As we warm up, Stacey dons a bright, neon-orange running cap and jogs in place for a few seconds while I stare at it.
“Careful,” I say, attempting a joke. “You might disrupt air traffic with that thing.”
She actually gives me a bit of a smile, then turns her head to show me the letter “S” printed on the back. “It’s from David,” she says. “He wanted to personalize it, as if anyone else would be caught dead in it. It’s a little peace offering.”
“A peace offering?” I ask, but Stacey abruptly turns cold again.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Stacey and Alex both warning me about Roman seems to be some sort of jealousy thing. I understand it with Alex, since he’s already asked me out. But Stacey? Despite their recent squabbles, I can tell that she adores David, and David loves her. I don’t know why she would care who Roman goes out with at all. Unless she still has feelings for him. Or unless it’s me she doesn’t want him going out with.
Or unless Roman has some hold on her that she has not been able to break free of after all these years.
I can see that, I really can. Even though I walked out on my date with Roman, I still like him. I still want another chance. There is definitely something different about him. The strangely eloquent way he speaks. But then, he’s an actor and he does a lot of Shakespeare. His silence. The way he looks at me, a lustful yet confident and knowing look, like I am his already, even though I am anything but.
When Stacey spoke to him that day in the store, he studied her with a similar intensity, but his eyes didn’t linger on her. His gaze was a little dismissive, as if to let her know he had moved on.
Moved on to me.
I can’t blame her for being upset. I arrived out of nowhere, and in return for her generosity, I appear to be stealing the attention of the number-one bachelor in Lithia. The one she’s saved a little place in her heart for. I should know better than to mess with something like that.
Still, I wish we could move on. I wish she would let it go, or tell me what’s on her mind, since I don’t even know where to begin. But that is not going to happen today. We’re approaching the Lost Mine Trail, where, as we ascend, talking becomes impossible.
Stacey picks up her pace, cutting me off. “Hey!” I shout, but she doesn’t look back. I slow a bit, lingering behind her as I consider what to do. I want to just let her go on ahead, but on the other hand I’m tired of holding back. And I’m tired of feeling bad and not even knowing what I did wrong.
So I pick up my pace, and in less than a minute I am passing her. I can hear her breathing, pained, as I accelerate up the hill and around the bend. I should slow down now, but I don’t. I’m feeling better than I have in a while, being able to run off all this bad energy. I feel stronger than ever, and my muscles are working beautifully, my lungs open and full. I’m feeling free, for the first time in a long while.
I hear a noise behind me. It sounds like Stacey shouting. She’s angry that I passed her, and I really shouldn’t have. I remember my promise to David. Keep an eye on each other, he said.
And so I turn around.
Then I think I hear a voice, or was it the wind? Then a piercing scream.
Now I am running full speed, racing back to where I’d passed her, the wind howling in my ears. I slide down the gravel path, tripping as I round a curve, then another. I must’ve gone farther ahead than I thought, or maybe Stacey had turned around and was heading back. She must’ve fallen, twisted an ankle or worse. I try to go faster, but the trail is unforgiving and won’t let me.
And then I nearly trip on it—a running shoe in the middle of the path. Stacey’s shoe. I stop and look around.
I pick up the shoe. There are drops of blood on it. So she did hurt herself—but if that’s the case, then where is she?
I call her name, spinning in circles on the path, looking for any movement in the trees, my ears strained for any noise. The evening light is fading fast, and my eyes can make out very little in the darkness of the trees. My heart is beating faster than it does even when running up this mountain, and I raise my voice, shouting her name.
“Stacey!”
I remember that time she snuck up behind me, and I’m beginning to wonder whether she’s playing a trick on me, some sort of cruel trick to get back at me for whatever is bothering her. But it’s not funny.
“Stacey! Where are you? Stacey!” I am screaming now, as loudly as I can, my voice tearing in my throat. I wait for a response. I hear nothing, the woods suddenly more silent than I’ve ever heard them. I call again. And again.
There is no reply.
Sweat stings my eyes as I look on the ground again, for signs of anything. I see something bright on the side of the trail and run over to see what it is. My body fills with dread as I lean down and pick it up.
A hat. A bright orange neon hat. With an S on the back.
Part Two:
The Hills Have Fangs
Nine
It’s all my fault.
David hasn’t said as much, but I know he thinks it. How could he not? He’d asked me to look out for Stacey, and then I let this happen.
He was standing right next to me when I told the police what happened on the trail. How I left her behind, then rushed back after hearing her scream.
After I found Stacey’s hat, I’d raced down the hill to the nearest house and pounded on the door until an older man answered. I screamed at him to call 9-1-1. I stood on the porch, my whole body shaking from the cold but mostly from fear, and the man’s wife brought me water. I heard sirens in the hills below, growing louder and louder.
I called Lithia Runners and got the machine. Then I called David at home, and he answered right away. As if he’d been waiting.
I never should have left her behind.
I’d only been out of sight for a couple of minutes, but David had been clear about sticking together. So clear. I should have listened to him. I shouldn’t have let my own worries get in the way, or justified running ahead of Stacey by the way she kept leaving me behind. Now, all I wish is that it were me who’d gone missing instead of her. I’m used to it; no one ever misses me.
But Stacey will be missed. David was very calm, silent as he listened to the police talk in hushed voices as their radios crackled. We stood next to each other on the dirt path as the search parties made their way through the trees. They wouldn’t let us help—didn’t even want us there at all—but it’s a small town, and they knew what it meant to David. So there we were. Listening to the barks of dogs echoing down the valley. Watching the flickering beams of the officers’ and volunteers’ flashlights.
David said only one thing to me all night. “Are you cold?” he asked as we stood together on the Lost Mine Trail.
Someone had given me a blanket, and I had it wrapped around me, tightly, but I still couldn’t stop my shivering. “I’m not cold,” I said. And I wasn’t, but my teeth chattered anyway.
Then they found her. Even before the police came forward to deliver the news to David, I knew she was dead. The radios they held went silent. Their urgency dissipated. And nobody made eye contact with us again. Not until the police captain asked for a moment alone with David.
The fog was thick by the time the police escorted me down the hill, the wind silent, the trees motionless for once. David stayed behind to escort Stacey to the morgue. The police took me home, and I felt like a prisoner as I sat in the back of the patrol car, the metal screening separating me from the two officers. But I deserved to be there. I left her behind, for just a few short minutes—but still I felt as though I’d committed a crime, a terrible crime.
The next morning, I looked out the window, up at the hills, and saw a layer of frost on the trees. Somehow I missed that last night, in the dark, all that frozen moisture whitening the trees, as if a blanket had been set down over the entire forest, like the blanket they used to cover Stacey’s body.
And, like so many other things I’ve done, this is something I ca
n never take back. I’ll never have the chance to relive this moment, to do it over again, differently. This is something I’ll have to live with forever.
~
I am back behind the counter of Lithia Runners. I showed up this morning, knowing that David would be in no condition to be here. I know I’m no longer an employee, but all I can think is that I am going to work here forever, with no pay, anything to make up for what I’ve done.
No one is coming in to buy shoes or running gear, but it’s still a busy day. The news has spread quickly. By the middle of the day, at least a couple dozen people have stopped by, offering sympathy and flowers and food. The fridge in the back fills with casseroles and soups. I stick a note to each one, saying who it’s from so David knows.
A few reporters call, some from as far away as Seattle and San Francisco. The police believe that Stacey was killed by a bear, or a mountain lion, and the reporters are curious. I hang up on them. Finally I stop answering the phone altogether. I listen to the messages, deleting the ones from reporters and keeping the ones from people David seems to know.
I get on the computer and read the news reports. The police said that Stacey had been dragged two hundred yards from where she’d been on the trail. The cause of death was apparently loss of blood.
I’m wondering whether I should’ve told the police what I thought I’d heard. But I’m not even sure I heard that voice anyway; it makes no sense. Even if it had been a voice, no man could have done what had been done to Stacey. No one was there.
I wish I had heard a voice. If someone else had been on that trail, he might have done what I couldn’t do. He might have saved her.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. Stacey is dead.
I can’t help but think of Doug, from the parks department, about what he said. Bears don’t attack people. People attack people.
The police must know about the people living in the hills, the ones Stacey told me about. They must know what a bear attack looks like, or a mountain lion attack. I’m just a newcomer here. They know more than I do.
Then why do I have this awful, nagging feeling that won’t go away?
I don’t want to talk to the police anymore. Because it’s a small town, and because I was with David, I’m one of them. I’ve been accepted, so far. But if I keep talking to the police, they might keep asking me more questions, like where I’m from and what I’m doing here. They might ask for a driver’s license. Proof of identity. They might make calls. And then I might find myself in the back of a squad car again, not getting a ride home but a ride somewhere else. I might find myself a prisoner for real.
It has quieted down a bit, so when I hear the door open, I look up from the computer. Alex is standing there.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say. It seems right to thank him, but for what?
So I come up with, “Can I help you?”
He gives me a strange look. “Kat, I’m not here to buy anything,” he says. “I’m here to see if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I say, and then I know what to thank him for. “Thank you for asking.” I’m not used to people being concerned about me. It’s nice, even though I know I don’t deserve it.
“You don’t seem fine.”
“I am. If you want to help, find David. I haven’t seen him all day.” I don’t tell Alex that I’m glad I haven’t seen him. That I’m hoping I don’t have to anytime soon because I don’t know if I can face him. I think the guilt will overwhelm me.
“Okay,” Alex says, reluctantly. “And then I’ll be back to see about you.”
I watch Alex leave, and I wish I had told him that I’m sorry for him, too. He knew Stacey a long time, and I’ve taken her from him. But I can’t do anything to change what happened.
Day turns to night, and David does not come by the store. It begins to rain, and people pass with umbrellas raised. I envy each and every one of them, simply because they are not me. They have problems of their own, I’m sure, regrets and fears and second thoughts. But I would trade places with any one of them right now if I could. I don’t think anyone has left a trail of regrets quite as long as the one I am leaving in my wake.
~
I close the store and walk home. Slowly. I know I have to see David, but what can I tell him? How many times can I say I’m sorry, and how many times can he tell me it’s not my fault? Especially when I don’t think either of us believes the other.
I walk down the driveway toward his house. His house. No longer their house. There is only David now.
The kitchen light is on. I walk up to the back door and knock. There is no answer. I look through the window and see him at the kitchen table, motionless, head down. I open the door and take a step inside.
“David? Can I come in?” He looks up at me, then back down again. I realize he is staring at the newspaper. The front page reads, in a bold headline: LITHIA WOMAN DIES AFTER BEAR ATTACK.
I sit down next to him.
“I know I should have stayed with her, David. I wish I could go back. If I could change anything—” I’m crying now, and I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes, not that he is looking at me anyway. He is still staring down at the paper. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t speak, and I still can’t look at him. As I stare at the paper, I see it darken with tiny circles, and I realize that they’re tears. A moment later he puts his hand on my arm, and I think it makes us both feel a little better, even though nothing has changed.
~
I sit on the side of my bed, too restless to lie down, let alone sleep. I’ve returned to the cottage after several hours in the kitchen with David. We both wept, and I made dinner, even though we weren’t hungry. But we both ate a little, and as I was cleaning up, he disappeared. I heard him walking around upstairs, and that’s when I put all the leftovers in the fridge and snuck back to the cottage.
Even if I could sleep, I don’t want to. I can’t bear the thought of seeing David every day, of receiving his generosity while I’ll be reminded every moment of what I did. Of being the reason he is now living in that big house all alone. All because his wife was good enough to take in a homeless girl. He didn’t even want to; Stacey had to talk him into it. And though he is being kind, I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me ever again.
I know I have to do what I’ve done before. What I always seem to be doing when trouble catches up to me.
It takes only a few minutes to pack my bag and toss it over my shoulder. I leave the dress behind, hanging on the door. I pause for a second to look at it—so beautiful, the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. Then I turn away. I won’t have any need for pretty things anymore.
I head for Main Street. In a mile or two, it will connect with the interstate, which will connect to points elsewhere. Points far, far away.
I’m suddenly eager to be gone, to flee this place and the horror of what I’m leaving behind. I pick up my pace until I am no longer walking down Main Street. I am running. Running, and running away—the only things I’ve ever been good at. And I just seem to be getting better and better.
Ten
Endurance must be earned. It can’t be bought or bestowed. As a runner, I’ve learned that endurance comes only through repetition, persistence, and pain. As a runaway, I’ve learned the same thing.
I realize, as I approach the entrance ramp to the highway, that I am losing my endurance.
I could run forever—this I will always know. But I’m not sure I can travel one more step.
Until I stopped in Lithia, I’d been seamlessly moving from town to town, my senses dulled to a life of hard beds, or no beds. Bad food or no food. Wet clothes or worn clothes. My endurance allowed me to deflect the taunts I encountered along the way. The rude people and the scary ones. If anything, I knew I could always outrun them. And I thought I’d be able to keep running forever.
But now I feel weak and cold and sad. I know I have to leave, but I also know that I do
n’t want to. I don’t want to start all over again. I don’t want to reach the interstate, just a few hundreds yards ahead now, and to choose north or south. Seattle or San Francisco.
I begin to slow down, to delay my decision. After I left Houston, I realized exactly where I was headed. Lithia. The town I was born in. The town I remember from my earliest years. But now, I have nowhere left to go.
I feel raindrops. Perfect. Let it rain and soak me to the bone. Maybe this is the only way for me to rebuild my endurance.
Still not sure which direction to take, I decide to let fate make the call for me. Instead of choosing an entrance ramp, I will find a driver before I reach the highway. If the driver is headed north, I’ll go north. If I get a ride south, I’ll go south. I’m too exhausted to make the decision myself. The last decision, leaving Lithia, has been hard enough.
I stand tall and turn toward the traffic. I raise my thumb.
~
It’s late, and the cars are few and far between. The rain picks up, and it isn’t long before my clothes become completely drenched and stick to me like a second skin. My teeth won’t stop chattering, and my raised thumb is shaking from the cold.
I’ve turned down three rides in the last hour or so, and now I’m wondering whether I should have risked taking them. But I haven’t made it this far by being careless. The first two were trucks driven by scruffy, bearded men who just gave me the creeps. I’ve learned to trust my gut instincts, and I let them go. But I wasn’t soaking wet then, and twenty minutes later, another driver pulled over, an older man who seemed harmless enough. He offered to take me where he was going, two towns north of here, and by then I was ready to escape the rain. Yet as I was thinking about it, he looked me over, told me I was looking fine, and I changed my mind pretty fast.
Out of Breath Page 6
