“I’m getting out of here. Are you with me, or not?”
“Of course we are.” I push my feet into boots that haven’t dried completely. “But which way?”
Her gaze swings around on me, ready to fight, then she crumbles, tears flowing. “I don’t know.”
There aren’t even our own footprints to retrace. We’re alone in a wilderness washed clean of our existence.
“We were headed this way.” Ireland points behind me. “I’m sure Glenda had a reason. Pack up. Let’s go. We’ll look for a way to get back up the hill, then we’ll find the path. That should get us right back to the truck. I saw her leave the keys under the seat. Get to the truck, and we’re good.”
My stomach growls. We haven’t eaten anything since Ireland’s granola bar. It was disgusting, but I ate every crumb. “How are we for food?”
Vicky rubs her hands together. She seems calmed by the question. I need to remember that. “I’ve inventoried everything we have.” She flips open her notepad, wrinkled along the edges. “There’s enough beans and jerky for two or three more meals.”
“Jerky. Where?”
Vicky points to Glenda’s pack.
The meat is salty and harsh, but I chew until my teeth ache. There’s not a lot here, but more than Glenda let on. We repackage every item into our three packs, leaving Glenda’s well-worn backpack over the top of her grave, a marker for the authorities. Nothing else gets left—except our leader.
After two hours, my stomach is screaming again. I watch Ireland ahead of me, eating away at another granola bar. She must sense me, because she looks back. “You okay?”
“I’m good.” I force a smile to confirm my lie. My feet are on fire. The dampness acts like sandpaper, peeling away any skin I had left. Every step is agony. “If we can’t make it to the truck tonight, and we all know we can’t, we need to stop soon.”
“Stopping is not an option,” Vicky says from behind me.
Ireland halts. “Neither is freezing or being eaten by bears.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vicky’s eye has swollen almost closed, making her look like she’s winking with an angry face.
Ireland takes one of her calming breaths. “How long do you think it will take us to make a fire?”
I drop my arms limp at my sides. Fire? We’ll never be able to do this. Vicky leans toward a tree, peeling moss from its side. She stuffs it in her pocket. “The book gives a few other methods too. If we each try a technique, certainly one of us will be able to produce a little fire.”
I can’t help but smile. She’s back, and so is that over-the-top determination that comforted me so many times in college. “You’re right. We can do this.”
Ireland’s mouth doesn’t move, but there’s a hint of a twinkle in her eyes.
The forest seems to close in on us. I let Vicky pass me—favoring her less damaged leg—and set my pack on the carpet of needles. Untying my sweatshirt, I rub it between my hands and pull it on over my head. Before starting again, I fill my own pockets with fir needles. I’m not ready to die. Not like this.
A shadow scoops down from one of the trees. Vicky squats, holding her hands over her head. Right in front of us, an enormous owl glides down and slides effortlessly onto another tree’s branch.
“Wow. Did you see that?” I tap Vicky’s shoulder.
She brings her arms down and stands. “What was it?”
“A Northern spotted owl.” Ireland’s gaze remains on the bird. “They’re on the list of threatened animals.”
“It’s so graceful.” My mind is swimming. I’m in the worst agony of my life, and I carried triplets for thirty-four weeks. At the same time, my chest is filled with gratitude. Somehow I just can’t believe God allowed me to see such an amazing creature so close I could see the individual feathers on its wings.
“Do they attack?” Vicky asks.
Ireland laughs. “No. That owl is not after us.”
Seeing Ireland’s smile renews me. God won’t let us down. Not here. Not now that we’re back together again. Lord, please help us. We’re in a big old mess. It’s been too long since I just spoke my heart to God. Too long.
“How about here?” Ireland plants her hands on her hips.
We’ve been trudging through the dense trees for a couple hours and this is the first place that could be considered a clearing. Small, but there is an area to make a fire. I look up into the trees. No cougar … yet.
Vicky flings down her bag and pulls out her tattered survival manual. “Let’s get to work on a fire.”
IRELAND
The circle of rocks surround our teepee of sticks, waiting on a flame. As the sun edges toward the horizon, the temperature drops, giving our task increased motivation. I should know how to start a fire. I’m the one who actually cares what happens to this planet, the one who’s been working her whole adult life to save places like this. But saving nature and surviving in it are two very different things. We are not saviors in this wilderness. We’re intruders.
Here, I’m like everyone else. My flesh loves convenience. I miss my ductless unit I may secretly use for the indulgence of air conditioning on extremely hot days. Sometimes I stash my guilt for comfort. Are these compromises the reason the Earth I’ve tried to save will rise up and murder me?
Vicky has her book out again. She’s been throwing orders since before she even took her pack off. It’s hard to take her seriously when she has to look sideways at the pages since one eye has disappeared behind a wall of swollen black and blue skin.
I build our shelter while they each try to produce a flame. The tarp has a rip in one side. I can’t apply much tension without shredding the material. When I’m done, I pull some brush underneath to form a bed and extra warmth. I don’t think it will matter how comfortable we are tonight. After two nights without sleep, my body doesn’t care about anything but food and rest.
There are three granola bars left in my pack. Three. That’s one for each of us, or three for me. Every ounce of my being wants to gobble all of them while Jenna and Vicky are turned the other way.
“If you’re done over there, we could use your help.” I think Vicky can hear my evil thoughts. Maybe that’s what I get for camping with Little Miss Godly.
“Sure.” I tuck the bars deep into my bag, covering them with my extra socks that are already so filthy they’d stand on their own. “What can I do?”
“Jenna’s fire teepee is too big. The book says we need a small door. The way she’s built that thing we’ll never keep the flame going.”
I catch Jenna’s scowl, but her hands never stop twisting the stick between her palms.
“All right. You’re the boss.” I cringe at how sarcastic my words sound, but I don’t look at Vicky to see her put-love-into-the-world response. Rearranging the sticks and needles, I make the should-be fire pit smaller, tighter. But I don’t hold out much hope for a flame. What happens if we’re here through the night without fire? I’m not so concerned about the cold. It’s the animals.
“I’ve got it.” Jenna’s voice strikes me with its intensity. “Look.”
Smoke curls from her bundle of tinder, rising like prayers to the universe. She lifts the wood block, cups her hand around the needles, like Glenda did, and blows. The smoke fades. She blows lighter and it thickens, then there it is, a tiny flame.
With shaking hands, Jenna slides her treasure into the teepee of sticks.
“Careful.” Vick nudges close. “You need to keep blowing.” She shoulders Jenna to the side.
“Back off.” The words hold more power than Jenna has possessed since our reunion. “If you want to control the fire, you start it.”
“Well. I was just trying to help.” Vicky stands up, one heel dug into the ground. She folds her arms tight across her chest.
“You know what?” Jenna stretches to her full not-so-tall height. “You’re not the only one who can do things. I did that. I made that fire, and I don’t want to hear what you think about it.�
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My gaze shifts to the sticks. There’s not much happening.
“That’s gratitude.” Vicky’s one eye blazes.
But the fire isn’t catching. “Um.”
They both turn on me.
“Never mind.” I squat down and blow into the embers, while their terse words fly back and forth over me. A flame jumps to life. It spreads across the needle bed and onto a small stick then climbs the teepee, crackling and snapping. I sit back and warm my hands. I may get none of the credit for this little miracle, but I’m getting all the warmth.
There’s silence behind me.
“We did it,” Jenna says. Her generosity with the praise is shocking, but I’m not going to argue. “I can’t believe we actually did it.”
“You did it.” I stand. “Good job.”
The day is almost over, and we’ve accomplished fire. Fire, and a burial. Under the circumstances, that’s better than I expected.
VICKY
“We have no water left.” I lick my lips. They’re desert dry and starting to crack. The lipstick slides over them like thick paint on an over-textured wall. The smoke from the fire burns my throat, and I can only see a slit from one eye.
“How much is left?” Ireland asks.
I claw my broken fingernails into my sticky hair. “None.”
Tears start to roll down Jenna’s face, leaving trails along her dirty cheeks.
“We just need to find that waterfall.” Ireland throws another stick on the fire.
“How will we cook the beans?” Jenna rubs her hands up and down her arms. “We can’t live very long without water. We need to do something. What does the book say?”
I hold the pages close to the fire for light. A section breaks free and drops into the flames. Without thinking, I reach in and pull them out. Dropping paper onto the dirt, I stomp the fire out of them. But there’s not much left. Only corners, ashes, and disappointment.
“Are you okay?” Jenna’s jumped back a few paces.
I look at my hand. Realization comes with heat. Two of my fingers are red. One begins to blister. The ground moves underneath me, and I sway with the motion. Jenna and Ireland ease me onto a rock where I give up and crumble into my nagging emotions.
“We can’t do this. We’re going to die out here. They’ll find our picked bones in a year or two. That woman who used to be on television. God didn’t protect her. That will be my legacy. The final word from my ministry.”
Tears flow, and all I can think is how I can’t spare the water. My fingers throb and burn. I run them through my warm tears then hold them over my head. “God, please help us.”
I haven’t been this desperate for him in so many years. Will he remember me now, or will he give me a dose of my own medicine? My mind won’t stop replaying the conversation with the flight attendant. What has become of me? When did I stop caring? Will anyone miss me?
“Whoa.” Ireland places a hesitant hand on my shoulder. “Let’s not give up before we’ve done everything we can. Vicky, you go lie down in the shelter. You’re exhausted and injured. Jenna and I will work out a plan and we’ll go over it in the morning.”
“No way. I want in on this.”
Jenna cringes. “What about your hand? Don’t you think you should elevate it or something?”
“I can do that right here.” I hold my hand over my head; the throbbing immediately slows. “We need to find water first thing tomorrow. It’s top priority, unless there’s a chance of getting out of here within the first few hours of the day.”
The sun dips that final bit until we’re surrounded by darkness pressing in like the plagues of Egypt. I huddle closer to the fire, but the heat starts my fingers searing again. Somewhere in the distance a woman screams. She calls out in terror over and over again. I jump to my feet. “Someone’s out there.”
Jenna holds her hands tight to her ears. “That’s not a someone. That’s a cougar.”
“How do you know?” I’ve practically attacked her with my words, but I don’t have any filters left for my mouth.
“Cougars are the mascot of our high school. Mark’s been playing the sound of the cougar’s cry in pep assemblies for years. It always struck me as weird, both that he’d think this was a motivator, and that the cougar sounds so much like the scream I sometimes hear inside my head.”
“What else do you know about cougars?” Ireland asks.
“That’s about it.” Jenna’s eyes are wide, reflecting light from the fire.
I reach down with my good hand and squeeze Jenna’s. I need her forgiveness now. Tomorrow may be too late.
Chapter 12
IRELAND
I used to play the sounds of the wilderness as an aid to meditation. The wind through the trees, the call of the wise old owl, they softened the points of my stress and allowed me to do what I considered communing with nature. But those recordings were as fake as one of Jenna’s golden oldies television shows.
The last bit of sunlight snaps below the horizon, leaving me to sit alone at the fire and contemplate my life, even if there’s a decent chance it will be over in a matter of hours. It’s a funny thing, counting our lives in hours rather than years. I’d love the luxury of days even. But the real sounds of the wild mixing with the aggressive roar of my stomach won’t let me dream into the future any further than tomorrow morning.
Something rustles in the brush to my back. I take hold of the branch that sits with one end in the fire. As I raise it up over my head, sparks shower down like fireflies, extinguishing before they connect with the ground. I hold the lit end near the place where the noise originated. There’s nothing now. But I’m not stupid. We’re not alone in our little camp. Eyes are all around, watching our moves, wondering if our food will be left unguarded, if our thighs might be tasty for dinner. I doubt the hidden creature is a vegetarian.
A shiver runs across my skin.
Muffled sobs echo from our half-destroyed shelter. I point my pathetic torch in the direction of Jenna and Vicky, the lucky ones who get the first sleeping shift. The sound is coming from Vicky, but she’s not conscious. Her head moves back and forth while she whimpers.
Beside her Jenna lays flat on her back, her mouth hanging open, her breath uneven and punctuated with snores. She’s not prepared to survive like this. None of us are.
The fact that the two of them are asleep, even if it is restless, is amazing. Their lives haven’t exactly prepared them for the emotional intensity of life or death. Mine has.
I settle onto the smooth rock near the fire. The heat sinks through my pants and I let my skin begin to burn for a moment before I scoot back a couple inches. Sometimes feeling, even if it’s unpleasant, is better than the numbness.
I’d forgotten that fact. How much more am I destined to remember now that it’s too late to do anything different with my life?
When I came to Emery, I was as lost as I am right now. Maybe more. A foster kid with no one and nowhere to return to on vacations. I turned eighteen two months before high school graduation, and I was one of the lucky ones. My foster family didn’t kick me out. They let me stay until September, provided I paid them rent. But what choice did I have? Life on the street? I’d been there before with my mother, and that’s one place I would never willingly return.
I came to the University of Northwest Oregon on a bus, all my belongings in the world strapped to my back in a pack not much bigger than the one I have with me now. A grouchy woman behind the counter inside the depot gave me general directions toward campus, and off I went in search of a future. Until that point, my life had consisted of survival.
Funny how my life is coming to an end in much the same way it started.
The walk was only about a half mile, nothing I wasn’t used to, and it gave me time to perfect my story. I designed a past with the purpose of giving myself a future. As a lifelong, off-and-on foster kid, I knew well that I wasn’t the kind of girl people grew attached to. But in college, hours from the streets of Portland, I
could re-create myself. The only thing that remained intact was my name. Ireland Jayne.
I was named by a nurse in a hospital. My mother must not have cared what I was called. The first time she left me was the day after my birth. It wouldn’t be the last.
As a child, I thought if I went to Ireland someday, I’d find myself there. I still haven’t gone. And now, I probably won’t ever step foot on Irish soil.
I’ve played this made-up role for so long I’m not sure I can fully count on my memory to tell me the truth of where I came from. It’s the lie told so many times that it becomes more real than any truth.
In my created life story, I’m the daughter of a long-haul trucker. I don’t see him often, but I know he cares. He keeps a picture of me mounted on the dash of his truck. And I’m always on his heart. My mother, a woman who worked hard to give me all the things she didn’t have growing up, moved to be near her family in Canada right after my high school graduation. She runs a bakery in a small village. Everyone loves her scones. And she has a cat.
It’s been at least fifteen years since I allowed myself to wonder who my parents really are, if they’re even still alive. I never met my father. My mother was an addict. She cleaned up every so often. The good times for her seemed to come around the time the state of Oregon was about to terminate her parental rights and place me in an adoptive family. But then there she’d be, professing her love. I was ten the last time I saw her. She left me alone in a bus station downtown. As her bus pulled away, she blew me a kiss. I was there for three days before anyone realized I’d been left. And by the time I was freed for adoption, there wasn’t a family who’d take me.
Even with the years of lying my way through the past, I realize I’m still that little girl watching her mother pull away. Rejection leaves a dark aura on a life. And it can’t be cleansed.
VICKY
I wake for the tenth time to the deep hoot of an owl. The fire crackles in our makeshift fire pit. It’s Jenna’s figure silhouetted by the orange flames now. Ireland lays beside me, her back to me.
The night is cool, cold by my usual standards, but nothing like the horrible chill and wet of the night before. The air is still, leaving only the sound of animals and the pounding in my head to keep my mind occupied.
If We Make It Home Page 11