by May, L M
“Er – right. Well – it's important to keep your sodium levels up. That's why sports drinks have become so popular.”
“Everyone knows too much salt is bad for you,” Gemma snorted.
“And not enough is deadly,” Christopher said bluntly. “It can cause hyponatremia.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You're the science teacher.”
“Exactly. Science. I only cover the most basic biology.”
“Would you like a list of side effects? Or would that be too much of an explanation for you?”
Gemma just nodded her head, urging him to go on.
“Nausea. Muscle cramps. Swelling–”
“Is that what that is?”
“What?”
“Sometimes my calf swells.”
Christopher shrugged, his eyes narrowing. He had no idea, but it made him worry. What if Gemma was already low in sodium? Should he put more in just in case.
“Anything else?” Gemma said, interest in her voice. Maybe he'd scared her enough to make her listen.
Good.
“Disorientation. Confusion. Worst case – seizures, coma. Death.”
“Surely that's an exaggeration. I would have heard of it if it was so dangerous.”
“Anyone who does any sort of endurance sport is aware of it. Most people get enough salt in their food for general exercise. But you lose it when you sweat–”
“I know that.”
“–and there'll be a lot of sweating over the next few days,” Christopher finished, his eyes trailing down her body again as he thought of a more satisfying way to work up a sweat.
“Fine. So we need extra salt. I get it. I'll leave the specifics to you since you're the expert. You can tell me when and what to eat and I'll drink your stupid drink.”
“I'm hardly an expert,” Christopher said, exasperated.
“I'm sorry – I just – all this.” Gemma raised her arms helplessly in the air. “I try not to think about it. What it means. But I can't help it. The plane – all those people. How many are already dead? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? A million?”
Christopher sucked in his breath as Gemma's eyes brimmed with tears. He was having the same problem. The harder he tried not to think about it, the more he did.
“The – the people in hospitals,” Gemma's breath hitched, a tear spilling over, “and the – the nursing homes. Who's going to look after them when the workers go? And there's the people who need dialysis and chemo and – and who-the-fuck-knows what else. And I could name a dozen students, without even trying, that will die without their medication.”
Christopher crossed the distance between them in an instant, crushing Gemma tightly against his chest.
He wasn't just doing it for her comfort. He was doing it for his own; he was scared. Terrified.
“We just have to worry about our own,” he said gruffly. “The rest of it – it's just too big.”
Gemma nodded into his chest, then pulled back, tilting her head.
Her eyes were large and vulnerable, and a tear trailed down her cheek.
Christopher cupped her face, his eyes boring into hers, his tone intensifying. “We worry about our own.”
He swiped her tears away with his thumb, his heart aching to see her so miserable.
“Does that include CJ?” Gemma asked softly as she pulled away.
Christopher let go with more force than he intended, his body tensing.
“I never thought I'd see the day when a Daley ran away from their responsibilities,” Gemma said, clearly disgusted.
She just didn't know when to stop; she had no idea what he'd gone through with Melinda. All the false promises and negative pregnancy tests. All the times Melinda was convinced she was carrying his child, only to collapse into a deep depression when she found out she was wrong. All the times she'd convinced him he was going to be a father.
The first time, they chose the color scheme for the nursery. The second time he'd bought a pair of knitted booties from a stall on a whim, thinking to surprise her, only to find her sobbing on the bathroom floor when he got home.
Christopher's jaw tightened as he fought the anger that hit him. But it rose in him with the force of all the years of pent-up frustrations and broken promises and lies. There was no containing it.
16
Gemma backed away, stunned by the force of Christopher's reaction.
His dark eyes were full of unconstrained fury, his jaw so tight it bulged as he pumped his fists at his sides, trying to gain control. But she'd pushed him too far.
He let out a primal growl of rage and anger, slamming his foot into the trunk of the tree beside them.
She'd only seen him this angry once before, and it scared her.
She shouldn't have pushed him – their emotions were already running high.
Christopher stood with his back to her, his broad shoulders heaving as he continued to seethe. And then without even a backward glance, he fiddled about near the bikes, then started for the highway, the trailer bumping along behind him.
Gemma scooped up the bag of cookies, realizing he hadn't even eaten.
When was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut? She really had been a certifiable grump.
She wasn't normally so short-tempered.
Gemma jammed the cookies in her bag and pulled it on, seething a little herself as he got further away. But when she saw the drink he'd placed in her drink-holder despite his anger, she felt her throat close up and sharp tears stung the bridge of her nose.
Damn him – it wasn't like she was the one in the wrong here. He was the one shirking his responsibilities. CJ needed a father, now more than ever.
Christopher was already well ahead of her when she approached the highway – taking her own damn sweet time. She was still so mad at him.
A small boy with straw-colored hair turned, startled when he heard her coming up the grassy verge behind him. His large, weary eyes stared at the bike as she swung her leg over and gently lowered herself, wincing slightly as she came down, her bones and muscles still tender from the earlier pressure of the seat.
In no hurry to catch up with his foul mood, Gemma rode at a leisurely pace, her eyes boring into Christopher's back as he approached a bend that curved around the hill on the left. And still he didn't look back, his dark head disappearing from sight.
The lanes were scattered with cars, and though there wasn't a lot of foot traffic, there was still enough for it to be a nuisance, the click of the wheels too soft for most to hear.
The people streaming ever forward were lost in their own thoughts, their faces turning without really seeing her as she passed.
When she reached the bend she was glad to see Christopher wasn't far ahead. She slowed, planning on staying a good few lengths behind him until he cooled down.
The faint smell of smoke still lingered in the air, but with the lay of the land she had no idea where it was coming from.
In the distance the highway dipped and curved through the hills. Hills that would soon become mountains, something she was definitely not looking forward to tackling on a bike.
A particularly large cluster of mismatched people who'd joined together blocked the road ahead, and Gemma cleared her throat loudly to let them know she was coming.
None of them paid her the slightest bit of attention.
They walked in silence, the only sound their footsteps and the soft, dragging hum of the floral wheeled suitcases the burly-looking men on the right were pulling.
Gemma slowed down, clearing her throat again.
“Um – excuse me,” she said when they didn't react.
A few of them turned at the sound of her voice, the burly-looking men becoming teenagers with surly faces that stopped where they were, still blocking the way.
Christopher looked over his shoulder, slowing when he saw the situation, his body stiff and rigid.
“I just want to get past,” Gemma said quickly. With the mood Christoph
er was in she did not want him coming to her aid.
“Sorry, love.” An elderly man stepped aside. With that, the others also moved, and she noticed that some of them had similar features. The mismatched group was a family.
“Thanks.” Gemma forced a smile as she eased her way through the small gap.
The man who'd apologized walked alongside her for a few beats, obviously eager for conversation.
“Terrible thing, this,” he said.
“Yes,” Gemma said noncommittally, not wanting to get dragged into a conversation that would slow her down. But when she saw the deep lines of worry creasing his face, she softened. “Do you have far to go?”
“Not far, love,” he puffed. “Headed for my son's farm. He and his wife live on the river on the other side of Peak Mountain.”
“Harold!” A woman with blue-gray hair and a pinched face scolded.
“Don't be so paranoid, Marge,” Harold said. “We'll know the world's truly come to an end when we can't even make a bit of polite conversation.”
Harold winked at Gemma as he spoke, and the woman – probably his wife – turned her head away, pursing her lips.
“Nice meeting you, Harold.” Gemma smiled as she rode ahead, glad she'd stopped. Though a simple thing, the old man's manner had lightened her mood. He was right – it wasn't all doom and gloom. Not unless they made it that way.
In better spirits, she paced a few lengths behind Christopher. She didn't realize she was humming along to a catchy new tune she'd heard on the radio recently until people started moving out of her way.
They did it automatically, veering to the side as they heard her coming, their movements barely faltering. Just like she'd done so many times when a cyclist came up behind her. One of those unspoken rules that was as much habit as anything else.
It wasn't long after that she reached the trailer-gang, the horn honking along ahead of them.
Gemma moved to the side, but realized they wouldn't be able to hear her with all the noise they were making.
She often hummed along to the radio on the way to work, breaking into song. She was also guilty of singing at the top of her lungs in the shower, or when she was gardening, confident no one could hear her on the small farm.
But it was with a wobbly, uncertain voice that she sung now, hoping to clear a path so she could get through – singing wasn't anything she'd ever done publicly.
To her great relief, the group parted, and she was tickled pink when a few of the younger ones picked up the tune, some of them running beside her with happy smiling faces, glad for something to break the monotony of the long, dreary road.
Their voices faded away behind her and she kept singing, her voice softer now there was no one directly ahead of her. It kept her focused, the wheels of her tires eating up the smooth flat surface of the road.
In the distance the mountains rose into the clear blue sky, marred by the thick churning cloud of smoke coming in from the east. But for now the road ahead was long and flat, speckled with people and stalled vehicles.
The breeze caressed her hair, her face, her skin, keeping her cool as it brushed over the light sheen of sweat she'd worked up. Her back was damp where the bag was.
She was still wearing her jeans but had long since stripped down to the slim-fitted green t-shirt she'd been wearing under her sweater. She was starting to wonder if that was wise as the heat beat down on her exposed arms.
Remembering Christopher's warning, Gemma reached for her drink. The last thing she needed was nausea and cramps on top of the sore muscles she knew she'd have tomorrow.
An hour later she was struggling, her thighs burning with the effort to keep up with Christopher's pace as the road grew steeper. The mountains were getting closer, but the gap between her and Christopher seemed to be getting further and further apart. There was a good hundred yards or so separating them now.
How long was the man going to hold onto his anger?
Well – she could be just as stubborn as him.
She reached over her shoulder for the zipper so she could pull out the cookies. Now she knew why he was going on about carbs and muscle burn. Maybe she'd be a bit nicer next time he tried to give her advice.
She was also out of drink.
The bicycle swerved erratically as she fumbled with the zip, Christopher choosing that moment to turn and check on her.
She hoped he'd slow down when he realized the distance between them had grown, like he'd done the last few times. But instead, to her great delight, he pulled over and stopped.
As he leaned over the trailer, she found a sudden reserve of energy, and pushed on until she reached him, narrowly avoiding a man and a woman struggling with grocery carts as she wobbled up the slope.
They eyed her suspiciously as she passed, the woman attempting to hide her nearly empty water bottle.
With no idea what sort of mood Christopher was in, and still feeling vaguely annoyed, Gemma stopped about five yards away. She set her bike down, and sat where she was, leaping back up again when the heat of the road burned through her jeans.
A small smile appeared on Christopher's lips.
Gemma was so glad he didn't seem to be in a mood anymore that she managed to keep her mouth shut.
She moved warily to the patch of shade he'd found under a skinny, straggly tree and sat down, the empty water bottle in her hand.
Christopher took the bottle, but she noticed he didn't quite meet her eye when he looked at her.
Frowning, she pulled the cookies out, offering him one first since he hadn't eaten yet, even though he was the one who'd been harping on about fueling your muscles.
“Hey, no fair. Where's mine?” Gemma stared incredulously at the bulge in his pocket, and the familiar red and white logo showing where his pocket puckered.
“Maybe littering really does pay,” Christopher said lightly, then he magically produced a can of Coke from somewhere beside him.
“That was just mean – you did that on purpose,” Gemma said lightly, trying to gage his mood.
Christopher shrugged, neither denying or confirming it as he rammed an entire cookie into his mouth.
After that they rode side by side when they could, an uneasy silence between them, neither of them seeming to know what to say. It seemed to Gemma that just about every word that came out of her mouth irked him in some way.
But Gemma didn't care if he truly hated her by the time they reached home – and she had a feeling he would by the time she was done. Especially if his earlier reaction was anything to go by.
She'd been thinking about her promise to Caroline on the long, boring stretch of road. She could almost hear her friend's voice in her head, calling her a coward. Caroline would never have backed down from a challenge so easily.
Gemma, Caroline would have scolded. You're running away again.
Just like she'd accused Christopher of doing.
Running from the past – and running from the future she'd once envisioned with Christopher.
She hated it when Caroline was right.
17
They stopped for lunch about two hours later.
“Can you make mine plain water? With salt,” Gemma quickly added at the look on Christopher's face.
“The juice will give us extra energy. Besides – the juice won't be good much longer.”
Gemma hadn't even thought of that.
She took a quick mental inventory of what was left, and realized that at this rate, they came up well and truly short. If only they hadn't been so stubborn about taking Anne's food, she thought idly. She immediately felt guilty when she remembered the sandwiches Anne made them, gone before the sun even came up.
How long would the supplies in Anne's cupboards last? In a few days – with luck – Gemma would be home, more fortunate than most with a healthy supply of fresh eggs, her small vegetable garden and the potato patch. In another month or so, she'd have more pumpkins than she could possibly eat, the patch having taken over a far greater ar
ea of land than she'd originally intended.
She couldn't believe she'd been going to chop it back when it started to get out of control. Daphne – an avid gardener herself – had been so horrified Gemma didn't dare touch it.
And then there were the fruit trees lining the drive. And the enormous almond tree at the front of the property. Although she couldn't stand the things personally, they were at least high in protein.
But it was the strawberry patch that was her joy.
Daphne was just as proud of the strawberry patch as Gemma, often popping out to check on it. Daphne's grandfather had been a strawberry farmer, and it was with wistful eyes that Daphne had surprised Gemma with seedlings she'd raised herself. She'd shown Gemma and Caroline how to plant them directly into bags of potting mix in the small greenhouse.
At the end of the season Daphne had proudly presented Gemma with dozens of jars of strawberry jam she'd bottled herself. Gemma suspected this was the motivating force behind Daphne's careful guidance, and Caroline confirmed it. The jam had been made using Daphne's great-great-grandmother's recipe.
At the end of the season they'd cut the strawberry plants back and transplanted them into the ground. Gemma still remembered how horrified she'd been when Daphne came out to visit at the end of winter, telling her to mow straight over the top of her precious crop so they were ready for the coming season.
And – if she could bring herself to do it – there was good hunting in the reserve bordering her property. Bear Mountain, named not after its more common namesake, but Fred Bear – the first pioneer to settle their area.
“Shouldn't we ration ourselves a bit more?” Gemma asked as Christopher carefully counted the cookies, and handed a small pile to her.
“Put them in your pocket,” he said. “Eat half a cookie every twenty minutes.”
Gemma wanted to eat the lot then and there, but she did what he said, trusting he knew what he was doing. Five cookies; even eating half at a time meant they'd only last a few hours.
“We'll cover more miles today while we're still reasonably fresh. We can cut back later,” Christopher said, absently rubbing at his shoulder. “Tomorrow – you'll be sore as hell. It will be worse the day after.”
