Somewhere in my junior year, I looked around and you had become my best friend. You taught me what it meant to smile. To live with a heart that felt alive. With every mile, you dug down into the quarry that had become me and chipped away at the scars and rocks piled up around my soul. You were the first to put together the pieces of me. When it came to love, you taught me to crawl, walk, run, and then, somewhere on the beach, beneath the moon and running into a headwind, clipping away five-minute miles, you turned to me, cut the ties that held my wings, and taught me to fly. My feet barely touching the ground.
Staring out across this ice-capped landscape with nothing but the impossible staring back at me, I am reminded
I see what is. You see what could be.
I need to get inside. It’s getting colder. I miss you.
TWICE DURING THE NIGHT I repacked snow around Ashley’s leg. She never woke, but she moaned a lot and talked in her sleep. I had been up a few hours by the time she woke with what sounded like a painful cry. Her eyes were slits.
“How do you feel?”
Her voice sounded thick. “Like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck.” With that, she rolled on her side and vomited. She did that for several minutes. It was mostly dry heaves and stomach acid. Finally she sat back. Trying to catch her breath. She was in a lot of pain.
I wiped her mouth and held the cup while she sipped. “I’ve got to get some Advil in you, but I doubt your empty stomach is going to like it much.”
Eyes closed, she nodded.
I added fuel to the fire and clicked on the Jetboil.
The smell of coffee opened her eyes. She was tired. Her energy was gone. “How long you been up?”
“Couple of hours. I did some looking around. While I like our cave, we need to get out of this hole. Nobody will ever see us, and it prevents me from lighting any kind of signal fire.”
She eyed the contraptions to my left. “You make those?”
I’d taken the netting off the backs of the seats, disassembled the wire and metal frames using Grover’s Leatherman, and designed something that looked sort of like showshoes. The frames were longer than they were wide, wider in the front and tapered in the rear. I double-folded the netting, stretched it over the frames, and attached the squares using several loops of Grover’s fly line. They came together well. I held them up.
“Snowshoes.”
“If you say so.”
“Most mornings during scheduled surgery, or late nights when an ambulance rolls in or LifeFlight lands, I’m faced with something far more challenging than a pair of these.”
“Are you bragging?”
“No, I’m just saying that my day job prepares me for the unusual and unexpected.”
I handed her one, and she turned it, studying it. She handed it back. “I think any movement at all sounds painful, but I’m game to get out of here. A change of scenery would be nice.”
I poured coffee and handed it to her. “Go easy on that. We’ve got about two days left.”
“You not expecting anyone, are you? I mean, seriously?”
“No. I’m not.”
She nodded and breathed over the plastic cup.
“I’m going to leave you for a couple of hours. Walk around a bit.”
I dug Grover’s flare gun out of the plastic box in the back where he kept his fishing tackle, loaded it, and handed it to Ashley. “If you need me, cock this and squeeze this. And when you do, make sure it’s pointed out that hole. Otherwise you’re liable to set yourself and this whole place on fire. There’s still some gas in the tanks in the wing.
“I should be gone most of the day. If I’m not back at dark, don’t worry. I’m taking my sleeping bag, bivy sack, emergency blanket, couple other things. I’ll be fine. Out here, conditions determine most everything. They can change quickly, and if they get bad, I might have to hunker down and wait it out. I’m going to try and find some sort of food and an alternate shelter or someplace I can build one.”
“You know how to do all this?”
“I know how to do some of it. What I don’t know, I’ll learn.”
I unstrapped Grover’s compound bow from its case in the tail of the plane, along with one of his fly rods, his vest, and one of the reels stuffed in it.
“You can fly-fish?”
“I’ve done it once.”
“How’d you do?”
“You mean did I catch anything?”
She nodded.
“Nope.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” She eyed the bow. “How about that contraption?”
“This I’ve actually done.”
“So you can hit stuff with it?”
“Used to.”
“You think your ribs will let you pull it back?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t tried yet.”
“So…you’re winging it?”
“Basically.”
“Before you go, will you help me with something?”
Ashley went to the bathroom, and then I melted more water and got her covered up.
“Will you hand me my case?” She pulled out her cell phone. “Just for kicks.” She turned it on, but the cold had killed it, too.
I shrugged. “You could play solitaire.” I pointed at my small backpack that doubles as my briefcase. “You’re welcome to use my computer, but I doubt it’ll turn on. And even if it does, I wouldn’t give it very long.”
“Got any books?”
A shrug. “Not much of a reader. Guess you’re alone with your thoughts—and the dog.” I scratched his ears. He had grown comfortable with us and had quit trying to lick Grover on the lips. “Can you remember his name?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Me either. I think we should call him Napoleon.”
“Why?”
“Just look at him. If ever an animal had a Napoleon complex, it’s him. He’s got the attitude of an angry bullmastiff shoved into a package the size of a loaf of bread. He’s the poster dog for ‘it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.’”
She nodded. “Can we do anything for his feet?”
I looked at the backseat that was leaning over, broken off its hinges, half-deflated looking after I’d robbed it of part of its frame. I opened the Leatherman and cut four squares of the vinyl covering. A half inch of foam padding was stuck to the back. I cut slits in the corners, fed a piece of fly line through each, and tied them around Napoleon’s feet. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. He sniffed them, stood up, walked around on the snow, then leaned against me and licked my face.
“Okay, I love you, too.”
Ashley smiled. “I think you made a friend.”
I held out my hand. “The GPS.”
She slid it from beneath her sleeping bag, and I slid it into the inside pocket in my jacket. Lastly, I unzipped a small pocket on the side of my backpack, grabbed my compass, and hung it around my neck. It’s lensatic, or fluid-filled. Rachel gave it to me years ago.
Ashley saw it and asked, “What’s that?”
I palmed it. The edges were smooth. Some of the green had given way to the dull aluminum beneath. “Compass.”
“Looks used.”
I shouldered my backpack, zipped up my jacket, pulled on my gloves, and lifted the bow. “Remember…when it starts getting dark and I’m not back, remind yourself that I am coming back. It may be tomorrow morning, but I’ll be here. Coffee date, you and me. Deal?”
She nodded. I knew when it got dark and I hadn’t yet arrived, she’d start getting concerned, and her worries would populate in the shadows. Darkness does that. It speaks fears that, left alone, remain unspoken, yet real.
“Even if it’s tomorrow morning?”
She nodded again. I pulled out the Advil bottle.
“Take four every six hours. And don’t forget to feed the fire.” I crawled out of our den, and Napoleon followed. I knelt to strap on the snowshoes, and he climbed on me. “I need you to stay her
e and take care of her. Okay? Keep her company. I think she’s lonely, and it’s not a very good day. She’s supposed to be on her honeymoon now.”
Ashley hollered up out of the wreckage. “Yeah…someplace warm where some guy named Julio or Françoise wearing white linen pants and a bronze tan brings me tall drinks decorated with umbrellas.”
I turned and began walking up the mountain.
CHAPTER NINE
My senior year, state championships. You watched me win the 400 in a new state record, breaking the fifty-second barrier. We’d set a new state record in the 4 × 400, I’d won the two-mile just seconds off a national record, and I was standing at the start line of the mile. They had rearranged the meet, holding the mile last to garner enough media attention. Somebody had started a rumor that I could run four minutes. Coaches from around the country were standing around Dad, patting him on the back. At last count, I had over twenty Division I scholarship offers. Full rides.
I had my piles, and Dad had his. His prized pile centered around MBAs in finance. “They’ll pay for five years of education. Get your BA in two and a half. Then your MBA. Once you’re out of school, you can write your own ticket. With your drive, you could run my agency.”
I wanted nothing to do with him, his markets, or his agency. And I knew where he could stick it, I just never told him.
You had two Division I offers, and truth be told, I was more proud of yours than mine.
I could see his face out of the corner of my eye. The vein had popped out on the side of his head. Just above his right temple. Sweat was pouring off him. I’d run 4:04 several mornings on the beach, but that was on sand into a partial headwind. He was sure I could run 3:58. Toe on the line, I was spent. My legs were jelly. I’d be lucky to run 4:05. You hung on the fence. Hands clutched.
The gun sounded.
After the first lap, we were still together. A tight group. Some guy from down south was trying to elbow me out. I knew if I was going to do anything, I had to get away from these guys. By the start of the third lap, I was all alone. The organizers had offered a pacer, but Dad had declined. “He’ll earn this himself.” Three laps in, and I was on pace. I had it.
And I knew I had it.
People in the stands were on their feet. Screaming. I remember a lady shaking a milk jug filled with half a dozen pennies. Dad was stone-faced. Granite with inflatable lungs. A hundred meters to go, and I was looking at 3:58, maybe 3:57.
I watched him watching me. Everything I’d ever worked for was coming true in those few seconds. You were screaming at the top of your lungs. Jumping three feet off the ground. Watching you, watching him, it struck me that no matter what time I turned in, it wouldn’t be good enough for him. National record or not. He would always assume that I had not tried hard enough. That I could always run faster.
Something about his Rushmore face cut something loose in me. I eased up. Slowed. I watched the clock roll through 3:53. Then 3:57. My official time would be 4:00:37. The place went crazy. I’d done something no other Florida runner had ever done. Four-year state champion in twelve events headed to the national championships and, because I also carried a 4.0 GPA, any college I chose.
I stood on the track, swarmed by my teammates. But I didn’t care. The only face I wanted to see was yours. And then you found me.
I never saw my dad. I’m pretty sure I had another five seconds in my legs. And I’m pretty sure he knew that too.
We were going out. The whole team. To celebrate. I came home to change. We walked in. He was sitting in his chair. An empty crystal glass on his thigh. The bottle half empty next to him. Brown liquor. He seldom drank. Considered it something lesser, weak people did.
You peered around me. “Mr. Payne, did you see?”
He stood, pointed his finger in my face, poked me in the chest. Spit gathered in the corner of his mouth. A vein throbbed beneath his eye. “Nobody ever gave me nothing. You son of a…”
He shook his head, balled his fist, and swung. The blow broke my nose. Felt like a blood-filled balloon had exploded inside my face. By then, I was six feet two, two inches taller than him, and I knew if I swung back, I might never stop, but when I stood up, he was raising his hand over you. And judging by the look on his face, he blamed you for me.
I caught his hand, spun him, and threw him into the sliding glass door. Tempered glass, it shattered into a million square pieces. He lay on the deck, staring at me.
You drove me to the hospital, where they set my nose, scrubbed the blood off my face and neck, and congratulated me. One of the orderlies handed me the front page of the paper, covered with a full-page picture of me, and asked for my autograph.
Around midnight we drove to a Village Inn, a twenty-four-hour pancake place, and ordered one piece of French silk pie and two forks. Our celebration. Then I drove you home, where your mom met us and we all sat at the kitchen table talking back through the meet. You sat at the table, sleep in your eyes, wrapped in a terrycloth robe and your leg touching mine. Your legs had touched mine a hundred times at the track or in the car or anywhere. But this…this was different. This was intentional. This was not Rachel the runner’s leg touching mine, this was Rachel the girl’s leg touching mine.
Big difference.
I got home around one. A few hours later, 4:55 a.m. arrived and Dad did not. He never woke me again. I lay awake. Listening for footsteps. Wondering what to do. Who to be. I couldn’t answer that, so I dressed and went for a walk on the beach—watching the sun come up over the shrimp boats. I walked through lunch. On toward dinner. The sun was falling when I quit walking at the jetties in Mayport. Some twenty miles north of where I’d started. I climbed on the rocks and then climbed out toward the end of the jetties. Some might say that’s dangerous.
Your voice sounded behind me. “What’re you running from?”
“How’d you get out here?”
“Walked.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Followed the footprints.”
“Kind of dangerous, don’t you think?”
You smiled. “Knew I wouldn’t be alone.”
You climbed up another rock, fiddler crabs scurrying beneath you, stood, and pulled me to you. You lifted your glasses. Costa Del Mars. I’d given them to you. Your eyes were red. You’d been crying. Arms crossed, you stared out across the water, hands hidden inside the long gray sleeves of your sweatshirt. “You think they’ll care that we cut class?”
“I don’t.” I palmed away a tear. “You’ve been crying.”
You nodded.
“Why?”
You pounded my chest, then leaned against me. “’Cause I don’t want it to end.”
“What?”
Your eyes welled again. A tear hung on your chin. I brushed it gently with the top of my hand.
“Us, dummy.” You placed your hand flat against my chest. “Seeing you…every day.”
“Oh…that.”
Maybe that’s what really had me walking up the beach. And in over twenty miles, I’d found no easy answer. We were both about to hurt a whole lot.
High school love was one thing, but choosing a college because of that high school love was something everyone cautioned you and me against. Remember? Sometimes I wish we’d listened to them. Then I shake my head and think. Not so. I don’t blame us. I’d do it again. Honest, I would. If I could fly back in time, I’d make the same choice.
But…sometimes I wonder.
CHAPTER TEN
The storm had dumped three feet of snow. All fresh powder. Without the shoes I’d have been thigh-deep, wet, and the cold would be stinging my legs. Wouldn’t be long before they were numb. I made a mental note that if things went bad and I started tumbling, don’t lose the snowshoes. Given that, I stopped, cut two tethers or cords, and tied one end to the back of each snowshoe and the other end around each ankle. Sort of like a surfer’s leash.
Despite the fact that we needed to lose elevation, I first needed to gain it to get a bird’s-eye
view of where we were in relation to everything else. Once I got a better view, I could turn on the GPS and start relating it to what I saw. The air was thin, the surface was covered with a slick sheet of ice, I had to keep taking off and putting on the snowshoes, and I was much weaker than I expected. I climbed through lunch and into the afternoon before I summited a small ridgeline that rose up over the plateau, maybe a thousand feet above the crash site. It was late afternoon by the time I got the view I’d been hoping for.
What I saw did not soothe me.
I was hoping for any sign of civilization. A light. Smoke from a fireplace. A structure of some sort. Anything to give me a direction. A reason for hope. I turned, scanning the horizon, and the truth set in.
We were in the middle of nowhere. I saw nothing that was manmade.
It was a desolate, snow-covered landscape, etched with jagged peaks and impossible routes that stretched sixty or seventy miles in every direction. Look up remote in the dictionary and you’d see a picture of me standing on that rock. I turned on the GPS and oriented myself, confirming what my eyes told me, using the compass to confirm the directions and degrees the electronic unit was telling me. The only surprise was the number of lakes and streams showing on the screen. There were hundreds. Maybe a thousand. All had to be frozen this time of year, but I noted the few that were closest and logged that away as tomorrow’s investigation.
In the far southeast corner of the screen I saw a dim trail suggesting a logging road or snowmobile trail. It wound up or down a pass and between two mountain ranges. I stared off in that direction, but saw nothing but treetops and jagged rock. I oriented the GPS with the surrounding peaks and took a reading with my compass. At this distance, a miscalculation of only one degree can set you off course by several miles. I was in the process of zooming in when the screen on the GPS flickered to black. I tapped it on the side, as if that would do any good, but it was dead. The cold had killed it and drained the battery. I closed my eyes, tried to remember everything I’d seen on the screen, and added that to the sketch I’d made yesterday outside the wreck. It was incomplete and lacking, but better than a blank slate.
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