Since my near-death experience, something else had been itching at me. I wanted to meet Rosalyn’s parents. How can I explain it? I wanted to connect with my tribe, and like it or not, Rosalyn’s parents, whom she’d said were pot smoking hippies living on a marijuana farm in Lost Treasure, Oregon, were Eugene’s grandparents and Rosalyn’s folks.
After my meeting with the realtor, I went to the diner in Twentynine Palms, ordered a slice of warm apple pie à la mode, opened my laptop, and searched for Sarah and Martin Richards. Nothing. Tried Facebook. Nothing. Finally, I opened whitepages.com, and after several false starts and more keystrokes, I was a bit alarmed to discover how much could be revealed about a person. If I’d paid a fee, I could’ve gotten a complete background check on Rosalyn’s parents. As it was, I’d found them. With a forkful of apple pie halfway to my mouth, I stared at the names Sarah and Martin Richards with a Lost Treasure, Oregon address. There was even a map, and sure enough, it looked like they lived in a rustic area, just like Rosalyn had mentioned. I felt a bit ridiculous, realizing that had I been more persistent over the years, maybe I could’ve found Rosalyn through her folks. Especially since Rosalyn had told me their names when I was a teenager. I could get a flight out that night and be at their place the following day.
I didn’t want to be separated from Rosalyn but I would be back before she knew it. I called home. She answered on the first ring. “Jax! How’d it go?”
“First I need to know how you’re feeling. Are you okay? Is Eugene waiting on your every whim with fresh kale juice?”
She giggled. “He’s getting pretty good with the juicer. We’re fine. Just missing you. When will you be back?”
I took a sip of water. “There’s something I want to do before I come home. Roz, I want to make a quick side trip to Oregon and meet your folks.”
She was quiet for so long I thought we’d lost our connection. Her voice was low when she said, “Why do you want to do that?”
I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “Because they’re family.”
Her breathing sounded strained. “They haven’t been much a part of my life. Not since I left home. Why would you want to meet them?”
“Roz, they’re family. Why don’t you want me to go?”
“It’s just that I’m not that close to them. My God, Jax, do you know what they said when I told them I was pregnant?”
My heart dropped into my stomach as I was reminded of the experience I’d been robbed of. “What’d they say?”
She exhaled heavily. “They told me this was my problem. I wanted them to be part of my life. I was so scared back then and thought maybe they’d be a support system. But no, Sarah and Martin are way too caught up in their goddamn pot farm to care about anything other than how much money they make and their stupid healing ceremonies with mushroom juice and …” Rosalyn was practically hyperventilating. “They said that I needed to deal with the baby on my own.”
I realized that Rosalyn and I had rarely discussed her relationship with her folks other than a few casual conversations way back when I was a teenager. They couldn’t be that bad. “They gave birth to you,” I said.
She exhaled heavily. “Oh, Jax, it’s not their fault they are the way they are. They just got involved in a little too much of the sixties lifestyle. They smoke way too much pot.”
I loved Rosalyn, so I chose not to hammer home that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. So what if she’d spent most of her life smoking pot? She was a lovable person, a good mom, and I loved her. “Doesn’t make them bad people.”
A long silence. “You really want to meet them? Why don’t you just come home?”
I didn’t know if I could explain my feeling of needing to connect with family. “I’ll be home before you know it. I promise.”
“Oh, Jax. You’re the sweetest man. Maybe they’ve even changed a little. Just don’t be expecting a warm cozy welcome. They’re pretty wrapped up in themselves.” I read the address I’d obtained, and Rosalyn confirmed that it was correct. Then she said, “But let me call them first. I have to tell them ahead of time.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“They’ve got a pretty tight security system at the farm. You can’t just go waltzing up there.”
I hung up the phone, and about a half hour later Rosalyn called. “Okay,” she said. “They were a little surprised to hear you’d be coming, but they’ll expect you tomorrow morning.” Her words came out in a rush. “There’s a fence with a hot wire, and they have a big heavy gate with a padlock that’s got a combination lock, and they have guard dogs, and … you’ll need to call their phone number when you get there so they can open the gate for you.” She gave me the number, and I wrote it on a napkin.
“Great! I’m looking forward to meeting them.”
“And you have to make sure to go in the morning between nine and noon, because that’s the only time they said they’d be available.” She chuckled. “Guess it gets busy around there at harvest time.”
“Rosalyn, I love you. Are you and Eugene going to be okay ’till I get back?”
“Yes, we’ll be fine. Just hurry back, okay?”
“I will. What did you tell them about me?”
“That you were Eugene’s dad.” Her voice dropped. “I never really told them anything about who his dad was. And,” she added a bit self-righteously, “they didn’t seem to care.” She hesitated, and her voice sounded so forlorn that I wished I was there to hug her. “One last thing. Tell them I say hello.”
I told Rosalyn that I’d get an evening flight out of Palm Springs to Portland, find a motel to spend the night, make the drive to Lost Treasure, and be back by supper time.
Her voice was tender when she said. “I miss you. Our bed’s lonely without you.”
“I will be counting the minutes. Now hang up, I think I hear your coffee enema calling.”
“You, Mr. Priest, are a bad boy. And that’s why I love you. Call me after you see my folks.”
What I couldn’t really explain to anyone, even Rosalyn, was the sense of urgency I felt in connecting with family. I’d spent most of my life running away from relationships, but now I had Rosalyn and Eugene, and I wanted family. And after my near-death experience, well, I didn’t really care whether Rosalyn’s parents were a disappointment; I needed to connect with them.
That night, I flew into Portland, rented a car, got a hotel room, woke up at dawn, and ate breakfast then made the two-hour drive. Once I was out of the city, my car wove through spectacular pine trees towering over quiet country roads. I reached the coastline and was in my element with the angry sea crashing on my left as the car hugged the winding road. I rolled the window down as the vista unfolded: sheer cliffs and rock formations jutted up out of the Pacific Ocean and whitewater churned as a storm brewed on the horizon. I took a deep breath of sea air, feeling pretty darn alive.
The coastal road eventually gave way to desolate country roads, past a church, a school where kids Eugene’s age were elbowing each other out of a school bus, some of them opening umbrellas to ward against the rain that had started, and then finally, the perky voice of my GPS announced my arrival. I let out a low whistle. Rosalyn hadn’t been kidding. Sarah and Martin’s farm had enough plants to get a small village high for a lifetime. I drove slowly alongside the heavy enclosure, my tires crunching on the gravel, as I passed acres of healthy marijuana bushes. Sure enough, there was the hot wire attached to the top of the fencing, and finally, a gate with a heavy padlock. I put the car in park, picked up my phone, but was jerked to attention by the sound of dogs barking. Two full-grown rottweilers stood at the fence, jumping, their sharp fangs bared. They snarled, growled, and spat up white foam as they carried on like deranged dogs from hell. A spurt of adrenaline surged through my system. No way would I try sneaking onto the farm. I punched out Martin’s number.
“Top o’ the morning,” he said.
“Martin? Hey, it’s Jax.”
“Oh yeah, my baby girl said
you’d be here today.”
“I’m here all right. And your dogs aren’t too happy about it.”
He chuckled. “Tell those crazy mutts to put a lid on it. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Shortly after that Martin trudged down the dirt road. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Pancho! Sancho! Shut your traps,” he yelled. Upon hearing his voice, the dogs pivoted and, stump tails wagging, raced toward Martin. He reached the padlock, entered the combination, and the gate swung open. The dogs circled my car warily.
Martin motioned for me to roll down the partially opened driver’s window. Then he leaned his head inside. “Don’t mind them,” he said. “Don’t get much company out here.” Martin wore a pair of faded jeans, which hung off his skinny frame, and a faded T-shirt. He’d held on to very little of his gray hair, the thin strands hung around his neck. He had a mischievous smile that reminded me of Rosalyn. He stuck his calloused hand out. “Pleased to meet you. Mind if I hop in?”
We shook. “Not at all.” I laughed. “But don’t let your pups in.”
“Pretty exciting day here. The boys don’t get much action.” He scratched his head. “Shoot. Dogs like this need more than the lap of luxury me and Sarah provide ’em with.” He bent to pet the dogs. “Don’t you, boys?”
Martin got into the car, and Pancho and Sancho happily trotted alongside. “You sure made it here in a hurry,” he said.
“Some farm you got here.”
He slapped his thigh. “Only the best in Oregon. You caught us at the right time, seeing as we’re in harvesting season.” His gaze scanned the property. “It’s so pretty here this time of year. Not much to look at after harvesting. Cycle of life and all.” We reached the top of the winding road, and there stood a ramshackle red wooden farmhouse. “Home sweet home,” Martin said.
“What about them?” I asked, pointing to the dogs.
“Those two softies? You kidding me? You’re with me now.” He swung open the car door, pulled a couple of dog biscuits out of his pocket, and handed them to me. “You’ll be their hero.” I got out of the car, and Pancho and Sancho were instantly at my side, sniffing crazily at the treats. “Make ’em sit first,” Martin said.
I stood up straight. The dogs’ dark brown eyes focused on me. “Sit!” I said with an authoritative voice. The dogs instantly sat at attention. I gave them each a biscuit, which they greedily accepted. “Hold on a sec,” I told Martin as I reached into the back seat for the flowers I’d brought.
A light rain fell as Martin and I walked to the house. I inhaled the cool, loamy air and felt glad I’d made the trip. My family. My tribe. Martin clattered up the steps, opened the screen door, and yelled, “Sarah! Jax is here.”
A gray-haired woman appeared. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a thin tank top. Her long hair was woven in two braids that fell over sagging breasts. She wiped her hands on her jeans and said brightly, “Come on in, sugar.” Her face beaming, she held the door open, and I handed her the bouquet of flowers I’d brought. “For me? Why thank you, dear.” She blushed a little then herded us into the cramped kitchen. An aging black Labrador retriever made its way through a narrow hallway, thumping its tail loudly against the wall as it walked arthritically. The dog leaned against my legs so hard I nearly fell over. “That’s Buster,” she said. I reached down and pet the mutt. “Have a seat.”
Martin and I sat at the kitchen table while Sarah cleared away bowls of what looked like mostly eaten chocolate ice cream.
“Well, this is a nice surprise. What can I get you, Jax?” Sarah said. “We got tea and coke and orange juice and, hey,” she said, her eyes shining, “you want some brownies? Just baked ’em yesterday with the latest crop. Our herb’s guaranteed to make whatever bad you’re feeling fade away.”
I smiled. “Orange juice is fine.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “I’m having a brownie.”
“Don’t know what to say.” Martin patted me on the arm, his unfocused eyes meeting mine. “Other than great to see you. So you’re our grandson’s dad? Have to admit, we were a bit taken aback hearing from Rosalyn yesterday.” He stared at me. “Look at you! Strong as an ox.” He reached for an extra large freezer storage bag that was tightly crammed with bright green marijuana. “You don’t mind if I smoke a little of the sacred herb, do you?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said with a smile.
The three of us settled down at the table, and I sipped my orange juice while Martin rolled a joint. I debated where to start. According to what I knew, Sarah and Martin were unfamiliar with Rosalyn’s circumstances. May as well hit them with the bomb. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t know if you knew that Rosalyn has cancer.”
Sarah’s hand flew to her chest. “No! The poor dear.” Like a vacuum cleaner, Martin sucked deeply off his joint and looked at me through narrowed eyes. He held the smoke then exhaled with a cough.
“Yep, breast cancer. Doctors tell her she’s got six months, but she’s trying an alternative treatment, so we’re hopeful.”
Martin piped up and said, “She didn’t go to those quack doctors who tried to cut her up and fill her with all kinds of crazy poison those big drug companies are pushing, did she? Damn big pharma. Those corporations ruin lives.”
“Well,” I said, “She did some of those treatments, but they didn’t work.”
“Damn right they didn’t work!” he said, slamming his fist on the table. “Big conspiracy to squeeze every last red cent outta decent folk like you and me is all it is.”
“Sugar,” Sarah said, covering my hand with her parchment-paper hand, “has she tried some of the sacred herb? Or maybe a ritual with a hallucinogenic substance and a Shaman?”
I almost laughed. “Yes, she has tried the sacred herb,” I said, thinking of all the times I’d lit Rosalyn’s bong for her.
“And it didn’t work? Oh, my.”
I considered how much to tell them, as it seemed Rosalyn hadn’t. “We just got back from Mexico where Rosalyn was part of a treatment program. No drugs. It’s a complete detoxification program using fresh juice from vegetables, fruits and vegetarian foods.”
Martin nodded. “Medicine from the earth. Like God intended.”
Didn’t they care that their daughter was fighting for her life? I was getting nowhere with Sarah and Martin. I wanted to know what was in their pot-infused brains. So I asked, “If you knew Rosalyn had a child, how come you’ve never been part of his life?”
They looked at each other. “That ain’t our fault,” Martin said. “Rosalyn likes to keep to herself just as much as we do.”
“Martin’s right,” Sarah said. “That girl of ours always did have a mind of her own.”
I said, “But she told me she really wanted to connect with you when she was pregnant. Why didn’t you want that?”
“It’s just because …” Sarah looked out the window. “She needs to fend for herself. That’s the way of nature.”
All I’d ever wanted was family, and Martin and Sarah had a daughter and a grandson they never communicated with. I cleared my throat. “I need to know something.” They both stared at me, wide-eyed. “Did Rosalyn ever tell you who the father of her child was?”
Sarah answered. “Why, she did contact us when she moved to Santa Cruz, but all she said was the father was some guy she met at the beach.” I almost laughed. That was partially true.
I had to keep my rising disappointment at bay. These two were pretty much the way Rosalyn had described them. Zoned out and in their own world. “Sarah, Martin,” I said, looking each one of them in the eye. “Why don’t you keep in touch with Rosalyn?”
They both started talking at once.
“Kids need to grow up,” Martin said then took a toke off his joint.
“Martin’s right, sugar,” Sarah said. “We did the best we could raising that girl, but just like in nature …” She gestured to the window and the grand outdoors. “Just like birds that push their babes out of the nest, little ones have to grow
up. And she was a handful, let me tell you, boy. ’Bout ended our marriage with all her carousing and sleeping around and … Well, that was a long time ago.” She hugged herself as though there was a chill in the room. “I’m just glad that’s past and she’s all grown up. You want to take some of our sacred herb to her, sugar? We grow the best.”
I collapsed back into my chair, my hands clasped over my stomach. “That’d be nice. Thanks.” I took in the modest country home, the sun streaming through the kitchen window on to its peeling linoleum floor, the scratched white refrigerator. I noticed that a small school photo of Eugene, which looked to be a few years old, had been affixed to the fridge. Rosalyn must’ve sent them a photo at some point. Maybe they weren’t all bad. At least they hadn’t thrown the photo out. I smiled. “There’s Eugene.”
Sarah and Martin’s eyes strayed to the photo almost guiltily. “Good looking kid, that one,” Martin said.
This visit hadn’t yielded much. I sighed heavily. “You mind if I use the facilities before I leave?” Sarah directed me through the living room. When I was on my way back to the kitchen, I saw yet another school photo of Eugene, this one in a cheap frame, sitting on an end table. I picked it up and smiled at the boy who reminded me so much of my brother.
We wrapped up our visit, Sarah handing me a snack sized bag full of the sacred herb. Martin rode with me and opened the gate. He clapped me on the back. “Nice meeting you, son. You take care of that daughter of ours.” His bloodshot eyes regarded me. “Sarah and me, we’ll do a special ceremony for her health. Sounds like you two are on the right track now that you’re following natures way.”
Before I drove, I sat with the windows down, taking deep breaths of the cool, damp, Oregon air, watching Martin make his way jerkily up the road, the dogs trailing at his side.
Sarah and Martin were so far out in the stratosphere that, much as I wanted to connect with them, it was like trying to reach someone tethered to a helium balloon rising into the blue sky; way out of reach and ready to float away. So much for my tribe.
Waves of Desire: Pleasure Point Series Book Three Page 19