Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

The house has a small media studio for Samuel to do interviews. It’s great for book tours, but even better for our work on behalf of Anti-Trafficking International. One day, when Sam-Rod’s grown-up, we’d like to establish a shelter for victims of human trafficking. I still remember listening to an audio clip of Marieta that the ATI shared with us…

  “They come up from southern countries like Guatemala and Honduras, down from the States, our very own Mexico and are snatched up, sold like cattle. They need people to help, strong and well-financed, connected, unafraid to take risks.”

  What would it be like to permanently live in a land drenched with sun, the air so thick with moisture, I felt twenty pounds heavier? To renovate the hacienda, reinvent our future…our very lives? Could we build another charity from the ground-up? And to have one eye over my shoulder until the day the cartels came knocking (and they surely would). To carry a weapon, to dig into the gutters for lost souls, seek them out in the dark of night, on the fringe of street lamps and alleys…

  It’s a dozen years down the road, but we’d need time to convince Tía Mariángel to let us use the hacienda.

  Whether in Colorado or summering in Tamaulipas, Samuel works from home when he can. It helps to preserve his mind, which often teeters in a delicate balance despite proper meds and diagnosis. There are times when, despite measures we’ve taken, bouts of mania and depression are as inevitable as ripples on a lake.

  The most recent slide came on the heels of the publication of his first nonfiction book, which took a real, harrowing look at drug and human trafficking, framed by the life and death of Marieta Rodriguez. Reviewers were stunned by the beloved Nixie author’s abrupt genre pivot. A heated debate sparked, as some critics told him to ‘stick to what he knew,’ and others roared for a follow-up.

  But that’s Samuel Caulfield Cabral…he keeps people on their toes. Two weeks into his book tour, I held him when his mind was buried under layers of dank sediment and mire, and he couldn’t leave our bed for days. I held him and loved him.

  When he teeters toward mania—those are the times I curse being tied to Colorado. His jittery limbs and spastic moods could try the patience of Gandhi. Throw in the relentless, emotionally-draining energy of Sam-Rod, and it’s no wonder I sometimes locked myself in the bathroom with a paperback. If I find I’m contemplating the drive time from Boulder to a Caribbean island, I’ll call Sofia.

  “I’m this close to purchasing a one-way ticket to St. Lucia.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  I guess Sofia told Samuel about one such conversation after he’d leveled out, because he actually took me to St. Lucia for some R&R, while Sam-Rod went to ‘grandma camp.’ Next time he swings toward mania, I’ll tell Sofia I’m retreating to an exclusive spa in the French Riviera.

  Some things change… marriages and splits.

  Santiago and his dulcimer girl got hitched. Honestly, we all thought their relationship was brushing feathers with the dodo, so it was a happy surprise. (They split a month later, which was not a happy surprise.)

  My parents never rekindled their romance (thank goodness). Molly and Cassady never did, either.

  “At least I put my whole heart into it. We just didn’t love each other like we thought we did,” she told me over a plate of Havarti and diet coke. She didn’t trust herself not to drunk-dial Hippie if we uncorked a bottle. “Now I can go anywhere I want.” She chose Glenwood Springs as her new home, which proved to be a killer move in expanding our TrilbyJones client base.

  Fall changes to winter, which changes to spring…and another…and another…

  Tonight, we’ve taken over Molly’s mountainside home, high on a bluff overlooking the Colorado River. Surrounded by tiki torches on her outdoor patio, we toast Hector. Jaime’s here.

  Molly’s new guy mans the grill. I was shocked when she told me she met someone special in Glenwood Springs. Not just anyone—the very man we pulled from the Longs Peak snowfield avalanche.

  “He kept staring at me in line for coffee one day, and I thought he was a creeper. He told me he thought I was an angel. Literally. When he saw my face after we dug him out of the snow, he truly thought angels had rescued him. I told him it was hypothermia, but, well, if the glove fits! He’ll probably think you’re an angel too, when you meet him.”

  New guy is quite a bit older than Molly, with graying temples and eyes that crinkle around the corners. But he has a youthful exuberance and love for life (and for Molly) which make me believe he’s in it for the long haul. I wonder what he was like before the avalanche, and if he also had an epiphany after barely scraping by with his brain intact. He has two teen boys who absolutely adore Molly. Their mother isn’t in the picture and I know it will crush them if Molly and this guy don’t work out. But Molly knows it, too—how painful it is to be a child discarded by someone you love, which makes me think she’s also in it for the long haul.

  Santiago hears from Hippie occasionally, and he’s happy wherever he’s at—somewhere in southern California. It’s still strange without him, but we’re all making an effort to get to know the new guy.

  We’ve changed, gotten a little older, hopefully a little better. We’re camping in Molly’s home instead of under the stars and, quite frankly, I’m more than okay with it. The cousins have claimed the basement. I creep around scattered cushions and toys, spilled popcorn, wince when a Lego finds my arch. The soft glow of the nightlight shows me they’ve finally fallen asleep beneath a pile of sleeping bags. I find my own sweet boy and tuck his bare foot beneath his camouflaged bag. He moans and flops over, and the foot pops out again. Oh well. Another baby tooth is going to pop out any day now and I’m trying to figure out the logistics of a tooth fairy visit beneath that heap of stinky, snoozing children.

  I return upstairs, quiet so as not to disturb Dani as she nurses baby number three back to sleep. Once, I would have felt pangs of jealousy. But now I know that’s not part of the plan for me. When Sam-Rod came into my life, the strange dreams about the nursery and the baby flitted away, lost in the realities of daylight. Was it possible that, for a time, I was allowed to cradle him, rock him, my precious boy?

  I know in my heart it was him I longed for.

  And some portion of my son’s heart will always long for Marieta. He forever asks to hear about the time I met her in Paddlers, and how beautiful, and brave, and special she was, and how much she loved him. Our son will always know he is loved.

  I slip under the covers of the guest room, shiver at the chill. Samuel is beside me, bare-chested and glasses perched on his nose, typing away on his laptop. Sometimes I worry—just for a second—when he’s in his writing groove, that he’s slipping into mania. He must have a finely-tuned worried-wife radar, because he’ll set the laptop aside and gently rock my world.

  He’s going to do that now, I hope.

  “Hello, Aspen Kaye.”

  “Having trouble sleeping?”

  “Mmm. Just sorting out my thoughts on paper.”

  “Electronic paper.”

  “Symbolic paper.”

  “Can I read it?”

  He rests his computer on my lap like a sacred offering, and I scan his words. Just a couple of paragraphs, but it’s an epic in my eyes. An epic that isn’t found in soaring peaks, cloudless skies, or wild hydraulic rapids. Breathtaking as they are, mountains and skies and rivers could never satisfy my soul. I could climb a thousand fourteeners and not be fulfilled until I came home to the people I love. That’s our epic, Samuel’s and mine. To give. To serve. To love. Because we’re not meant to simply exist…we’re meant to live.

  “What do you think?” Samuel’s cheek hovers over my shoulder. I can’t speak through the tears.

  So I type this note at the bottom of the page:

  S—It’s perfect. Are you going to publish it? –K

  Hydraulic Level Five [WORKING TITLE]

  Draft 1.whoevenknows

  © Samuel & Kaye Cabral EPILOGUE

  Aspen,

  Th
is is my goodbye letter to you.

  I have a grown-up love and her name is Kaye. She’s a gorgeous, brave, stubborn woman. Sometimes I see your youthful vibrancy when she laughs, or plays her guitar, or scribbles on my head with Sharpie markers while I’m asleep, and it makes me feel seventeen. But I don’t want to be seventeen again.

  I want Kaye for the rest of my life. Her faith in me makes me a better man. She’s my wife.

  Somewhere, across this immeasurable earth, we have children waiting for us to bring them home. Children who look nothing like either of us but will break my guitar strings and dance horribly like their mother. Our children will have grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins who dote on them when I’m not feeling well. No illness, distance, red tape, or dollar amount will keep us from them. Kaye and I will scour the icy water of St. Vrain Creek, just like we used to, and we’ll show our children rainbow rocks and tadpoles and cattails. We’ll scale mountains and raft rivers…

  Please trust that you will be safe and cherished, tucked away in the corners of my mind.

  And you won’t be alone, because I’m leaving Caulfield with you. You prefer him to me, anyway.

  Love,

  Samuel Caulfield Cabral

  S—It’s perfect. Are you going to publish it?—K

  No, Kaye. Our story won’t be finished for a long, long time.—S

  END

  Acknowledgments

  To my husband Nathan: thank you for your patience and encouragement when daily tasks fall by the wayside as the writing bug bites. You are my friend and partner in every way, and I’m grateful to have you as the “work horse” of our family.

  To my children: how creative and free you are! Your stories inspire me.

  To Mom and Dad: this book would not have happened had you not left your home behind to make a new home down the street. I am grateful my kids know what it’s like to have grandma and grandpa a mile away.

  To Emily and William: I adore your farm stories! Thank you for allowing me to mine your experiences and give them the “fiction treatment.”

  To my family: you didn’t blink an eye when we became foster parents and welcomed every child without hesitation or question. Thank you.

  To my Women of the Word ladies: Thank you for allowing me a safe place to express my insecurities and concerns, never judging, always praying. You have helped me to grow and thrive in my own skin.

  To my editor, publisher, and long-time champion and encourager, Elizabeth Riley with Omnific Publishing. You have stood by this project for years and welcomed me back with open arms after my writing hiatus. Your belief in my work and personal interest in the story helped me to dig deep and find emotions previously unexplored.

  To Stacey Spangler, my spirit sister: I’m glad I can walk this writing journey with you. Both of us are a bit different (in good ways!) and we’ve chosen to embrace this God-given creativity through storytelling. I miss seeing you every week but we’re where we need to be.

  To the Leonard sisters, who allowed me a glimpse into the lives of military families and have cheered me on since I was an extremely awkward eight-year-old.

  To the teachers and librarians who motivate a new generation to love books—my kids included!

  To the readers who have waited patiently for this book, understanding and encouraging us as our family helped broken kids and parents.

  I thank my God for always lighting my path when I walk in unknown places.

  About the Author

  Sarah Latchaw was raised in eastern Iowa. After college, she left behind everything she knew to venture into the great wild of Des Moines. She has travelled across Europe, explored the Middle East, climbed mountains, and braved Legoland with her husband, son, and daughter. Sarah was awarded her MA in Creative Writing from Iowa State University. In recent years, she and her husband were licensed as foster parents and now call many children “their kids.” She lives for the special moments when she tells her kids not to jump on “the couch,” “the car,” “the cat,” or “your brother’s head.”