive to my moves, he gave me space, outwardly releasing a breath and running a hand through the thick hair at the crown of his head. He looked like he’d not showered in days. The fire glinted off his stubble-covered chin. He reminded me of a damn Hollywood actor I’d seen in a recent movie—a guy who played a cop. Or was the character the criminal in a drug lord’s ring? I couldn’t remember. I coughed to cover my unease. With it, my headache mounted.

  “Did you bypass Chicago?” he asked as he returned to his cooking meal.

  “Yeah, we took Route 70 across Ohio and Indiana, but that wasn’t any better.”

  “Smart. The East Coast might still be okay, but the Midwest is an entirely different animal.” He looked around the campground and added, “Folks here seem okay, though. Many appear to be passing through, on their way to find family.”

  “No luck on car rentals?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Nope.
”

  “How was Chicago?”

  “Not great. The mayor has already instituted strict curfews, and there were a lot of National Guard soldiers present.”

  “Oh, wow.” I heaved a sigh and repeated, quieter, to myself, “Oh, wow.”

  “Yeah. Curfews, military patrols, limited access to gas and food. No air or train travel. All airlines on the East Coast will be grounded soon. I was fortunate to find this nice couple heading south. No ash fall in Chicago yet, but your typical societal disorder after a natural disaster.” He shook his head as if erasing some thought, then stirred his meal as it cooked. “It wasn’t good,” he said solemnly. “I think the shit is going to hit the fan soon.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No apocalypse though,” he said with a hesitant smile, mimicking my remark from our previous encounter.

  “Ha, yeah.” My lack of much meaningful adult conversation in the past year left me at a loss for words.

  He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand, then removed his cup from the fire and stirred its contents. “So, you’re going to Denver?”

  “We are. My brother and son are there.”

  “I’m heading there, too. Well, south of Denver, closer to Colorado Springs and Pueblo area.”

  “Oh?” My pulse fluttered. Uncertainty slithered into my mind. My fingers moved slowly toward the knife, but I stopped them. That was purely coincidence, that’s all. Or was it?

  “My sister’s there.”

  “Have you heard from her?”

  He shook his head. “No. I need to get to her. Our parents have both passed away, and well…older brother syndrome. Gotta check on her.”

  So communication was already impaired. That would explain why I couldn’t reach anything in Colorado via phone or email. My optimism faded as I pictured what lay ahead for us there. I nibbled on my lip.

  “What about your brother and son? Have you heard from them?”

  “No.” And now my laptop is gone, so I can’t even try email. “Have you been in touch with anyone else there? Any idea what to expect?”

  He shook his head and took a few bites of his meal.

  I mulled over the information.