Dreaming the Bear

by Mimi Thebo

  Now I can suddenly smell my way through the pines. The whole forest has become a scent-scape. I can smell the warm earth, the green, pealike odor of pushing plants. I can smell how each tree has its own resinous signature.

  I am looking, looking for something, for someone. With my nose. I am smelling trees and rocks and earth, looking for a molecule of scent; a slight trace that could become an inky flood of direction.

  And then I catch it. I catch it with a strong smell of oil and rubber. I follow the rubbery smell down a wide path with, increasingly, many small stones, to a wooden structure that smells of men.

  I wake up in the dark. I put on a fleece and my slippers and go downstairs.

  I know she’ll be there. I’m not at all surprised when I open the door.

  She gives me that Come here sound, and I do. She rubs her face on my neck and chest, and I pet her, rub her ears.

  She is hot. She is hot, and her eyes are runny, and she smells horrible.

  She’s really sick.

  I go into the cabin and get a big mixing bowl and fill it with water. She drinks it all, and I go into fill it again, and she drinks all that too. And then I go in again, and I give it to her again, and Dad is standing there on the porch.

  He doesn’t ask me any questions. He just stands there and watches me water my bear. It makes me a little clumsy to be watched like that, and I spill a little.

  She ignores him. She’s so thirsty.

  I stand next to her and look at Dad. I say, “She’s sick.”

  He says, “I think she’s dying.”

  It’s not like I didn’t know that already…but when Dad says it, it makes it real. I feel my knees quiver, and I sit down on the bottom step of the porch to watch her drink. She doesn’t really notice Dad is there. She lies down at my feet, and I stroke her face.

  I have tears running down the back of my throat. I’m choked with sadness.

  Dad says, “I have a feeling this is a long story.”

  I nod. I say, “I’ve been stupid.”

  “Are you the one who shot her shoulder?”

  I say, “No!” and she growls a little. I say, “No. She’s always been this way.” I look at her. I say, “She’s gotten a lot worse since she woke up.”

  Dad comes and sits by me, and she doesn’t even mind. He reaches out and strokes her head. He says, “Bears’ metabolisms slow right down when they’re hibernating. It probably slowed down the infection.”

  I look at him. I say, “I love her.”

  Dad puts his arm around me and holds me tight.

  He says, “She’s got blood poisoning, I think. Gangrene and sepsis is a horrible way to die.” There’s a moment when we both look at her. He says, “Sally said she was only using three legs.” He doesn’t come right out and say that nobody can make her better. He can tell I know that, that I’ve kind of known that all along.

  I also know what he thinks I should do. I say, “I don’t want to call the rangers. They’ll be all gung-ho. They’ll scare her.”

  Dad puts his arms around his knees and thinks. I love how Dad can think like that, with people watching. He thinks for a long time, and I lean against him. She’s not asleep, but she’s close to it. I can feel her pain almost like another person with us.

  Finally, Dad says, “Do you feel responsible for this bear?”

  I nod miserably. I say, “I fed her.” It makes me choke a little to talk, and I’m not sure he can hear me. “I didn’t know how stupid it was, but I fed her. I think that’s why she came to me now. She’s hungry. I…could kind of feel her being hungry….”

  I don’t want to go into the whole leaving-my-body thing. There are some things you really shouldn’t tell your parents. I don’t think Dad would ever be able to sleep again if he knew I’d been dancing between life and death. The bear thing is bad enough.

  His face is hard to read. He stands up, and she opens her eyes and looks at him in a kind of careful way. It reminds me that she’s still got those claws and teeth and is still strong enough to use them.

  Dad looks down at his feet, almost like he’s bowing to her. I can hardly see his face in the shadows. I’ve got no idea what he’s thinking.

  Then he slowly backs into the cabin. Lights go on, and I hear him moving around. The bear loses interest in the cabin and its sounds.

  She looks far away. I wonder if she’s leaving her body, too. I wonder if that’s what happened to us. We both kept leaving, and we got mixed up when we came back.

  I can’t stop touching the fur on her head. Even though she’s hot and it’s greasy. It’s all kind of a miracle.

  When Dad finally comes out again, he has got my boots and overalls and coat. He’s already dressed.

  He has also got a rifle.

  I say, “You aren’t going to shoot her, are you?”

  “No,” he says. “You are.”

  —

  The problem is, she doesn’t want to go anywhere.

  It’s only when I remember the cantaloupes that I get her to her feet. There are four left. I stuff the other three down my coat and hold one out to her. She lumbers to her feet and follows me. She’s using all four legs, but she’s limping badly.

  It’s so bizarre, leading a bear through the woods. With a cantaloupe. With my dad.

  The stars are bright, and there’s zillions and zillions of them. There are stars you’d never see anyplace else but in the wilderness. The pine trees are exhaling, and the smell is rich and clean at the same time.

  I’m walking with my dad and an actual grizzly bear, through the woods, in the night. Every once in a while, I actually think about what we’re doing, and I get this little bubble of…of pure life…that just comes up in me.

  We go along the trail, and when she looks like she wants to stop, I bowl her a melon.

  The bear is having fun, too, I can tell. It’s something about being with me, about not being alone anymore. It’s not just the food or the water. I don’t know how I know, but I know.

  “She’s still pretty fast,” Dad says, starting to jog a little. “I’d rather wait until we get over into the national forest to shoot her.” He looks back. “And I’d rather we didn’t actually get mauled before we do.”

  I say, “I don’t think she’d ever hurt me.”

  He says, “I’m kind of depending on you being right about that.”

  Dad feels the life bubbling up, too. It’s sad and it’s illegal, and it’s utterly mad, but my dad is enjoying it. I look back at the bear. I remember when I was the weak one and she was the strong one.

  Now, I have my tablet and can jog along like this and still breathe. And my bear is really sick and hurting. Suddenly, I can feel how badly she’s hurting. I look back, and she’s only using three of her paws.

  I say, “I’m going to give her another melon.”

  I have two left, and they’re bouncing around all over my chest, banging in and out as I run. I’ve decided I don’t want big boobs anymore if this is what it’s like.

  Bear eats this one fast. Her breath is coming hard. I tell Dad we have to slow down a little. She’s got some of that foamy stuff going on around her mouth.

  He says, “Not far now.”

  There’s no line or fence or anything. When we get there, Dad just knows where we are. He leads us to a big meadow. It seems warmer here than in the pines. I can still see hundreds of stars in the lightening sky, little silver fairy lights in the pale gray ceiling. The new grass smells strong and fresh.

  I feed Bear the last cantaloupe. She licks up every little bit and then comes and sniffs at my chest.

  “No more,” I say, and open my coat and fleece.

  She sniffs my top, and I pull that up too. And then she sniffs my tummy and licks it with her rough tongue. I laugh and pull down my shirt.

  Satisfied that there’s no more melons, Bear flops down on her bad side. Dad stays a little bit away, but she keeps on ignoring him. I don’t know why. Maybe he smells like me. She’s just not interested.
/>   She raises her good arm and calls for me, and I can’t help it. I have to go to her.

  Dad makes a kind of strangled protest when I lie down and slide into the bear’s arms. I’m too far away to see his face, but even from there, I can see his hands shaking. But there’s nothing he can do to stop me, and there’s nothing I can do about it either. I’ve already made my choice here.

  The bear reaches out and pulls me into her body, and I lie in her arms.

  She is terribly hot, and her bad arm smells worse than it ever has before. I can feel her sigh. I tuck my head down, and she rests hers above it. She holds me so gently. Even though I can kind of feel her claws through my coat, I’m not at all afraid.

  I think of all the times we’ve been together. How she saved my life. How I tried to save hers.

  She moans a little, but I know she is asleep. I can feel the rhythm of her breath against my own ribs. She’s gone dreaming. Perhaps she’s floated free of her body. She might be looking down at me right now. I turn a little and look up at the sky, pretending I am looking back at her.

  I want to stay forever. I know, in a way, I will always be here, lying in the arms of this bear.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Darcy,” Dad says. It’s all he has to say. There’s a whole lot he puts into my name. He’s got new feelings about me. He’s also terrified.

  I open my eyes and slide out from her paw.

  Dad holds his arms open wide, and I go from the bear holding me to my dad holding me. He seems, for the first time in my life, little. It wasn’t just his hands—I can feel his whole body trembling.

  I suddenly realize it has been really brave of him, letting me do this. Letting me lure a bear with food and cuddle a full-grown grizzly. That he has…trusted me.

  And I haven’t cried all this time, but this thought makes tears come out of my eyes.

  When he lets me go, he hands me the gun. He says, “The safety is off.” He points to a place on his own head. He says, “Don’t put it against her, but shoot her here. She’ll die straightaway.”

  I start to walk toward her, but he stops me. He gets out his radio and turns it on. He sends out a call, asking if anyone can hear him. He says we’re just across the line in the Gallatin, stargazing, and that we’re being followed by a female grizzly. He says she’s limping and that she’s exhibiting aggressive behavior. He turns the radio off again, without waiting for an answer. He says, “Now.”

  It’s only a few steps from Dad to the bear, but it feels like it takes me years to walk it.

  The gun is cold and heavy. I have to hold it high or it will drag on the ground, because I’m so small. I’m too small, part of me thinks. I’m too little to do something like this. I should ask Dad to do it.

  But then I think Dad has done enough killing.

  I know I can’t do this. But I have to do it anyway.

  I stand and look at her for a second. And then I put the rifle against my shoulder, and about four feet away, making sure I don’t pull to the left, I pull the trigger.

  The noise is deafening. I bend over her, and you can hardly see where it went in. But below her head is a spreading dark puddle. You’ll be able to see where it went out.

  All the air in her lungs comes out of her mouth in a big whoosh, and I breathe it in. I don’t mean to, but I do. I was breathing in anyway, and it just comes into me.

  I hold my breath. I hold her inside me. I can feel it, so warm.

  And then I breathe her out, free, into the cold night sky.

  She was so beautiful. She was so very, very beautiful.

  Dad is there. He gives me a can of pepper spray and tells me what to do. Then we sit down in the grass, and he tells me what to say. Over and over, he tells me what to say.

  My eyes are leaking, and he keeps holding on to me, but I can’t really feel his cuddle. I can’t really feel anything.

  He turns the radio back on. And we start walking back to tell Dad’s story.

  We were stargazing, we say. Dad carried the rifle because we were going into the national forest, and, like many of the men here, he always carries it when it’s not illegal. We were lying back in the grass, looking at the stars, when a grizzly came right for us. We tried to get away, and we thought we had. That’s when Dad turned on the radio. But she heard that and came after us, so Dad turned the radio off. I’d been holding the pepper spray while Dad used the radio, and I sprayed her, but she was so desperate, it didn’t stop her. So Dad shot her. She was almost on us when he shot her.

  That’s what we say. We say it over and over and over and over at Cooke City, as the sun comes up. Then this young woman in a suit comes running in and says the Yellowstone rangers found tracks, and that they think the bear followed us from our cabin, that she was stalking us.

  Her radio crackles, and she talks on it to the Yellowstone rangers. I worry that they’re going to say something about finding bits of cantaloupe. I wonder if we remembered to put away the big bowl I used to water her. I look down at the Velcro around my wrists to make sure we got all the fur out of it.

  But nothing like that happens. They stop questioning us, and we sign a few forms and go home.

  —

  Mum is utterly horrified.

  Jem has taken off another school day and stayed with Mum. He hasn’t told her anything. When we get home, she thinks we’ve been attacked by a bear.

  Finally, even though it’s only about eleven in the morning, Dad chills and then opens a bottle of white wine. He makes about a hundred big toasted cheese sandwiches and opens one of those huge bags of potato chips, and we sit and drink white wine and tell Mum what really happened.

  Then she’s even more horrified.

  I start from the beginning and tell the whole story. Mum keeps telling me how stupid I was and how lucky I am to be alive. When the bit about the elk’s spine breaking comes, she makes a face like she’s about to vomit.

  But Dad’s really into the whole thing. He laughs so hard when I tell him about the bolt shooting out of the tree and me slamming into the cliff face that he spits bits of sandwich everywhere.

  He puts another bottle of wine in the fridge, even though Mum tells him off.

  Before Dad opens that, we all go down to the cliff with the climbing bag and some other stuff. Dad and Jem use a fallen tree as a lever and roll the big one Jem had cut down away from the ledge. Dad goes up and rescues his pulley and rope and what’s left of the big plastic storage box and the carrot bag. He also inspects and tidies up the bolts, which he says he’ll leave. He says the cliff will make a good climbing gym, and he’s right. There’s loads of handholds and footholds now that all the snow is gone.

  Mum goes around the side and buries the bear poo. And that’s my mum all over. She’s still muttering to herself about what I’ve done. But she deals with it.

  I say, “By the way, that hat you’re wearing?”

  She looks at me, eyes narrowed under the band of the lilac hat. She says, “Yes?”

  I say, “I cuddled the bear wearing that. And I wet my pants when I was wearing it. And I haven’t washed it.”

  She shrieks and pulls it off her head, and it almost lands in the bear poo.

  She tells us she hates us all, and we laugh so hard I have to sit down on my rock and gasp. I watch her while she fiddles about with dirt and dead pine needles, trying to hide the poo burial artistically. Dad and Jem are messing around on the cliff, arguing about routes up. I close my eyes for a moment, and let the sun come through my eyelids.

  —

  When we get back, we have showers, and then Mum makes chicken samosas, and she and Dad and Jem drink the other bottle of white wine. We carry the table out onto the porch and eat out there. It’s a really special day. We finish off my cupcakes and drink pot after pot of tea.

  Mum keeps giving out these little screams whenever she thinks of me in the cave with a wounded grizzly. Dad roars with laughter when she does it. He’s a bit like a bear himself. I’m surprised I never noticed.r />
  Then people start coming by, bringing us food. Tony’s family. Nancy and her husband. Sally. A couple of rangers. The guy who taught me bear awareness.

  This is what the gung-ho nutcases do when something like this happens. Mum told me it was a bit like this when I first went into hospital. They had about fifty casseroles delivered. Their whole social life, she said, seems to revolve around helping one another survive.

  She sounds cross when she says it, but I can tell she’s happy that they are starting to fit into the life of the park.

  Everybody brings a bottle of wine or something to eat. People are all over the house, sitting on the canoe, the porch railing, the sofa, the floor. The table on the porch is groaning. Mum keeps bringing things out. It’s like the parties you have after a funeral. People tell bear stories. Sally tells her story about twenty times. She’s excited by the whole thing.

  Jem has already had two glasses of wine. Dad winks and pours me a tiny one, but I don’t really drink it. I don’t think it would do well with my medication.

  Suddenly, I feel really, really sad. For me, it really is like a party after a funeral. And I can’t join in with the laughing and joking.

  Dad comes over and puts his arms around me. He whispers into my ear. He says, “She couldn’t have lived, sweetie. You saved her a lot of suffering.”

  I know he’s right.

  But still.

  —

  Jem and Tony and I walk down to the base of the cliff, and we tell him the real story. The way Tony’s eyes are shining at me, I wish Jem would leave us alone together. But he doesn’t.

  Oh, well, I think. There’s always August.

  And Christmas.

  And Easter.

  We get a moment, walking back, when he takes my hand and squeezes it. “You did the right thing.”

  I can feel my heart pounding hot in my chest.

  I say, “Well, it was stupid feeding her in the first place.”

  Tony grins. “Well, yeah,” he says, and bumps his shoulder into mine. “Really stupid.”