The thought stops my heart. One second. Two. Then it
starts beating again. How is that possible? Do. Not. Tell. Me. Life. Goes. On.
A kind hand uses a now-gentle breeze to brush stray hairs
from my face and caress my shattered heart. On the breeze float the inaudible words, “Libby, I won’t let you go.”
My whole body aches to fall into their arms—Greg’s and
God’s. Only one of those possibilities is still an option for me.
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“I will never leave you nor forsake you,” God says in His Word. When you give it a chance, faith remembers the impor- tant things.
Greg’s gone. I prayed we’d find him. Now what? How am I supposed to pray? The answer is, apparently, flat on the ground near the water that claimed my husband.
I’m vaguely conscious of the presence of my traveling com- panions hovering nearby, like attending angels, bless them. Wisely, they leave me to my grief—my surrender.
It is indeed a prayer of surrender. What makes it all the more costly is the fact that a week ago I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Greg. Not until I started to unearth who he really was and my own role in poisoning what we had together.
The rocks feel warm beneath my body, my arms, my hands spread out before me. The smell of terra firma fills my nostrils and reminds me how far I am from heaven—how far anything happening on this planet is from God’s ideal. “Never leave you.”
I so desperately need to believe that. I choose to believe it. Lord, I single-handedly turned the loss of our daughter into a double tragedy. My confession unleashes a new fount of tears. Forgive me. Help me.
Having to surrender Greg now, when there’s no earthly chance of explaining to him what I’ve discovered about myself and about us could cripple me.
But I can’t let it.
This flat piece of glacial granite is as good an altar as any on which to lay my broken dreams. Greg’s not coming home. Not to me anyway, Lord. He’s come Home to You.
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“Libby?” Jen whispers across the midnight darkness of our
tent.
I poke my head out from under my sleeping bag like a turtle
testing the safety outside his shell. “What is it?”
“You don’t have to hide to read Greg’s journals.”
“Hide? I wasn’t . . . I was afraid that . . . I didn’t want the
light to keep you awake.”
“I know you need privacy, and I wish I could offer you
some. But I assure you your flashlight is not one of the twenty things keeping me awake.”
How long before either of us can sleep through the night?
“Lib?”
“Yeah, thanks. I wondered if I was starting to breathe too
much of my own carbon dioxide under there.”
“Find anything meaningful in your reading? You don’t have
to tell me details.”
Meaningful? How can I explain what it means to read his
words, to see his blocky, no-frills penmanship and discover that his heart had softer edges than I ever knew? How can I tell her how it feels to know he thought of me while he was here, but his thoughts were laced with pain? “It makes me feel closer to him.”
“Good.”
“I can almost hear his voice as I read.” I shift to lean on one
elbow. “Jen, when we get home, memorize your husband’s face and voice. You think you’ll never forget, that he’ll always be there to refer to when you need a reminder, but it’s not always true.”
Jen rises on an elbow too. An onlooker would think we’re
simply gabbing, slumber-party style.
“Maybe I should tell Brent and the girls to memorize mine,”
she says, her words floating like dandelion fluff but landing like anvils on my heart.
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I didn’t know she still thought of cancer as something that might recur. “What do you mean?”
Jen shakes her head. “Nothing. Just thinking about all the things we take for granted.”
The things we take for granted? My personal theme song.
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My throat is raw. I crawl out of my sleeping bag and slip on my shoes as quietly as possible to avoid waking Jen. It must be shortly before sunrise. There’s barely enough light filtering through the sides of the tent to make out which of the shoes near the door are mine and which are Jen’s.
I unzip the tent opening one tooth at a time. There’s no
sense waking the others because I’m restless and I’ve cried myself into clogged sinuses and a raw throat. When the open- ing’s an inch larger than I am, I sneak through and zip it shut again.
It will take all the fortitude the Lord and I can muster to
leave this place in a couple of hours. The finality of admitting defeat and heading home without Greg will make the trip back to civilization agonizing with every paddle stroke.
I find my canteen hanging from a low branch. Almost empty.
I’ll filter more water so we’ll have enough to cook breakfast and fill all three canteens.
It’s another “mist-ry” morning. Opalescent mists hang
over the still water in this secluded cove. Through the nar- row opening, I can see companion mists hovering out on the open water. If this were a movie setting, the accompanying
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sound track would have to be something with violins—no, deep-throated violas or cellos, and in a minor key. Such rare, unspoiled elegance.
Oh, Greg! We could have watched this movie together. We should have. Ask me again. Ask me one more time to join you and I’ll come to this window to watch the “mist-ry” unfold. I’ll climb out of my sleeping bag at three in the morning to take in the star exhibit. A loon glides through the mist into the protection of our cove.
“Don’t say it,” I whisper to the bird. “Don’t tell me he’s gone.”
She doesn’t listen to me. She lifts her pointed beak to the sky, stretches her neck to swan length, and ruffles the water with her wingtips while calling, “He’s go-go-go-go-gone. Go-o- o-o-gone.”
I’ve heard that if you tip your head up when tears threaten, you can keep them from spilling. Urban legend. It doesn’t always work. And people you love don’t always come home. Nothing’s left of the fire in the circle. Not even one ember worth fanning. I build a teepee of pine needles, dry leaves, and brittle twigs. I’ve never been good with lighters, so I use one of the box matches from the emergency supplies to ignite the kindling. It smolders and smokes, producing a smell I won’t soon forget. I’ll miss the campfires. I can’t believe I’m saying that, but I will.
A seasoned fire builder after just a few days of experience, I carefully time the laying on of fingerling wood, then forearm- sized, then biceps. The fire crackles and spits. There’s no point gathering more wood. We won’t be here that long.
I untie the knotted rope holding our food pack and let it down to the ground. It’s appreciably lighter than the day we entered the wilderness. Or am I stronger? Both.
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A quick check of our remaining food supplies underscores
the harsh reality that it’s past time to head home. Our fishing rod case leans against a nearby tree. In minutes I have one of Greg’s favorites assembled. I open the unused tackle box and choose a likely looking artificial lure, avoiding the ones that strike me as cute or fancy in favor of an ugly one that might tempt a fish used to looking at other fish all day long.
With two boys in the house and an avid fisherman hus-
band, I couldn’t help but learn a few things about fishing. It takes me several casts to get the lure away from the shoreline and land it with a kiss on the water ra
ther than an uncouth swat—the “cannonball” of fishing techniques.
The sun manages to push itself through the birth canal of
trees behind me and uses its laser beams to evaporate the mist. I twitch my rod tip like I’ve seen Greg do hundreds of times.
I’m not sure if I want to catch something as much as I want
to experience the rhythm of the motion. Cast and retrieve. Wait and watch. Offer the bait. See if they’re hungry. Fishing in a world so quiet I can hear the line slipping through the eyelets on the rod. I’m sure there’s a name for those things. It really doesn’t matter. I’m not here to understand fishing but the fisherman.
Something strong and determined says with a tug on my
line, “Sure, lady. I’ll play.”
“Keep your rod tip up, Libby!” It’s Frank, pulling his boots
on as he stumbles toward me. “Don’t give him any slack. But don’t force him, either. Let him run for a bit.”
I’m tempted to hand him the rod. He knows what he’s
doing. But he may not need this as badly as I do.
The fish and I dance around each other for several minutes.
Once, he explodes out of the water, shakes his angry, bug-eyed head, and dives unceremoniously back to the depths.
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“I’d give that no more than an 8.5 with points off for lesser degree of difficulty,” Jen says. So it’s officially a party now. My cheering section sounds a little like gamblers at the blackjack table. “Come on, little fish. Mama needs some break- fast,” and “Bring it on home. Let’s bring it on home.”
I’m winning the battle. As I reel it in with a smoother motion than is natural considering the pounding of my heart, the fish edges closer to shore. Frank sneaks down to the water’s edge and motions me to maneuver the fish toward him. He leans down, sticks his thumb in the fish’s mouth, and raises it out of the water.
“That’s a beaut, Libby. A fine fish.”
Jen pats me on the back repeater-rifle style with several “I’m so proud of you” comments.
“Is it a bass?” I ask.
“Smallmouth bass. That’s right.” Frank has undone the hook from its mouth and is bringing it toward me. “Enough for all three of us to have a nibble and a half.”
“Wish it was a walleye. Greg says there’s nothing like the taste of fresh walleye in the morning.”
My comrades stop in their tracks. A moment of silence for my fallen husband.
“I’m just saying,” I continue, “that I wouldn’t mind fishing some more if you two want to start the rest of our breakfast. The bacon’s gone. But hash browns go well with fish.” Another wordless moment.
At length Frank asks, “Jen, you want to have the honors of cleaning this lunker, or do you want me to handle that?” Frank, you’re adorable. Jen relinquishes the privilege to my father-in-law and focuses on the cookstove.
With my next cast, I concentrate on the feel of the rod in my right hand, the reel handle then in my left. If I will my skin’s nerve endings to cooperate, can I feel Greg’s fingerprints, a
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faint remnant of the warmth of his broad hands? This would be a good time for my imagination to pull some overtime.
I close my eyes, waiting for a tug on the line. I want to feel
something. Life.
It comes sooner than I expect. The drag on my reel squeals
with pleasure. My rod tip is sufficiently elevated. No slack in the line. This one’s a challenge. The rod bends toward open water like a divining rod.
“Oh, no you don’t!” I pull back, calling on muscles taut
from days of paddling. I reel steadily, evenly, quick to take up any hint of slack.
Then in an instant, it’s all slack.
“Broke your line, did he?” Frank calls from the stump on
which he’s cleaning the bass.
I turn toward my companions, catatonic.
Jen says, “You should see the look on your face.”
I stumble up the gentle slope toward the center of the camp,
dropping the rod on the way. My hands press hard against my mouth, holding back the flood of a gut-deep scream. Tears blur my vision. The world’s a fun-house mirror.
“Hey, girl. It’s only a fish,” Jen comforts.
I fall to my knees near the fire circle and bend forward,
rocking as if keening, which I suppose I am. I clutch my stom- ach with both hands and cry, “Ohhhhhhh!” “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
Both Jen and Frank are beside me.
“I know . . . I know why . . . why Greg didn’t bring his
fishing equipment.”
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Grief steals my words. Frank sits on a rock and pulls me into his lap as if I am twelve and needy. I can’t tell if the spin- ning motion I feel is a remnant from the lumps on his head or from me.
Jen brings my canteen. “Here, honey. Take a drink. It’ll help.”
That’s the world’s answer for everything, isn’t it? A drink of water. A cold washcloth. Sit down a minute, it’ll pass.
Frank shifts his leg under me. My weight can’t be help- ing his shin injury. I give him a “thanks for your kindness” hug and slide off his lap. Face to the sky. Still doesn’t stop the tears.
“I need another minute,” I squeak out.
“When you’re ready, honey,” Jen says.
“That’s right, Libby. When you’re ready.”
I walk toward the water, pick up the rod from where I dropped it, and lean it against the tree where the rod case rests. Then I turn my attention to the scene before us. Towering pines. Glassy water. A brave sun plowing through all obstacles. A blue canopy of sky overhead. Rocks with bad toupees of lichen. An osprey nest in a limbless tree on the far shore.
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Why didn’t I realize? “I know why Greg left his fishing
equipment at home.”
“Why, Lib?”
“He didn’t intend to fish this time.”
Frank speaks up, “Well, we didn’t think he forgot the stuff.
That’s not like him.”
I turn to look Jen in the eye. “I know what’s missing from
his office shelf.”
Jen’s expression is a sea of pain for me and curiosity for
herself, I imagine.
“His camera. He came here to take pictures, to be the pho-
tographer we wouldn’t let him become.”
********
“Libby?”
“What, Greg? I’m in the middle of something.”
“I wonder what you’d think about my taking a couple of courses
at the community college.”
“More college? What for?”
“A hobby. An interest. I’d like to know more than I already do
about photography. Nature photography, especially.”
I leave the lasagna pan that isn’t going to come clean without a
good soak anyway and sit across from him at the table. “Photography’s an expensive hobby, isn’t it?”
“It can be.”
I eye my pathetic countertops. He notices.
“I was actually thinking of getting into it on a deeper level than
just a hobby. Eventually.”
“What? A business? You have a job. It may not be glamorous, but
it pays the bills.”
He takes a breath, releases it slowly, then takes another. “I’m not
looking for glamour.”
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“Then what?”
“Passion. Something to get excited about. Something to . . . to care about deeply. I want to wake up in the morning and bound out of bed because I can’t wait to see what the day will hold. I want to capture some of the scenes that capture me. I want to care about something.”
/>
And then my zinger. “If you’d cared enough about our daughter, Greg . . .”
********
“What’d your dad say when you told him you wanted to quit the world and go find yourself in photography?”
Greg took off his jacket and spent a few extra seconds smoothing its sleeves before hanging it on the hook by the door. “It wasn’t so much my dad as Pauline.”
“She agrees with me for once?”
“She’s not known as a world-class encourager.” “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said about Lacey. I know it’s not that you didn’t care.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Another impasse.
“You can’t seriously be thinking about starting a photography studio. Here?”
“Or maybe a little farther north. A nature photography studio probably has a better chance of making it in a tourist town.” “What about staying right here and doing weddings and senior pictures and things on the side nights and weekends?” “Because that’s not where my heart is.”
“Obviously.”
“That was harsh.”
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“So’s life, Greg. Harsh realities. One right after another. Our
daughter’s gone. The boys will need college tuition soon. We have bills to pay. And although it may not put a sizzle in your step, you have a perfectly adequate job with Greene’s and no hope of making it as a nature photographer.”
“Lib, you know what I’d say if you told me you wanted to raise
llamas or bike across the country or learn to hang glide?” I know.
“I’d say go for it,” Greg answered.
“That’s where you and I are different, then. I have too strong
a sense of responsibility toward this family to suggest any of those possibilities.”
********
“What was wrong with me?”
Jen’s voice breaks through my reflection. “You were hurt-
ing and didn’t know how to cope with anything the least bit upsetting.”
“What was wrong with me?” Frank echoes. “I knew better.
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