by Katie Powner
He gives Rand that same look again. Mylanta.
“We told you all about it when you woke up this morning.” He speaks slowly and carefully like I’m three years old. “Do you remember that?”
I frown. I remember being cold. Really cold. I remember waking up. I remember the doctor and everyone talking, talking, talking. But what had they said about yesterday? My cheeks burn with shame. I want to remember. I shake my head.
Mitch stands and moves over to my bed. I can’t read what that is in his eyes. He puts a hand on my arm. “You walked away from the house when Dad was out riding. Got caught out in the snow. Bea found you and drove you up the mountain.”
My brows wrinkle. “Why would she do that?”
“She said you insisted. She said you were looking for someone. Do you remember?”
Icy hands press against my chest, making it hard to breathe. The snow is falling on my face. My son is out there somewhere, waiting for me. Wondering where I am.
“Mom?”
I take a deep breath. Mitch is my son. And he’s right here. I look up at his face. “Bea’s okay?”
He pats my arm. “She’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”
“Then why am I here?”
Mitch looks back at Rand, who clears his throat. “You have an infection, June. A bad one.”
“What do you mean? What infection?”
He looks embarrassed. “A urinary tract infection. They’ve got you on antibiotics.”
I scowl. “I don’t want antibiotics.”
“The doctors are also running some tests.” His look is more sheepish than embarrassed now. “On your blood.”
I stare at him, an ember of anger warming my chest where moments ago it had been frozen. They took my blood, and I didn’t even know it. I couldn’t even remember. Who gave them permission?
“We’re waiting for the results,” Mitch says. “They don’t want you to leave until you’re stable.”
I feel perfectly stable, but I say nothing. Whatever it is in Mitch’s eyes is in Rand’s eyes, too. Fear rises in my throat like words I wish I could say.
“How much longer?”
My son hesitates. “We don’t know yet.”
“I want to go home.”
“I know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I know. But, Mom, you walked away into a snowstorm. You could’ve—”
He clears his throat. I blink. He straightens, standing tall. “You could’ve died. If Bea hadn’t found you . . .”
I try to push through the fog surrounding his words to hear what he’s really trying to say, but my mind can’t seem to fight its way through. The fog is thick and heavy. Shadowy. Dangerous.
Sometimes when the clouds are low, the Bridger Mountains disappear. A person can drive past on the interstate and never even know they’re there. The clouds are like a cloak. A shroud. But if you know where the mountains are, you can feel them. You can sense their towering presence and know that everything is where it should be, even if you can’t see it.
I peer at Mitch’s face and search for the mountain through the clouds. I know it’s there. I squint and lean closer, straining to make out the shape of my memories. To distinguish between the figures and shapes, the lies and the truth. The real and imagined.
“I want to go home,” I say again, and that’s when I see it. The outline of what Mitch was trying to say.
He can’t trust me anymore. I am not safe.
There is a tall, stark mountain peak cutting through the mist like a knife. And I can’t drive by and pretend it isn’t there.
TWENTY-NINE
Mitch shifted the truck into park in front of his parents’ house and let out a slow breath. It had been a long couple of days. Kenny Chesney’s hit “Don’t Blink” faded from the radio speakers, and Mitch looked over at his mother in the passenger seat. The song was about how fast life goes by. How fast things change. It was fitting.
As he moved to open his door, his father reached up from the back seat and put a hand on his arm.
“No need to walk us in. We’ll be all right.”
Mitch turned and gaped at him. They would be all right? How did he figure that? His mother had just spent two nights in the hospital because she thought she could climb the mountain on foot searching for lost treasure. What about that was “all right”? Then he noted the hard set of his father’s jaw, the determination in his eyes. Mitch didn’t want to pick a fight.
He took his hand off the door handle. “Are you sure?”
June opened her door and stepped outside. The October sky was clear, the sun reflecting off the new snow blinding. She stood there with her face turned up, and Mitch could see the woman who used to race him to the barn and churn homemade ice cream and swat his backside. The woman who used to remember everything.
She stuck one hand in her pocket, held the other out to the side as if welcoming whatever was to come, and started walking unhurriedly toward the house.
Rand moved to open his door and follow her.
“Dad, wait.”
He paused.
Mitch cleared his throat. “I don’t feel right about this.”
“It’s not up to you.”
“But—”
“I won’t leave her again.” His father’s voice was resolute with a hint of defensiveness.
Mitch studied his mother through the windshield as she climbed the porch steps. “You can’t watch her every second. You have to sleep.”
“You heard what the doctor said about her blood work. Her system’s all out of whack.” Rand held up a plastic bag. “I got all her supplements right here. I’ll see that she takes them. And now that her infection’s under control . . .”
“Is the list in there?”
Rand nodded. The doctor had printed off a list of do’s and don’ts for what kinds of things his mom should be eating and drinking. He’d told them there was no cure for dementia but managing her health would help with her symptoms and slow the rate of deterioration. Especially if they could keep her UTI from returning.
The doctor had been optimistic about the improvements they might see if they got his mother’s levels under control, but Mitch was less certain. Any positive changes, if they ever came, weren’t going to happen overnight.
“You’ll call me if you need anything?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ll lock the doors at night?”
Rand hesitated. “She knows how to unlock doors, son.”
“She might forget. It might slow her down.”
Rand slid out of the truck and looked at Mitch through the open door, clutching the bag. “You’ll come get us Friday for the CT scan?”
That was another thing Mitch worried about. Though his father’s cataracts were fairly mild, they were enough to make driving in the dark dangerous. And the long nights of winter were only just beginning. “Of course.”
Rand jerked his chin once, shut the door, then limped toward the house. Mitch growled like a cornered raccoon. If something happened while he wasn’t here, he’d never forgive himself. But it wasn’t his house. Wasn’t his decision. He and his father needed to have a talk about his mom’s future, but that would have to wait for another day. Maybe the doctor was right and a steady diet of omega-3 and cranberry juice would make all the difference in the world.
Mitch turned the truck around and drove slowly down the snow-packed gravel drive. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing. He didn’t know if Caroline would believe his mother was going to be fine, or if she would insist on moving his mother out of that house right this instant. He didn’t know how to do this by himself.
Why’d you have to take her, God? It would’ve been better if God had taken him instead. He wasn’t himself without Caroline.
Taylor Swift’s “Back to December” came on the radio, and Mitch stiffened. Oh, Lord, not Taylor Swift. Not now. He wasn’t sure his heart could take it.
He reached to change the station, but as the words filled the cab—poignant words
about loss and regret—his hand hesitated. He imagined Caroline riding beside him, singing along, and pain roared through the gully in his heart like snowmelt rushing down the mountain, washing out everything in its path.
The song might be called “Back to December,” but there was no going back.
“Sorry to leave you hanging for a couple days, Ralph.” Mitch filled his thermos with coffee from the pot and glanced around the town office. “And with all that snow to clear.”
Ralph shrugged. “Jimmy pitched in. And Janice didn’t mind my working late. She said that Frank said your mom’s doing better?”
Mitch took a swig of coffee. Same as him, Ralph never called Frank “Pastor Frank” like most everyone else. He’d rather go a couple of rounds with a grizzly than darken the door of Moose Creek Community Church. But Janice was a faithful attender.
“I don’t know about better, but she’s home.”
“Lucky Bea found her when she did.”
The story had already spread through town. Mitch nodded, his mind struggling to focus, to shake off the image of his wife sitting beside him in the truck, singing along to the radio. He clenched his jaw. He had a lot of work to do, and it was time to get to it. He was lucky he’d been able to take Monday and Tuesday off, no questions asked.
He and Ralph pulled on their coats and left the office to step into the sunshine. Mitch squinted in the sudden brightness.
“You want to start north, and I’ll start south?” Ralph asked. “Meet in the middle?”
It was twelve degrees this morning, although temperatures were expected to rise to the upper forties by Friday. They needed to inspect all the town drains before the snow started melting. Clear any obstructions to avoid flooding.
“Sure.”
Ralph gave him a two-finger salute and headed toward one town truck as Mitch headed for the other. Before either of them reached their vehicles, a voice rang out through the crisp air.
“Yoo-hoo.”
Mitch froze. Funny how sound carried farther and more clearly when it was cold.
“Mitch, I was hoping I’d run into you.”
He spun to face the woman approaching him. Marge. He glanced over at Ralph, hoping he had gotten in his truck and would soon drive away, but no such luck. Ralph had stopped midstride and turned around to watch. Boy, oh boy.
Marge came closer and smiled. “I stopped by your house, and Jeremy said you were back at work today.”
Of course he had. And what else had Jeremy told her?
“I haven’t had a shift yet this week, but if I’d been at the hospital, I would’ve stopped by June’s room to check on everybody.” Marge fussed with her hair, which frizzed around her face and reminded him of dandelions. Always popping up everywhere no matter what you did to get them under control.
“Uh, yeah.” He didn’t need her checking in or stopping by. “Which department do you work in again?”
“Pediatrics. But I could’ve snuck over to see you.”
He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. “It’s probably good you didn’t have to make the drive to Ponderosa in the snow.”
“I wouldn’t have minded.” She gave him a steady look.
He looked away. “Well, I gotta—”
“I dropped off a pot of chili, but I wanted to see if there’s anything else you need.” Her smile grew bigger, if that was possible. “Such a scary incident with your mom. I bet you’re glad to be home.” She looked around, and her smile faltered. “Not that you’re home, I just mean, um . . .”
“Thanks.” He tried to return her smile and put her at ease. “That’s nice of you, but we’re fine.”
“Okay.” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them. Then clasped her hands behind her back. “I was just thinking that with everything going on, you probably haven’t given any more thought to your birthday party.”
“My birth—?” He could feel Ralph’s eyes on his back. “Oh, right. Well, it’s still weeks away.”
“Less than two weeks.”
He opened his mouth but darned if he wasn’t flat-out speechless.
“Anyway,” Marge continued, “I wanted to offer to make your cake.”
“My cake?”
“One less thing for you to worry about. German chocolate’s your favorite, right?”
A birthday cake was not on the list of things he was or had ever been worried about. But she just stood there, shifting from foot to foot, waiting for a response. It was almost endearing. Wait, how did she know his favorite . . . ?
“You don’t have to decide now. We’ll talk again later.” She turned to go. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
As she scurried off, Mitch clamped his lips together and pulled his keys from his pocket. What had just happened? Against his better judgment, he allowed his gaze to slip over to where Ralph stood. Ralph raised his eyebrows, made a show of looking in the direction Marge had gone, then climbed into his truck.
Oh, heck. It was a done deal now. Some kind of story about him and Marge would be all over town by the time he got home from work. And he had Jeremy to thank for it.
THIRTY
Mitch inched down Second Street at the end of the day, his mind on his mother and his daughter instead of the road. As he sang the melancholy words of “Desperado” along with Clint Black, he couldn’t help but think of Marge, as well. He was convinced he was fine on his own. Didn’t need anyone else in his life after losing the only person who was everything.
But that was what the desperado thought, too, and old Clint didn’t seem to think that was going to turn out so well.
A flash of movement caught Mitch’s eye, and he slammed on the brakes. A deer darted in front of his truck, pausing on the side of the road to stare at him a moment before bounding out of sight. His heart pounded. Deer wandered through town a lot this time of year, snitching apples that had fallen to the ground and leaving scat in everyone’s backyards. He needed to pay more attention. That was too close.
On full alert now, he noticed a Suburban parked in front of his house. He eyed it as he pulled the truck into the alley. Frank. What was he doing here?
Dusk softened the edges of the mountain as Mitch walked around the outside of the house. After Caroline died, the distance from the carport to the front door had grown with the distance between him and the last time she’d been here waiting for him. But as he reached the door this time, it struck him that the distance had shortened the past few weeks, not lengthened. Was it because his eyes had moved somewhat toward the future instead of just the past?
Frank was in the living room, sitting on the couch with his fingers laced behind his head.
“Who let you in?” Mitch tried to put a growl in his voice, but Frank was unfazed.
“Bea and Jeremy went for a walk. None of us knew how late you’d be working.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“I could’ve.”
Mitch hung up his jacket and keys and kicked off his boots. “You eat yet?”
“No.” Frank let his arms down and moved his hands to his knees. “But Dorothy would kill me if I had dinner with you. She’s waiting for me.”
“Then you better say whatever you came here to say so you can get home to her.” Mitch wanted to add something about how Frank didn’t know how lucky he was to have someone to go home to, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he had a feeling Frank did know.
Frank indicated the empty space next to him on the couch, and Mitch huffed. He chose the recliner across from the couch instead.
“Dorothy said that Barbara said that Ralph and MacGregor were talking about you and Marge at the store this afternoon.”
Mitch groaned. “I knew it. It’s all Jeremy’s fault.”
Frank’s forehead wrinkled. “Don’t see how that’s possible.”
“That’s why you’re here? Because of Marge?”
“No, I just wanted to mention it so I could see the look on your face.”
Mitch scowled. “How’s thi
s for a look?”
Frank laughed. “Marge is a wonderful lady, you know. There’s a lot more to her than you probably think.”
“What’d you really come here for?”
“To check on you. To see how you’re doing since bringing your parents home yesterday.”
With his left hand, Mitch massaged his right shoulder where it was tight from shoveling all day. He had appreciated it when Frank showed up at the hospital Sunday. He knew Frank cared. But he wasn’t too sure about all the checking up going on. First Marge, now Frank. And he wasn’t too sure how he felt about Frank acting like they hadn’t spent the last two years estranged.
“We’re hopeful Mom will be less disoriented now that her infection is under control. The doctor’s got her on supplements and antibiotics and a strict diet.”
“That’s good news. I’ll keep praying for her. But I asked how you are doing. And don’t say fine.”
“Oh, please.” Mitch leaned his head back on the chair. “Not this again.”
Frank leaned toward him. “Not what?”
Mitch stifled another groan. It was like déjà vu, Frank looking all concerned and trying to pull the truth out of him with his pastor voice about how not fine Mitch really was. When they’d gotten the news about Caroline . . .
Mitch scrubbed a hand over his face. It’d be a lot easier to get mad at Frank if he wasn’t so darn sincere about it all.
Frank softened his voice. “Am I not allowed to care about my best friend?”
“Well, how are you doing?”
Frank sat back.
Mitch shrugged. “I’ll tell you how I’m doing if you go first.”
“Okay.” Frank nodded. “That’s fair.”
“And don’t say fine.”
Frank chuckled.
Mitch waited.
Frank studied the floor.
Mitch raised his eyebrows. “It’s not so easy, is it?”
Frank clutched his knees with his fingers. “People usually jump at the chance to tell me about their problems, but no one ever wonders about mine.”
“I’m wondering now. How’s everything? How’s your family?”