Reagan's Ashes

by Jim Heskett

  Keeping her body low—which was much easier without thirty pounds on her back—she moved through the trees toward lake Nanita, while edging away from the trail, where she had to assume Dalton would be looking for her. She hiked like this for ten minutes, deeper into the woods. There wasn’t the same level of untamed brush as near Lake Haynach, but she stayed mindful of stray sharp limbs and branches. One turned ankle and she’d become useless.

  When she saw the lake to her left, she stopped and looked around. There were no other people in sight. Her pulse raced through her like a bass drum, obscuring her ability to listen to the forest. She focused on slowing her heart rate and made the world slow with her. Birds, rustling wind through the trees: she made all of these things change. They became in tune with her body and she felt at peace with them. An odd sense of power moved through her.

  But she didn’t know where to go next. Andrews Peak was directly before her, Ptarmigan Mountain to her right, and Alice Peak to her left. Ideally, she should double back and pick up her pack. But that’s what Dalton would expect her to do, so she had to send that idea to the recycle bin. Returning to the Tonahutu trail was also out of the question.

  She closed her eyes and went into Dalton’s thinking. She saw what he would see. Dalton would make Charlie stop complaining and they would go down the trail, dragging her pack behind them to use as bait. They would wait somewhere along the trail, perhaps at Nokoni or back on the main trail, and when she passed, they would jump out and take her.

  “I can’t let them take me. I am my own and no one can have me.” Her own voice sounded strange, like listening to a recording. Thick, heavy, not like how she sounded in real life.

  The world around her seemed vibrant and more colorful than it had been that morning. She understood now why this betrayal had happened to her, and the knowing made sense. She had a part to play in something grander than what she’d originally anticipated. Foolish that she hadn’t seen it before. She was to find the money Dad had hidden and use it for… for what, she didn’t know yet.

  Degenerate gambler. Degenerate gambler. Degenerate gambler. Degenerate gambler. Dalton’s caustic portrayal of Dad coursed through her veins. How could he have been a gambler? Was it possible? Reagan wasn’t so sure anymore. If he wasn’t, then where had the money come from? Pieces of the puzzle were missing.

  Mitchell Darby had carried a life force inside of him until the heart attack had taken it and thrown it inside an empty casket for people to gawk at. The money was his legacy, and he meant for Reagan to have it. This realization hit her so suddenly that she almost fell over. So clear and evident. Finding the money and closing the casket were the same, and she had to find it because nothing else mattered.

  “Focus, Reagan, focus,” she said as she knelt and looked at the three visible mountain peaks. Alice was too far. Ptarmigan was too rocky and she wouldn’t be able to pass it without climbing gear. Andrews was straight ahead. Somewhere on the other side of the peak was the path that went to Lake Verna and exited the park via the East Inlet. She knew that trail, which ran parallel to the return leg of the Tonahutu loop. All she had to do was cross Andrews Peak and find Lake Verna. Then she would be on the right path back to Spoon, back to the money, and back to understanding.

  She set off for Andrews, aware that scaling the mountain would take hours and time was short. Without the pack on her back, she became as light as a bird, floating through the trees and over the rocks and feeling the soft nettles of pine crunch underneath her every step. The sensation thrilled her. She wished a mountain squirrel or fox or deer would come up to her and she could share the creature’s beauty up close. Deer scared too easily. Twenty feet seemed to be the threshold that made them flee.

  A monstrous scree field sat at the base of Andrews. The broken boulders were almost white, like enormous grains of salt in mid-cascade down the peak. But the problem was the lack of tree cover. A few of them littered the mountainside, but not above 12,000 feet. If Dalton was stalking her, he would easily spot her scrambling over the rocks at that height.

  She looked back across the lake and to the surrounding area. She didn’t feel them. Their energy wasn’t here. But if they weren’t at Nanita now, they would be soon. They knew she was coming here to release the ashes.

  She examined the scree field and plotted a course that would divert to the right of the peak, through a low point so she could cross without having to scale the summit of the mountain. No way to know the exact elevation, but some of the higher portion broached treeline.

  She started up the scree, and felt the urn duct-taped to her stomach wiggle against the tape. If it became too slick with sweat, the duct tape would come loose and she’d have to carry it. She’d grown accustomed to having Dad’s remains next to her body, sharing warmth.

  Commanding her body to stop sweating, she squinted toward the shore of the lake, looking for any movement. Aside from a gentle rustle of trees from wind, there was no sign of anything.

  The climb through the scree field dragged on for what felt like hours. The rocks grew bigger and bigger until she had to pull herself up and throw her legs over them to gain ground. Established trails in the park plotted courses between the rocks, but once off trail, you had to find your own way.

  Every part of her body ached from the effort, and she often stopped to catch her breath and study the lake. She had to hide for a few minutes when two figures appeared at the lakeside, but she was too high up to tell if they were Dalton and Charlie. No sense taking chances, so she remained out of sight until the figures left.

  Climbing, rest, more climbing. Watching the sun move across the sky. Wishing she had water to coat the dryness in her throat.

  When she finally reached the notch beside Andrews peak, she looked down at Lake Nanita, at the deep blue water rippling against the shore. That was where Dad’s ashes were supposed to go, but it wasn’t possible. She touched her shirt and felt the bump of the urn.

  “I’m going to find you a new home, Daddy.”

  In the other direction, toward the southern end of Rocky Mountain National Park, she’d find her day’s destination. Somewhere below her was Lake Verna, and if she could find that, she could find the East Inlet trail and hike her way to the trailhead at the edge of the park. Not the trailhead she’d started from on Tuesday, but one only a mile or two south of it. From there, she could find a way back to her car. Back to Spoon, back to the world.

  Warnings from Dad about the dangers of going off trail thudded inside her head. She laughed. She was doing just fine off trail. The wild woods of the park were in tune with her, and she was in tune with them. If she kept her focus on being a part of nature instead of being apart from nature, nothing could hurt her. She felt increasingly sure of this and let the knowledge drive her onward.

  She eased down the less rocky southern side of Andrews peak as some clouds lifted and the sun baked her. The vitamin D entered her skin, the sun changed her and made her more like the nature around her. The sun touched everything. She was everything. Everything was togetherness.

  So many things were suddenly making sense to her that baffled her before. But she also knew that this understanding was not natural. She’d come by this enlightenment, not by the organic method she should have, but some other way. How? She didn’t yet know.

  A lake came into view and she didn’t know the time because she’d left her phone back with her pack. The position of the sun indicated late afternoon.

  She wished she owned a topographical map. With her eyes closed, she tried to feel the elevation, but the signals crossed and as the lake below her grew in size with each step toward it, she wasn’t even sure which one she’d found. Spirit Lake? Lake Verna? Hopefully, Verna. Spirit was too far east along the trail. Verna would put her at seven miles from the East Inlet trailhead. She could hike that tomorrow, easily.

  She reached an even level with the lake and found a path through the dirt. When she saw it, she dropped to her knees and kissed the grainy and damp surf
ace. The universe was guiding her where she needed to go. There could be no doubt about that.

  She walked by the lake, found a rock that jutted over the edge, and sat. For several endless minutes, she watched the calm waters as darting fish and frogs made ripples that grew and receded. She understood the fish and the frogs and the mosquitoes that buzzed around her. She didn’t even mind the mosquitoes feeding on her life force. They were all a part of nature.

  When the sun began to set, she shivered, so she took the emergency blanket from its pouch and unfolded the crinkly piece of Mylar. She stuck her legs inside of it, then emptied her pockets and set the items next to her on the trail. Pocket knife, a few granola bars, car keys, the pouch for the blanket.

  She removed the duct tape from her stomach and set the urn next to her. She picked up a granola bar and had no desire to eat it, despite not having eaten since breakfast. Or did she have lunch? She couldn’t remember. Either way, the thought of chewing and swallowing didn’t appeal to her at all.

  Guilt over leaving Charlie behind fluttered in her head, but she wouldn’t let it take hold. The park would care for him and prevent anything bad happening to him. The park would work through Dalton and ensure safe passage for her innocent cousin.

  She wrapped the blanket around her and closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Her heart raced and her brain fired countless neurons simultaneously, flooding her thoughts and driving ideas faster than she could understand. At first, this confused her, but as her mind kept processing faster, eventually the answer came to her.

  Manic.

  Friday

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The first glimpse of illness came to her in high school, although a much milder version than the situation that led to the mania, crashing depression, and subsequent suicide attempt at age twenty-two. As a teenager, the mania might last a few days and she would feel vibrant and passionate, would stay up for one or two nights and drink coffee and discuss philosophy and brazenly tell cute boys exactly what she thought of them.

  Following the high came a couple weeks of lowness and anger, trouble concentrating on schoolwork, and lack of interest in after-school activities. The drama teacher begged her not to quit, but Reagan couldn’t imagine herself going on stage anymore.

  At the time, she was convinced the mood swings were natural, but Mom and Dad insisted she see a shrink anyway. Reagan was clever to convince the shrink she needed no medication. She spent the next few years in and out of therapy, and any time the word “bipolar” crept into conversation, a wall went up.

  This trend lasted throughout college in Austin, until her fourth year. The week before classes started, Reagan was leaving a bar on 6th street as a man on the sidewalk pulled a pistol and shot a woman in the head. The chaos of the aftermath of that moment created her first serious manic episode, which trampled the course of her life for the next several months.

  At first, everything was right in the world as the mania grew. Her voice exuded confidence and passion, and she often became impatient with others and their lack of insight. She spoke with subtext and poetry and she lashed out when people didn’t appreciate her gift. Every word that came out of her mouth would be quoted by a team of scribes following her someday, recording everything for the sake of history.

  All her actions were part of a great intellectual revolution, and she held a key role as a kind of secular spiritual leader. She studied Kerouac and the works of Richard Bach, particularly Illusions, an allegorical tale about a pilot who meets the messiah reborn in the cornfields of Illinois. With each reading, she further unlocked the mystery of how she might become a new version of this same messiah. But not a religious messiah, because they’d done nothing but lie and use people. Religion was a set of rules, and spirituality was a way to understand the inner self. She would be a new kind of messiah who could lead people away from the lies and hypocrisy of religion and toward the light of truth and realization. A true messiah.

  She was a teacher who could dissolve fear and show people their true selves. Unique insight allowed her to glimpse the real psychology and spirituality that formed the universe. The universe chose her to illuminate and enlighten and help those addicted to the material world of illusions and attachments.

  She worked part-time in a bank to supplement her student loans, but the job became a limitation. She was able to interact with people superficially, but not allowed to help them. The job prevented her from giving them education about the prisons they had constructed for themselves.

  When her boss fired her from that job, she took it as a sign. She went to work dancing in a topless bar, and that opportunity unlocked many new doors for her. Sick people came to her for healing, and she moved her body and gave them energy and freed them from the shackles of their captive lives.

  Sexuality blossomed through dance. Having slept with only four boys in all of high school and college, she realized how she’d deprived herself of the truth of connectedness. In Illusions, Richard Bach wrote that learning is rediscovering something already known. She rediscovered how to talk to men in order to create the symbiotic relationship required for healing. Strong and seductive, or meek and needy, or intellectually mysterious and clever, or whatever was necessary to establish the connection. The men she took to her bed became healed and enlightened more than the ones she healed from the stage.

  She made piles of money moving her body onstage but never seemed to save any of it. Whatever she made, she gave away or spent on extravagant dinners with her friends. Chunks of time evaporated, and when she would come out of a blind spot, there would be pages of new apps on her phone she had no memory of buying and downloading. She would purchase forty or fifty books at a time for her Kindle.

  School lost its value. What was the point of education when she already knew everything, she just had to rediscover and unlock it? She argued with professors in class about their teaching methods and their inability to interpret the textbooks with the same insights she possessed. Her Psychology of the Elderly professor asked her to leave class one day, which she did gladly.

  Not everyone was willing to be enlightened. Her friends stopped asking her to come out to coffee and lost the willingness to hear about truth. She needed to try harder. Beatrice would rarely stay in the same room of the apartment with her as the fall semester progressed. Beatrice only seemed to care about whose turn it was to do the dishes, clean the toilet, or take the rent check to the landlord. Reagan didn’t understand the refusal to see the larger beauty of the universe.

  The crash came three months after it began, but it wasn’t sudden like a light switch flicking. If she had to pinpoint a single event that sent her from mania to the depression that would change everything, it began two nights before Thanksgiving. She’d called Dad and explained that she couldn’t come home for the holidays because she had too much schoolwork. He said he understood, but his tone dripped with concern and unease. Her thoughts were firing so fast, her mouth started skipping over words as she tried to explain why she needed to stay in Austin, for the benefit of everyone. So many things to do and so many people to help. She could barely keep up with it all.

  She tried calling a few friends, but no one answered their phones. They usually hung out at a particular coffee shop, so she drove there and walked in to find a group of them at their regular table in the back.

  They turned and looked at her as she called to them, but then they all averted their eyes and went back to their own conversation. They closed the circle.

  Just like that, they excommunicated Reagan from the group, and the questioning and criticism began to overtake joy. Why did no one like her? What was the flaw in her that pushed her outside the circle?

  At first, she tried to shrug it off, but self-examination became self-criticism, and within a week, she no longer wanted to get out of bed. Within a few months, she was swallowing a handful of Valiums, looking for a way to silence the ruthlessness of her own mind.

  ***

  5:20 am

/>   Reagan doesn’t sleep. She stays in the emergency blanket because of the frigid park air, but she keeps her eyes open, watching the stars appear and disappear as clouds roll in front of them.

  She thinks about Spoon and the money and the key and Dad’s note and the possibilities of all things. The key opens something, but no telling what. It looks like a safe deposit box key, but Dad never had one of those. As far as she knows.

  The key unlocks the money and the money unlocks many options. With the money, she and Spoon can open some kind of school where professors and wise people from all around the world can come to teach for free, to make the world a better place. They will teach men how to love women without hurting them. They will teach parents how to raise their children without the shackles of religion. They will fix the world.

  The casket is empty, but there is a means to an end.

  Cold. She shivers inside the emergency blanket, which crinkles with every movement like shiny Christmas wrapping paper. Must stop making so much sound. She thinks about bears, and wonders if one were to come along if it might stop and sniff her.

  She would feel safer inside a tent. But that’s ridiculous, because A) a tent provides a millimeter’s-thickness of protection between the inside and the outside world, and B) the bear will not harm her because they are the same. They are both of understanding and they are both of nature.

  When the sun starts to rise, the reflected hue of the mountains around Lake Verna changes from gray to yellow and it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. More special than the Grand Canyon or the sheer cliffs of Yosemite… this is it, this moment.

  She climbs out of the emergency blanket and takes her clothes off. The cold tickles her naked skin, but she needs to experience nature uninhibited. The makeshift rope hipbelt has left red welts all over her hip, and Arnica or Tiger Balm or at least aloe would help, but she doesn’t have any of those things. She will have to heal herself with sunlight and oxygen.