by Dawn Mattox
Hand to cheek I drew back, cringing against the wall. “I will never be like you. You’re a heartless, mean, self-centered bitch. I wish you were dead!”
Starla laughed and rolled her eyes. “Honey, you don’t know the meaning of a heartless bitch. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Give yourself time. You’ll learn.”
My mother never talked much about her childhood. I only knew that when Starla was my age, she had been taken from her mother by the county and railroaded through several foster care homes before finally running away to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco.
Starla grew soft and distant as if remembering a more innocent time. “I was going to be different too,” she said. “Save the world. Peace, love and all that bullshit.” Her face hardened as she came back to the present. “Good luck with that one, baby girl.”
Later, I asked my father about Starla’s remark.
Lefty had stopped what he was doing and gave me a long, searching look. Then with a deep sigh, he took my hand and sat me down next to him on the couch. Wrapping his right arm around my shoulders, he stroked my hair thoughtfully.
“Your mom didn’t have it easy. In fact, she had it pretty bad when she was a kid. Her mother was a”—Lefty paused, his fingers tightening on my hair—“troubled woman. It was good that the county took Starla from her mother, but it was sad that they placed her in homes where men used her. She was just a kid when that happened—just like you.” Lefty seemed to have tears in his voice, his heart clearly aching for my mother. Again, Lefty searched for the right words. “Your mom’s been hurt. A lot.” He swallowed and then sniffed. “I guess you could say . . . your mama—she has a lot of scar tissue around her heart.”
I didn’t know what all that meant at the time, but I would think about it many times over the years that flowed through my life like troubled waters.
The baby screamed like a banshee from the bank, announcing to the cat that dinner was served, even as the icy current pulled me under. The metal clamp on the binding of my broken ski was sucked down by the force of the creek and wedged itself beneath a submerged boulder. The other ski whipped about in the turbulent water, threatening to break my leg as I fought to gain purchase. I was a prisoner—held captive by my boot.
The world went black, but through the darkness, I felt the rhythmic smack of a limb banging against my thigh. Twisting around, I grabbed hold of the branch and pulled, hand over hand, following it up until at last, I exploded through the surface, gasping for air. A desperate wild-eyed glance for the baby revealed the cat, eyes glittering as it crouched low, making its way down the slope.
Frigid fingers tightened their grip; the cold was as deadly as the water itself. Fighting for breath, time slowed, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade.
Hypothermia.
Chance was shouting in the distance over the constant throb of the creek, calling out to me, “Unlace your boot.”
Then I was back, and the situation was all too real. Unbuckling my belt, I let the dead weight of supplies tumble down the creek and took a deep breath. Plunging back into the water course with fingers so numb I could barely feel the swollen laces, I tugged and jerked in the darkness until panic set in, and I turned once more to grab the branch, pulling and climbing my way up to air and life.
The big cat was close, crouched against the snow, tail snapping, head subtly shifting left and right as it scrutinized the bundle whose voice now echoed the timeless plight of the ages—the final cries of the weak and helpless that signaled victory to the predator.
It could only be a near-death experience. It was Travis this time, Travis whispering in my ear, “Close your eyes.”
A final breath. Closing my eyes, focused and determined, I sank beneath the river, forcing my free leg—still clamped in its own ski—down with me. Pushing my free leg against the offending boulder to act as a counterbalance, I gripped the boot and began the methodical process of unlacing, one X at a time. With a final tug, my foot was free—only to feel the current pulling me from my lifeline.
Breaking through the surface, thrashing, screaming, claiming another breath, I bent as if to touch my toes, and with the flick of the lever, released my other foot from the binding.
The water was steady and forceful, running less than a foot over my head, allowing me to dive down and push off, surging upward, exploding through the surface with a roar, hurling the remaining ski toward the bank as I did.
The big cat hissed and backed up to reassess the new threat. The ski clattered and slid back into the creek, where it was promptly claimed by the current and sent bobbing downstream. Life was only a few strokes away. Thoroughly chilled and weighted down with wet clothes, every stroke felt like a mile. And then . . . I felt rock.
The life-and-death drama was out of sight as I struggled up from the edge of the creek. The bank was steep and slushy as I crawled, threatening to give me back to the river as I fought my way up. Hand and foot I crawled, grasping at loose rocks that continually threatened to give way. When at last I could stand, I was armed and dangerous.
The cat had its claws hooked in the baby’s blanket, pulling it across the snow, unwinding the morsel within.
“HAAAAA! YAAAAA!” I threw rock after rock, barely missing the baby, but close enough to intimidate the cat.
Flattening its ears, hissing in defiance, the hungry lion relinquished its prey and turned away at last. Back on the road it glanced back with a final hiss and flicked the tip of its tail angrily before fading into the woods.
Tears gushed as I reached the helpless child whose cries echoed my own. Dropping to my knees, I clutched the shrieking bundle as though she were a life preserver, shaking and shivering violently as I rocked back and forth, hunched in inconsolable grief and shame.
“I’m sorry—sorry—so sorry . . .” It wasn’t the first time I had almost abandoned the child to save myself. I rocked and realized that all we had, all we may ever have had for what time we had left, was each other . . . and I had almost sacrificed her to save myself, more than once: on the road, at Baptist camp, and here at the river.
Racked with sobs and tears of remorse, in some wild, inexplicable way, under these—the most bizarre and extreme of circumstances—I was overwhelmed with self-condemnation and the certainty that I had finally become as cold and heartless as my mother.
“Forgive me. Please, forgive me,” I begged as I rocked. “I love you, baby. I need you. Don’t leave me. Please—don’t leave me. I promise—I won’t leave you. Not ever again.”
Freezing winds and darkness swept down from the peaks. The steady babble of the creek seemed to sing a song of sleep. Time passed.
It is such a relief to finally be warm, I thought, as I peeled off my hat and coat. You can have them, kid. I am hot. Hot and tired. I just want to sleep . . . forever.
And I almost did—until my father’s voice woke me.
“Baby—wake up! Look! Over there. See? Lights. Wake up.”
Opening my eyes, I searched through the fog of my mind, and there on the horizon, down toward the bridge that crossed the creek, a light was growing. With it came a buzz that sounded like a nest of wild honeybees. Louder now. Brighter. Closer.
I am dreaming.
A second light bobbed up and down, and then a third and a fourth. The buzz now reverberating, amplified, as if the beehive had been cracked open and was under attack.
This is no dream.
Crawling forward on hands and knees, slipping once, and then twice, eventually reaching the road, we waited for either rescue or death. It no longer mattered. I was good with either one.
CHAPTER 30
Red light. Diffused. The translucent kind of light that filters through eyelids, illuminating your head with a meaty glow. Nausea battled with fatigue as I swam through the red cloud, surfacing to find a stranger’s face hovering just inches from mine. A red face, brimming with fury and hatred so palpable that I flinched, jerking my head back, deeper into the pillow.
“Yo
u killed my daughter—and you damn near killed my granddaughter!” Tears glistened in the corners of Cali’s eyes, her chin quivering with restraint.
“Cali! Knock it off. What are you thinking?” Chance rushed to her side and placed an arm around her shoulder, gently turning her away from my bed.
“You know damned well what I’m thinking.” Her venomous words slipped out.
“You have to leave. Now. This won’t change anything. Besides . . . your granddaughter and husband need you,” I heard Chance advising Cali as he guided her toward the door.
Paige’s mother resisted, pausing to look back with one more piercing glance before turning to look into Chance’s eyes. Her face visibly softened as she reached up, touching his face tenderly before relenting. “Okay . . . but I meant what I said. I understand you—but I will never forgive her for killing my daughter. I feel sorry for you, Chance,” she added, and then Cali turned away. The sound of her heels tapped a retreat as she left the room.
Chance moved back to the bedside, his blue eyes as rich as the heart of a topaz glowing under a jeweler’s lamp, a love light that shone through his haggard expression.
“Sunny . . . I . . . you’re . . .” He choked, his words breaking and scattering like a wave casting his emotions along a desolate beach.
“How? Where . . . ?” I asked, with words so weak I could barely form them.
“You’re in the hospital. In Quincy. You’re going to be . . . okay.” Chance’s eyebrows pinched, scrambling for the right words as he placed his warm, reassuring hand over mine. “And the baby—she’s alive.”
“Paige. She’s . . . needs . . .” The words croaked from my throat that burned hotter than the flames of Baptist Camp.
Oh, that’s right, I remember now . . . she’s dead.
My mouth was parched, lip swollen and cracked. So hard to think. So taxing to try.
“Kenny . . .” Exhausted, I fell back as the room faded and narrowed to just the stubble on Chance’s chin and the slight ripple that quivered beneath his jaw when he swallowed. My eyes wandered, lost, as if they didn’t know I was rescued, traveling up to his soft lips, pressed together in a tight line as a single glistening tear slid into the crease. Chance sniffled as my gaze followed the wet track past his nose and up to his eyes that shimmered in brimmed with tears, answering my questions without uttering a single word.
Chance went in and out of focus. I tried again. “Paige . . .”
He cut me off with a determined, “Shhhh.” A cloud of sadness swept over him as he gave a reassuring squeeze to my hand. “Don’t worry about Paige, and try not to think about Kenny. There’s time for that later. Right now, you need to get well. You’ve been through a lot. You need to rest.”
Chance let go of my hand and reached over the bed, pressing the alert button for the nurse’s station as he spoke. Only, it wasn’t a nurse that hurried in; it was a doctor.
After what seemed like only a cursory glance at my condition, the Dr. concurred with Chance, confirming my need for rest. He held my gaze and gave a one-word directive: “Sleep,” before reaching up and doing something with my IV.
The room tipped and swirled as another wave of nausea swept in, carrying me out on a tide of pain, out to a dark and restless sea.
Memories swept in plunging me beneath the river until I couldn’t breathe. Then I was dragged to the surface only to be plunged again, and again and again. I was caught in a maelstrom of memories that swirled through my mind like shadows beneath the raging water. The memories pictures flashed in sequence, like snapshots of a horror movie: The man that followed Paige to the cabin, Paige, oh my God, it’s a baby, he’s coming, “Kenny, help” . . . help Kenny, I can’t do this, not another step, so cold, I’m dying, burning-swirling hungry flames, bears and mountain lions are chasing me, I can’t breathe, help—help me! Sucked to the bottom of the river, I fought my way to the surface and woke to find tears surfacing with me . . . running down my cheeks . . . over a thick gauze pad.
There sat Chance, next to my bed with his arms resting on the blanketed edge, sad eyes searching mine. From the looks of his haggard expression, I expect he had been there the entire time I slept. A short, heavyset woman stood behind him who looked like a nurse or lab technician. Chance turned to her asking, “Would you please tell the doctor she’s awake?”
“Of course,” said the woman, who nodded and quickly left the room.
“Paige. . . ” I breathed her name, and the word seemed to soar on the wings of a soft sigh. Then I took a deeper breath and managed a few more words. “Paige and Kenny?”
Chance shook his head in a slow and deliberate no and opened his mouth to speak even as the Dr. entered the room, immediately usurping Chance’s place next to the bed.
The doctor’s eyes did a quick body scan before looking into mine. The young doctor looked very uncomfortable, hugging his clipboard as tight as a child clutching a teddy bear. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke.
“Hello, Ms. McLane. My name is Dr. Bauman. You must be frightened and a little confused, so I will bring you up to speed. You were found by some snowmobilers in an advanced state of hypothermia, and very near death. You have suffered severe frostbite to your left foot. As soon as you are stable, we will medevac you to Feather River Hospital for surgery. I am sorry to have to tell you this, but your condition may necessitate removal of some toes and the damaged portion of your foot.
“I know this is a difficult decision for you and your husband right now, but with your permission, we would like to move you as soon as possible. The next step after surgery will be rehab. You will walk again; prosthetics have come a long way. This is a process, and I’m sure you are having a flood of emotions and questions. I will answer all your questions to the best of my ability, and we have counselors who can help you manage your feelings.”
The doctor paused to catch his breath. “So now it’s your turn. Do you have any questions for me?”
I blinked and managed to ask, “Do you have any . . . hooks?”
Chance gave a slight smile as the doctor tipped his head in confusion. “Her father wore a prosthetic hook on his left arm,” Chance explained to the doctor who in turn, who gave us a deadpan look before launching into a lecture on amputations and prosthetics.
“It was a joke. Not serious.” I interrupted his discourse.
The good doctor’s face went blank as he cleared his throat. “Of course you weren’t,” he said, his eyes shifting from me to Chance. “Well, don’t overtire her. She needs rest. I’ll contact Feather River Hospital and schedule an afternoon flight. Butte County Sheriffs have established jurisdiction and will want to speak to you when you get there.
“Good luck Mrs. McLane,” said the doctor and hurried out the door.
“Everything. I want to know everything.” I picked up with Chance where we had left off before the doctor had interrupted. But another intrusion came before he could reply.
Breakfast arrived with a bump, and a rattle as someone from food services wheeled it in on a metal cart. A cheerful young woman delivered my tray and uncovered the various dishes to reveal what seemed like a banquet of eggs, oatmeal, fruit, toast, milk, and decaf coffee.
“I’ll tell you everything—but you must eat,” Chance said as he handed me a spoon.
“You are helping. Where would I be without you?” l tried to smile, but let the spoon slide from my fingers back to the tray. “What I am starving for is answers. I want to know everything.” The cart rattled from the room and down the hall. “Paige was murdered, wasn’t she?” The words came out, ghostlike and distant. “Tell me.”
The moment was mocked by a laugh track from someone’s TV that slipped in through the open door. Chance rose to close the door before returning to his chair. Taking his seat, he leaned forward, tightening his hold on my hand as if tethering me to what he was about to say. “It’s not your fault, Sunny. We both knew Paige. She was a determined woman who made her own choices, and lived . . . and died . . . a
s a consequence.” He leaned forward another couple of inches, bringing his face closer to mine. I could see tears pooling in his eyes. “Joyce said there were no signs of forced entry when she got there. She had to break the glass in the front door to get in. Paige was already dead. She . . . Paige . . . had shot herself.”
The privacy curtain around the bed seemed to move on its own as if Paige herself had somehow drawn near. I thought I might blackout again. “Not possible,” I gasped. “Paige was alive when I left. I left her my .22. There was a man outside, coming for me —he must have killed her and then staged it to look like a suicide.
“She begged me—no—she threatened me. Said she would shoot herself if I didn’t take the baby and go. And now . . . now you’re telling me she killed herself anyhow?” Trembling, my heart twisted, wringing tears from a pool of regret that never seemed to run dry.
Chance handed me a box of tissues and helped to dry my face along the bandage that ran from eyebrow to chin, covering the wounds where the bear had swiped my face.
Closing my eyes, as if in doing so I could somehow simultaneously close my ears, I asked; “And Kenny?” I already knew the answer, but I needed to hear it from Chance.
“Your neighbor at the cabin, Joyce—she called the sheriff’s department and told them that Kenny was driving you to La Porte. She told them Paige was dead.” Chance sniffed and swallowed to control his emotions. “Mark called me from the SO, and I chartered a flight to Oroville. By the time I arrived, the rescue team had found Kenny, but there was no sign of you.”
“What did they find? Kenny—what happened after I left?”
Still hanging his head, I could see his eyes tightening and muscles working along his jaw as he grappled for the right words. “Someone stuffed a rag down the gas tank and blew it.”
Kenny. “Was he already dead?”
“I don’t know. I doubt there will be conclusive evidence one way or the other. The explosion—” Chance shored himself up with a breath, “There wasn’t much left.”