Will Rise from Ashes

by Jean M. Grant

  She whispered, “Our son’s in Kansas.”

  “Ah.” I tightened my embrace around Will, who remained silent.

  “You going west, too?” She eyed Will and then our fully loaded car with curiosity, her hands on her round hips. Her gaze paused too long for my liking. My intuition blipped.

  Ping, ping, ping. As nice as she appeared, something smelled fishy. I’m not sure why I thought so. Perhaps it was just paranoia. Perhaps it was this entire trip filled with one shitty thing after another.

  I nodded and mumbled a “yeah” and turned toward Will. His glassy eyes stared ahead. At first, I thought he was taking in the horde of cars and people, assessing. No. He stared at nothing, a faraway look in his face. “Honey, why don’t you hop in the car?” I urged him.

  He didn’t respond, his body rigid. I tried again. “Will. Will?” I raised my voice and shook his shoulder gently. I waved my hand before him. He didn’t blink. “Will?” I said a third time with an urgent shake and my pulse quickening. Finally, he snapped out of it.

  “In the car, honey.”

  He nodded and hopped in, not asking a single question about the commotion outside. That was double-weird. He stared off like that sometimes, but to not ask questions?

  I turned around to see the woman standing closer to me.

  “Where’s your man?” Her squinting look fell on the wedding ring which encircled my left ring finger.

  “Meeting us,” I vaguely lied. Thankfully Will didn’t hear me as he shut the door behind him. He dug out his paper and pencil box. Okay, well, he seemed in check now.

  “Clara, get your ass in here. The traffic’s moving now!” her husband said.

  “Comin’, Denny.” The woman lowered her head like a chicken caught out of the coop, muttered a “good day” to me, and returned to her car. The old wagon rumbled, a belt screeching, as he accelerated. It clunked sickly as they continued on their way. I wasn’t sure their car would make it that far.

  I got back in my SUV.

  I glanced at the clock on the dash. It was fast approaching dinner. I yawned and swallowed the bland, gritty taste on my tongue, the kind associated with colds. I grabbed two cold medicine tablets and took them with a chug of water. As I reached for a bag of hard candies, my heart did a flop.

  Shit, no.

  I needed to move!

  The transient scent of sulfur infiltrated my nostrils.

  Flop. Thump.

  Wait, that was ash. I couldn’t see it—yet—it lingered in the air, minute particles slowly making their way east. I coughed and urged Will to buckle his seatbelt. “Detour, honey. Camp tonight.”

  My mind spiraled down the dark path as I shifted the car into drive.

  Ash. Driving. Slick roads. Those guys who robbed us. The guys who tried to hurt me. Contaminated water. Gas restrictions.

  Finn.

  Will.

  Reid.

  Flop. Thump.

  Palpitations seized me.

  A horse barreled within my chest. I knew I didn’t need to look to see my heart pounding and chest heaving. The traffic stopped again. I closed my eyes and eased my head back against the headrest.

  Breathe, peaceful thoughts. Breathe. Shit, not now. Not now!

  Somebody honked for us to go. I ignored them.

  “Can we make a fire?” Will asked.

  My fingertips tingled again.

  The only way to get my body under control was to sit perfectly still, breathe, or better, and it was not an option, lie down.

  “Mom?” he asked again, higher-pitched.

  “Sure,” I said, too tersely, fighting for control.

  The person honked again. I accelerated.

  As I breathed through the anxiety attack, gulping air, we followed the line of cars north on Route 19 to the Greer Spring campground.

  As suddenly as they had begun, the palpitations ceased with a soothing rush of blood pressure and heartrate returning to normal. It was a wave of immediate relief much like when medicine kicks in or a cramp goes away. My body responded like it had just run a marathon.

  We arrived to a swarm of others like us with fully stocked vehicles. We couldn’t get an adequate campsite, but the managers told us to park wherever we could locate a spot. My claustrophobia kicked in. This part of Missouri wasn’t exactly a metropolis according to the brochure the manager handed me. Mark Twain Forest, it read. Where plains meet forests and streams, and where folks lose themselves in its quiet woods to hike, fish, and explore.

  Mark Twain made me think of Reid. I wondered if he had some Twain packed in his backpack with the Lewis.

  We found a spot along the edge beside another family. A mother clucked at her two young daughters to stay nearby while she carted items out of her minivan. “Samantha, don’t ya go too far!” she said with a thick southern twang. “Get over here and help your pa, please.”

  This part of the park gave the impression of intending to be a private, secluded campground, surrounded by a jungle-like forest of oaks, hickories, and maples. Now it was tent city. I was tempted to sleep in the car again. I had a feeling that I wouldn’t get much rest tonight.

  The near whisper of a river echoed among the trees and thick branches as we emerged from the car. I blinked and took purposeful breaths, still recovering from the anxiety attack. My stomach twisted. Perhaps food, water, and rest would help. A nice campfire with Will.

  I checked the locks, the bikes, and mounted tire, although I wasn’t sure who’d want a blown-out tire. Regrettably, I had forgotten to pack my cable lock for the bikes. The rack was secure though, bolted near the middle of the tire. On Will’s insistence, I set up the tent.

  He paced in front of the car, his range slowly getting farther away from me. “Not too far,” I compromised. He needed his mental break as much as I desired mine.

  He threw a few sticks into our meager log pile that wasn’t lit yet. He then poked around the front of the car and briefly disappeared.

  “Will…”

  No response.

  “Will…” I stood from my campfire prep, my muscles throbbing. “Want to explore?”

  “Yes!” He was already moving.

  After checking our locks, we made our way to the visitor’s information sign at the nearby trailhead.

  Apparently, we picked an ideal spot for my young explorer.

  “Greer Spring,” he read. “The second largest spring in Missouri, dumping two hundred million gallons of water daily into the Eleven Point National Scenic River.” He traced the map. “Only a mile, Mom. Let’s go!” He hopped from foot to foot.

  The river beckoned us, its urgent whooshing reverberating throughout the campground. I envisioned a nerve-wracking night’s sleep. Will’s obsession with water dwarfed any serenity that came with listening to a river while sleeping. He might get it in his head to wander off to explore. That kid and water. Be it puddles, ponds, frozen patches along a roadside, rivers…it didn’t matter. Finn would be the one running off the school bus to embrace me in a hug or offer a grimace and tell me how he didn’t get “green” on his behavior chart, while Will was the one who made a beeline for the nearest puddle or the pile of hardened sand and ice in winter that had been cleared to the roadside by a plow. Every day. Every single day.

  Being this far from our campsite sent my pulse soaring again. “No, Will, it’s late. We need to get—”

  “Finn. Yeah, I know,” he said with a kick of his shoe in the dirt. “I’m tired of this trip, Mom. This is taking way too long. We’re not seeing anything.” He started for the trail.

  “Will, we have to go back. I can’t leave our stuff unattended.” Dammit, AJ. Why had I offered him an excursion if I couldn’t follow through?

  He began down the trail.

  “Will…” I grabbed his shirt sleeve. “No.”

  His face broke. “You said we could explore!” The dimples on his high cheekbones deepened the way they did when he got upset.

  “I’m sorry. Another time.”

&n
bsp; “Will we be back here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He tried again to go on the path, blatantly ignoring me.

  Lord, his mind was already set. I’d screwed up. I grabbed him firmly. “No. We have to go back. Now.”

  “Urghhh!” His face flushed red, and he shoved me as he bolted for the campsite.

  I tripped.

  “Jesus!” I said. “Will!” I righted myself and chased after him. He was faster, nimbly weaving between campsites, around a rock, and past tents and cars. I ran around one such car and collided with a guy carrying a heavy duffel bag.

  “Harrumph!” the man said.

  I echoed his sentiment. “Sorry!”

  I lost sight of Will and reached our campsite a moment later. He was nowhere. This was not the place for this to happen. I could handle the meltdowns almost anywhere, but not in a sea of tents, cars, people, and trees. Eyes, so many eyes. “Will!” I hollered, disregarding the stares from onlookers. Worry warmed my cheeks and my breath caught, as my lack of energy took its toll. I pulled open the tent flap. Not there.

  “Over there,” a sweet, twangy voice said.

  It was the mom at the campsite beside us. “Huh?”

  She pointed toward our car.

  I hurried to the front bumper.

  “Thank God!” I said, rushing to him as he crouched by the tire.

  I scooped him into my arms. I bit my tongue for chiding him, but did say, “I’m sorry, Will. I’m sorry.”

  “The car was locked,” he said through tears.

  I rubbed his cheek and let serenity override his unease. I didn’t need to say much. I knew it would pass. Crisis averted for now.

  He tapped his hands against the car’s frame. “I want to go home.”

  I nodded my agreement, feeling one of the bandages on my heart peel away. I took his hands and curled them within mine so he could safely tap as we sat for a few silent minutes.

  We returned to our spot and started the fire in mundane ritual, quietly.

  Then he asked, “What’s for dinner?”

  I rummaged through the storage container. Will climbed into the SUV. I withdrew a can of highly processed spaghetti.

  “Yum!” He grabbed it from me, found the can opener, and set to work. Bam, back to normal. It was like it hadn’t happened.

  For him.

  My pulse was still fitful.

  He was a roller-coaster ride for my sanity. As was my own damn anxiety.

  He fastened the can opener onto the top of the can with great care, working his fingers around the handle, clicking it shut, and then twisting the crank. He didn’t whine or grow frustrated. He concentrated on it like he would on anything else, like building the proper Lego structure, lining all his crayons in rainbow order, or constructing a long bridge using his marble-run pieces and blocks. It struck a chord in me watching him. I pulled out my journal.

  Will had dinner covered. “Oh, Harrison, you’d be proud,” I whispered. Despite the meltdown only moments before, I had to admit that he had come far from years past.

  I sat beside Will as he dumped the can of spaghetti into a pot, then delicately, like the pot was a breakable glass filled to the brim with water, laid it on the grill atop the fire. His flip-flopping between cautious scrutiny and assertiveness baffled me. Which way he shifted on those scales depended on the task or project, and just as I thought I had him figured, he’d shift on me.

  He grinned at me. My soul quivered. It wasn’t his usual “Am I doing this right?” or “I know I am different, Mom, please don’t be sad” or “I’m confused” or “They don’t understand me” look.

  I returned the smile. Yes, honey, you are different. Oh, but, you are such a wonderful different.

  Seeing as he had dinner covered, I turned to the next clean journal page.

  I found myself writing about him.

  I’d kept a long list in my head of all his “quirks” that in the early years I’d pushed under the rug and attributed to his unique personality: screaming when the blender or vacuum was on, being afraid to sit on grass until he was three years old, keeping to himself, forming fond attachments to his teachers, flipping over and spinning the wheels on anything, even doll strollers…the list had become so long, I truly stopped keeping it.

  The dots finally connected once he approached grade school. He’d have horrible panic-attack meltdowns when he couldn’t find us, and he was overwhelmed by busy, loud places. He struggled with flexible, gray thinking. He loved routines. He kept his kindergarten teacher on track with the time and schedule. He obsessed on topics too mature for a preschooler and kindergartner. He drew the same things repeatedly. My friends doted on that marvel. Admittedly, yeah, his maps were spot on.

  When his first-grade teacher called about behavior concerns, the nagging voice in my mind had grown to siren-level.

  Then came all the testing at school and with physicians. That December, right before school break, the schedule had been changed due to a holiday program. Trigger. He ran the entire loop of the school hallways, and ended in his classroom, recoiling, growling, and crying in a corner of books while the school psychologist tried to coax him out.

  Bittersweet sentiment pervaded my memory. He’d come such a long way since then.

  He removed his dinner from the grill and scooped it into his bowl.

  I paused with my pen. What about me? Was I getting closer to acceptance?

  Did I push conformity upon him? Questions bounced around in my head daily. Usually, I could quiet them, but some days they raged, they roared, they crushed my spirit.

  “Here, Mom.” Will handed me a bowl filled with the meal and a spoon.

  I laid the journal aside. “Thank you, honey.”

  No more introspection tonight. I was doing damn fine with him. And he was doing damn fine with himself.

  “It’s going to be a gibbous moon tonight, Mom. Finn would be excited,” he said, chewing happily. He loved to eat with his fingers, and I didn’t nag him to use his spoon. The world was going to pot; he could eat any way he pleased.

  “It was a full moon when you born.”

  “And gibbous for Finn, right?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  He pulled out some of the alphabet spaghetti and lined them on his paper towel that lay across his thigh.

  “What are you spelling?”

  “Finn.”

  “Pardon me,” a voice said from nearby. It was our camp neighbor, the mom who pointed out Will’s hiding place.

  “Hi,” I said.

  One of her daughters approached, too, her matching short fair-haired bob bouncing with each light step. The girl, roughly Will’s height and probably close to his age, toted a bag of marshmallows and a gray plush animal.

  “Would you and your son like a s’more? Well, not really a s’more, but we do have marshmallows and chocolate bars,” the petite woman said, stepping closer. “I’m Geena.” She wiped a hand on her cut-off jeans and offered it. Sweat beaded at her temple, and bangs fell across her forehead. She blew a breath to toss the wisps aside. “Geesh, it’s hot tonight.”

  I shook her hand. “AJ.”

  “Hi! I’m Sam,” her daughter said to Will. “Want a marshmallow?” She showed him the bag.

  “I can’t have them unless I roast them,” he said, returning his gaze to his dinner bowl and scooping the last bite.

  “We have chocolate, too,” she said, stepping closer. “Who’s that?” She pointed to his plush dog.

  “That’s Douglas,” he said matter-of-factly. “Sam is a boy’s name.”

  She plopped next to him on the ground. “It’s a girl’s name, too. It’s short for Samantha. This is Winnie, my gray cat. Do you have a cat? We have one at home. We’ll be home in a few days.”

  Will perked up. “I have a cat. His name is Snow. He’s black though, not white like real snow. Do you like volcanoes?”

  “Not really,” Sam said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a marshmallow. “I need a st
ick.”

  Will stood, his face alight. “There are nice ones here,” he said, leading her to our extra pile of wood. “But not those, there. Those are wands.”

  Geena smiled at the two of them. I sighed. “Where have my manners gone? Would you like to sit?” I asked.

  “Aww, thanks. Y’all heading home, too?”

  “Not exactly. You?” I stretched my legs with a moan. I sipped my water, wishing it were coffee. Iced or hot, I didn’t care. I was wary of venturing to the office, feeling a need to stay close to our site this time.

  “We’re heading home to Atlanta. We were on a trip to see family in Kansas when well, you know…,” she said with a hand flourish. “Need to get home before it gets worse.”

  Her breezy demeanor broke through my guard. “I’m driving west to meet with family…well…my brother and my other son.” There. I said it.

  She clasped a hand across her chest. “Your son?”

  I nodded.

  She exhaled, breathy. “You’re going west…into this stuff?” Dark green eyes lit with intrigue. Or was that dismay?

  “Sort of?” I said meekly. “They’re missing. I’ve not heard from them.”

  She released a throaty sigh. “Sorry to hear that. There’s no sort of about it, love.” She fanned her face, the campfire’s heat adding to her perspiration. “Well, you’ve got some gumption. But hey, it’s y’all’s family. You do what you gotta do, love. Nothing gets between a momma and her cubs. I’d do the same.” When she said that, her regard drifted to Will and then returned to me. “Sweet kid,” she added in a whisper.

  She shared a look with me that only mothers who understood did. No judgment. No derision. Clear, unadulterated understanding.

  Will and Sam already located sticks and were roasting a few marshmallows. They laughed and talked about cats.

  Boldly, I said, “Kansas…where did you come from? How was it?”

  “Not good, love. Not good. We drove south from Topeka. Things ain’t good there already. No ash there yet, but I heard about some in the western parts, near Dodge City. Power is down in half the place. Contaminated water from the rain, too.”

  I fidgeted with the edge of my T-shirt. She didn’t ask for details on where we were heading and a part of me didn’t want to verbalize it. Instead, we both watched the kids in silence as they roasted marshmallows and ate chocolate. She gave off a pleasant vibe; for once, I didn’t feel the need to make idle conversation.