Left for Dead
DEBORAH ROGERS
Highwayman
1
I step off the bus on the dusty Del Norte road, slip on my backpack, and turn to thank the driver.
“Take care, hon,” he says. “Remember what I told you—get yourself some bear spray. Dash Bomb is the best.”
They do this. Offer advice. Men. I must give off an air of helplessness or something. They think I can’t take care of myself, but I can. I already have bear spray (I did the research. Raglan Defender is actually better so I got that one), not to mention the illegal riot-grade pepper spray I bought from an anti-rape campaigner on Craigslist. But I don’t tell the bus driver any of this, instead I say, “Thank you, sir. I will.”
He gives me a wink, levers shut the door, and carries on up the road. I watch the bus disappear around the bend and think, well, this is it, you’re on your own now, let the fun begin. Amelia Kellaway. Adventurer. Woman alone. I do not plan on shaving my legs for months.
I take a breath. Pine. Soil. The barest hint of the sea. Straddling the road are dense woods of spruce and cedar. I look down at my feet and wonder where Oregon begins and California ends.
I think of Mom back in New York. When I told her I’d be gone for four months or thereabouts she said—
“I’d be happier if you checked in every week.”
“That kinda defeats the purpose, Mom.”
“Miss Independent.”
“How come women are only ever called that—independent? Like feisty. I hate that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Mom, I’ll be fine. I’m the sensible one, remember.”
She had looked at me and gnawed the inside of her cheek and I knew she was thinking she would be all alone because Danny was in the north, and Becca was in the south, and now me heading west.
Finally she placed a motherly hand on the crown of my head. “Okay, sweets, you go for it. Follow your dream.”
Then she cried and blinked wet eyelashes at me. But I couldn’t cry back because I was so happy to be free.
Across the road, there’s a small Chevron and nothing else. I’m thinking it could be a good idea to use the bathroom before I start the trail because it might be the last civilized act I do. As I make my way over, I tell myself that I’m not procrastinating or afraid of the butterflies doing somersaults in my stomach. I’m up for this. The big adventure. I just need the bathroom first, that’s all.
The gas station is a quaint, two-pump affair with a store attached. I’m almost expecting to see tumbleweeds somersault across the cracked concrete forecourt. There’s only one car, not at the pumps but parked off to the side, over where people put air in their tires. Digging inside the trunk is a man, back turned from me. I think about calling hello but decide there’s a risk I’ll startle him and he’ll end up smashing his head on the trunk lid.
I continue on and reach the store entrance. There’s a sign in the window—a sheet of yellowed paper written with faded black permanent marker. Restroom for paying customers only. I open the door and go inside.
*
The day I left the employ of Winters, Coles and Partners was the best day of my life. They held a get-together in the top floor function room with million-dollar views of downtown Manhattan. My supervising partner, Alan, said a few words about how reliable and diligent I was, how I was always ready to jump in and pick up the slack, and how I once spent the entire weekend researching case law about the ecological impact on the New York wetlands. This helped Alan successfully argue against a last-minute injunction lodged by an environmental action group trying to prevent one of the firm’s largest clients, the Hammond Group, from commencing construction on a multibillion-dollar development in the wetlands. Alan rounded out his farewell speech with an amusing anecdote about how I once inadvertently sent a confidential memo to the estranged wife of a client in a particularly acrimonious divorce proceeding. He quoted Proust. Then everyone ate cake.
But I knew about the water cooler gossip, how they discussed me with an eye-roll, how they said I was foolhardy to throw away a perfectly good career just to “find myself.” They’d done the same thing when Melanie Barnes left the firm to buy a gelato cart and when Stuart Black turned his back on being a member of the litigation team to become a yoga instructor. I mean why study law and go through all those exams and bother sitting the bar and paying all that money and getting a student loan just to leave it all behind to pursue some half-baked pipe dream?
I knew some of them thought I’d be back in a week, that I was just going through a Gen Y phase thing and would see the light eventually, and return to the bosom of corporate life. A few of the others, like Ben Sinclair, told me privately they were envious and wished they had the guts to do the same—leave, go back to college to study theatre or film, or backpack their way through China.
But the rest thought I was just plain crazy, that Amelia, the obedient, diligent worker bee, had finally lost her mind.
But crazy was returning home to my apartment at three in the morning, drained and sick, living off canned tuna and ramen noodles because I was too tired to fix myself something proper to eat. Crazy was the marathon boardroom meetings and the backslapping WASPs who looked at my legs and cleavage and held open the door, not because they were being polite but because they wanted to show me my place. Crazy was walking in on Alan snorting coke off the cistern in the unisex toilet before a Supreme Court appearance. Sanity was realizing I had to get out before I went the same way.
Time was money and farewell get-togethers did not count toward billable hours, so my now former colleagues took their wedges of cake back to their battery hen cubicles, and copies of Black’s Law Dictionary, and demanding clients, and half-finished briefs, and court dates, and filings of motions, and the endless hours burning the midnight oil all in the soulless pursuit of the almighty greenback bonus that I’d once coveted so much for myself.
After they had gone I stacked the dishwasher, took one final look at the glittering New York skyline, and walked out the firm’s top-of-the-line, improbably large stained-glass doors.
*
I’m surprised when I go inside the gas station store because behind the counter I’m expecting to see an old-timer in denim overalls and instead there’s a guy who looks a lot like Matthew stocking Marlboro Lights. I think maybe I should send Matthew a text, to let him know I’ve made it this far. But it has been over a month since we last spoke and it’s probably better to let that particular dog lie.
On the left-hand side of the store, there’s a carousel stand stocked with travel items like eye masks, plastic water showers, and compasses. On the wall next to it there’s a corkboard pinned with hundreds of Polaroid photographs of trekkers, posing out front beneath the Chevron sign.
“It’s tradition,” says the guy at the counter. “Given we’re the first stop.”
He digs under the counter and pulls out an old Kodamatic. “You want me to shoot yours?”
I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer.”
“You sure? I can take two. That way you’ll have a copy.”
I select a pack of spearmint gum and put it on the counter. “I’m good.”
He puts the camera away and runs the gum through the till.
I hand over some coins. “Do you know where Clifford Kamp Memorial Park is?”
“Two miles up the road, you need to watch carefully for the access road. Which trail you doing?”
“The California Coastal.”
He seems impressed. “Yeah?”
“From Del Norte to Mexico.”
“That’s a long way.”
“By yourself?”
“Sure, why not?” I say.
“Most people start from south to north.”
I shrug and he looks at me and I feel stupid because this guy isn’t anything like Matthew at all.
*
The bathroom’s outside and I punch in the 0000 code, duck inside, and take off the backpack. The toilet seat’s cold but I’m not complaining because it’s leaves for toilet paper from here on out. After I’m done, I face the sink and wash my hands, slathering pink goo between my fingers, washing and rinsing like a surgeon. Goodbye, running water. Goodbye, soap. Goodbye, last vestiges of my civilized life.
Nerves bubble in my chest. I’m not sure if it’s fear or exhilaration or a mix of both. I laugh out loud. What the hell am I doing? I must be insane. Four months of camping outdoors, walking miles every day, fending for myself.
I look at the spotted mirror above the sink and reach for the pearl pendant around my neck, the pearl more purple than black, bought by Matthew for me on a trip to Hawaii. He said it looked good with my dark brown hair and olive skin. I roll it between my fingers then loop the chain over my head and hook it across the mirror. Maybe some other wilderness warrior will find it and make it her own.
I stare at my makeup free face, my clear eyes and skin, my cheeks blooming with roses. I smile. Let’s get this show on the road.
2
When I cross the forecourt, I see the car again, an old time, pale green Ford Capri. Car buffs would call it a classic. The man is still rummaging through the trunk. There’s a jack on the ground next to the rear left-hand tire. A pair of crutches leans upright against the bumper.
“God darn it!” The man lifts his head from the trunk. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had company.”
He’s in his late forties with sun-kissed skin, broad-shouldered and tall, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. Bordering on cowboy or salt of the earth. He has friendly eyes.
“No offense,” I say.
“I got myself a flat and this—” He hops a few steps back and points to a moonboot on his right foot. “The universe hates me.”
“Bummer.”
He nods to my backpack. “You off on vacation?”
I stand a little straighter. “More journey than vacation. The California Coastal.”
“Yeah? You doing the whole thing by yourself?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I joke.
He shrugs. “I think it’s neat.”
“I’m stronger than I look. I once fought off an addict who tried to snatch my purse.”
“I bet.” He frowns. “Let me guess—New York?”
“That obvious?”
“You’d be surprised at how many East Coasters we get here.” He winces and clutches his thigh. “For the love of Christ, I’m having no end of problems with this thing.”
“What happened?”
“You’ll laugh,” he says, crow’s-feet fanning.
“I won’t.”
“My boy and I were working on a tree house in our yard, and good old Pops here fell right off the ladder and landed on his fanny.”
That’s sweet, I think, a tree house. I always wanted one of those. I try to ignore the flash of my own substandard childhood.
“Did I say something?” he says, looking concerned.
I plant a smile on my lips. “Not at all.”
I look up at the blue sky and realize I’m employing delaying tactics again.
“I should go.”
“Foolish really,” he says, “falling like that. It wasn’t even that high up.”
I glance at the road. “It was nice talking to you.”
He nods. “Sure. Take care.”
“You too, sir.”
He disappears back into the trunk and I turn for the road.
“Mother of Christ!”
I pivot around. He’s dropped the jack and is stretching for it.
“What the heck was I thinking?” I say. “Let me help you.”
He points to the flat near his feet. “Would you give me a hand to put this in the trunk? I keep losing my balance.”
“Of course.”
So I pick up the flat and place it in the trunk and just like that, it’s over. He’s so quick, lassoing his arm around my shoulders, pressing the rag to my face, so quick that I barely register what’s happening before my limbs go hot then numb, and I watch, in a rapidly descending fog, as the wooden crutches clatter to the ground and he hauls me inside the trunk, pushing me in there, pushing me on to my side so I and my backpack will fit, pushing down hard on my back with both hands, the way you might stuff too many clothes in a suitcase. I feel the sharp edge of a plastic tarp on my cheek, the grit on the back of my head, an unidentifiable object jabbing my thigh, then before I get a chance to scream the steely underside of the trunk lid hurtles toward me and the lights go out with a thump.
3
Matthew was supposed to come with me on the Coastal. On our third date, I told him about my plans. It had been reckless of me, but we’d been walking through Central Park and dogs were chasing Frisbees and the sun was streaming through the maples and a girl with purple dreadlocks was playing a banjo. When Matthew took a bite of his pretzel, wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and asked me if I wanted any, I said—
“I’m going off grid.”
“Yeah?”
“Just for a while.”
“That’s brave,” he said, picking a sesame seed from his teeth.
“You could come.”
He’d traveled a bit before. Europe. South America. Now he was trying to make a name for himself in mergers and acquisitions. But he was disillusioned, too. The grind, the way they used you up and spat you out. He finished his pretzel and said he would give it some thought.
I had planned my escape from Winters, Coles and Partners for nearly two years. I spent hours on the Internet, researching. Bought guidebooks. Read blogs. Watched National Geographic. All I knew was I wanted to be someplace else. I wanted to move my body like it was meant to move, and not be cooped up in some office cubicle day after day.
I imagined myself as a great explorer, criss-crossing continents, taking in the sights and sounds of the Australian outback, Peru, Great Wall of China, or something closer to home, like the Rockies or the Californian Costal trail.
I began to collect things. Stake out camping stores on the weekend. I bought a flashlight that worked by kinetic energy so you didn’t need batteries, a compass, wet wipes, water purification tablets, a whistle, earplugs, a heavy-duty Swiss army knife, a polyester super quick-dry towel, insect repellent, carabiners, a top of the line Condor backpack.
The nights when I couldn’t sleep because of the stressful, coffee-fueled days in the boardroom, I would take the backpack from its place on the top of the wardrobe and lay out everything on my bed, filling every square inch of it until it looked like an army surplus store. I would gaze at those shiny, useful objects and tell myself you can do this, you need only make the call, write that letter of resignation. But by morning, when the sun rose over the city, I would put the things away and return to the big office in the sky and push any thought of leaving to the back of my mind. Then I met Matthew and Matthew called me brave.
I’d seen him at the welcome when he first joined the firm. Our eyes met across the apricot pastries and lemon brioche and he smiled. He looked vulnerable, standing there in his new suit, collar tight around his neck, as his supervising partner introduced him to everyone. I later found out that blue tie with the tiny maroon hexagons was a gift from his sister.
He made love like a Greek god, would put his heart and soul into it, gaze into my eyes with an intensity that reminded me of glass in the sun. Afterward, he would fold me up in his arms like a father.
We exchanged “I love yous” on a rare weekend away. One of the partners, Chip Emmerson, gave us the keys to his vacation house in the Hamptons, which was actually more mansio
n than summer house. Matthew and I had gone from room to room, astonished at the scale of the place, marveling at the furnishings, Hellman-Chang everything. Looking up at the Rothko hanging above the Italian marble staircase, Matthew had uttered, “God, one day we could live like this.”
We made love in the pool house because the main residence was too overwhelming. Lying there on the cotton blanket in the afterglow, I murmured into his shoulder—
“Why don’t you come with me?”
“Where?”
“To do the Coastal.”
“I would follow you to the ends of the earth, you know that,” he said.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Let’s do it,” he said.
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
The weekend was cut short when Chip Emmerson arrived unannounced, and he and Matthew spent the rest of the weekend discussing futures and the downfall of the latest Madoffesque scheme, but that was okay because Matthew had said yes.
4
The shudder of the car wakes me. My brain is syrup. My eyelids lead. I inch them open. There’s something on my face, a cloth, tied at the back of my head, my hair caught in the knot. The cloth covers my entire face like a mask, and is ripped open around my lips. I can smell its newness, the plastic sheath it had lived in when it sat on a shelf in some Walmart or Target. It could be a dish cloth or bandanna or pillow case. Whatever it is, it’s cheap and nasty and like sandpaper against my skin.
I’m lying on my side in the backseat of a car, hands tied behind my back. They are secured so tight I can feel my pulse thump from one wrist to the next. My feet are tied, too, the knobs of my ankles jammed together.
The fabric of the mask is so poorly constructed that when I turn my head the right way I can see through the open weave. In the driver’s seat there’s a man. He sits on a wood-beaded seat cover, hand draped over the steering wheel, eyes on the highway. We are moving along asphalt, smooth and undulating. I hear a car whoosh by, the back draft of a big rig, the drone of a motorcycle.
Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller Page 1