The 45th Parallel

by Lisa Girolami

“It’ll help you get your mind off things.”

  “Is there still only one choice?”

  Donna laughed. “Yup. The Bijou. One showing. Eight thirty. This town is still a one-trick pony.”

  Chapter Five

  The dreams that plagued Val all night were bizarre—sleep-stealing, short bursts of a cacophony of images that jumbled together. In one, forests slid down mountains and cars crashed in endless succession. In another, it seemed like every face of every person in town took turns pushing right up to Val, shoving exaggerated, toothless smiles and gawking stares in her face and cackling like deranged carnival barkers from an evil circus. And the last one, with her tied to her old high-school English desk while the place was totally engulfed in fire, and a school assembly, with everyone but her safely out on the front lawn, unable to hear her screaming, jarred her awake and forced her to get up just to end the demented menagerie.

  Her second day in town wasn’t starting out any better than her first. With a crashed car that needed to get fixed, she first had to fulfill her mother’s wishes.

  About twenty miles south of town, the Coast Highway traveled through less-populated areas. Marshland to the right and the coastal mountains to the left provided a beautiful corridor for her drive.

  But her heart hung in her chest, feeling like a wrecking ball dangling from a construction crane. Inert and lifeless, it seemed to be suspended, waiting there for something, or perhaps someone, to persuade it to move, to beat, just a little.

  She approached and passed a green highway sign she hadn’t thought about since she left after high school. Slowing the car down, she pulled off on a diminutive patch of gravel that served as the parking lot for the Cape Foulweather overlook.

  She got out of the car, assuming that her mother in the box on her seat wouldn’t mind a quick stopover. The state beach sign was still there, though the wood was wind-worn in places. She could still read about Captain James Cook and how, in March of 1778, he spotted this small but intimidating promontory, made from the solid basalt of an ancient volcano, and gave it its name.

  And it was true that the five-hundred-foot-high, oversized rock would receive the worst of the ocean’s temper, with unannounced bashing rain and one-hundred-mile-an-hour winds more common than not. Accidents along this stretch of the highway occurred frequently, as well, to the unsuspecting drivers who failed to anticipate the instant weather changes that swept through this small stretch.

  This is where Mother Nature and the Greek god of the sea, Poseidon, conspired together to create a place where mortals would be constantly reminded of the power of both. Its inimitable combination of rock and sea fused like two warring factions. But here, she’d always thought, they had joined forces to declare their immeasurable force. It was both amazing and sobering.

  Hiking out to the cliff’s edge, she realized the view hadn’t changed at all. The vast expanse of the ocean was much more obvious from that vantage point, and a visitor could spot incoming swells long before reaching the rocky shoreline below. Otter Rock and the Devil’s Punch Bowl were visible in the south, and on fogless days, one could even make out the community of Yaquina Head. She peered out over the water and watched the activity on Gull Rock, a small, domed island almost due west of her. Small dots of seagulls took off and landed with the tempo of shoppers in and out of a busy grocery store. The dark hump, rising only eight or ten feet above the water, seemed to be a shared rest stop of sorts, giving the birds a quick respite between their never-ending search for unsuspecting fish rising too close to the surface of the wide expanses of the Pacific Ocean.

  Val stepped closer to the edge and took in a deep breath. She closed her eyes to amplify her sense of hearing. She recognized the squawking of a group of seagulls below but listened for the sound she liked the most. She didn’t have to wait long, for a swell had come in and there it was—the quick, almost imperceptible smacking of the water on the rocks just before the more noticeable crashing sound of the wave as it broke apart. It was like a one-two punch, minute after minute, year after year. That smack before the crash, as if the ocean were trying to literally break the rocks. And the rocks stood fast and firm, simply waiting for the water to dissipate. But in reality, each initial smack did damage the rocks, if only knocking off a millionth of a millimeter from its exterior. And while the mass of the rocks outwardly seemed to win each barrage, time was on the side of the persistence of the sea, eventually wearing down its foe, over millennia, winning the war, even if the human eye couldn’t witness it.

  Val opened her eyes. She felt kin to the rocks. She wasn’t strong and determined enough to win at much of anything. Her last relationship had failed miserably, and she knew her own contribution to its collapse was her inability to retain the fortitude to fight for it. The ex, who now lived in Val’s house in Dallas while she had to rent a condo, was like the ocean, smacking away at her with snipes and barbs throughout the relationship because Val wasn’t home enough or didn’t listen enough. Those little jabs had worn away at her until she’d simply left. They were together three years, but it hadn’t taken a millennium for Val to crumble. More like the last two of those years.

  She wasn’t good at conflict. It wasn’t lost on her that she’d left Hemlock as soon as she was old enough to drive. Granted, her mother’s boyfriends held an absolutely unequaled power over her, especially when her mom sided with them, but even in her adulthood, she was never the ocean. Always the slow, crumbling rock.

  She looked strong, even acted strong, but clashes were always her undoing.

  Gusts of wind whipped up and over the cliff a little more robustly now, pushing at her as if Poseidon himself were warning her to stand back. She thought of the rocks below her receiving the brunt of his force and realized quickly that she was in no position to engage in any resistance.

  She took one last look at Gull Rock and wondered if the gulls ever felt as tiny as she did right then.

  Driving down off Cape Foulweather, she knew it was only another few miles to the Siletz River turnoff.

  Val opened the note again and read the directions. It told her to drive past the city of Siletz, which was approximately eight miles inland from the ocean.

  She put the note back on the passenger’s seat next to her mother’s cremains box and focused on the small, winding road.

  The river ambled along to her right, never widening farther than one hundred feet and mostly spanning fifty or less. It was mostly brackish closer to the sea, and opportunistic, reddish-brown sea lions often traveled up its narrow channels, looking for rockfish and salmon, deciding sometimes to stay upriver for days.

  Val’s schooling had taught her which tree was which so she could point out the differences between Sitka spruces and Western hemlocks like they were independent but analogous fraternal twins. And the abundance of the trees was always so magnificent in Oregon. The need for auto deodorizers was nonexistent because all one had to do was roll down the windows and the freshest pine aromas would bathe the car for free.

  Val passed Cedar Creek Drift and Euchre Creek, slowing down to pass over the Second Steel Bridge and into the town of Siletz. On any other day, she would have stopped and wandered around the quaint little fishing town, but she had a mission.

  When she reached the town of Logsden, she passed through it as well and slowed to read the note again. It said to cross a bridge and turn left onto Moonshine Park Road. She followed it for about four miles and after the left turn passed underneath the gateway sign of Moonshine Park.

  She didn’t remember ever being here. Maybe her mother had taken her, but if she did, the place must have changed over the years because she didn’t recognize any of it. She parked, picked up the box, and got out of the car.

  The area was quite beautiful and very secluded. Tent and camping sites with fire rings and picnic tables were all located close to the edge of the Siletz. Only a few of them were being used, which was logical since it was already winter.

  The note said to walk up the riv
er, past the group-camping and larger RV sites, and to look for a drift-boat launch. She found it after walking for a few minutes. By now, no other people were around, and Val was glad for that. She really didn’t want anyone watching her. It wasn’t that she was afraid the releasing of cremains was illegal. She actually had no idea if it was or not, but she wanted to be alone.

  The last line on the note read, Look for a maintained trail on an abandoned spur road and choose a nice place.

  That was the end of the instructions. The rest, she guessed, was up to her.

  The trail she came upon hadn’t really been maintained, but it was the only one she found so she hiked down it, following it as it meandered away from the river and then rejoined its banks. She decided to stop by a group of Sitka spruce trees. They were the much-more dwarfed cousins of their superlative Canadian relatives, whose tops could reach three hundred feet, but these conifers were just as beautiful. These old girls stood proud, showing off their stiff, sharp needles and graceful buff-brown cylindrical cones, knowing that the makers of violins and the builders of sailing boats revered their knotless bodies for their unique strength-to-weight ratio. But Val liked them for their uplifting elegance. And she was certain her mother would, too.

  She knelt and placed the box at the base of the closest tree. Pausing for a moment, she looked around just to make sure this was the right place. She supposed it didn’t matter in the long run. Her mother would return to the earth, and eventually wind and rain would meld her existence with the rest of what God created until she was no more, or maybe all, of this area.

  She opened the box and pulled out a large plastic bag. Setting it in front of her knees, she examined it as if she might recognize something. It was silly, she knew, but this was her mother. Or had been.

  The ashes were made up of mostly dust, but as she poked at the bag a little, she could see small bits of what? Bone?

  And then she began to sob. The finality of what she was looking at struck her like a slap of thunder. She cried for her mom and for herself, not caring that the tears flowed so hard she couldn’t see the bag below her or the trees right next to her.

  She felt as tiny as the smallest pebble, whose individual significance meant next to nothing. She was five years old again, in that house back in Hemlock, crying for her mom to hold her because of a bad dream. She needed her again and she was gone. This was what finality was and what a broken heart truly felt like.

  Val’s nose began to run, mixing with the cascade of tears, and she knelt there and wailed for a long time.

  At some point, a slight wind chilled the wetness on her cheeks and her crying subsided. She inhaled deeply through her mouth since her nose had plugged up long before. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve and blinked until she could see a little clearer.

  She looked up at the spruce trees that had been waiting patiently for her to get it all out. They were so matronly and resilient, confirming with such resolute deportment that they were up for the job of accepting and watching over the ashes. Val now was doubly sure this was the right place for her mom.

  When she could see the plastic bag again, she took off the twist tie. A wisp of the lightest of her mom’s ashes floated up like an ethereal cloud escaping the rest. Val wasn’t sure if she should follow a certain procedure or method for scattering ashes, so she supported the bottom of the bag with one hand and tilted it with the other. As some of the ashes began to fall, she stopped.

  Should she say something? She knew the 23rd Psalm, but was that appropriate?

  “Fuck all,” she said, and bowed her head.

  “Mom, I wish you well and I wish for you the freedom in death that you never had in life. May these trees and the beauty of this forest and river protect you, and may you have an everlasting smile because you are now at peace.”

  Slowly, she lifted the bag and started pouring the ashes out. She got up from her knees and walked around to the other trees as the cremains both fell to the ground and were picked up by the wind.

  Her mother was now everywhere, in wisps of whitish-gray, settling on the pine needles and coming to rest around the trunks. Part of her blew into the river and disappeared under the water.

  When the bag was empty, Val remained there, watching the wind, which still had some moving around to do. Her mother didn’t completely settle for many more minutes, and when she did, Val stayed even longer. Her mind was wholly and utterly blank. She felt the breezes around her and the softness of the pine-needled ground. A hawk screeched somewhere above her, and the grasses along the bank rustled.

  She listened to the song that nature was performing, knowing that nothing else at that very moment was more important.

  Finally, she blinked and slowly came back. She noticed the bag in her hand and the car keys that had shifted in her pocket and were now rather uncomfortable. Her head hurt, and she was aware of the puffiness around the edges of her eyes.

  She took one last look at the trees.

  “Thank you,” she told them and began her walk, back the way she’d come.

  Chapter Six

  Val sat in the waiting room of Mack’s garage. It was a bit past four o’clock, and she’d had a few hours to collect herself. She’d stopped off at a diner to wash her face in the bathroom and order an iced tea. Her eyes still felt puffy, but she really didn’t care.

  She waited for the insurance agent and hoped he wouldn’t be too late. The place was fairly busy, for such a small town, but being one of only two garages within a half an hour’s drive, maybe this was normal.

  All the chairs in the waiting room were filled. Two mothers were monitoring two children each, and a man was reading a magazine. The four kids surrounded the drink dispenser that was filled with bright-pink liquid. They hovered around it taking turns, filling paper cups and drinking noisily.

  One of the mothers calmly called out to her child. “Sam, that’ll be your fourth cup. Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  He finished one last gulp, which ended in a very loud ahhh. “I think I’ve got room for one more.”

  One of the little girls drained the last of her cup and went over to the other mother, speaking a whole sentence in just one word. “MommmIgottago.”

  The mothers exchanged knowing smirks, and the one that belonged to the girl began to stand. “Let’s go—”

  The child darted out the door to the garage. “Icandoitmyself!”

  Amused, Val watched the mother sit back down, probably getting used to this new independence.

  She looked toward the garage and saw that Mack was still busy talking to another customer. She scrutinized the lemonade dispenser. Its cold, pink liquid was certainly inviting. As she got up and walked over to it, she maneuvered between the kids and said, “Don’t tell Mack.” The mothers watched their kids laugh at the adult lady who helped herself to a cup.

  She enjoyed how cool and refreshing it tasted. And just as she tilted the last of it back, Mack boomed through the door and into the waiting room. Val jumped and then froze, cup in hand. Mack asked one of the mothers to accompany him out to her car so he could explain something.

  Just then, the little girl came bounding back from the bathroom and to the lemonade dispenser. Val decided to quit while she was ahead of a Mack scolding and sat back down. She checked her watch. It was a quarter after four.

  She decided that she’d use the restroom, wait another ten minutes, and then call the agent.

  Walking through the garage, she found the bathroom off to the side and entered.

  As she closed the door and turned on the light, she heard a whirring sound. She looked for the source of the noise but figured it was coming from some pneumatic tool or something out in the garage. There was one toilet and a sink, and by the way these two very old and tired-looking pieces leaned away from each other, it looked as if they’d been unhappily married for fifty years.

  She sat down on the toilet and heard the high-pitched zizzing of a compressed-air gun. After she listened to
a few more clangs and thuds, she surmised that the bathroom door must have been made of material no thicker than cardboard. Peeing in the melodic ambiance of a mechanic’s garage wasn’t the most peaceful experience, but it would certainly drown out all noise from inside the bathroom.

  She washed her hands and opened the door. The whirring sound suddenly stopped.

  “Good timing,” she thought to herself as another child, evidently full of lemonade, pushed his way past her.

  Val stepped back into the waiting room as a man in khakis and a golf shirt entered. He looked around and guessed that Val was his client because he approached her first.

  “Valerie Montague?”

  “Val, yes.”

  “I’m Bill Perkins from American Insurance Fund. I’m here to look at the damage on the car.”

  Mack returned with the mother, so Val got his attention and introduced him to Bill. They shook hands quickly.

  “I won’t be long,” Bill said. “I just need to take some pictures of the car.”

  They followed Mack to the last repair bay.

  Bill made a little noise that could have been mistaken for an aborted hiccup. “The hood’s been taken off.”

  Mack looked too busy to care. “Yup.”

  “You’ve already started fixing the car.”

  “Had to. Cars are lining up left and right. The hood’s laying out back.”

  “We’re supposed to have pictures of the car before any repairs begin. It’s much more difficult to determine what damage was due to the accident directly and what might have been damaged prior. Or after.”

  Mack stood there as if he was waiting for the adjuster to continue talking, hardly moved by anything he’d just said.

  Finally, Mr. Perkins said, “May I see the hood?”

  They followed Mack through a door that opened up to a shed filled with car parts of all types. Val’s hood lay on a heap of junk in one corner. It was pretty banged up. The adjuster stepped closer and inspected it. He looked at Mack, pointing out a few hammer marks and fresh creases.