If We Make It Home

by Christina Suzann Nelson

  “Maybe not, but he has to get supplies, doesn’t he?” Vicky lifts her eyebrows. “It’s not like he’s making his own soap and whatever.”

  “How do you think the pioneers got their soap?” Ireland asks.

  “They bought it before they left.”

  Ireland adjusts her glasses. She’s lost one of the lenses somewhere. “I make my own soap. And I live in the middle of town. It’s better for you, no sulfates. And it’s better for the planet.”

  “Does it stink?” Vicky wants to know.

  “Do I?” Ireland waves her hand in the air. “I mean, did I before this trip?”

  Vicky shrugs her shoulders. “No. You smelled like lavender. I remember that because I wanted to ask what kind of perfume you were wearing, but I didn’t think you’d like me noticing.”

  “It’s the lavender I put in the soap. And I don’t mind. I just come off as a grump sometimes. It’s not because I’m mad at anyone except maybe myself.”

  I’ve lost them completely. The subject is supposed to be how to get out of here, and they’re discussing the finer points of homemade soap. I’m beginning to think I’m the only one who wants to go home. “Okay, back on task here. How do we get this guy?”

  “We’re not kidnapping him.” The way Ireland says this makes it sound like that should be obvious.

  I don’t say anything right away. The truth is, I’ve thought a lot about it. “What if we can’t track him? What if he refuses to help us?” I tuck a chunk of hair behind my ear. Kidnapping may be the only way. “There are three of us and only one of him. And … we have a gun.”

  Now I have their full attention. Lunatics get that much anyway.

  “I’m not a murderer,” Vicky says. “I just want food. Real food from a grocery store or a restaurant. But even so, I think I’d prefer to live my whole life, what little there may be left of it, in the wilderness rather than in a jail cell.”

  “Real food doesn’t come from the store or a restaurant.” Ireland stares into the fire. “It comes from the earth.”

  Vicky stands and throws another stick into the fire. “Blah. Blah. Blah. I don’t care where it comes from as long as it’s not wild before I eat it.”

  I wave my hands to get them back on track. “We could take the bullets out of the gun before we threaten him with it.”

  “You’ve lost your mind, you know.” Ireland stands and starts to pace. “It’s never a good idea to threaten with a gun that’s not loaded. What if he’s packing? He’ll just pull out his pistol and boom, boom, boom, we’re dead.” She wraps both hands around her throat, making a gagging sound. “And we don’t have bullets. We have one bullet, singular.”

  “So, we track him,” I say. “He’s come to the falls two mornings in a row. Surely he’ll be there again today. We scared him off before he could get any water.”

  “What’s to stop him from taking his water farther down the river?” Vicky asks.

  “Giardia.” Ireland says. “Seems like the chances of it being contaminated would be higher in the creek than from the water flowing off the mountainside. I wish we still had that book.”

  Vicky’s mouth curves in a satisfied smile.

  “I have a plan.” I pick up a stick and draw a diagram of the waterfall and surrounding area. It’s more like stick figure drawing, but they get the point, I’m sure. “Vicky, you tuck yourself over here to the left of the falls. There’s that high brush. You’ll be completely covered.” I mark the spot with a V. “And Ireland, you can be here, just past where the cougar came out.” I mark an I on the drawing.

  “Can I be anywhere else?” Ireland covers the eye with the missing lens and evaluates my map. “And I’m not saying I think this is a good idea.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there. And Ireland.” I rub out the I and put it on the other side of the falls. “You go here.”

  “This is crazy.” Ireland runs fingers through her hair. “What if we catch him? What do you really think we’re going to do with him? We can’t feed ourselves.”

  “We only grab him if we can’t get him to listen to reason.”

  “I like the tracking idea.” Vicky jumps to her feet. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this. If his house is so close to here, there must be a road. We only need to find the house.”

  “There wasn’t a road on Grizzly Adams.” They both look at me like I’ve said something crazy. “Okay, there was a road to the Ingalls’s place. Better?”

  Before the sun is overhead, we’re putting out the fire and preparing to pull off the greatest plan in all of Emery House history. Those college day pranks have nothing on three middle-aged women fighting for their one chance at survival.

  Ireland hugs the trunk of a tree. I know she’s dizzy, but I won’t say anything. She doesn’t take questioning well. My initial shock at Ireland’s coming clean about her family is softening. With so little known time on our hands, I don’t want to hold on to anger. That’s not how I want to die. It’s not even how I want to live anymore. I take a couple steps toward her, not enough to make her uncomfortable, but so she knows I’m there.

  “Once, I saw an episode of some show where the character actually ate the bark from a tree. It’s vegan, you know.”

  Her mouth squishes up.

  “It might be worth a try.” I want to beg her to eat, but I turn my back to give her the opportunity to do it on her own.

  A moment later, I hear the hatchet, and the guzzling of water. I’m sure wood doesn’t go down easy.

  She steps to the place where the fire was and dips her fingers in the ash. Swiping them across her face, she begins to disappear in the darkness.

  “Vicky, look.” I point to Ireland. “We need to do that too. Great idea, Ireland.” I scoop a handful of soot and rub it into my skin. The particles burn my throat and make me choke, but I keep rubbing, making sure every inch of white skin is covered.

  Vicky takes a step back.

  “What are you going to do about the stink?” Ireland flares her nostrils.

  “I don’t stink.” Vicky lifts her chin.

  Ireland’s eyebrows rise. “You smell like a skunk with BO.”

  I giggle. For some reason I see Vicky standing on a stage, giving one of her inspiring messages with green squiggly lines rising up around her.

  Vicky isn’t amused. She crosses her arms tight across her chest. “He’ll just think there’s a skunk at the waterhole. So?”

  “So? Would you go to the waterhole if there was a skunk there?” Ireland asks.

  Vicky’s shoulders droop. “Not after the last run-in. I’d rather face a bear.”

  “Hush.” I hold my finger to my lips. “We don’t need to put any ideas out there.”

  “Into the universe?” Vicky says with a mocking voice.

  Ireland either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. She walks to the path and yanks at a broad leafed plant. “This one has quite a smell. Rub it all over. Maybe it will disguise the skunk stink.”

  I crush the stems and leaves in my hand. The scent is bitter and strong, but nothing I’d worry about if I were heading for a drink first thing in the morning. I smear the juice across my clothes and through my hair. Then I turn to Vicky.

  “No. Please. I can’t do this.” She backs away toward where our shelter was. We’ve packed everything up so we’re ready to travel. “Can you imagine if we’re found like that?” She points at me.

  Ireland gives me an up and down look then grins. Her teeth shine next to the darkness of her face. “I think your family will be proud that you did what you had to do to get back to them.” She’s still looking at me.

  “Your son will be proud too,” I say.

  Her smile fades and a tear draws a line through the soot on her cheek. “Maybe.”

  “You’ll just have to find out. There’s nothing to lose.”

  She swipes at the tear. “Let’s do this.”

  We both take a step toward Vicky.

  She raises both hands. “No. This isn’t a tubbing.
Stop.”

  I cross my arms and tilt my head. The memories that word brings back. Tubbing. It was an initiation, being dumped completely clothed into a full bathtub. We were carefree and overflowing with humor, not bent on finding fault with others, like the world is now.

  “Okay,” she says. “But I do it myself.” Vicky kneels by a tree and snaps off a handful of leaves, then rubs them up and down and over her face.

  “You’re still white as snow.” Ireland cocks an eyebrow. “You’ll need to do the hair too.”

  Vicky’s eyes are plate-size. “I’ll never get it out.”

  “They’ll fix it at the salon.” Ireland doesn’t even laugh at this.

  Huffing as she walks, Vicky goes to the fire pit. She dips one finger into the ash and paints a thin trail across her forehead.

  “That’s not going to do, and we have to get moving. Either slap that on, or we’re going to do it for you.”

  Vicky fills her hands, a sob being held back by teeth tight on her bottom lip, and rubs the soot into her skin and hair.

  “I wish I had a way to take a selfie of the three of us right now, only teeth and eyes.”

  “Not a chance.” Vicky yanks her pack onto her back and we’re off to our designated waiting spots.

  “Let’s go catch us a man,” I say.

  They don’t laugh.

  VICKY

  Running through the plan helps me pass the time. I’ve never felt so useless and pathetic. We hide in the brush, listening for Grizzly Guy to show up. If he actually does, we’ll watch until he decides to leave again and follow him to his house, which we hope has running water, electricity, and a telephone.

  Of course, there’s the chance, which seems rather high to me, that a bear, cougar, or another skunk will attack us before we are able to become the predators instead of the prey.

  I scratch at the back of my neck. It feels like there are bugs crawling over my skin. The thought sends shivers across my body. In the dim light, I inspect my arms for any manner of insect, bug, or other critter. There’s nothing moving, but bumps are starting to form under the soot.

  Something shifts on the far side of the falls. Every muscle tenses as I wait to see if this is salvation or condemnation. I’m betting on the latter, but, Lord, please let it be the former. The itch on the bridge of my nose is worse than any other torture I can imagine. I crinkle it, but it’s no good. The twinge is so overwhelming, I can’t focus on our plan.

  Moving as slowly as I can, I reach one finger to my nose and press what’s left of my ragged fingernail into the offending spot. The sensation is better than warm chocolate drizzled in caramel floating over my tongue.

  Why do I always have to think about food?

  My heart catches. He’s here. I see him lean down to the water. He can’t be more than five feet from where Ireland is hiding. My heart thumps so hard, I’m afraid he’ll hear it over the rush of falling water. What if he spots her? Will he hurt Ireland before we can stop him? Could we stop him?

  My breath comes in puffs. We’re out of our comfort zone here. Three women who just wanted to get away from the world, turned renegades, probably soon to be kidnappers. The media is going to love taking me down.

  Grizzly Guy opens some kind of sack. It looks like it’s made of an animal hide, the fur still intact. From the bag he pulls a gourd. He fills it with water, drinks it down, then fills it again. While this is not evidence that he lives in a state-of-the-art abode, I’m unwilling to give up hope. No one lives like an animal all the time.

  A thought strikes me. I’m sick. What if his morning routine involves bathing? Lord, please, no. I’ve had about all the stretching and growing I can take for a lifetime. He pulls a hunk of jerky out and lets it hang from the side of his mouth while he runs water through his thick, curly brown and gray beard.

  Jesus loves him too. God loves everyone. We’re all his children. My mind is chanting, surely an early sign of insanity.

  My stomach wants to revolt, but I keep telling myself that he’s one of God’s precious creations. That’s so much easier to do when I’m holding a newborn baby and cooing to his mother about the blessing he is than when I try to have compassion on a man who lives like an animal and has refused to help three lost women in the woods.

  The sun rises over the trees, and I feel completely exposed. A deer ready for the hunter to take down. Finally, he tosses his bag over a shoulder, wrings his beard out, and picks up his water-filled gourd.

  At the beginning of the trail he came in on, the man stalls. His back straightens, and he slowly turns, looking over the area where we’re hiding. Can he hear my heart? Can he sense the craziness that’s crawling over my skin? I’m two seconds away from diving into the water and freezing the itch from my flesh. I need these ashes off.

  Just in time, he turns back to the path and heads away from us. I start to count. We’ve agreed that twenty seconds is the best amount of time. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. I scratch my neck so hard I expect to bleed. Eight Mississippi. Nine Mississippi. Stepping forward, I hold one arm out into the light. The skin is raised and so red I can see the irritation under the soot. Forget the Mississippis. I’m out.

  IRELAND

  Vicky emerges too early. I wave my hands in the air trying to get her attention, but she’s hopping around like one of the Riverdancers. Like she’s gone and lost her last marble. I glance toward the path, the one that goes right by Jenna’s hiding spot. It’s clear. As quickly as I can, I get to Vicky.

  “What are you doing?” I ask in a kind of whisper-yell.

  “I can’t take it. I itch everywhere. I’m going nuts.” She holds out her arms. They’re pimpled with a rash that oozes under the ashes.

  “Did you look closely at the leaves you rubbed on your skin?”

  “No. I did what you and Jenna did.”

  “I think not.” I shake my head. “That’s a poison oak rash.”

  Her eyes start to water and a whimper escapes her mouth.

  I touch one finger to her lips. “No. You’ve got to hold it together. I promise you, when we get to civilization, the first thing we’ll do is get you cleaned up and treated. You have to do this. I can’t leave you behind.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I need to soak in the water. Just come back for me later.”

  “What if we can’t find you?” The reality is, we’ll probably never make it back here again. “We have to leave now or we’ll miss this chance.”

  Her head nods yes, but her eyes are pleading with me to do anything else. It breaks my heart to say we can’t, the greater good and all.

  I take her hand and we head toward the way he left. At the corner I look around before going farther. Jenna is about twenty feet ahead, ducking behind a rock. We come close and she motions us to tuck our bodies close to the barrier. After a moment, Jenna gives us the “let’s move” motion and we start our descent farther into a canyon and, I hope, in the right direction.

  We keep him in our sight, but just barely, which is our only salvation because Vicky is scratching so loudly it’s like sneaking around with someone who has sandpaper taped to their inner thighs. “Quit.”

  “You could have an ounce of compassion.” Vicky scowls.

  Her arms are raised with bumps, but it’s her face that’s really taken the worst of it. One look in a mirror, and this adventure would be over. She’d scream and sob for hours, but we don’t have a mirror, and I’m grateful, not for the first time, about that fact.

  The farther we go down, the denser the trees become and the closer we need to follow our prey.

  “Let’s spread out a bit,” Jenna says. “If we keep the person in front of us in view, we won’t get lost, but we won’t be making as much noise.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” I scratch my head. Vicky is making me itch vicariously.

  “You go first.” She points to me, then the direction the guy went.

  This would be a very bad time to laugh, but she looks like an older version of one of Charli
e’s Angels the way she motions like a cop on a stakeout. I bite my bottom lip.

  With careful steps, I head out, watching for his movement ahead of me. One minute he’s there, then I can’t make him out anymore. I whip my head back and see Jenna behind me. Raising my hands, I shake my head.

  Jenna freezes, one foot ahead of the other. She turns her ear, like she’s listening to the trees. In a moment, she’s caught up with me. We both scour the horizon, but he’s gone.

  I drop to the ground, my head spinning for need of protein, fat, anything to add fuel to my body. The muscles in my legs scream. And the headache is back, pounding the left side of my forehead.

  Vicky catches up. “Why are we stopped?”

  “We’ve lost him,” Jenna answers.

  I’m so grateful that she says we.

  Chapter 18

  JENNA

  We’ve got to find something for Ireland to eat. She’s wilting in front of us, lying in the grass like she’s given up. Vicky isn’t any help. For twenty minutes she’s whined and begged to go back to the water. I’m not sure Ireland can make the climb, and she may need to get it out of here more than any of us.

  I nudge Vicky. “Did the survival book say anything about what foods we could eat?” I’ve asked this before, but it seems important to ask again.

  “All I remember is not to eat red berries. I don’t get that. Strawberries, raspberries, cherries, they’re all red, and we eat them all the time. So, why not red?” Vicky buries her face in her hands.

  “I hear you back there.” Ireland doesn’t open her eyes, but her head tips toward us. “Stop talking about me.”

  “What makes you think we’re talking about you?” Vicky tilts her chin up. “We could be talking about anyone or anything.”

  “Sure,” says Ireland. “And you have to whisper so the bear doesn’t get offended, right? That’s so very kind of you both.”

  I step closer to her. “Ireland, we’re just worried about you. You need to eat something. The vegan thing is all well and good.” Honestly, I don’t get it. I think she’s gone plumb crazy to give up even eggs. “But this is another kind of circumstance. Your life is actually on the line. Don’t you think God gave us meat for a reason?”