Chapter 32
Maggie
Bridget anxiously awaited our return to the ranch. My sister held out her frail hands to me and I could see that she’d bitten what was left of her fingernails down to the quick. We hugged. We cried. We hugged again. Aside from in the emergency shelter at the Veterans Building, this was the most prolonged physical contact we’d shared in years.
Marcus headed out to walk the property on the semi-pretense of checking the fence line for any further storm damage. Luna busied herself scraping playdough off the kitchen table, picking up Legos from the floor. Her kids were still in school at that hour. They’d been sleeping at the ranch with their mother so that Bridget was never alone in her hours of grief. Bobby’s caps and jackets hung by the door as if he might saunter back in at any moment.
“You’ve seen her?” Bridget asked, nervously. She looked like she hadn’t showered in days, her freshly sprouting hair, uncovered, unwashed.
“Yes.”
“But she’s not comin’ home?”
“Not for a while.” After I sat my sister down I made tea for the three of us women. I think it was Virginia Woolf who wrote of the shelter of a common femininity. It came to mind.
“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Luna said, standing beside my sister, her arms full with the box of toys. Bridget took her by the elbow and urged her to stay. “Sit here a while longer, Luna,” she said. “You and the kids, you’re a part of this family now.”
We looked around the table at one another, three women facing an unknown future. It was difficult to know where to begin. “There’s so much I have to tell you, Bridget,” I said.
I described Grace Place, without giving away any details of its location, keeping my word. “Mia’s safe and she’s well cared for,” I said. “Don’t freak out, Bridget, but you need to know that she’s pregnant. Mia’s expecting a baby, a boy. She’s due four months from now — July.”
“Mia? Pregnant. No, this can’t be happenin’,” Bridget cried. “Jesus Christ, can things get any worse for us? All of it, it’s my fault, I pushed her away, I failed her,” she sobbed. “My baby girl.”
“Hush, now, Bridget,” I urged. “Mia’s surprisingly strong, she’s in good hands. She’s alive. It’s where we go from here that’s going to matter.”
“A baby’s not a death sentence, Bridget,” Luna reassured, smoothing the colorful dress she wore over a pair of black leggings, a pair of big, blue Doc Martens boots on her feet. “Look at us, single mothers both. It happens.”
“Not like this,” Bridget said. “My teenage daughter. Raped.” I kept calm and made more tea, picturing Mia as I had seen her, in control of herself, protective of her child. I followed her lead.
“We’re all here for her,” I said. “That’s more than either of you had when your babies were born.” It was time to introduce the concept of a possible adoption. An open adoption. Bridget raised her arms in the air and flew into a fit.
“Am I not her mother? Jesus Christ. I get to have a say in this.”
“She wants to see you soon, Bridget, not immediately, but soon. There’s much to work out. The good thing is that Mia has support and options. Nothing will be decided until you’ve talked it all through. We’ll press on through this together, I promise.”
Luna said her goodbyes as she left for school. She packed the trunk of her car with a bag full of her family’s clothing. They were headed back to their cute little cottage rental on the ranch they’d made their home. Bridget started telling me how she had begun to figure out Bobby’s immediate affairs.
“Isn’t it a bit soon?” I asked.
“Someone has to do it,” she said. “Might as well be now.”
“And?”
“Unbeknownst to me,” she explained, “Bobby kept a handwritten will in the safe at the roadhouse. Angelina came to see me. Turns out he had some family money tied up, not much, but it’s enough for my basic needs.”
Bridget described how Bobby had squirreled away a small inheritance from his family’s property.
“Angelina, she hid it for him as an investment in the roadhouse so his ex wouldn’t get wind of it. I don’t suppose he’d ever have asked Angelina to buy him out,” she said. “The roadhouse was his livelihood, mine too for a long time.”
“Is she okay to pay you out?” I asked.
“She didn’t have to tell me, Maggie,” Bridget said. “Who would have known? Angelina’s a good soul, she and his brother are as honest as anyone. She handed me Bobby’s will and offered up the money in long-term payments.”
At least one of us had taken it upon ourselves to have the good sense to stash some cash. I had a new respect for Bobby and his simple ways. Bridget took a breath. “It’s enough for me to be able to leave here, Maggie. The ranch. I’m done. It’s your turn, now.”
I choked on my second mug of tea. “What the fuck? Slow down. Let’s talk about this in a month or two, Bridget. Where on earth would you go?”
“Someplace in town, I’m not fussy, closer to the dispensary,” she replied, she had it all figured out. “I don’t need much and with Bobby’s money I’ll be able to afford to rent a small apartment plus a share workspace in a commercial kitchen. It’s what I want to do, what I need to do.”
“Wow,” I said, lost for words. “That’s a whole lot of thinking you’ve done this past week.”
“All I ask is you make room for Mia.”
“Of course,” I said. “This is her place, too.” I fixed us a small supper of chicken quesadillas from a bunch of Luna’s leftovers in the fridge. Marcus was a reassuring presence at the table. The three of us sat together in the dwindling light. Bridget was spent. Her voice was wrung of its old spirit, her eyes glazed over. She nibbled at her food, excused herself and slwly made her way upstairs to bed.
“Bridget — would you believe, thinks it’s time for me to take over this downtrodden old place,” I told Marcus, when I was sure my sister was asleep. “What’s left of it, that is.”
“And you, what do you want?” Marcus asked. He was sitting beside me on the couch. “Do you see yourself staying on here, Maggie?”
“It has some potential, you said as much yourself — the barn at least.” I smiled, pinching his forearm. “Besides, I’ve got no place else to go.”
Marcus leaned in closer, tracing the lines of my wrist with his finger as he’d done the morning after we’d first made love. “Don’t make that your reason to stay,” he said. “If you take it on, weather-beaten as it is, the mildew and rot, you’re gonna have to embrace it with your whole heart, make something of it, breathe new life into this tough, ol’ McCleery legacy.”
Bridget was clearly done with the past, the present and the future of this damp and lonesome place. I could hardly blame her, could I? Where did that leave me?
“Grab a jacket,” Marcus said. We walked out under the stars of a clear and peaceful night sky and into the old milking barn where he settled himself on the edge of the cold remnant of a concrete milking stall, motioning for me to sit beside him. He is comfortable here on the ranch and it’s evident. Together, under the one remaining flickering florescent overhead light, we attempted to absorb the scope and potential of the space and more indirectly, each other. Bat wings flapped in the shadows of the high rafters.
“It’s coming, Maggie, whether people like it or not, the end of cannabis prohibition,” Marcus said. “If you don’t seize the opportunity to do it right, then others surely will.”
“Isn’t that jumping on the bandwagon?” I asked. “I’m tired of the latest and greatest.”
“Think about it,” he said. “First it was potatoes, then it was wheat, eggs, dairy and later on, grapevines . . . if you follow the path of progress out here on the Pacific ranchlands you’ll put your stake in the ground. If you do it by the books and you are smart and educated and experienced enough to do so, you have every right to stand shoulder to shoulder with those who’ve fought to make growing cannabis legal in this county.”
<
br /> He spoke of the pros and the cons of capitalizing the property given that we have an abundance of groundwater out here on the ranch, an essential commodity for any environmentally ethical medical cannabis production.
“Water is king,” Marcus said, sharing some of his basic geological knowledge of underground water learned from his years of working outdoors. “There’s a ton of water stored here in the cracks and spaces of soil, sand and rock,” he explained. “What you have here on the ranch is known as aquifers,” he said. “Basically — liquid gold. You can’t go into an enterprise like this without water.”
“If we were to plant more of the high-grade, boutique weed that Bridget cooks with, then I’ll have to get up to speed in learning how to breed and crossbreed plants,” I said.
“We’re at a turning point in modern medicinal history, Maggie,” Marcus continued. “The county is in the process of rolling out its permitting rules. We’re talking best land management practices, legal compliance — it’s your family’s land, Maggie, your water, it’s agriculturally zoned, it sits on more than ten acres and you have no neighbors close enough to be impacted. You do as you see best, but this is a viable option for sure if you decide to give it a go.”
“But don’t you think we’ve had more than enough of what can go so badly wrong?” I asked. “I mean, look at the state of us, my family, all that’s happened this past six months?”
“It’s the black market that legalization and zoning will eventually do away with, ideally,” he replied. “No more raids, no more trafficking, it’s time to figure out how to curtail the mayhem.”
I’m thinking it through. It remains to be seen what will transpire over time. It certainly would be a hell of a decision for me to go down this wild, crazy, still largely uncharted road, even if it is legal. I’m going to have to do a lot of research and sit down to discuss it with my sister when the time’s right, Mia, too — there’s no way I’m about to go full throttle with an idea like this without their consent. It’s equal part their ranch, when all’s said and done. And who’s to say how long this crazy green rush will last?
“Aside from all that, first things first, please say your work will let you stick around long enough to help me haul the bulk of the crappy old furniture outdoors and into the barn?” I begged. “If Bridget chooses to take any of it with her after she finds a place, she’s more than welcome to sort through it and I’ll gladly get rid of the rest.”
I was more than a little giddy at the thought of liberating the old place, stripping it of its heavy haul of relics, finally releasing its ghosts. I’m happy that my sister gets to reinvent herself after all those years of self-sacrifice. If I’m to live here, I will have to make peace with the place, turn it into my idea of a home for Little Honey Momma and me. Maybe, if things work out like I hope they will, Marcus and the new puppy will move in with us, give living together a shot. Together, we’d set about stripping the house to its bare bones, inside and out, slowly, over time. I guess what I do have is nothing but time right now and an evolving picture in my mind of how I might transform the place, carefully and thoughtfully. It will have to be a frugal effort at the start.
Later that evening, I slipped my hand beneath the layers of clothing in Mia’s dresser. I found what I was looking for, the small, velvet pouch that held my platinum wedding band and diamond engagement ring, the pair of diamond stud earrings I’d switched out for Mia’s silver hoops and the Rolex watch Andres had gifted me in what felt like entirely different life. I figured these last remaining material fragments of my marital legacy would, hopefully, afford me at least the basic materials for the most urgent of renovations. It’s amazing what a coat of white paint can do to a place. I can’t wait to rip out the smelly old rugs and curling linoleum, to sand and refinish the original hardwood floors I know are under there somewhere. I’m thinking modern country farmhouse, paired down, sunny and light filled. Mia won’t recognize the place and I think that’s a good thing — when she’s good and ready that is. And who knows, she may never want to move back in. I hope now that she understands how important she is to me and to her mom, to our family such that it is and she may then allow us to help her make her own best choice of what comes next in her life.
~ Marcus volunteered to help Bridget pack up Bobby’s clothes and modest possessions before it was time for him to head back to his work after an extended hiatus cleared by his boss given the circumstances of his best friend’s sudden death. “Save Bridget the added sorrow of doing it alone,” he said as we stood together, arm in arm looking out into the darkness of the empty ranchland, its possibilities and its never-ending needs. To think it was all so late in the game. I’d given up on the idea of happiness and home and then there was this. I’m taking it day by day. I don’t dare to do otherwise.
I flung open the windows and doors to a greet second day of clear, impossibly blue, cloudless sky, the clean scent of freshly laundered sheets, the first of my efforts, carried outside to hang on a clothesline Marcus had rigged up at my request between two of the old eucalyptus trees. Spring would follow soon. I could almost smell its bounty of wildflowers and whispers of warmer days ahead.
I thought of the city, of how it hummed on, endlessly as it went about its usual business, it’s bright lights and all of its promise and potential and noise continuing on without me. Do we miss each other, the city and me, the modern world? I think not. Barefaced and hopeful, I hung the blue dress I’d yet to wear in the open door frame to air in the ocean breeze.
“Where to start?” I wondered as I took it all in, the peeling wallpaper, worn rugs . . . I rolled up my sleeves and made a start with removing the cuckoo clock from the kitchen wall.
Here we are, Marcus and me, two of the most unlikely people to connect and yet each of us seeing something worth loving in the other. It’s OK for life to be messy, as he said and I’m finally learning.
“Are you in?” I asked, “as in making this home?” What do I have to offer him except a falling down farmhouse, two dogs and the reclaimed wreck of myself?
Without a second’s pause, he stood behind me, wrapped his arms around me and, after turning me around, he looked me in the eyes and replied: “Hell yes. I’m in. I’ve been in from the start. But first we’ll have to fix that roof.”
Author’s Note
Big Green Country is a work of fiction with its strong sense of place being one of the main characters. I hope through my writing, to take you by the hand and lead you through this lesser traveled part of Northern California so that you may experience the redwoods and rugged coastal terrain as we explore the importance of family, how bonds can be lost and found and what endures. Many of the locations within this story do exist, though others are fictional creations set within the geography of the region. The McCleery farmhouse, for example, is a reimagined Victorian ranch home based on multiple historic structures that have survived along the seacoast of Sonoma and Marin counties. Many of its architectural details I derived from original photographs viewed in the Sonoma County History Archives. The Daniel Boone Roadhouse was modeled, in part, on Marin County’s oldest saloon, The William Tell House. A Bloom of One’s Own is a fictional blend of contemporary dispensaries located throughout the United States, though this one is firmly rooted in Sonoma County with its Victorian architectural heritage, succulentfilled front porch and West Country vibe. The Russian River Resort Cabins and Cottage is an imagined redwood oasis in the forest based on several rustic places I have stayed in along the California coast. All of the homes and the compounds I describe throughout this story are fictional places, including Grace Place. Old Six Mile House, the roadhouse outside of Fortuna exists only in my mind, though readers may recognize many aspects of this Western watering hole in any number of old-time saloons.
All of the characters and incidents in this story are imaginary and scenes such as the one in the evacuation center at the real Veteran’s Memorial Building in Santa Rosa I made up. Any similarity between them and living or decea
sed people or real incidents is unintentional and coincidental. And, no, none of the characters in this story are me or based on anyone I know. Any inaccuracies in specifics of health, plant, production, operation and safety processes are my own. It only takes around six inches of water to sweep a person off his/her feet and a mere one to two feet of water to float a vehicle off its wheels. Drivers must always heed warnings about low water crossings and never make an attempt to cross a flooded highway. Wearing seat belts increases the chance of surviving a vehicular crash into water. Drivers are advised to research and rehearse emergency escape and survival procedures according to vehicle make and model and have rescue/escape tools readily available to self-extricate before a vehicle begins to sink.
Human trafficking is an epidemic of modern-day slavery. It takes the form of any sort of commercial sex act or labor or services brought about through force, fraud or coercion, whether or not the victim is moved from one place or another. Those who traffic humans do not exclusively target young women like Mia and Jazmin. Men, women and children of all ages are victims of this heinous crime in its many forms. Selfdesignated, self-funded programs such as the one depicted at fictional Grace Place provide round-the-clock access to safety geared specifically to women like the ones in this story. Sadly, there are not nearly enough regional emergency and transitional housing options for victims such as Mia and Jazmin, those who escape the hidden horrors of captivity in Northern California and other rural outposts. Farming environments hide the highest number of victims of human trafficking, with unpermitted cannabis farming leading the pack. Most federally funded resources for victims of human trafficking are funneled into large, urban areas, big cities. More must be done. Though dedicated people such as fictional characters Kate and Jo are taking great strides to help women like Mia and Jazmin access services after initial rehabilitation through networks of social service organizations, it’s not enough. For more information on this crisis and how to be better informed, see humantrafficking.org. If you suspect someone is a victim of human trafficking call the National Human Trafficking Hotline 1 (888) 373-7888.
Big Green Country Page 39