Red Fox Road

by Frances Greenslade

  I put on my pack and followed Buddy, who had decided it was time to start walking up the road again. I tried to keep up my brisk pace, as Dad called it, and it was almost two hours before the adrenaline that had been fueling me sputtered out and I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since the beans the night before.

  I dug out the beans I’d taken from the trailer. Buddy had run some distance ahead, but he came back and lay near me, his turned-over ears twitching as he watched me. The deciduous trees here had not yet leafed out, though they were about to. The new buds lined along the branches made a lacy pattern at the edges of the road. But where the truck had broken down, the leaves were already out. That must mean we’d walked to a higher elevation, though I hadn’t noticed.

  Suddenly, Buddy’s ears pricked up. He scrambled to his feet and stood listening. His ears turned this way and that, and he took off running, full tilt up the road.

  I swallowed and strained my ears, but they only picked up the jangle of Buddy’s tags and a high, shushing wind rippling through the treetops.

  He’d got so far ahead of me already, there was no point trying to run after him. So I took out my jackknife and opened the can of beans. Then I scooped out a few mouthfuls, saving some for him, took a couple swallows of water and stuffed everything back in my pack. It was hard to run with the backpack on and a belly full of undigested beans. I only tried for a few minutes before I got a stitch in my side and had to slow down.

  I could see him, way, way ahead, a dark dot on the muddy road. But after a while, I couldn’t be sure that I really was seeing him. He’d gone on without me and I had to take deep gulps of air to stop myself from crying.

  After a long time, as it became harder and harder not to cry, I did hear something, a faint buzz like—I don’t know what—like mosquitoes only bigger. And when my brain was on the brink of knowing what it was, it faded away and left me to the crows and the high moaning wind.

  I tried not to notice how my feet hurt today and how my shoulders ached from the tug of the pack. With my eyes scanning the road ahead, I nearly stepped on a flock of blue butterflies fluttering in the mud. There were twelve of them, the most beautiful blue I’d ever seen. The bright blue, shining like the rainbow that oil makes in a puddle, was so strange and out of place, I felt I might be dreaming them. And maybe this empty road was a dream, too, and I would wake up in my own bed and hear our neighbor’s country music radio floating in my window, mixed with the buzz of distant lawnmowers.

  A soft wind rose and lifted my hair. Then a door swung open in my brain and the distant buzzing sound sailed in on the breeze, louder now, distinct. A lawnmower. It sounded like a lawnmower.

  “Buddy!” I cried out. “Bu—ddy!” I thought I could see him way down the road, a dot getting bigger.

  I ran and called, ran and called. I heard his tags jangle as he got closer. Then he was back, jumping on my legs and licking my hands, one then the other. His tongue hung loose and lolling, foam around his mouth. I got out my little pot and poured some water in it for him, which he slurped up in his usual vacuum-­cleaner way. But immediately he trotted off again, this time more slowly, waiting up for me.

  The lawnmower sound grew and faded, grew and faded, then grew steadily louder and another dot appeared on the horizon. As it drew closer, I understood that it was not a lawnmower, but a dirt bike.

  My heart thundering in my chest, I waved my arms crazily over my head.

  The bike came closer and closer, then skidded to a stop a few feet in front of me. Buddy bounded over to the rider, who was dressed in orange and white leather, a black helmet that mostly covered the face like a mask, and knee-high black boots. My exhausted mind was playing tricks on me, and I blinked to clear the image of the fox, standing in front of me with her neat black socks. Then the driver pulled the helmet off and her long red ponytail flopped out. She bent to Buddy whose tail was wagging so hard I thought it would knock him over.

  The girl stood up. “What are you doing with my dog? What are you doing way out here?”

  “I’m Francie Fox. Are you looking for me?”

  “I was looking for Buddy.” She bent to him again and kissed his head. “You found him.”

  “He found me.”

  “Were you lost?”

  “Not really. Your dog’s name is Buddy?”

  “Yeah. This is Buddy. He took off chasing a squirrel and he’s been missing for four days.”

  “Isn’t there a search?”

  “Just us. Me and my dad. He’s in his truck.”

  “Are my mom and dad out on the highway? We got stuck out here. Isn’t there a search?”

  “I don’t know about any of that. I was just looking for my dog. But I can take you out to the highway. I don’t know about that backpack, though. It’ll put us off-balance.”

  “I could leave it, I guess. Do you think someone could come back for it?”

  “I’ll ask my dad. He’s with the truck near the highway.”

  “Is it black?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You drove out this way this morning.”

  “Yeah, we did. Dad said I could give it one more try on the bike. But Buddy found me instead. He’s a smart dog, aren’t you, Bud?”

  The girl took my pack from me and put it down by the side of the road. “We’ll leave it here where we can see it when we come back. Don’t worry. I’m sure Dad’ll come and get it for you. How long have you been out here anyway?”

  “Thirteen days.”

  “Thirteen days? Are you sure?”

  I turned to the forest, where soft fir fronds glistened with sunlight. They stirred in the breeze like hands waving goodbye.

  I climbed on the back of the dirt bike. There were no flashing lights, no helicopters or news reporters. No baskets of food and Mom and Dad running with their arms open. Just this red-haired girl on a dirt bike looking for her dog.

  “Grab hold of me around my waist. Hold on good and tight. It’s a bumpy ride, but we’ll take it easy so Buddy can keep up.”

  She shifted to look at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A steady beeping sound came to my ears. The bird, I thought. The road. An unfamiliar smell floated in the air—bleach and soap and food smells. And the air, too, was wrong. Heated, heavy, dry.

  I opened my eyes on a white room, venetian blinds at a window, a blue sky outside it. It took a few moments to realize I was in a hospital room. A tube stuck into my arm was attached to a machine that drip-dripped clear liquid.

  My mouth was so dry. I pushed myself up and saw a pitcher of water on a table beside my bed. With my free arm, I reached for it and poured myself a glass of water. Ice cubes tumbled into the glass. It was so sweet and cool. I poured myself another, then another. A nurse stood beside a counter outside my room. The tube was long enough to let me stand up. But when I tried, my legs gave out under me like plastic straws. I stumbled against the machine beside the bed and the clatter made the nurse turn.

  “You’re up!” she said, smiling. “Look at you! I bet you’d like some breakfast.”

  “Where are my mom and dad?”

  “Your Aunt Cecilia is here. She just went for coffee. She didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “But my mom and dad?”

  “I’ll find your aunt. She’ll be so excited to see you’re up.”

  Aunt Sissy, when she saw me sitting on the side of the bed, took me in her arms and squeezed me so long and so hard I could barely breathe.

  “Your mom is here,” she said. “Someone found her by the side of the road. She’s not awake yet.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yes, she will be. She’s not hurt. The sheriff is here. He wants to ask you some questions. They didn’t even know you and your mom were related until
I got here. I got the call a girl and her father had found you walking along some remote road. You gave them my name and number.”

  “I don’t remember that. I remember getting on a dirt bike.”

  “They brought you straight here. They couldn’t tell me much more. They brought your backpack.” She gestured to where it leaned against the wall. “All I knew to tell them was that you were on your way home from a trip to the Grand Canyon.”

  “No,” I said.

  “What do you mean no?”

  “We never got to the Grand Canyon. We were on our way down. The truck broke down on that road.”

  “What road?”

  “The road the fox-girl and Buddy found me on.”

  Aunt Sissy lifted my legs back up into the bed and pulled the covers up.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t rush things. You need to get more rest.”

  “No, Aunt Sissy, I’m fine. I mean, I feel okay. We never got to the Grand Canyon. We took a shortcut and then the truck broke down. Where’s Dad? Have they found Dad?”

  “But Francie, that can’t be right. You left home two weeks ago.”

  “Have they found Dad?”

  “No, not yet. Like I said, the sheriff needs to ask you questions. They’ll do everything they can.”

  “I want to see Mom.”

  “The sheriff wants to see you first. He’ll be up right away. He’s getting coffee.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “It’s just the way they do it, Francie. He’ll talk to you and then we’ll go see her.”

  She squeezed me again. “I’m so, so glad to see you.”

  “Can they take this thing out of my arm?”

  * * *

  The sheriff said the Canada Post toque was a good clue. He sat in a chair by my hospital bed with his Stetson hat in his lap. He wore the star badge like I’d seen on TV.

  I showed him my map, which had been stuffed in my jacket pocket and was creased and smudged with grime. I had marked in Hat Creek and drawn the little toque in the spot where I’d found it.

  “That’s smart,” the sheriff said. “This’ll give the searchers a much better idea of where to look.”

  “I don’t know if he dropped it on his way to find the highway or on his way back to us,” I said.

  “Good thinking. This map is really helpful. I’ve got a map to show you, too.”

  He pulled it from inside his jacket and unfolded it on his knees. “This is a topographic map. The lines show the elevation. Here it’s higher, see? The lines are closer together.” He put his finger on a line that ended in an expanse of milky green.

  “Here’s where we found your truck. I want you to show me where your dad was walking to. And tell me everything he said.”

  I looked at the map. The milky green was spidered with brown elevation lines and the blue of the creek running like a vein through it. But there was no road. A sick feeling rose in my stomach.

  “I don’t see it. He walked this way. There was supposed to be a road. Fifteen miles, he said.”

  “Okay,” said the sheriff. He folded up the map and put it away. “Tell me about the weather the day he left.”

  I explained to him what the weather had been like over the days we waited for him. I watched his face, his slow nod. He wrote down the dates and times. Then he asked about the equipment he was carrying and I told him about the tent. The tent but no sleeping bag.

  “If he set up the tent, that’ll make him easier to spot,” the sheriff said.

  “Will you use a helicopter?”

  “Yes. We have a helicopter. We’ll use all the resources we have.”

  * * *

  The room Mom lay in was hushed and dim, the blinds half-closed against the bright day outside. Aunt Sissy opened them and sunlight poured in.

  Mom’s hair spread like a wild halo around her head on the pillow. A machine beside her beeped as steadily and rhythmically as the bird in the woods. I took her hand. It felt soft and warm, the very best thing I’d ever touched.

  “Mom,” I whispered.

  “She’s sleeping, sweetie,” Aunt Sissy said gently. “I didn’t even know she was here until I got here last night. Someone found her on the side of the highway. She was unconscious. The sheriff couldn’t figure out who she was or where she’d come from.”

  “Mom, I’m here,” I whispered again. “We made it.”

  I thought her eyelids flickered; I thought I saw a smile start on her lips.

  Her lips moved. She was trying to say something. Aunt Sissy and I watched her. Her head turned one way and then the other. Then she whispered, “I came back for you.”

  “She’s a little confused,” Aunt Sissy said.

  “You waited. And I came back for you,” she said again.

  “She’s confused,” Aunt Sissy said again, patting me on the back.

  “I know,” I said.

  * * *

  That night I tried to sleep. A hospital is not as quiet as you’d think. Aunt Sissy was snoring lightly in a chair near my bed. Some machine was clanging on a floor above me. I heard sirens outside. Beeps and clacking wheels and unfamiliar rushes of noise filled the dark. I put my mind back in the forest, with moonlight streaming through the trees.

  I knew that Dad would not have set up the tent. I knew he would have kept walking. Walking was what he did best. He may have sat and rested, or he may have fallen asleep as he rested. But I knew he would not stop walking until he couldn’t walk anymore.

  I pictured him walking through the rain, whistling. He stops for a drink beside Hat Creek, tempted by the clear, cold water. He’s sweating a bit, so he takes off his toque, lays it down on a rock. Then he feels the clouds break. He lifts his head and looks up at the sky. The sun beams down on his face, and on the forest, making everything steam and shine. He stands and smiles, takes another step and keeps walking.

  Mom had not come back for me. Not really. But she had tried.

  And that, I decided, was just as good.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  One sunny Sunday when my son was about Francie Fox’s age, he, my husband, David, and I went off-road driving in our old red Madza on the backroads in the hills near our town. Having fun, we took increasingly rough roads, over rocks and across gullies, exploring an area we’d never traveled in before. As the day turned to afternoon, we tried to find our way out of the maze we’d followed, but we kept looping back to the same impassable spot. Hours later, low on gas and hungry, we finally came to a locked gate. David walked out and, luckily, found the farmer who had the key to the gate. We were embarrassed and a little shaken as he unlocked it to let us drive out to find the main road.

  That experience stayed with me. I realized we had not paid attention to where we were going because we were only a few miles from home. Since that time, I’ve read many stories of people who’ve become stranded by following the wrong roads, sometimes suggested by their GPS devices. In 2011, a woman from our town survived forty-nine days after following GPS directions down a remote road in Nevada. Her remarkable courage also stayed with me.

  While researching this book, I took a trip to Oregon. On my way back to Canada, I took a wrong turn out of a gas station and ended up about an hour west of where I should have been. That error gave me the idea for the Foxes’ error in the book.

  I’d like to thank Jenny Lippert, forest botanist at the US Forest Service, for answering my questions about the forest in parts of Oregon. Any inaccuracies that remain are due to my fictionalization of the landscape. Thanks to Henry at Midas for advice on engine troubles. I would like to acknowledge the profoundly peaceful writing time provided by Dorland Mountain Arts Colony, Playa Residency and the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild. I’d also like to acknowledge the support of Okanagan College, as well as Deborah Cutt, Surandar Dasanjh and Eva Gavaris at the Penticton campus library.

 
I thank my friends in adventure, Nancy and Glenn Noble-Hearle and Mary Kiviste, for helping me put to the test my theoretical knowledge about the outdoors. Dan Joyce, my father-in-law, is my living encyclopedia of knowledge about life lived close to nature on Canada’s west coast. Thanks to Barbara Johnston and Jay, Anna and Sophia Draper for sharing their reading lists with me. I appreciate Melanie Murray’s thoughtful feedback on a draft of the novel. Randy Lundy and Diane Zoell have shared their love of the natural world with me in many ways. Deepest gratitude to Denise Bukowski, who has been my tireless champion from the beginning. I thank my editor at Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers, Lynne Missen, for her whole-hearted belief in Francie Fox’s story.

  Love and gratitude to my siblings, Anne, Mary, Pat, Barbie and Neil, for their support, and to my son, Khal Joyce, for all the things he teaches me. As always, deepest love and gratitude to my first and most eager reader and partner in all things, David Joyce.