If We Make It Home

by Christina Suzann Nelson

  “We’ll make a plan, follow the logical course, and be home by tomorrow night.” Vicky fishes in her bag and pulls out a notepad and pen. “What do we need to do for tonight?” She taps the end of the pen on her bottom lip. Before we can answer, she goes into super-leader mode. “We’ll need a fire. Ireland, collect wood and make a pile. Jenna, you start on the shelter. And Glenda, you keep working on that signal.”

  This should be good. I look over my shoulder, expecting Glenda’s face to flame red at Vicky’s demands, not to mentions the notepad and pen, but there’s a satisfied smile on her lips. The Father Knows Best, I got her just where I want her, kind of smile.

  Ireland’s another story. “And what will you be doing while we’re taking your orders?”

  “I’ve got a plan. How much water do we have left?” Vicky staggers, but regains her balance.

  Glenda hands her the jug we refilled with last night. It’s barely a quarter full.

  Vicky swirls it around. “We’ll have to get more water.” She looks to Glenda. “How would you suggest we do that?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for long.” She looks to the sky. Dark clouds seem to be sinking in on us. Holding a palm out flat, she keeps watching.

  One drop, then two, then they come down like someone’s turned on a shower.

  Without another word, we fly into action. I’ve never set up even a pop-up tent, but I watched Vicky last night, and I had plenty of time during a sleepless night to inspect our structure in the moonlight.

  Glenda comes over to give me a hand.

  I shiver. That can’t be a good sign.

  “Pull the ropes tight. We don’t want the water puddling on top of us.” She starts to dig a trench around the shelter.

  Water drips off the hood of my jacket and down my neck. It soaks into the seams around the soles of my boots. My hands slip over the rope as I pull it back with all my weight; then I wrap it three times around the base of a sapling and tie it off. It takes a couple tries with the knot. I can barely feel my fingers.

  I motion to Glenda for inspection. She tugs on the rope and nods, then returns to her work. I get the feeling this wasn’t in her plans.

  IRELAND

  Another crack and the sky lights up over us. No fire. No source of light between the flashes. Nothing like I signed up for, but it still may be better than being at home. Maybe I’ll die out here. At least I can have the relief of a silent death.

  But then what?

  We’re tucked back into the shelter. No one sleeps.

  “What if the lightning hits us?” Jenna’s words come out shaky, and I don’t think it’s because she’s cold.

  “Unlikely, this far down. What we need to think about is flash flooding.” Glenda pulls her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “We came a ways up, but all the water on this hill has to go somewhere, and we’re in the path.”

  “I made a mistake.” Jenna is crying now. “I wanted to prove to my husband that I could do this. I thought I could make him proud of me. I thought I could show my kids I’m capable of more than baking. I don’t know what I thought anymore. Now I’ve just proven that I’m a screwup.” She sniffs and hiccups for breath.

  She’s sitting on the end, with only me next to her for comfort. That’s an unfortunate placement for her. There’s not a maternal bone in me. I’ve proven that beyond question.

  Her shoulders shake.

  I pull a sleeping bag over them, then clasp my hands in my lap again.

  “I understand,” Vicky says. “My motivations weren’t all that different.”

  I grunt. “Come on, Vick. You want us to believe Daniel doesn’t know you can do and control anything?”

  She’s silent for a moment. Another flash and crack. “I think he’s having an affair with my assistant.”

  Now we hit a new level of silent. My mouth is open, but there’s nothing to say. Vicky snivels on the other side of me. I’m in an emotional sandwich. And it’s making me swirl with unease. The lightning looks like a safer companion.

  I reach into my pack and pull out four granola bars. They’re from my special stash, my only hope of an animal-product-free week. But I think this trip is about to be cut short, so I’ll sacrifice part of my hoard. I give one to each of them then peel back my own wrapper.

  Jenna reaches across me and lays her hand on Vicky’s knee. “I’m sure that can’t be true. No one would cheat on you. You’re beautiful and smart. I want to be a fraction of the woman you are.”

  I notice those words weren’t meant for me. No one wants to be like me.

  Lightning flashes again, glinting off something where we’d planned the campfire.

  “What was that?” Glenda leans toward the place where our fire would be burning if it hadn’t turned to a pond.

  “I think it’s the hatchet,” I say.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake. We can’t go leaving important equipment lying around like that. And enough of this ‘I’m about to die, so feel sorry for me’ talk. The worst thing about tonight is a little discomfort.” She throws off the blankets and steps into the rain. Stalking to the hatchet, she makes a show with her flashlight of picking it up, shaking it at us. She hollers over the wind: “See, there’s nothing out here any scarier than what you all got going in your heads.”

  Another crack. Glenda is lit up like a star on a stage. Then another crack, this time as loud as a bomb. Pop. Pop. The snaps and cracks climb toward us. I swing my head around but can’t find the source until the next flash, and the explosion as a giant tree comes toward us.

  “Move,” I scream. We’re on our feet and clawing away like rabbits from a forest fire.

  The earth shakes with the impact, knocking me to my hands and knees.

  Then there’s just the pounding of rain and the whistle of the air forcing its way through the trees.

  I feel around me, locating Vicky and Jenna. “Glenda?”

  There’s no answer. I yell into the wind. “Glenda? Are you okay?”

  Nothing. Standing, I pull the other two to their feet.

  “We have to go find her,” Jenna says. “She could be hurt.”

  Water drips down my scalp and across my face. My feet are molded to this spot. The world starts to spin, and I’m grateful for the dark. Sinking back, I sit on the ground, now turned to mud. “I can’t.”

  Vicky squeezes my shoulder. “We need to stay together, and we can’t leave her out there alone. Come on.” She grabs my hand and pulls me up.

  I’m shaking so hard now I can’t speak. Can’t make the words form. Why can’t there be a landslide to wash me away right now. And end this agony.

  We feel our way over the ground. We’ve come farther from the shelter than I thought. Vicky is shining a flashlight into the dark, but the beam is weak and doesn’t help much. The wind slows. As fast as the storm came, it’s gone. All I can hear is the trickle of water dripping from leaves and flowing by in tiny rivers that run over my feet.

  The tree isn’t as big as it looked when it crashed toward us. It’s maybe twenty inches in diameter at the middle. Surely Glenda is okay. God, if he’s there, wouldn’t leave Jenna and Vicky in the wilderness without a guide.

  Jenna works her way down the trunk with Vicky and me behind, Vicky shining the light at the ground along the tree. Nothing. We keep moving.

  Vicky gasps. Glenda’s boot sticks out from under the wood. Vicky grabs my hand, then shines the light on the other side.

  The image of Glenda’s lifeless eyes pulls the last of the warmth from my body.

  VICKY

  I crawl back into what passes as our shelter and press in close to Jenna’s side. My stomach is empty from vomiting caused either by a concussion, fear, or shock. It’s accompanied by a pounding migraine. That could also be from the blow to my head, or it could be lack of food and water, or maybe panic.

  The Bible says three hundred sixty-five times that we shouldn’t fear. I’ve always taken comfort in the way God lined the co
mmands up for each day of the year. But tonight feels like no other time. It’s a day that doesn’t fit on any calendar in my life plan. And fear is more real and all-encompassing than I’ve ever known before. It’s like February 30 has set up camp.

  Constant shivers pulse my body. My clothes are wet. Our bedding is wet. We are soaked through. If we can’t dry out, we’ll surely be dead before we can decide what to do about Glenda.

  Just thinking about her makes my stomach revolt, but there’s nothing left to lose. I’m empty in every way. Heart, soul, and stomach. Lord, I really tried to do your work. Why have you abandoned me here to die such a horrible death?

  I suppose it’s natural to look back on your life when the end is near. My mind passes over pictures of my children when they were young, of times when it was just Daniel and me, together and in love. And even back to Emery House.

  Emery was my rebellion. I come from a family of good standing. We’re the kind of people who attend Ivy League schools and live in the right sororities. The University of Northwest Oregon served its greatest purpose for me back then. It made my mother crazy. And if my choice of school wasn’t bad enough, Emery pushed her right over the cliff.

  It was our junior year before she changed tactics and decided to visit me in Oregon. Two years of avoidance had done nothing to get me to give up what she called my juvenile wanderings.

  It was spring and the campus lit up with the blooms of blushing rhododendrons. The walk to class was like a stroll through a royal garden. I stopped two or three times as I returned from a psychology lecture just to take in the sweet smells of fresh bark mulch.

  But as I entered our block, something changed. It was like the air cooled and a wave of chilled fear ran over my skin. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. She was there.

  I looked down at the clothes I’d chosen for the day. Sweat pants that had to be rolled at the top so they wouldn’t work their way down as I walked and a sweatshirt that belonged to Mark. Oh, Mark. I picked up my speed. I had to save him from the wrath that would cut him into pieces I could never mend.

  I rushed up the walkway, then hesitated at the door, adjusting my posture before I entered. I didn’t have to go far to find her. There, in the foyer, my mother towered with her back to me. She still wore a designer coat and five-inch heels. And on the other side of her, Jenna stood with eyes wide and mouth gaping. I could only imagine the scene I’d missed, but Jenna never told me.

  “Mother?”

  Camila Salsubury Stevens turned her entire body toward me. Her face remained expressionless, a sight I was all too familiar with. Tipping her head back, she looked me up and down, her eyebrows pulling together in the slightest way, the evidence of sheer disgust. “Is that the way you present yourself to the world, Victoria?”

  I’d worn these same clothes many cool mornings but never felt any shame, until now. My shoulders dropped as the independence I’d gained over the academic year crumbled and fell to a heap at my tennis shoes.

  “I’ll change.”

  “I’d say you will. I’ve made dinner reservations. Go on up now.” She patted her hair as if checking to see if my environment had messed with her perfection. “I’d like a little more time to talk with this girl, Jennifer is it?”

  Jenna swallowed hard and nodded. But Jenna is not short for Jennifer. I knew that, and I didn’t correct her either. More shame.

  I rushed up the stairs as fast as I could manage without cracking the brittle thread of decorum that had fallen over our usually comfortable home. At the end of the hall, I burst into our room and threw open my closet, searching for the suit I kept near the back.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Ireland pulled her headphones to the side. She lounged in the corner beanbag, a physics book on her lap.

  “My mother. She’s taking me to dinner.” That’s when the real terror took hold. “Oh no. Mark is supposed to take me out tonight to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I’ve got to stop him.” I sprinted down the hall to the phone booth and dialed the guys’ house. But the one who answered told me Mark was already on his way.

  I was ready in under five minutes with the help of Hope and Ireland. Sure, the rush job would be the focus of our dinner conversation, but I had to catch Mark before my mother did. Ireland and I ran for the stairs.

  After the first curve I could hear her shrill voice. “You say you have an anniversary with my daughter? That’s quite interesting information.”

  My shoulders dropped and my hopes shattered.

  “Hey, Mark.” Ireland passed me, heading into the foyer. “I really need some help tonight with my physics. It’s killing me. And you’re the only one I know who understands the stuff. What do you say?” She grabbed him by the elbow and turned him toward the living room.

  “Now wait a minute, miss. This young man and I were having a conversation.” My mother crossed her arms. “I believe he had plans with my Victoria tonight, and I’d hate to come between two people so clearly committed to each other.” Her lips curled up in her signature plastic smile. “Would you please join us? I’m sure I could change our reservation to three, if you don’t mind changing yours.”

  Mark scuffed a shoe on the carpet. “I didn’t have any reservations.”

  “Then you’ll join us.” Mother eyed his jacket, then blew out a breath. “We do need to be going. I’m sure the maître d’ will have something suitable you can borrow.”

  That was the beginning of the end for us. The night was course after course of humiliation and embarrassment. I’ve wondered how life worked out for Mark and Jenna. Does she truly make him happy? He deserves to be. My mother thought he wasn’t good enough for me. But all the while, I knew it was the opposite. I could never be good enough to deserve Mark.

  The sun isn’t visible, but a gray light brings morning into focus. I step away from Ireland and Jenna, my side immediately cold where they’ve been pressed next to me for hours. My feet slosh through puddles as I make my way toward a tree, keeping my gaze away from Glenda.

  My boot lands on something hard, I kneel to see and find the one thing that could save us.

  Chapter 11

  JENNA

  I’ve buried a human being. A real person. With my own hands. It’s nothing like Little House on the Prairie. There’s so much left out in programming. This morning’s emotions are deeper and wider than anything I’ve allowed myself to feel since my own mother died. The grief tied around my heart is tighter than the pain I experienced when notified of my father’s death, three months after it happened. My dad had already died to me in so many ways, it was just the loss of hope that he might come to his senses. This is so real. So in my face.

  The tree had hit Glenda square across her chest and shoved her into the ground. We could only imagine what broken bones and other internal damage had been done. The tree wasn’t budging. Ireland and I clawed through the mud and vines beneath Glenda, but finally gave up on freeing the body. Using the toilet shovel and our hands, we covered her as best we could.

  I take the hatchet and chunk out the letters, G. F., the only marker to her resting place.

  Ireland leans against a rock, trying to make life return to the satellite phone. But after a good smack by a tree followed by a night swimming in a puddle, I think it’s done.

  The lighter I found in Glenda’s bloody chest pocket is cracked along the top, pieces of the striker had penetrated her skin. It’s a total loss, even the lighter fluid has slipped away.

  My hands are raw, cut along the knuckles, but at least I’m alive.

  I don’t even know if Glenda had a family. I don’t know if she was married. If she had children. She spoke of God, but I never asked her if she really knew him. I didn’t take the time to see her. This trip was all about me. That’s what so much of my life has been, all about what I wanted. No waiting on God’s timing. Not me.

  Since the triplets left, I’ve been wallowing in self-pity. I’ve made Mark feel the punishment of that selfishness.

  But
it started even before the empty nest. It started that day when my father made it clear how little I meant to him. And it continued with me making sure everyone around me needed me, that I was not replaceable. Until I couldn’t fool them any longer.

  I’m sick with my shame. Sick of being endlessly needy.

  Pulling another rock from the ground, I heft it to our shallow gravesite and drop it onto the pile. One of the things I learned while homeschooling, when pioneers died on the trail, the survivors place rocks on top of the graves to prevent animals from disturbing their loved one’s remains.

  What once was just an interesting fact to learn is now a personal part of my history.

  They also drove their wagons over the site to pack down the soil. I guess I could sit my wide-as-an-ox backside on the fresh dirt. It would probably serve the same purpose.

  The sun is way past the middle of the sky and burns down on us. Even the ground has stopped steaming and the little streams are gone. The great majority of our clothes lay over limbs, drying in the heat.

  Vicky fans through the pages of her survival book, laying it in a new position to dry the soaked pages, another victim of the storm and our half-collapsed shelter.

  We were a few feet from needing someone to bury all of us, but there would have been no one. The thought makes my head swim. What was I thinking? This was not fair to Mark and the kids.

  Vicky looks up. “We need to get moving if there’s any chance of getting out of here tonight.” The bruise on her forehead has settled, and now she has a deep black eye.

  “There’s no way we get out today.” Ireland shakes her head. She tests her sweater for dampness, then ties it around her waist. “Not without that phone. We don’t even know where out is.”

  “Just stop it.” Vicky stomps a foot into the ground, then grimaces. “Don’t even say that. I need out of here. Now. Help!” She screams into the dense forest. “Please, someone, help.”

  I put my hand on her arm, but she shakes it off.