by Atha, DL
“Yeah, she was a big chicken about that kind of stuff. But then she’d pick up a hitchhiker and drive them wherever they wanted to go. And never lock a door. Go figure.”
“Your Mom was one of a kind. That’s for sure.” Gloria downed the rest of her coffee in one long draw. “Well Tam, I gotta go. My man’s about to leave on a hunting trip, and I’ve got to see him off.”
She caught my hand in hers before she stood to leave. “Honey, listen,” she said, more remnants of her southern accent sneaking into her speech. “Revenge is its own kind of prison. Don’t buy into it.”
I promised to call her again soon and waved goodbye until she’d disappeared down a side street into the misting rain.
After she left, I finished my coffee and flipped through a few more of the books. It seemed nearly every culture of the world had vampire legends. The physical descriptions weren’t the same, but the principles were fairly constant. The Russian culture had certainly contributed a lot to the lore.
I picked out the most informative book and paid for it at the counter. The sales lady had been eyeing me surreptitiously, and I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression; that I was just one of those chronic bookstore stalkers. Which I was of course. I’d been known to read entire books just sitting in the bookstore. Luckily, this book was from a discount rack, so it wasn’t very pricey.
It was raining hard as I walked to Mom’s truck. The wind blew in sharp gusts from off the ocean until the rain came down slanted, and it stung like nails if I didn’t keep my face tucked into the neck of my coat as I walked. I’d planned to hike the trail to Thimbleberry Lake, and I had to remind myself of an Alaskan truth. The weather is just the weather.
Don’t be a sissy, I said to myself as I climbed into the cold, but at least dry, truck cab.
By the time I’d reached the trailhead, I’d had to warn myself against being a sissy time and time again, and I kept repeating the mantra until I’d hiked to Thimbleberry Lake, which was about a mile from where I’d parked. The rain had turned to snow, which I preferred, with the increase of elevation, and the view of the lake was crisp and brilliant.
I stood absorbing the view for a few minutes, allowing my breath to catch up with me before I walked on towards Heart Lake, which sat at a higher elevation. The spruce trees whistled around me, the wind occasionally knocking off small clumps of snow and ice, which landed in mock cannonballs that made birds start from the branches or caused me to take a step back. The temperature had cooled even further. I rubbed my hands together for warmth as I hiked with little success.
The trail was well traveled even in the winter. I met three hikers headed back down the mountain. One older lady hiked alone, a pole in each hand helping her to balance as she worked her way down the slope of the mountain. A few minutes later, I met a couple as they hiked hand in hand. I smiled, giving them a silent nod and wave as we passed. Ahead of me, I could see two women pushing through the snow headed up the mountain a little off the beaten path. They were certainly getting a workout. To the rear, I could hear the laughter of some teenagers skipping class out for a walk.
Reaching Heart Lake, I settled next to its shore on a snow-covered rotting log. I opened my thermos and took a long draw of my coffee. The java was like a shot of warmth to my bones, and I took another long drink before I tightened the lid back in place.
I was warmly dressed but still the wind had crept in amongst all my layers. I snuggled my hands deep in my pockets as I studied the alpine lake in front of me. On a summer day, it would be hard to tell where the lake ended and the mountains began, the water was that clear. But here in the winter, the reflection was more like frosted glass with mountains shimmering across its surface. Randomly situated, tufts of heavy mists trailed across its surface.
On three sides, mountains ensnared in thick blankets of snow loomed in the background and even I, having been raised here in their shadows, was awestruck by their beauty. That same awe was tempered by the inherent danger. Visitors died here every summer by forgetting that where great beauty is, danger is not usually far off. That was no truer than here in America’s last frontier.
This year, Mom was listed as one of the casualties of the mountains, and I shuddered to think of her lying here in the elements, cold and alone, until she breathed her final breath. It seemed a cruel twist of fate that a woman who knew the terrain so well would come to her end at its hands. It was her who took the Girl Scouts out on their camping trips each year. She helped teach the nature classes to our native children every summer and she could name every plant and how it was used in the woods.
Before I was born, she’d spent her time with her new husband in the woods, camping and living off the land for the pure enjoyment of it. She and Dad had canoed for days at a time, traveling downstream, fishing as they went, hiking into the higher elevations to hunt sheep and searching the lower lands for black-tailed deer. Mom was no stranger to the forest.
There’s something cleansing about the cold mountain air, and it took all of the fluff from my mind and let me see the real condition Mom was in during her last few days alive. So much for not thinking of Mom or Joel; I just couldn’t keep my mind from going down that road.
I slid down on the ground, using the log to rest my back against and began to rehash Gloria’s words. Something, someone had spooked her. She’d become careful, locking doors and holding her mail. No doubt she wanted to keep my address a secret. She’d died to protect my whereabouts.
No, these mountains did not kill my mom. Being up here where she and I had spent so much time together silenced the voice of doubt that had been lying to me since I’d arrived home. In the back of my mind, I could hear Peter and Gloria telling me to leave. They were probably right. I usually made the wrong decision, but I couldn’t walk away from my home and my mom again. I needed a little peace, even if it came from bad choices.
Thinking of bad decisions made me think of the time. It had gotten late. The setting sun was only visible as a lighter crescent of blue clouds that hovered in the valley of two sheer-faced mountains. The snow under my feet had taken on that luminescence that can only be gained in those few moments of twilight before being swallowed by the fullness of night.
It would be dark this evening. Very dark, as the sky burdened with heavy clouds would let in none of the moon’s brightness. I’d stayed too late and still it took too long to decide to push myself out of my warmed up spot against the log. The wind slapped me as I stood up, and I shivered at the sting, wishing that I was already back, warm and cozy, in my truck. There was a couple swallows of coffee left, and I downed them before clipping my thermos to the waistband of my jeans.
The hike back down the mountain was cold and brisk, and I berated myself nonstop down the trail as I realized how totally alone I was on the side of the mountain. The locals I’d seen out for exercise along the trail had long since made it back down while I hadn’t. If I looked over my shoulder at the mountains behind me once, I looked a hundred times. I was getting more nervous with every passing moment. How foolish to present myself such an easy target for Joel.
My truck sat forlornly at the trailhead when I finally emerged from the tree-lined path. Despite the moderate snow that was falling, the windshield of my truck had been wiped clean and a piece of paper, stuck under a wiper blade, fluttered in the breeze. My palms got clammy just looking at it. Someone knew I was here. But who? Joel was my first thought naturally but then again Gloria knew I was hiking today. Peter could certainly find me. He knew this was one of my favorite spots. Nervously, I eyed the empty parking spaces as I searched the darkness for any threats, but nothing and no one bothered me as I walked across the parking lot.
I snatched the paper off of the windshield as quickly as I could and slipped into the cab, the hairs raised on the back of my neck the entire time. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear someone was watching me. Jamming my finger onto the electric lock, I took a deep breath as I studied the trees lining the forest and the road
to my left, but nothing stood out to explain my increased anxiety. Still, I felt like someone was out there. Watching, waiting.
With my heart racing, I unfolded the paper, expecting to see Joel’s neat, even handwriting. Even his penmanship was perfectly controlled, but instead, the note was scrawled in a large friendly script that I immediately recognized even though it had been more than eight years since I’d seen it.
Eight years instead of ten because Peter had written often when I first moved to Seattle. His letters followed me until I finally began returning them to the post office. I didn’t want to send them back, but I was scared for Peter’s safety. If Joel had checked the mail before me, things would have gone poorly for the both of us, and so when we picked up our bags and moved the next time, I didn’t bother filling out a change of address.
The note I held in my hand today smelled of Peter, just as those letters had eight years ago, and then, as now, the scent brought a warm feeling to my insides and a soothing reminder that Peter had loved me once. I hadn’t deserved his love, of course, but he’d loved me nonetheless, and I’d come to the realization over those first two years apart that I’d loved him more than I’d realized. Immaturity kept me from discerning it from the lust and excitement I felt with Joel, but my love for Peter was the feeling that lasted long after the excitement of Joel had worn away.
The only thing I could give Peter back was his safety, and so I’d burned his letters in the kitchen sink, washed them down the drain and resolutely forced him from my mind all those years ago.
I inhaled deeply of the note I held in my hand once more before I read it. ‘Dinner at my place? Seven? Or whenever, I’ll be waiting for you. Hope you enjoyed your hike.’
My heart sunk into my belly at his words. I wanted to go. My soul ached to see him but how could I after what I had done to him? And knowing that Joel was here, somewhere waiting for me made Peter as much a target as myself. In fairness, I had to protect him from my drama. He was a minister now and didn’t need my reputation for disaster and mayhem affecting him or his position in the church. People in Sitka have a long memory and no know had forgotten what I had put Mom or Peter through.
I started towards home, determined to put Peter’s safety before my craving to be with him, but as my driveway approached, I couldn’t force myself to turn in. Surely one dinner wasn’t the end of the world and not going would be an insult, I convinced myself as I drove on into town towards Peter’s house. On the way, I picked up a bottle of Pinot Grigio, a tip from the liquor store owner as I shopped for something suitable to take to his house.
Peter’s driveway was partially obscured in a clump of azaleas, but I’d turned in so many times as a teenager when Mom would give me the truck for the day that I had no problems finding it. His family home was nestled a couple of miles off of the main road in the protective arms of a mountain that rose precipitously from his backyard. His people had lived at this address for years. Not necessarily in the same house, as houses come and go, but this location had been his family’s home base for at least as many generations as my family. No matter where in the world the Solinovs ended up, they always came back here to be born, married, and buried.
The house hadn’t changed much since I’d been gone except that it now blended even more into the landscape. The rock chimney, the focal point of the home both inside and out, was covered with a deep green moss that had once only dotted its surface. Ferns had overtaken the bases of the trees his mother had planted when we were teenagers, and those same trees had spread branches that now cocooned the sidewalk. The wood siding on the house had faded to a steel gray color that matched the slate mountains in the backdrop. In the far left backyard, I could see the remnants of the tree house Peter and I had played in as children.
It was fairly large and sprawling by Sitka standards, but you wouldn’t know it from standing outside where the trees and shrubbery were arranged to conceal its size. But from the inside, hallways branched in nearly every direction leading to the several bedrooms that had housed his brother and four sisters.
Just seeing the house made me a bit nervous. The last time I’d walked through these doors, I’d told Peter I was leaving for Seattle. It was in front of the fireplace that he’d pleaded with me to listen to reason. I had promised I would then later I’d hastily shoved a note telling him good-bye into his mailbox. I felt guilty just standing in the yard. I shouldn’t be here, I told myself, and I turned to go. I didn’t make it more than a few feet before I heard the door open swiftly behind me.
“Hey, you can’t leave. You just got here,” Peter yelled across the expanse of the front yard. I jumped at the sound of his voice, nearly dropping the wine bottle I carried in my hand.
He was leaning around the door, and I could only see him from the neck up. “Wow. You really are jumpy. I thought you were just joking last night when you were hiding in the bushes,” he teased. “How’s your head by the way?”
Taking a steadying breath, I turned back towards him even as I was thinking of some good excuse to get out of the evening. “I just realized I’ve got to…” I started to lie, but I couldn’t think of a good excuse quickly enough. “A bad case of nerves is all,” I finally said as I walked back towards the front door. “And my head is still sore. Thanks for that,” I snipped.
“Well, you’re not letting a case of nerves ruin dinner. Come on in,” he said, stepping back from the doorway so I could pass.
“Oh,” I said as I walked through the front door and realized he was shirtless, his chest shining with sweat. “I can come back. Clearly, I’m early. It’s just that you said ‘any time,’ and so I came straight over, but I can come back later. Or I can come another day. Or we could forget it all together if you want.” I was getting more flustered with every passing moment, and my mouth just wouldn’t stop moving.
“Tam, it’s okay. Relax. It’s my fault. I was working out in the garage and lost track of time. Let me just get a quick shower. There are some glasses set out in the kitchen and some snacks. The salmon could marinate awhile longer anyways so it’s all good.”
I nodded my head, avoiding looking in his direction at all. Instead, I was studying the entryway as if I’d never seen one before in my entire life.
“Do you want me to take that?” Peter asked as I stared fixedly at the chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
“Oh, I almost forgot. Yeah, it’s a bottle of Pinot,” I said as I handed it to him. The skin of his thumb brushed my hand, and I couldn’t stop my eyes from moving to his. I’d forgotten how green they were against the honey color of his skin, but I’d never forgotten how I enjoyed looking at them.
“Make yourself at home, Tam. The fire’s going in the living room, and I’ll be back in a few.”
With his back safely to me now, I watched him walk away, admiring the columns of muscles that framed his spine as he strode from the room.
Peter had always been handsome. Tall, at least three inches over six feet, he’d towered over every guy in our high school. In middle school, he’d filled out early, and by the time he was eighteen, every woman in town, no matter their age, had a hard time keeping their eyes off him. His body was hard-muscled from woodworking with his father and the continual climbing his family did in the mountains. His thick hair was a golden brown, and he always had a light five o’clock shadow, the good kind, which was just a shade darker than his actual hair color. Looking at him certainly did not make you think Christian thoughts.
But if his body was beautiful, his heart was divine. He was one of the few men who could pull off humility and kindness without looking weak and walked on. Why had I ever broken up with him? I questioned myself again.
Oh, yeah. Excitement. Escaping the familiar. The usual reasons women throw away good men.
After discarding my shoes and coat, I walked to the living room, anxious to warm my hands in front of the fire. It had always been my favorite room in Peter’s house. In the corner, the native rock chimney dominated the wal
l. The stones had been carved out and placed meticulously by some past relative of Peter’s, and it truly was a work of art. The walls were hand-hewn logs from the surrounding forests and stained a natural color that was both warm and inviting.
Comfortable leather furniture had replaced the country blue fabric his mom had preferred, and the bookcases were lined with rows of seminary books, woodworking manuals, a few classics and Peter’s all-time favorites—westerns. The air smelled of cedar, leather, and men’s cologne and whispered of days filled with hard work and quiet nights spent reading in front of the fire.
I thumbed through a couple of photo albums that were lying on the coffee table, smiling at the memories the faded pictures brought back. There were several of my family at church functions and a few of Peter and I at school events. Our senior prom pictures were displayed proudly followed by our graduation pictures. The second album was filled with pictures taken after I’d left and looking at them brought tears to my eyes. I wiped them away quickly when I heard Peter’s bedroom door open. Carefully, I placed the albums back where I’d gotten them.
“How was the hike?” Peter asked from behind me. He held two glasses of wine, one of which he slipped into my hand as he lowered himself down onto the stone hearth to sit beside me.
“The cold air was good. Cleared my head a little and I feel better,” I said as I took a drink of wine. I lied, forcing myself to sound happier than I actually felt, but I had no intentions of ruining Peter’s evening with the details of Mom’s case. He knew I suspected foul play, since I’d mentioned it to him the night I called and asked him to check on her, but we hadn’t discussed it since.
“Pinot Grigio is my favorite,” he said. “How’d you know?”
“Yeah, I got a little tip from the owner of the liquor store,” I said sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to tell anyone I was coming over here. He just kind of figured it out. It seems he remembered us. Or me. Probably me mainly.”
