They Almost Always Come Home

by Cynthia Ruchti

  The bulk pressed up against his leg was his sleeping bag. It stunk like a singed chicken—a reminder of summers at his grandmother’s. As he searched the bag for his flashlight, his hands landed on a patch that felt crisp to the touch. Crisp?

  254

  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  He ached on a cellular level. Every movement sent new cur-

  rents of pain to his nerve endings. He wasn’t seriously hurt, was he?

  A Genesis cry split the darkness. “Please, God. Let there be

  light!”

  Greg’s voice scared him. Raspy, thick, a smoker’s voice.

  What had happened?

  The bare ground. A hole burned into his sleeping bag. The

  smells. The pain.

  As his hand closed around his flashlight, reality hit him in

  the gut. Most likely a bolt of lightning followed a tree root into his tent. That explained everything—the highly charged air, the smoke residue, and the fact that even when he pressed the switch on the light, Greg’s world remained dark.

  255

  Greg spread his sleeping bag flat, burnt side down, and lay on it, backside down, face toward what he knew from his dry condition was an intact tent roof. The sounds of a pelting rain soothed one concern. If the lightning strike started a fire in the woods outside his tent, it stood no chance against the downpour.

  Limb by limb, muscle by muscle, he assessed the dam- age. As the minutes passed, the intensity of the pain he’d first experienced dropped from boiled-in-hot-oil to a deep, all- encompassing ache. But he could move his fingers and toes, arms and legs. Trembling, he let his hands examine the rest of his body for burns, but there were none. How could that be? If he could lie still, listening to the thunder retreating as it moved the storm to points east, would the assault on his body retreat too? Wary of sudden movements that might hamper his body’s ability to rebound from the near miss, Greg reached again for the flashlight. He tapped it against his palm in case the batteries hadn’t made a good connection the last time he tried. Then he prayed, opened his eyes, and flicked on the switch.

  Nothing.

  37

  256

  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  Greg felt everything and saw nothing. He waved his hand

  in front of his face. Where do shadows go when life itself is blacker than a shadow?

  I just need to give it time. My body’s in shock.

  A wave started in his toes. Up through his loins, stomach,

  chest. When it reached his throat, Greg raised up on one arm, leaned to the side, and wretched.

  Suffocating and potent, a new smell filled the tent. The odor

  of his fear.

  ********

  Like Libby breathing through her labor pains, Greg pressed

  back the thoughts that engulfed him.

  Temporary. This is temporary. When daylight comes, I’ll prob-

  ably see a hint of something at least. I’ll have to be careful getting around camp with limited vision, but if I can just make out shapes or light-and-dark, I can do it.

  He wouldn’t let himself consider how long it might be before

  he could find his way out of the wilderness.

  Or what it might mean about his condition if daylight had

  already dawned.

  ********

  Sleep seemed pointless but unavoidable, an organic pain-

  killer. His body begged for it. His brain fought for time to worry. Exhaustion won.

  He woke again, opened his eyes—not that it mattered—

  and “observed” the distressingly familiar blackness. The rain was long gone. Greg could tell from the way the air tempera- ture had risen that the sun had probably punched in hours ago. When had the rain started? Yesterday?

  257

  They Almost Always Come Home

  He remembered the sound of rain. He’d settled in to read his book. Fell asleep. For how long? A few minutes? Hours? And when the lightning struck, did he lose consciousness? For how long? How could he tell what day it was?

  Libby. He had to tell Libby. No matter how limp and life- less the connection between them, it was still a connection, in God’s eyes at least.

  But at the moment, God was the only one taking calls. He was thirsty, but first things first. As his bladder spasmed, Greg felt his way toward the tent door, missed by a dozen inches, but eventually he found it. He couldn’t afford to miss camp by a few inches when he returned from his outing. Time to make a plan.

  He felt along the bottom of the tent flap for the zipper pull. As each tooth of the zipper responded to the pull, Greg tried and discarded possible ideas for how not to get lost in a shape- less environment. He recalled reading all the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little House on the Prairie books to Lacey when reading chapter books by herself was still a year or so beyond her abili- ties. Laura and her family used a rope guide during blizzards. Holding tight to a rope attached to the house and the barn enabled them to safely maneuver from one to the other even in whiteout conditions.

  It could work for blackouts, too, couldn’t it?

  He had a good length of rope. It was attached to his food pack. Through the darkness, hiding under his canoe.

  Under the circumstances, most people would understand if Greg chose a spot just a few feet from the tent door for his bathroom. He ventured outside the tent and discarded Sparky with a right-fielder’s effort. The most useless piece of equip- ment he’d packed in.

  The moss and rocks were slick underfoot. That’s all he needed. Greg stuck his arms and hands out in front of him.

  258

  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  He’d rather catch a tree with his hands than his forehead. If he’d camped longer in this spot, he might have grown more accustomed to the terrain. Thinking back to when he set up camp, he tried to remember major landmarks. Fallen trees. Rocks. He shuffled in the direction he assumed would take him a short distance into the woods. With memory alone as a guide, he pressed on.

  Why hadn’t he paid more attention to the layout of the

  camp?

  It was probably senseless to regret leaving the rope behind.

  Wouldn’t his sight rebound soon? Any minute now. He’d had the equivalent of a paparazzi-load of cameras flashed in his face. Eyes are resilient, aren’t they? He’d recovered quickly from his dad’s camera-happy holiday gatherings with those insipid blue flashbulbs. The optical shock or whatever it was would settle down, and he’d be able to see something soon. He needed to give it time. No reason to panic. Except for the absence of light.

  Greg shuffled farther into the darkness. When he judged he

  was a safe distance away from his tent, he stopped. The edge of his world. He relieved himself, then retraced his invisible steps back. He didn’t find the center of the tent wall as he’d hoped, but caught his foot on one of the tie-downs. Close enough.

  “I should have been an engineer,” he said as he consid-

  ered viable options for maneuvering through his temporary darkness.

  The chalkboard of his mind registered a mockup of a log-

  hemmed path, with the logs like gutter guards on a bowling lane for kindergarteners. If he laid downed logs end to end along the left and right sides of the path, he could feel his way toward his bathroom area. If he kept one foot in the path, he could step out with the other to search for firewood. Ban or no ban, he needed to make a signal fire.

  259

  They Almost Always Come Home

  What was he thinking? A lot of good a signal fire would do if he burned the woods to the ground. No matter where he built a fire, without sight he had no clue about overhang- ing tree branches. He wouldn’t see a stray spark catching on dry pine needles, if any remained dry after the soaking of the storm. He couldn’t even detect a runaway flame chasing the length of a piece of firewood for a quick escape from the fire ring.

  A fire was too risky under the circumstances.

  Libby won again. She accused him of not stopp
ing to mourn a loss or grieve a crisis but instantly flipping into fix-it mode. He’d done it again. Already he found himself engaged in the business of surviving, making his camp more accessible and safer, inventing a plan to navigate the crisis when he hadn’t given himself much time to consider what had happened to him.

  Starting down that trail of thought promised to prove as risky as starting a fire.

  All of his resources—books, doctors, online medical infor- mation—were out of reach. Out of sight. No phone. How many times would he kick himself for not forking over the money for a reliable means of communication? Especially on a solo trip. “Smart move, huh, Greg?”

  Talking to himself. The least of his concerns.

  Greg took a few tentative steps in the direction of the water. He’d set his tent with its only opening toward the cliff and water to catch the best views. How ironic. From the tent door he counted ten paces slightly left, then bent down to feel for the place where the rocks sloped toward water. He listened to the sound of the waves and moved toward the slurp, slurp, slurp against rock. The ground’s unevenness unnerved him. He’d skipped over this terrain yesterday, but that was when he could see. Today the smallest obstacle could send him tumbling

  260

  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  into a heap if he didn’t watch his step. Watch. Awkward faux pas. He needed to heed his steps. Take care. But he wouldn’t watch anything for a while, apparently.

  Five more paces. Plant one foot, draw the other up to it.

  Plant the foot. Draw up next to it.

  He hoped no one passing by his peninsula campsite

  observed his halting steps. Wait! He did want to be seen! His rescue depended on it. How would he know if a canoe came near enough to flag down?

  “Another wise move, Gregory. What are the odds anyone

  else is likely to venture back this deep? No portage. No foot- path. Not much of a reputation for fishing or it would have been marked on the map. Way to go. You managed to get into trouble in a place so remote no one will ever find you. And you’re not due home for two days, so no one even knows to look! Brilliant move, Greg.”

  Two more steps and he knew he was close. He lowered

  himself to the ground and crawled the rest of the way on his hands and knees. When he felt the lake lick his fingers, he laid flat on his stomach, reached out for a hand-scoop of water, and pressed it against his eyes. Cold. Refreshing. But not healing. When he opened his eyes, the world was still black.

  261

  Greg crawled back to the tent. He should be hungry. Maybe he’d eat later. A headache poked at the back of his eyes. Where was his canteen? Staying hydrated was especially important at a time like this.

  How long before he stopped trying to see? He’d turned his head to “look” in the direction he thought he’d left his canteen hanging from a hooklike broken tree branch. Holding his arm out at shoulder level, he moved into the darkness. Like a man with a metal detector attached to his shoulder, he swung his arm in a wide, slow arc. His wrist hit what felt like a sapling. Not the right tree. Sweep and step to the right again. Nothing. To the left. A rough-barked trunk.

  He tapped the trunk with his palms as if patting down a suspect after a high-speed chase. Nothing. Arm extended again, he pressed on to find the right tree among the dozens scattered throughout the campsite.

  “Since when did this happen?” he asked the darkness after stubbing his toe on another tree root. “Yesterday, I would have told you I’d picked a nice flat spot to camp. I didn’t notice the obstacles. Was that yesterday?”

  38

  262

  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  It helped to talk. He’d probably need assistance to break

  that habit once he was rescued.

  His hand brushed against a tree, bumping into something

  that banged against the trunk. The cool aluminum sides of his canteen. With his fingers, he traced the strap until it reached the hook. Once the strap was free, he lowered the canteen, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip.

  Lukewarm, with an iron aftertaste. He let the liquid slip

  down his throat and envisioned it climbing through among the honeycomb of his cells to rehydrate anything the light- ning had evaporated. His mouth was dry again after the first swallow.

  “That can’t be a good sign.”

  He took another swig. Then he replaced the cap and hung

  the canteen strap over his shoulder. He’d have to keep the important items close to him from now on. Close to him. From now on.

  Libby.

  Before he could stop its onslaught, a legion of marauding

  thoughts warned him he might not have a chance to try.

  Blindness didn’t kill him, but the aftereffects might.

  What if he impaled himself on the sharp point of a fallen

  branch he didn’t know was in his path? What if he misjudged his position and walked off the cliff? What if no one knew or cared to come looking for him? What if his paltry food sup- plies ran out before his sanity? What if wild animals sensed he was injured and vulnerable? What if he had to wait for the lake to freeze over in a few months so he could slide across the ice to a position where he’d be more visible to low-flying planes? A few months.

  He couldn’t imagine God asking him to bear this for more

  than a day or two before sending help.

  263

  They Almost Always Come Home

  What Bible character could he recall who contracted a dread- ful infirmity but found healing the first day or two? None. The only situations that came to mind were peppered with words like “She suffered for twelve long years” or “It rained forty days and forty nights” or “born blind.”

  Where were the stories about temporary blindness, other than Saul? One-day crises? Here today, gone tomorrow trials? When Lacey died, Greg resented the Bible characters who got their dead children back. The poor, heartbroken parents plunged neck-deep into mourning. Then here comes Jesus onto the scene, and the child is restored—alive—to his or her parents’ arms. Nice. A well-timed miracle. As it should be. Greg had waited for his miracle in the hall outside the trauma center three years ago. As he paced and prayed, doc- tors fought to bring his daughter back from the precipice. What did he expect to hear?

  “Mr. Holden, we’re happy to report that the paramedics jumped the gun a little. Oh, sorry about the bad choice of words. They were a little premature in their assessment of your daughter’s condition. Lacey isn’t dead. Far from it. In fact, she’s behind those doors right now teaching the nurses how to jump rope with IV lines. Man, that was a close call.”

  “She’s not . . . not dead?”

  “Nope. Our bad. Hope we didn’t scare you.” “She’s alive?”

  “That’s pretty much what ‘not dead’ means, Mr. Holden.” “And she’s not injured?”

  “Funniest thing. Well, not funny funny, but you know.” “No. Tell me.”

  That would have made a great Bible story, wouldn’t it? Twelve-year-old girl fatally wounded in school shooting lives to tell the story. Doctors baffled by remarkable return from the brink of death.

  264

  CYNTHIA RUCHTI

  But while Greg ripped out his insides praying, “Please, God!

  Spare her life!” she died.

  Not a temporary death. The real thing. Forever.

  By the time Libby arrived at the hospital, the doctor had

  already pronounced a time of death and pulled a hospital sheet over Lacey’s face. Libby ripped the sheet back with a look that shouted, “How dare you risk suffocating my child!”

  Lacey’s lips were cold and blue. Both parents bent down to

  kiss their only daughter as they stood on opposite sides of the hospital gurney. Their child’s body already bore the trademarks of a mannequin. Stiff, unyielding, unresponsive, lifeless.

  “Why didn’t she qualify?” Greg remembered debating with God.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why
wouldn’t Lacey have qualified for a miracle? Why couldn’t

  she have been raised from the dead like Jairus’s daughter or the Shunamite’s son?”

  “Qualify? That’s not how it works.”

  “Was it me, then? Is it my fault? Did I not qualify to have my

  prayers answered?”

  “Greg, My son—”

  “No platitudes, please. I need to know why those other people

  received what they asked for and I didn’t.”

  Greg had broken down at that point, one of the few epi-

  sodes of weakness in a lifetime of testosterone toughness. He cried over Lacey’s death and over the fracture in his relation- ship with a God who had never given him any reason not to trust Him.

  He figured it was about time that he formally apologized for

  seeing it as a fracture, not a bridge.

  And what was this—this new challenge, however tempo-

  rary? Another bridge? A thorn? A cross?

  Or a twisted way to tell him to give up the last of his

  passions? His marriage was all but buried. His daughter danced

  265

  They Almost Always Come Home

  beyond his reach. His job required life support. And now he’d lost what he most needed in order to pursue photography. His sight.

  How far could he travel on insight?

  ********

  With his forearms resting on his knees, Greg sat on a rough- barked log and stared at the relentless blackness. The effort to try to see fueled a persistent headache. But giving up trying seemed tantamount to admitting defeat. Unthinkable.

  He was startled when something brushed across his cheek. He turned toward where he assumed it landed. The leaf or pine needle or feather or bug or whatever it was would remain an unknown unless he felt compelled to search for it with his hands to confirm its innocuous nature. What was the point? “Day and night are the same to You, aren’t they, Lord? They’re the same to me now too. For You, it’s all light. For me, darkness. Ever-present darkness.”

  Greg supposed it didn’t matter if it were day or night at the moment. He would sleep when he was tired and eat only when hunger forced him to deplete his meager supplies.