Summer heat tamed them into trickles of lifeblood that sustained all things green and breathing on the Front Range.
My hometown of Lyons was triangled in a watershed, where two of these mountain streams converged: North St. Vrain and South St. Vrain. The creek slithered east into ranch country where it eventually spilled into the South Platte River.
What would Lyons be without the St. Vrain? Our farms pulled from its waters. Planet Bluegrass was nestled into its curve. All roads in and out of Lyons crossed the St. Vrain—there was no other way. The St. Vrain was my lifeblood, too, this creek of childhood fairytales, and now, my marriage. This creek was in me. The season didn’t matter, because one can overcome any type of weather with good shoes and waterproof layers.
Early spring, I was kicking off my heels and struggling to unzip my shift after long hours at the office, when I spotted my hiking boots and fleece laid across my bed. Samuel came up behind me, removed my struggling hands and dragged my zipper the rest of the way down. His arms circled my bare waist. His breath was warm and inviting on my neck.
“I have a surprise for you.” He kissed my skin once, twice, making me shiver. Then he groaned and removed his hands, to my great reluctance. “But we’ll need the last bit of daylight. “Change and we’ll go?”
Cliff-hucking tease. I conceded and pulled on my active wear. Lately, Samuel’s mood had teetered on the edge of mania. He was aware of it and tried to check his exuberance, but it was still hard to keep up with someone who had the speed and panache of Chester Cheetah.
The office had been a road race today. Bathroom breaks were nearly impossible, and lunch was out of the question. A rival firm in Breckenridge poached our ski resort campaign, I presented to a potential client in Alaska whose signing was as likely as Clam Gulch becoming a spring break hot-spot, we were in the middle of tax season and, to top it off, one of my IT guys quit and the other was ready to murder me if I didn’t hire a replacement soon. I normally wouldn’t handle some of these details, but our office manager was on maternity leave and her temporary replacement’s résumé proved to be vastly overstated. Frankly, all I wanted was to curl up in my comfy chair with my comfy blanket and a comfy bowl of popcorn.
I threw together cold tacos for an “on-the-road” dinner and followed my husband out the door.
We didn’t travel far. Samuel drove us out of Boulder but before we reached Lyons, he turned west onto a two-lane blacktop called Left Hand Canyon Drive. The area was familiar. Left Hand Creek had a wild, class five mini-gorge rapid that was only reachable by squeezing a kayak through a small culvert (river rats called it the ‘Fighting Miner’ because it resembled a mine’s log entrance and beat the piss out of you). Next, you passed under the road, then zigzagged into a boulder garden and hit a cascade. Hector and I occasionally took our kayaks through the obscure whitewater. Well, we used to. If I closed my eyes, I could feel low-hanging willows comb my arms as we sped into the canyon.
A few miles farther, Sam pulled onto a driveway that was little more than two muddy tire tracks. We meandered up a hill, around rock walls and groves of shimmering aspens, cottonwood and pine. Samuel parked. I followed him up a gentle slope and wondered why the heck we’d stopped in the middle of nowhere. The sun skipped along the tops of the mountains and soon it would be dark, so there was no time to hike. Below us, Left Hand Creek sputtered and gasped with the first of the snowmelt. In another month, ice water would roar over its bedrock.
“What do you think of this place?”
“It’s beautiful. I think I’ve noticed this spot before, where the creek curves. It has a nice vista, good for biking when it warms—”
“It’s ours.”
“Say what?”
Samuel jammed his hands in his pockets, pleased. “I bought it. Thirty-five acres of prime mountain-view real estate. I thought we could build a house over here…”
My brain struggled to catch up with Samuel’s boisterous plans, but it was still stuck at ‘thirty-five acres..’ “How much did you spend?”
“Seven-fifty.” Given his royalties intake, not bad for a land investment. But still.
“Why didn’t we discuss this first?”
“I told you, I wanted it to be a surprise. Although…judging by your expression, you’re not happy.”
I tightened my ponytail and walked the line between gratitude and exasperation, a well-worn path. “I couldn’t have chosen a better place myself, but we never even talked about it. Buying a house, yes. Building, no.”
His smile fell. “Sometimes you make me feel as though I can’t do anything right.”
Argh, argh, argh. So frustrating when he was like this.
“Listen. It’s an extravagant gift, incredible. And this is possibly the best view in Boulder County. I just…”
I looked over the land again. We were far enough into the mountains where bare rock face gave way to lush green, even in winter’s last gasp. Purple haze, gleaming aspens. The valley below teemed with color and wildlife along the creek. But the really amazing thing about this place? There was a grocery store ten minutes away. Now I felt like an ungrateful chit.
I tried again. “Tell me why you chose this place.”
“See the tree line on the edge of the field, where the hill crests? That’s the property line. Thirty-five acres gives us an amazing amount of privacy. Snoopy paparazzi and fans couldn’t get close to our home without trespassing.”
“Fair point.”
“It’s between Boulder and Lyons, not a long commute.”
I loosened to the idea. “Again, fair point.”
“And we can build a home together, just the way we want it, down to the last sink fixture.”
Ah, I got it. “It’ll be our place, while the apartment above TrilbyJones is still kind of my place.”
“It’s time to move this marriage out of a holding pattern, firecracker. Let’s build something permanent.”
“Fair point, times three.”
We hiked up and over rock ledges, through thick canopies of pines that had blanketed the ground in needles. A dirt path snaked into the forest, darkening as twilight loomed. This was no deer trail. Someone had lived here before. We climbed further and I nearly stumbled on a wooden staircase, crumbling and rotted. Behind the overgrown brush on either side of the stairs ran an old rock wall.
“Good lord, it’s the Secret Garden.”
“Not quite. Look at the top of the stairs.”
I took the stairs two at a time lest they disintegrate beneath my shoes and a solid stone building, no bigger than a shed, came into view. A fragile-looking wood door clung to rusted hinges. I looked back at Samuel, confused.
“An old mine entrance, probably gold and silver. See how it’s built into the hill?”
I could just imagine a grisly miner laboring on this very hill and then stumbling back to a shack that surely must have been here, once upon a time. The actual mine shaft had been filled in and bricked away, perhaps a hundred years ago. Ancient, musty air filled my nostrils as I stepped inside. I pressed my hand to the wall, the ceiling, stomped the floor—sturdy as the mountain it inhabited. What a spectacular playhouse for a child.
“No danger of the ground caving into collapsed shafts?”
“It’s already been inspected. Any remnants of the mine shafts collapsed decades ago and settled nicely.”
“Water?”
“Also inspected and tested for lead, arsenic and thallium. All clear.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment buy, was it? You’ve been at this for a while.”
“It was in the works before this latest manic episode, if that’s what you’re getting at. Give me a little credit.”
I winced at his harsh tone, but let it go. His mind was on the mend, no need to pick a fight.
As we explored the property, it burrowed its way into my soul. Samuel was right. We could grow roots here, build a home. Log cabin? Spanish style? It would need thick walls and a deep foundation,
here on the mountainside, with the wind. I closed my eyes and the breath of the mountain fluttered across my cheeks, my hair. Home.
Samuel took my hand with apology in his eyes. I smiled and we explored our property, pointed out locations to build. Years could pass here. I saw our family sitting on a deck in relaxed conversation as the sun sank. We’d take el changuito and his little sibling down to the creek to splash and fish. There’d be other children, perhaps. Birthday parties on the mountain, piñatas and baseball cakes, knowing Sofia. I saw the baby boy of whom I dreamed growing and toddling over rocks as our hands hovered near his little belly, guarding him. The field to the right was open enough to be a good sledding hill. We’d huff up the hill with our boy under one arm and a sled rope looped around the other, because his snow gear would make movement as impossible as pushing through a vat of honey. At night we’d read one last book and he’d glide into dreams against my chest, his starlight lamp swirling gray, blue, green colors upon his nursery ceiling.
Samuel gripped my hand. I hurriedly swiped away the tears running down my cheeks, but it was too late.
“Kaye. Talk to me.”
I covered my face with my hands, but he pried them away. Blue eyes met mine. Earnest and familiar and pained, promising they’d be in my mind until I made my last memory.
“Tell me why I’m making you sad. Tell me how to fix this.”
I shook my head. “It’s not you.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t want to stress you out.”
Exasperation flooded his face. “Aspen Kaye Cabral, this has gone on long enough. You talk to me now, or we’re going to marriage counseling.”
That pushed me over the edge, and my barely dammed emotions bawled over. “It’s this dream, this idea I can’t seem to get out of my head and it’s driving me—” I caught my breath and slowed, slowed, to coherency. Samuel watched, patient and alarmed. When I was in control of my emotions, I tried again.
“What sort of rooms should we have in our home?”
Samuel’s confusion deepened, but he answered. “The obvious: kitchen, bedrooms, bathroom, living room. I’d like an office or library for my writing, and you’d need one for business. We could share an office, I suppose. We’ll want a rec room and a place to store all of your outdoor equipment…Actually, we may need to buy the neighboring acreage for that.”
“What about a nursery?”
Samuel stared at me, then dropped my hands like a hot pan. “What? How? Are you—?”
“No! Not pregnant.” I flushed. “That isn’t possible for us, is it? But…” I bit my lip. “Have you thought anymore about it?”
His eyes widened. “About getting you pregnant? Kaye, I can’t—”
I shook my head. “Have you thought about our having a child?”
Samuel exhaled, as if he’d been slammed by a Greco-Roman wrestler. “I should have seen this coming. Here and there, I suppose. Nothing serious. Why? Have you?”
“Some. A lot.”
“What have you thought about? How long have you been thinking about this?”
“Months now. I’ve had dreams. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
Samuel plopped down on the ground of what would one day be our backyard, the lingering spring muck soaking through his jeans. I sat next to him. “I knew something was bothering you. I just assumed you were disappointed in our marriage. But you know what they say about assuming.”
“You wouldn’t have had to assume anything if I’d told you in the first place.”
“That’s true.” His eyes were as unfathomable as a thick fog. “But my track record for being open and honest isn’t exactly stellar, so I’ll not hold it over your head. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Thank you.” I mentally kicked myself in the shin. Why did I always underestimate Samuel?
His restless fingers tugged brown grass and twisted them into spikes. “Do you want to tell me about these dreams?”
So I told him. The dark-haired infant with his dark eyes, sleep-slowed breath and baby powder, everything. All the while, as eagerness and longing bubbled over and spilled into the space between us, Samuel watched me as one watches a tragic news story unfold. Sad and removed. When I finished and saw the way he looked at me, I knew what he would say before he even said it.
“Kaye. Oh Kaye. You would be a wonderful mother. I can see it too, you know? A baby we made, sleeping in your arms. Sometimes I imagine you nine months pregnant, all rounded and glowing with excitement, and I feel excited too. But…”
“But?”
Samuel’s face darkened, and in that darkness was a self-recrimination I knew all too well. He rose and turned away from me, hands on his hips. He stood there, silent and tense, before his head fell back and he uttered several expletives. “I’m so damned sorry, firecracker. I can’t tell you how much I want to give this dream to you. But I can’t.”
Fear rose in my chest. “Well, of course we can’t have biological children together. But there are other options. A donor, maybe—”
“That’s not what I meant—”
I rushed on. “Or adoption. Samuel, there are so many possibilities. It would take research to find out what we can and can’t do, with your mental health history—”
“And my arrest record.”
“People with drug arrests in their past are still able to adopt.”
“How about my very public meltdown? Have you forgotten about that?”
“No. But...there are ways around it. We have resources.”
“Unethical ways that involve money under the table. Absolutely not.”
“Not necessarily.” I stood up. “I’m not talking about child trafficking, for Pete’s sake. What if the biological parents choose us? If we make use of the media, tell our story.”
“No. Absolutely not,” he repeated. “Can you imagine the backlash if we used my connections to adopt a baby? My health struggles and indiscretions are under a microscope as it is. It would be a bloodbath in the petri dish. Imagine putting a child through that kind of lifelong scrutiny, always having people speculate if daddy’s neglecting him to break into major league ballparks with cremation urns.”
“Samuel,” I chided.
“And what about my reasons for not wanting children? Have you forgotten them, or are you simply discounting my wishes in the matter, thinking I’ll ‘come around’ eventually? Because let me tell you, Kaye, this is deadly serious to me.”
“It is to me, too!”
“No, it’s not! It can never be, because you don’t have bipolar disorder!”
I pointed a finger at him. “That’s not fair.”
“Have you thought of the ramifications of bringing a baby into our lives, completely dependent upon us for everything? I have nightmares about slipping into a depression or a manic episode and somehow mistreating you and the people I love, let alone a little child.”
“You are not your mother, Sam. Besides, I would be there.”
He dragged his hands through his hair. “What about TrilbyJones? You work insane hours as it is, and it will only get more insane with this Alaska expansion. Are you going to sell your share of the business and be the primary caregiver?”
I paused. I loved TrilbyJones. I’d worked hard to build it when I had nothing, not even Samuel. Selling…no. No. Could I? For our baby? “Maybe, I don’t know. It’s not like we’re hurting for money. We’d have to figure it out.”
“Exactly.” He jabbed a finger toward the ground. “You haven’t thought this through.”
“Isn’t this what we’re doing? Thinking this through, now, together?”
“I’ve already thought this through, a thousand times!” His voice cracked. “The sad, messed-up fact is, I would love to be a dad. In a perfect world, I’d have one kid on my shoulders and two hanging on my ankles. But this isn’t a perfect world, and I’ll not risk the precious trust and vulnerability of a child simply to satisfy a selfish desire to be a father. That’s what parents do
—love their kids so much, they put their children’s needs before their own. And I’m doing that by choosing not to be a parent in the first place.”
“Samuel, you don’t have to be perfect to be a good father. And you would be.” I tried to grip his hand but he shook me loose. “We have an incredible support system here in Colorado— ”
“You’re not hearing me, Aspen Kaye. I’m screwed up. You knew this when you married me.”
Anger flared. “When I married you, you promised me we’d explore our options. You did not give me a definite ‘no.’”
“Would you have chosen not to marry me if I’d given you a definitive ‘no’?”
I paused, biting back hurtful words I couldn’t take back. “I still would have married you. But three years ago, I also didn’t think I’d want to be a mom.”
“And now you do.”
I nodded. “That’s why I didn’t say anything about it—to be fair. But I also think it’s fair to acknowledge that people grow and change. That’s what living is. We aren’t etched in stone, Sam.”
“Our genes are.”
And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? There was no magic cure for bipolar disorder. You coped as best as you could, you made sacrifices, you accepted you could never quite be ‘normal.’ What did that mean, anyway? ‘Normal.’ I snorted. Didn’t everyone have their burdens?
People who had no business having children had one, had ten, then hurt them and resented them for taking away their freedom, for getting in the way, for putting a cramp in their miserable, selfish lifestyles. Then there were people like Samuel, who was so far from selfish he was Mother Theresa compared to these child-abusing louses. But he’d been born with a curse on his brain. It sucked. It wasn’t fair. Then again, God never promised us life would be fair, did he?
I wiped my eyes with my hands, knowing we were at an impasse. Samuel half-heartedly gestured to the sky. “It’s almost dark. We should head home.”
Chapter 8
Mank
When climbing gear is rusted or otherwise unsafe (due to age, carelessness, or inexperience) it becomes a danger and is said to be ‘mank.’
Fourteeners Page 13
