If We Make It Home

by Christina Suzann Nelson

  “What brings you down from the hills?” Em asks her as they near us.

  “I like to come pay my respects to your Ma when I’m in town, and I have a few flyers to hang. I decided to take one last trip up the mountain in a few days. Thought I’d try to pull together a group.”

  “I’d like you to meet my mom’s old friends.” Em introduces us.

  “I remember Hope talking about you three. You’re the ones she said were in need of prayer. I see what she meant.”

  The implication stiffens my spine. I reach my hand out to shake Glenda’s, momentarily startled by the way her palm scratches mine, then change the course of this conversation. “Have you known Em long?”

  “Since she was a little tot.” Glenda indicates knee-high. “Her mama helped me out of a tough spot once upon a time.”

  Hope helped Glenda? The woman standing next to our table looks like she could push a mountain into a valley if dared. But there’s the tiniest glimmer of emotion on her face when she mentions Hope. She knew the same girl I knew. My bones ache to have been here with Hope as she battled. But I’ve never been brave. Not really.

  “Glenda takes groups into the Cascades on survival trips. Mom always wanted to go, but I was too young, then she was too sick. I wish she would have had the chance.” She turns a quirky smile toward Glenda. “I thought you said the group last spring was the last.”

  “I mean it this time. I’m growing old. Can’t be responsible for taming the crazy out of people no more.” She scratches at her jawbone as if she’s got stubble. She doesn’t. “You folks be interested in climbing into the Cascades and learning a thing or two about life and survival?”

  Before I can stop myself, I gasp. It isn’t very ladylike.

  “Tell us more,” Jenna says.

  With the tip of my shoe, I attempt contact with Jenna’s shin to shut her up.

  Ireland lets out a startled cry. Scrunching her mouth tight, she levels a glare in my direction.

  “I teach women the skills they need to survive and thrive. What better way to do that than to be out in God’s country? Out in the crisp, clean air, a woman can find the person she was meant to be. It’s God’s way of granting empowerment.” She claws at the side of her head with chipped fingernails brown around the cuticles.

  “I think we’re good.” I uncross my ankles. This description sounds kind of like what I do, minus the dirt. “We’re just here for a short visit.” My stomach wobbles like the table when I hear myself talk about going home. I’m not ready.

  “Don’t speak for all of us.” Ireland tips back in her chair. “You may not be up for the challenge, but maybe Jenna and I are.”

  “You have a lot of nerve.” I lean across the table. “For your information, I have a life. And it doesn’t include traipsing around in the woods to prove to you that I can.” I glance at Glenda. “I’m sorry.”

  “No apologies needed. Some can hack it, some can’t.”

  I’m about to put this woman and Ireland back on the straight path when Jenna’s chair screeches back and she stands.

  “I want to try.”

  She’s got to be kidding. I mean, really. Jenna is five foot nothing and built like a marshmallow.

  Glenda pulls a piece of paper out of her leather satchel.

  Ireland eyes the bag in the same way she did the meat back at Emery.

  “Here you go, girl. Give me a call when you’re sure. I’m headed up on Monday with or without a group. Number’s on the bottom.”

  “I’d like one too.” Ireland holds out her hand. For the first time since graduation, I see the smile I remember spread across her face. “Come on, Vick. Don’t be the girl who’s afraid to get a little dirty.”

  She ruins my sweet memory.

  I hold out my hand. “This doesn’t mean I’m going,” I say as Glenda presses the flyer into my palm. We’re all just being polite.

  Chapter 6

  JENNA

  I’ve missed Burgerville. They don’t have this drive-through in California. It’s an Oregon specialty, a staple in college. Even Mark would understand the necessity of a stop here. And, it’s not an excuse, but I am hungry. Vicky watching me all afternoon not only ruined my appetite, but I think the anxiety burned off more calories than an hour at the gym.

  The blue Volvo in front of me edges forward. I unroll my window in preparation for my turn. Blue Volvo orders a salad and water. Why come to Burgerville for bunny food?

  This is not the kind of drive-through that means fast food. I could read a chapter while waiting, but the cars finally move another length, and it’s my turn.

  “What can I get for you?” a woman’s voice crackles over the speaker.

  Years will probably pass before I get another chance at Burgerville. “I’ll have the Tillamook cheeseburger, fries, an order of the green beans, and a chocolate monkey shake.”

  I’ll count those green beans as veggies even though they’re fried. Heck, potatoes are a plant. I’m good.

  She spits back my total which sends a shiver of regret through my middle. But I don’t change my order. This is my time. Didn’t Mark say I’m supposed to enjoy this trip? Find myself or something like that?

  As if on cue, my phone starts to sing the eighties love song that means my husband is calling. I grab it, and hit the answer button before really thinking about the consequences. “Hello.”

  “Hey, there. How’s the trip going?”

  The Volvo pulls forward another car length. I roll up my window, cutting the outside noises. “It’s good. I’ve seen Vicky and Ireland. The house looks the same. But it’s sad.”

  “What about Hope?”

  I know his question is innocent, but I want to scream at him for mentioning her name. Emotion makes my lips tremble. I hate technology. It’s forcing me to spill horrible news and hear his reaction without being able to feel the warmth of his protective hug. Why did we ever leave the era of letter writing and telegrams?

  “Jenna?”

  “I’m here. Hope died.”

  There’s only silence on the other end. Does he expect me to say more? Am I obligated to relate to him the horrifying picture of Hope when she’d already shrunk under the influence of chemotherapy?

  “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have sent you if I’d have even thought for a moment this could be the outcome. I’ll make arrangements for your flight tomorrow.”

  Suddenly, I’m not ready.

  A car horn sounds behind me. Looking forward, I see the Volvo is gone. I pull up to the window. A woman holds a brown paper bag in one hand and leans toward my car. I just stare. Frozen.

  “Mark, can you hold on for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  I cover the mouth end of the phone with my palm and push the button to open the window with the other hand.

  The woman rattles off my total, passes me the bag and extends her hand for payment.

  With only my left hand to work with, I set the bag on the passenger seat and retrieve the cash from my purse. When I finally have everything, I ease forward and park in the nearest space.

  “Okay, sorry.”

  “Burgerville, huh?”

  My stomach wobbles. “What?”

  “I heard most of that. Enjoy your burger. That’s a delicacy.”

  Tears prickle my eyes. “I met a lady today who leads survival weeks. Hope wanted to go. I was thinking …”

  “What?”

  “Maybe I’d go.”

  “On a survival week?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “That sounds like an interesting plan. We should talk about that. Maybe we could do it next summer. I wonder if the kids would be interested.”

  I’m struck by how he’s stepping into something that feels oddly too personal to share with my family. It’s about me. About Hope. About the four of us. “I need to do this on my own.”

  “Jenna? Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am.” The shaking in my arms is screaming another answer. I snag a handfu
l of fries and stuff them into my mouth. Even the salty, fat-laced wedges lack flavor next to my words.

  He chuckles. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

  And there it is. The words that cut me open and let the anger spill out. “You don’t think I can do this? Well, I can. I’m not the helpless, middle-aged woman you’ve been living with. There’s a whole lot more to me, and I very much intend to prove that to you and anyone else who thinks they can tell me what to do.”

  “Whoa. I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just saying it’s not a good idea.” I can picture the way he’s probably holding a hand up like I’m a horse requiring an order and he’s the horse whisperer. “Come home tomorrow. We’ll talk this through.”

  “No. Reschedule my flight for a week from Tuesday. That’s when I’ll be coming home. Not a day earlier. And when you see me, you can apologize for doubting me.”

  “Come on, Jenna. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Goodbye, Mark. I have important preparations to attend to. I’ll see you a week from Tuesday.” I press the end button and throw the phone onto the back seat.

  What have I done?

  IRELAND

  The air outside is fresh and crisp, with just the smallest hint of winter. I usually love this time of year—the feeling of school starting and new beginnings—but not now. It’s the start of something all right. However, there may never be another first day of college for this professor.

  The survival week may be the opportunity I’ve been asking the universe to provide. A way to get into nature and be empowered by distancing myself from human interference. I’ll plant my bare feet in the earth and grow back into the woman I dreamed I’d someday be. Or, at the very least, I’ll be unreachable when the news of my disgrace hits the media.

  I emailed Professor Jensen my apologies, a promise to reimburse the university for my hotel stay, and an assurance that I’d come back on my own dime to speak with her students. This opportunity is too big to let anything get in the way.

  After Glenda left, our sad excuse for a reunion started to crumble. When I suggested we all go back to our own hotel rooms, there was not a single argument. Jenna requested we get together for breakfast in the morning, but Victoria had a prearranged church thing. I left before she could insist we join her. Or would she be too embarrassed to be seen with me?

  So I have the morning to prepare for the trip. It’s hard to be in Carrington, hard to be with them, hard to know how close my son is. I can’t connect with anything while all these people are pulling me into the vacuum of the past. But I’m not ready to say goodbye either. The reality that this could be the last time Jenna, Vicky, and I are together hangs in the air. No Hope makes life’s vulnerability real.

  I continue to walk down a side road, seeing the sign for the secondhand store a block in front of me.

  No Hope. It’s a crazy play on words, but there’s some truth there. She was the embodiment of her name. And even though I haven’t seen her in years, since my River was a baby, knowing she’s gone darkens my world.

  A tremble spreads over my body. I slow my pace and take a moment to lean into the cool cement of a building. I’m no crier, but tears pound behind my eyes, wanting to change that truth. Easing my glasses from my nose, I rub them shiny on my cotton shirt. There’s no going back, only moving forward.

  With a shove of my palm against the wall, I force myself to keep going. Keep breathing.

  The door jingles as I push it open. Musty scents mixed with incense that’s been burned in a confined space hit me as I step in. Behind a counter piled high with clothes, a girl leans back on a stool, her feet crossed on top of the mound, her fingers busy with her phone.

  “Welcome,” she says without looking up. The piercing in her tongue is so large it slurs her speech. What have we come to? The save-the-earth movement is more of a fashion statement for lazy teenagers than a symbol of social and environmental activism.

  I’m old enough to be her mother. There’s a thought that needs to be shoved down hard and quick.

  “I’m looking for hiking supplies. I was told this is the place.”

  She holds a palm up to me. “Just a sec.” A minute later she kicks her feet down from the mountain of clothes and, for the first time, looks at me. “There’s a room in the back. It’s all that kind of thing. Don’t steal. We have a camera back there.” She tips her head toward a monitor I doubt she ever checks.

  “No problem. Thanks for all your help.” I roll my eyes.

  The room she referred me to is small, stuffed with backpacks, coats, boots, and all other forms of material goods would-be hikers purchased then decided they had no use for. I guess that’s good for me. I’m really going.

  I drop my hemp pack on the floor and then start to dig through the merchandise. Who am I kidding? I have no idea what I’m going to need. Sure, I’ve camped. I’ve chained myself to old growth. I even lived briefly in a naturalist commune. But I’ve never hiked through the mountains, and I’ve never had any reason to know how to survive in nature.

  Unfolding the flyer I took from Glenda, I look over the very short list of items she recommends. The column of belongings not to bring is much longer. But there’s nothing I can’t do without. I’ve already turned my cell off and buried it in the bottom of the bag that will stay in some back closet at the coffee shop.

  After pulling seven packs off the shelves, trying each one on for size, I spot a green canvas backpack with patches covering most of the fabric. Someone took this with them all across Europe. They hiked the Pacific Crest Trail and the Appalachian Trail. Each patch has a date scrawled in black permanent marker below it. I thread my arms into the straps and hoist it onto my back.

  This one is heavier than the others and the weight pulls my shoulders down ever so much, but it comes with history. There’s the story of a life filled with adventure memorialized on its surface. This is the one for me. If I can’t have my own history, I’ll take someone else’s.

  As I choose the other supplies, I stuff them into the pack then take the whole thing to the counter. “This should do it.” I drop the heavy load in front of the girl who’s resumed her lightning-fast texting.

  “K. Take the stuff out so I can add it up.”

  Isn’t that her job? But I do it more to get away from her faster than to comply with her request.

  She sets the phone aside, grumbles something under her breath, then starts to calculate the prices on the tags. “Big day for hikers. You’re the second one this morning.”

  Alarms go off in my head. I quickly quench them with reality. Jenna’s physical shape is enough to keep her away from the trail, and Vicky, well there’s just no way she’d take the chance of chipping a nail in the wilderness. This will be my trip, and my trip alone. Glenda and whoever else is signed up are strangers and they will remain strangers if I have my way.

  She finally rips the receipt from the register. “If you want a bag, it’s five cents.”

  “Why would I want a bag? I just bought one.”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “Whatever.” Before she finishes her one-word sentence, her attention is back on the black hole of technology.

  I reload my purchases into the pack and strap it on. Leaving the store, I manage to knock a row of purses to the floor. For a second I stare at them, thinking how hard it will be to squat down with this weight on my back, then I look at the clerk glaring my way. Nah, she can handle this. It may be the only time she gets off that chair.

  VICKY

  The Lexus tires crunch over the gravel as I climb the hill to the cemetery. It’s outside of town, one of the smaller locations, nothing like the finely manicured lawns of the memorial parks inside the city limits where the headstones set with precise spacing. Randomness and fir trees rule here.

  Only one other car is parked in the tiny, oddly shaped lot. It’s a miniature thing. A deathtrap. I sling my purse over my shoulder and open the door. The gravel is blanketed with fir needles. Swinging my legs out, I
place my taupe pumps on the ground, wishing I’d thought ahead and brought more appropriate shoes for this occasion. Of course, how would I have anticipated this situation?

  I could have stayed in touch with Hope.

  I could have set my schedule aside and remembered the woman who never let me down.

  I could have cared about something other than my own job.

  There’s no use dwelling on could haves and should haves. I’ve done the best I was able to with what I knew at the time. And I’ve done a lot of good for a lot of people. Something about being here makes me doubt myself, my life, and my ministry. Everything that consumes my days at home seems futile since I’ve been here. It’s a perspective that’s unhealthy and unproductive.

  This morning I spoke to a women’s Sunday school group at one of the large churches in town. There was a moment when I lost my words. My brain completely stalled. That never happens to me now. It hasn’t happened since I was a twentysomething. This place is attacking me deep in my soul. I need to get back to my work and my life plans as soon as possible.

  But returning home means returning to Daniel. It means learning the truth, and it means dealing with the fallout. This could be the beginning of the end for everything I know. If Daniel is truly having an affair, how will I respond? How can I forgive him? Does he even want my forgiveness?

  My stomach clenches as if I’ve been punched, hard.

  All my thoughts until now have been about how I would remake our marriage and family and my ministry in the light of his indiscretions. What if he just wants out? My hands are shaking. The skin seems to have aged since the last time I looked. My ankles are sharp and boney. I’m not the beautiful young woman I was when we married. I’m a fraud.

  Without the ministry, I can’t support myself or my children. Without Daniel, the ministry will crumble. Who wants marriage advice from a divorcée?

  It’s like someone has begun to pull the thread that will completely unravel my life. And I’m begging for them to stop. Tie it off. Weave the end back into the fabric. Let me be.