Cabin Fever

by K Larsen

  “We didn’t know what would happen. They said chances of survival were slim in a storm like that.” Alex had tears in his eyes as he spoke to her. Meghan nodded her head and opened her arms. Alex wasn’t too old for a hug. He took her embrace thankfully. She was thankful, too, that Bruce still showed up for her sons, no matter how much he loathed her.

  “Megan Hall is here, too, up at the lodge,” James said. His voice was apologetic.

  Of course she was, but still, the emotion that had surged for Bruce deflated as quickly as it had come. He’d left her for someone petty—a woman who was probably thrilled to have a scandal to hold against her. But Megan 2.0 would certainly complain. Her life was supposed to be easy and old Meghan was putting bumps in the road. She could already hear the grievances: they’d driven all this way, the boys were traumatized, she was selfish for putting herself in danger, how come her adventures came at the expense of others’ peace of mind. Meghan hoped they would skip the hospital.

  No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, then she could hear the clickity-clack of pumps marching down the hall. James cleared his throat. Alex looked toward the door like he was about to block it. Rob was in her face, and strangely enough, caressing her hair back. He was handsome with a great physique and killer baby blues, but Meghan no longer found him the slightest bit captivating. Her mind was on Tristan and the anxiety he must be feeling. She knew he didn’t like public places and a hospital on Christmas was probably near the bottom of his list. The noise, the bright lights, the constant prodding and poking, she imagined him like a trapped bird flying into the windows.

  “I’m not letting you go up there alone again,” Rob said. He was too close to her face. She swatted his hands away and tried to see around him. She caught a glimpse of blonde hair, a long Burberry cape, Bruce’s wire-framed glasses and his shiny bald head.

  “Dad, maybe you should wait—” James tried to shoo them out.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve!” Bruce started. He was pointing an accusatory finger at her. Oh, he’d come to make a scene and scold her for trying to move on with her life.

  “She didn’t mean to disappear, Dad—” Alex tried.

  “Stop it! Get out! All of you,” she hollered above the din. “I only want Tristan here. The rest of you can go back where you came from. Thanks for checking in.”

  “Who’s Tristan?” Rob asked. He acted offended as he peeled himself off of her bed. The nurse ushered them out of the room, her boys protesting as they went.

  “Mrs. Taylor needs rest, she’s suffering from exhaustion. You all can come back and harass her tomorrow,” the friendly nurse told them. She threw a nod her way and Meghan felt extraordinarily grateful.

  “Need anything else besides a ‘do not disturb’ sign? A sedative perhaps?”

  “Got any Bourbon?”

  “I’ll check back after rounds.” The nurse was halfway out of the room, her hand on the door handle.

  “Can you check on Tristan for me? He came in with a shoulder injury. Oh, and it’s Miss Taylor. Those are my boys, but I’m no longer married to that man.”

  Thirty-Five

  Tristan

  The nurses were all dressed up for Christmas, ornament earrings, elf ear headbands, but it did nothing to lift his spirits. His anxiety nipped at him, whittling away at his chest. All he’d wanted to do was get up, find Meghan, and get the hell out of there. Even bring her with him. It was too fluorescent, too loud, and too—unnatural.

  Torture.

  It had been torture lying there for hours after getting stitches, hooked up to an I.V. drip. He had asked the nurse about Meghan, was she in the ER still? Had she been moved to a room? But they gave no answers. He wasn’t family—or any relation at all, and that earned him silence.

  He’d nearly drifted to sleep. When a woman, young and pretty with tired eyes appeared in his room, he’d wrinkled his brow, confused. She wasn’t ornamented or in scrubs. When she started asking questions that were none of her business, everything clicked.

  “You’re being regarded as a hero, Mr.—” she’d waited for his name but Tristan remained silent.

  “Let’s talk about Meghan Taylor then. How does it make you feel to know that you saved her? That you gave her sons their mother back just in time for Christmas? Do you think you’ll meet them?”

  “They’re here?” The words fell out of his mouth before his brain could stop them.

  “Of course, they’re here!” Her voice was excited for the human-interest story. Not for Meghan and not for him. Her sons. Meghan was somewhere right then, squeezing her kids. Who was he to interrupt or have an opinion about that?

  George had popped his head in to check on him and shooed the reporter away.

  “How’re you holding up?” he had asked.

  “Is Meghan okay?” Tristan didn’t want to talk about himself.

  “She is. Her kids have been in town for the last two days. I called them after I dropped you both here.”

  Tristan nodded. “Does she want me to visit her?”

  “She hasn’t mentioned anything, but I can ask for you.” George grinned. It was a funny sight, a policeman smiling. It stuck out, almost like it was an unnatural occurrence.

  Tristan’s heart sank low in his chest. The weight of the last week settling in and holding it down. It had all meant nothing to her. A means to survival. He couldn’t stand all the plastic and metal, bad art, and stench of antiseptic. If the hospital was bad, the people were worse. He felt shell shocked by all the voices, in the hallway, the doctors and nurses, a television next door that seemed to broadcast twenty-four hours of commercials. There was even a PA system that was currently pumping in corny Christmas music.

  “Those damn reporters are vultures. I should go check on Meghan, make sure they’re not bothering her and her boys.” George stood and dusted his thighs, despite his pants retaining their starched crease.

  “Hey, I’m all stitched up, and the I.V. bag’s near empty. Do you need me for anything else or can I head home?”

  George had paused at the end of the bed. “You should stay—rest for the night. Did they say they’d discharge you that early? I’m surprised.”

  “Ah, I feel fine. Anyone available to snowmobile me home?” He glanced at the clock outside the curtain, “If we leave soon, they can make it back before sunset.” He’d go to any length to get out of this place, including an escape while the staff was occupied with their Christmas cookie exchange. Meghan didn’t need him. She was home now, among people—this was her place. But not him, the cabin was calling and so was the solace that came with it.

  It was fine. He wouldn’t have been able to hold her interest for more than a few days anyway. They were fundamentally different, and history had taught him that women didn’t stick with him.

  George sucked on his bottom lip and then said, “I’ll call Joey. See if he’s game.”

  This was what he hated about the world. The hubbub, all the protocol and rules. In an instant, someone could be whisked away from you. Distracted, and then, you lost them. Real life barreled into him and Meghan and now she was gone. Reduced to an article in a paper somewhere tomorrow morning.

  Tristan did the only thing that felt right. When Joey arrived, he left. He was good at being alone.

  The snowmobile ride was quick. Quick enough that it didn’t give him time to dwell on Meghan or his feelings. Joey slowed to a stop and killed the engine when they reached the shed. The sun had just dipped out of sight for the night and Tristan knew he was anxious to get back to town.

  Tristan unstrapped his ski’s and pack and thanked him for the ride.

  “No problem, man. But think about a sat phone, like I said. You really need a way to contact the ranger station in an emergency.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll consider it,” he answered.

  Joey shook his head, knowing that he would likely never buy one. In all the years since he’d lived here, just this once, had he needed something like that. It was silly to drop a
thousand dollars on a gadget that might get used once a decade. But he understood the sentiment.

  Tristan waved Joey off and entered the cabin. He stepped through the threshold, dropped his pack and set his skis against the wall. It was silent and shadowy. He grabbed a load of logs, dumped them on the floor at the woodstove and lit the gas lamp on the side table.

  His cabin had always felt like home. Like an oasis. Comforting, safe, and peaceful. Now, all he felt was emptiness. He missed hearing a second pair of lungs breathing, feet making the floorboards creak. He missed her scent. The sound of her voice. His cabin no longer felt like his. It felt like someone else’s. It felt like a memory, with a missing limb, it felt like sadness and heartache.

  He did all the things he normally did. He stacked wood for the night. He made dinner. Read his book. He washed up and tidied everything before he decided enough was enough for one day. He just wanted sleep. Tomorrow in the light of day, his cabin would look and feel like his own again.

  Tristan stripped his clothes off and tossed them to the floor. What was she doing right now? Was she happy? Did she think of him? Angrily he slid into bed, begging his brain to stop the endless barrage of questions that would never have answers. It felt wrong to be back on his side of the bed. Meghan had claimed his side—not that he minded. But now, it felt wrong to be there. He rolled to the opposite side, pulled the blanket up to his chin and slid a hand under the pillow.

  Something crinkled. Tristan pinched it between his fingers and pulled it out. He reached out and turned the dial on the cheap Coleman lamp he kept on the nightstand. As the room grew brighter he saw his name in neat black script. An owl screeched in the night nearby.

  That fucking owl had incredible timing. Their owl. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, rooting himself in reality.

  Not another letter. He dreaded unfolding it. He didn’t want to read it. He wished women would stop trying to explain why he wasn’t enough. Groaning, he unfolded the page. He didn’t have the willpower to not read it.

  Tristan,

  You’re probably freaking out that this is another bad letter.

  His laugh, filled with relief, boomed through the room, bouncing off the walls surrounding him.

  It’s not. I promise. Did you know today’s Christmas Eve? Well, it is. And that means tomorrow is Christmas. I don’t know if you’re home yet or if you’ll miss Christmas but on the off chance that you’re home and find this in time...this is your gift.

  I didn’t have a chance to run to the store. Har har. I considered leaving you my toe, in a box of course, so that you’d always have a piece of me with you. (Get it?) Okay, sorry, that was a grotesque joke that clearly sounded better in mind.

  Go to the living room. To your movie box. When you guess my favorite film, you will find your gift.

  Always yours,

  Meghan

  Tristan shot out of bed ignoring the chill in the air. He bumped his shoulder on the wall in his dash for his movie box and let out a string of expletives at the pain that followed.

  He dug through the box, scouring titles as he went. Had she mentioned something? She’d said she liked 80’s movies. Was he just supposed to know? He squinted in concentration and leaned back on his heels. Of all the movies he had, which would he pick for her? He ran a finger over the DVD cases slowly.

  He pulled out one he hadn't watched in years. One that had been about a man who didn’t think he had what it took to win the heart of the woman. Roxanne. He shifted to his sit bones and carefully popped the case open. Another folded piece of paper. Scribbled on it read Merry Christmas Tristan. He opened the folded page and a lock of her long hair dyed a soft baby blue fell into his lap. Inside the page said, “So you don’t forget me.”

  He’d wondered why she had a blue streak but hadn’t thought it important enough to ask about but now he wondered why this strand? Why the blue? To Meghan, it had meant something more than just leaving a lock of hair for him. He felt it deep in his gut. Smiling, he held her hair between his fingers, brought it to his nose and relished in the scent of her still lingering on it.

  “Merry Christmas Meghan,” he whispered to himself.

  Thirty-Six

  Meghan

  The twins drove her home the day after she’d checked out of the hospital. Meghan wanted to ask them to take her up the mountain to at least say a goodbye and thank you to Tristan, but she was conflicted because of the way he’d taken off with no explanation.

  When the friendly nurse reported back, Estella was her name, she told Meghan that Tristan had been so eager to leave he hadn’t waited for the nurses to remove his IV, he’d just pulled it out of his arm and tossed the discharge papers on the front desk as he hightailed it out of town. It seemed he’d made no attempt to see her before he left. What if all the intimacy she felt had been imagined? How would she suggest going to find him to her boys? She didn’t even know where he lived. In a cabin at the edge of the woods about five hours up the mountain if you’re climbing against snow? It was ridiculous. And what if she found him and he didn’t welcome her visit. Best she just go home and re-adjust to life with nine toes, go back to feeling lonely and the endless quest to find herself. But from here on out, she had to make it more palatable for others.

  She’d gotten quite the talking to from Bruce about staying out of trouble. Her adventures had to pass the test of not inconveniencing anyone else. Bruce called her ‘irresponsible.’ Megan 2.0 accused her of being ‘attention seeking.’ Meghan didn’t argue. She may have cut out the rebel streak in her hair, but she couldn’t block it out of her heart. She still wanted to test the limits and push herself past her own breaking point. In all honesty, she was jealous of Tristan and what he had up there in the woods—a real sense of self—he knew exactly what he wanted. That was more than half the battle. Most of the time, Meghan just felt lost. Tristan knew what each day would bring and what he wanted to get out of it. It made life seem easier to forget the rat race and the bustle, but up until now, she’d never met anyone who’d ever actually done it.

  The boys just saw her inside and didn’t stay to chat and visit. They had plans with friends and were staying with their father because his house was bigger. Meghan kissed them and hugged them both, but felt desperate with how easily they slipped from her arms. They didn’t need her for much anymore—just tuition and the occasional meal ticket. Mothering was heartbreaking business from beginning to end. Here she’d birthed these boys from her womb and now they practically felt like strangers.

  “James!” she called to her more sensitive son. Alex was already in the car. He turned over the ignition and James still had one leg on the ground. He stopped and looked at her, smiled from the driveway.

  “Thanks for coming after me.”

  “Love you, Mom,” he shouted. After he closed the car door, Meghan stood in her stocking feet on the porch, arms crisscrossed over her chest in the cold, feeling emptier than she had in a long time. She missed the quiet. His quiet. The rest of the world was too much to hold.

  Thirty-Seven

  Tristan

  Pretending didn’t suit him. It never had. The last six days had him feeling barren and devoid of simple joys that used to give comfort. The cabin left him feeling stifled and confined. He was irritable and restless and that damn owl had hooted its way through each night keeping him awake and daydreaming about womanly curves and silky skin that no longer resided with him.

  He was in the thick of cabin fever. It struck most winters but this time it was different. His restlessness wasn’t due to being stuck in confined quarters for a prolonged stretch of time, no, it was because he wasn’t doing things—wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He’d felt it in the year leading up to him moving to the mountain. A bone deep feeling that he wasn’t living his life right. That a piece was out of place. But now he was where he was supposed to be and feeling it again, and the doubt weighed on him heavily.

  He leaned back, pressing his head against the cushion and sque
ezed his eyes shut tight. Everything that was his now felt wrong without her. He felt beholden but lacked the means to express it appropriately. Finding her had been so much easier than he had anticipated. He didn’t need to call in a favor with George or the hotel or the hospital for information. All he needed was a newspaper followed by a computer—both of which were readily available at the public library. That had been his first stop. The second had been the bus depot.

  “‘Scuse me, do you know what time it is?” he asked the man sitting across from him. He was on edge, although thankful that the bus wasn’t crowded given the date he’d finally chosen to get his ass in gear to do something about the loss he was feeling.

  The man, white-haired with glasses sliding down his nose smiled, “Nine forty-five.”

  ‘Thank you.”

  It was probably considered odd here, among people, not to have a watch, a phone or something with a screen to have the time readily available, and he knew he stuck out like a sore thumb. His clothes were worn, his beard not expertly groomed, his luggage a simple backpack. He had another hour and a half to go before they arrived at their destination. After that, he’d have to figure out how to call a taxi or hitchhike his way.

  He clutched his pack between his thighs and splayed his book open to the dog-eared page but he couldn’t focus on the words. He’d read the same paragraph three times over now and still didn’t know what it said. Anticipation fizzed in his gut. It felt like that damn missing piece was floating around inside him, turning over, rotating, trying to make itself fit. That’s how he knew it was right.

  The article in the town paper mentioned Meghan Taylor of Vernon. He had asked the librarian to help him figure out where Vernon was. She’d laughed and said, “Oh, about six hours south of here.” Tristan thanked her and used the public computer to book himself a Greyhound bus ticket and then googled Meghan.