I mean, we all grieved the loss of our Lacey, but when it comes to pursuing a dream, I ought to have known better than to let Pauline at him. Nothing kills a dream faster than a woman who thinks she’s being reasonable.”
“Frank!” Jen objects.
“Present company excepted.”
The throbbing behind my eyes may have become a perma-
nent part of me. I should be grateful. One more puzzle piece is in place. Greg came to the wilderness. That piece of infor- mation floated toward our camp in the form of a splintered paddle.
We know why he came. Not to catch fish but a dream.
189
They Almost Always Come Home
I wish I’d known the difference between a dream and a whim when it mattered. If I’d encouraged him to pursue his passion openly, Greg might still be alive. And there it is.
How were either of us to have known what a few simple words would net us?
“Lacey, you’re going to school. Grab your backpack and an Advil if you need it and get out the door.”
“Photography? Come on, Greg. You have a family to support. Give it a rest.”
Lord, neither of us can hit rewind. What now?
********
I can’t help viewing this wilderness through Greg’s eyes or camera lens. Details that would have escaped me yesterday now whisper, “Wouldn’t this make a great shot?”
Iridescent clouds, a pancake-sized island with a lone pine “flag” claiming its territory, a blue flame deep in the heart of a campfire, a single near-microscopic indigo wildflower that found a spark of life in a crevice of solid rock.
We didn’t bring a camera. You know what that means. I have to come back here someday. Capture it all. For him. “Ready to go, Libby?”
“Jen, I—”
“We have to go home.”
“I know.”
“Alex and Zack might be there already. They’ll need their mama.”
“Mamacita.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
190
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“We could put this off another hour, another day, but it
wouldn’t make any difference, would it?” “No.”
“Frank and I have the canoes loaded. We’re just waiting for
you.”
“How’s Frank doing?”
“Okay, I think. I didn’t hear much snoring last night. Did
you?”
“We could have taken off for home last night rather than
chase sleep.”
“We couldn’t have gotten two feet safely in that inky black-
ness,” Jen says.
“A few clouds this morning.”
“I hope they don’t decide to gang up and rain on us before
the day’s over.”
“How far do you think we can get?”
“Paddling hard? Frank must not have had a genuine con-
cussion. He’s functioning better than I expected. I don’t think we have to hold back for his sake today.”
I know she’s hoping I’ll start moving toward the waiting
canoes. My legs are steel posts driven deep into the unyielding rock.
“When Lacey was buried, it was all I could do to pick up a
handful of soil and toss it on top of her casket as it was lowered into the ground.”
“Oh, Libby.”
“Moving from this place feels like that, like tossing a final
good-bye onto the grave that claimed my husband.”
“God, help us all.” Frank’s voice joins the memorial ser-
vice. “It probably wouldn’t hurt at all if somebody prayed, would it?”
191
They Almost Always Come Home
Greg, please forgive the irreverence, but I have to laugh at your father’s attempt at spiritual leadership. I laugh not because it’s silly, but because it’s so precious I can’t stand it.
“Good idea, Frank,” Jen says while I attempt to compose myself. “Do you want to start?”
“You go ahead,” he says. “Then I’ll add to it if you forget something important.”
She hits everything. Our loss, our pain, our need for strength, our desire to honor the Lord through our grief, our practical need for direction for the future, the ripples of Greg’s loss throughout the community, and the ripples of his unwav- ering faith through his too-short life. All Frank adds is a hearty “amen.”
When we open our eyes and lift our heads, we watch a bald eagle land on the tallest pine in the cove. He must have been looking for a place with no people, no civilization, because he alights a few seconds later, taking off with a whoo-whoo-whoo of air forced down from his powerful wings. He soars against the cloud-clotted sky.
We trace his path with our eyes. I trace it also with my heart.
Turning in a wide arc with a grace that speaks of unbridled freedom, the eagle swings back the way he came, flying lower now over the treetops along the little slice of shoreline we can see through our narrow view of the open water.
He calls in a voice strong enough for us to hear from this distance, even with our human limitations.
Jen and Frank seem as taken by the sight as I am. I reach out to grab them both by the forearm when the majestic bird passes between us and a thin column of smoke.
192
I can’t avert my gaze from the wispy plume of smoke rising from the far treetops like a boneless finger of hope. “Frank? Jen? Do you see that?”
“Smoke, isn’t it?” Jen says.
Frank adds, “Smoke. Campfire.”
I risk glancing their way, but only for a second. “Seems as if
it’s coming from the middle of nowhere, doesn’t it?”
Frank’s hand on my shoulder is warm, fatherly, heavier than
normal. “We’re not alone out here. We’ve seen other campers. And I told you there are no restrictions in the Quetico about where a person can camp. The middle of nowhere pretty much describes the entire park.”
“Do you think we should investigate?” Jen asks, and again
I’m grateful she’s speaking my thoughts.
Frank strokes his rough whiskers. They’re well on their way
to beard status. It’s time to end this episode of Survivor. Frank must agree. He says, “Can’t chase every puff of smoke on the planet.”
We have to go home. I know that. We could spend the next
three years checking behind trees and under rocks, around
23
193
They Almost Always Come Home
the next bend and under smoke columns. “Can we chase this one?”
He closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest. He’s been remarkably patient with us, all things considered. We may have reached the end in more ways than one. I consider apologizing but can’t think what for.
Frank heads toward his canoe.
We follow.
With a quick zip he opens the outside pocket of his pack and removes his stash of laminated maps. “Do you know what the odds are?”
It doesn’t take a statistics expert to know our odds are poor. A million to one? There’s still a chance, then.
“Can you tell what’s back there beyond that line of trees?” “You’re expecting a mall or something?” He flattens the map that holds his attention. “Trust me. It’s land or water. Those are your choices.”
We can’t afford to snap at each other. We need one another, particularly Frank and I, partners in pain.
You and Greg can’t afford to snap at each other. You need each other. Was that Jen’s counsel? Or Pastor’s? Why can I not remember?
I’m still caught in the distress of memory loss when Jen says, “Can you see anything that would appeal to Greg, make him change his plans?”
“Something a photographer might want to investigate?” I add. Calling Greg a photographer tastes strange on my tongue, but not unpleasant, like my first bite of Pad Thai.
Frank studies a path he traces on the map with his finger and checks with quick glances in the direction of the smoke column. It’s still there—the smoke. I feared it might disap- pear when I looked away, as Lacey did. And Greg. But it’s still
194
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
rising, meandering against the unsuspecting blue-and-white background as if unaware of its power to prolong our quest. “This may be significant.”
Jen and I lean over his shoulders before he utters the final
syllable.
“What is it?” she asks.
I see it before he can get the words out. A waterfall. In print
so fine it could pass for the bottom line on the eye chart. Lacy Falls. Spelled differently, but would Greg have considered it a sign from heaven? Would he have seen the possibility on his own maps and felt compelled to capture the scene forever on film?
“How long would it take us to get there? How far is it?” We
haven’t mentioned the spot on the map. Jen noticed it on her own.
Frank refolds the map with Lacy Falls showing. He looks
in the direction of the smoke. “Be there in an hour or two, I figure. If you ladies can keep up.”
“So, are we agreed to pursue this?” I ask. A wave of determi-
nation sweeps over me. I’m going, with or without them.
Frank shrugs, his way of saying, “Absolutely. How could we
just walk away from what is obviously our X-marks-the-spot? Sooner we get there, sooner we slap Greg with a few hugs, a couple of versions of ‘My boy, you near scared us to death,’ and load his gear to head home.” He shrugs again, punctuating his enthusiasm for the idea.
Jen hesitates. Hesitates? Why should I have to talk her into
this? I finally have a feeling—a sensing from God. The smoke. The eagle whose flight path alerted us to the smoke. In the nick of time. What’s her problem?
“I need to call Brent,” she says.
“Sure. Tonight. Like all the others. If there’s no cloud
cover.”
195
They Almost Always Come Home
“I’d probably better try to connect with him now, before we chase smoke signals.” She stuffs her hands into the front pockets of her cargo pants. Her shoulders head north, toward her ears. What is that expression on her face?
“Jen, if you think we’re foolish to try to find out where the smoke’s coming from—”
“It’s not that.”
Frank shoots us a look that says, “Time’s a ’wastin.’ ” “Jen, believe me, I know I’ve asked a lot of you, more than any person has a right to. And despite his friendship with Greg, Brent must be more than a little weary of my hauling you all over the wilderness. I can’t imagine how much the girls must miss you.”
Actually, that’s not all that hard.
“I can’t hope to find a way to repay you, any of you. And I can’t pretend to have a logical reason to keep searching. It’s a hunch. Just a hunch. A puff of smoke that could be from a couple of tree huggers on their honeymoon. Or a Boy Scout troop. Or Girl Scouts.”
She slips her hands out of her pockets and places each one on its opposite shoulder, as if streamlining her body for a bun- gee jump. “It’s not that my family misses me too much. That’s not it.”
“Then what? I trust your judgment, you know. You’re well- endowed.”
“Excuse me?”
“With wisdom.”
She’s still poised for bungee jumping. But her face registers an emotion I haven’t seen on her for a long time. “I have an appointment.”
“We know. I’m sorry about that. Can Brent call and resched- ule it for you if we take another couple of days to get home? Another inconvenience, but—”
196
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“It’s the first session in a new round of radiation treatments.
I . . . I have a spot on one of my ribs.”
Cancer has its own dictionary. It changes the meaning of
the word “spot.”
What happened to all the oxygen in the air?
197
Jen says the spot on her rib is small, minuscule. In my mind, it’s a sulfurous, undulating, dagger-toothed monster against which I have no weapons.
Reining in my distress is also impossible. “How could you not tell me?”
“I’m really sorry. I probably should have.”
“Probably?” Would it be tacky to wring the neck of some- one who is about to be sent back to Iraq for another tour of duty? “When did you find out?”
Jen toes the bed of rusty pine needles at her feet. The smell of pine resin rides the last few oxygen molecules not sucked out by her announcement.
Frank’s voice floats into our circle of pain. “I imagine the girl was trying to spare you more grief.” His words are laced with an empathy richer and sweeter than it was even a few days ago. What’s happening to us?
“Spare me?” Tempering my frustration takes more energy than I have in reserve. “In what rush of rationale did it seem prudent not to tell me?” If I had a mirror, the varicose veins in my temples and along the sides of my throat might scare me.
24
198
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
We’re a trio, aren’t we? Jen needs radiation and who knows what else? Frank needs a prostate exam. I’m ripe for a stroke.
Jen draws a deep breath. “I made a judgment call. Brent and
I talked about it. We prayed about it. Both of us felt it would be best to wait until . . . until we knew something about Greg.”
Oh, my beautiful friend. I can’t lose you too. My heart’s not
that strong. If Jen could read my mind, she’d call that “stinkin’ thinkin’ ” and threaten to disown me.
“When? When did you first know?” I’ve lost a few decibels.
Good.
Frank retreats. Suddenly every zipper, clasp, and closure of
our equipment needs checking. I don’t blame him for choosing that over this.
“The Friday Greg was supposed to come home.”
“How could you keep that kind of news to yourself all this
time?”
“I felt I had to.”
Jen’s explanation sits like curdled milk in my stomach. Not
because of her, but because of me. She’s right. I couldn’t be trusted with that kind of information during those early days of the siege against my sanity.
“Are you in pain?” That’s the question I should have asked
many minutes ago. God, forgive me.
“No.”
“Oh, Jen!”
She touches a place a few inches under where her left breast
used to be. “No pain. We wouldn’t know about the spot even now if it weren’t for Brent’s new health insurance. The com- pany demanded a chest x-ray for both of us, even though I had a clear one not six months ago. Guess I should be grateful, huh?”
“Jen, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. I don’t want to add to your burden right now.”
199
They Almost Always Come Home
“My burden?” How long has it been since I exhibited even a fraction of the selflessness that comes so naturally to her? Jen heads toward the canoes. “Let me try to catch Brent at work.”
“Stop it!” I call after her. “There’s no way he’d let you skip radiation, even if we would. We’re going home. It’s time to—” I choke back my final two words and a grocery cart full of sorrow.
I can’t see. The flood distorting my vision started building years ago. How is it that I’m still upright? Ignoring the solid rock foundation beneath me, I drop to my knees, shudder- ing as if febrile. My mind embarks on a frantic search for a Scripture pill, a biblical capsule to ease the crippling distress. All that rises to the surface is the idea of scraping my boils with pottery shards.
Her rib. A bone shadow. Not good. When we get home, I’ll get Zack or Alex to help me search
the Internet for informa- tion about survival rates—right after the funeral or memorial service or whatever it is we’ll call the service we hold in Greg’s honor. My boys will stay home a couple more days beyond that, won’t they? Or a couple of weeks? Could they miss the first few weeks of the new semester? I may never be ready to send them back out into the world again.
Independent and self-sufficient as they are, the loss of their dad will cut deep. My attempts to close the wound for them will feel like straddling a section of the Grand Canyon.
Nerve endings are curious things. The nerves in my skin ache for my husband’s touch. Now more than ever, I need to feel the weight of his arm around me, to press myself against his wide chest, to bury my face in his shirt and breathe his confidence into my lungs.
I need to tell him about Jenika.
200
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
He doesn’t comfort with words. I could live with that if I
just had his touch. His warm hand against the small of my back as he steers me forward. His hand covering mine when I crave a reminder of his presence. The silent blessing of his body curved around mine when sleep eludes me. His hint- of-mint breath lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. The brush of his whisper-kiss when he knows “I need you, baby” won’t score as many points as “I’m here for you.”
The scent of his aftershave embedded in the threads of his
pillowcase. As powerful as any aromatherapy.
The sound of his voice on the phone. My constant.
My earth-constant. Heaven has its own version—the Lord
from whom Greg learned how to give.
The Lord from whom Jenika Morgan learned how to do
friendship. And joy. And stamina. And hope.
My nerve endings must have eavesdropped on my mind’s
meanderings. I feel the weight of an arm around my shoulders.
“Honey.” It’s Frank.
“I’ll be okay.”
“We know you will. But we have decisions to make.
Jen’s on the phone with Brent. You want to get in on this conversation?”
I’ve imposed upon their lives, thrust the dagger of my need-
iness into the stab wound of their own pain long enough. This is between the two of them. Regret floods through me. Of all weeks for me to keep Jen and Brent away from each other. What must have been going through her mind when I whined about a mosquito bite or hangnail or sunburn?
They Almost Always Come Home Page 17