by Wendy Delsol
“You said, ‘You know me, right?’ You were pretty insistent.” I realized then that I had replayed our first encounter over and over in my head. And I was pretty certain I had it verbatim.
“I’m not sure if I’m really the one who should be telling you this.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe you should talk to your mom.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure I’m allowed.”
“Allowed what?”
“To tell you.”
“Tell me what? Seriously, Jack, you’re freaking me out.”
“Get up,” he said, helping me to stand. “Just in case, let’s put some more ground between us and that bear, and then let’s talk.”
We scrabbled over the path at a very brisk pace. I wasn’t sure if it was distancing myself from the angry mama bear or propelling myself toward Jack’s “talk” that fueled me. No longer did my boots hurt or my muscles cramp; I simply put one dogged foot in front of the other. Finally we returned to the section of the stream with the slippery rock crossing.
“We’re back where we started,” I said with surprise.
“Not much choice.”
“But what about the water?”
“I’m not going to fall,” he said. His fists were balled at his sides and his shoulders rod straight.
He insisted I cross first, and though I was exhausted and my legs were shaky, I made it across with only the slightest of balance checks. He started as soon as he saw me safely on the other side. I knew he would have no problem. We’d been through enough already. There was a determination that corded through the muscles of his thighs and the set of his jaw. I thought of what Penny had said, that he was good at everything he tried. There was, I had to admit, a confidence and capability about him that was reassuring. Once we were both high and dry on the other side of the stream, Jack pulled me to a fallen log and sat me before him, though he remained standing.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he began.
“Jack,” I said, “I’m way past scared. Just tell me.”
He kicked at a clump of grass, as if hesitant to begin.
“When you were eleven — the last time you were here — we were involved in an accident out on Elkhorn Lake.” He spoke fast, as if afraid the words wouldn’t come if he took the time to think them through. “It was right after Christmas. Your family had been visiting. A bunch of us kids were skating on the lake. You fell through the ice. I was the only one who saw you. I went to help, and I fell through, too. We were under for a long time. Too long. Some say as long as forty minutes; others say twenty. It doesn’t matter though — either way, we should have died.”
My heart was trying to escape my chest; it pounded to get out. This information was, somehow, more frightening than our bear encounter. “There’s no way,” I said. “I think I’d remember something like that.”
“But that’s the thing. You didn’t. We were both in the hospital for a long time. You were in a coma. It was a huge story. Considered a miracle. Especially since we both survived not just the frigid temperatures but without breathing. When you woke up days later, you didn’t know where you were and you remembered nothing. Your parents took you back to California as soon as you could travel. And you never came back. And all I ever heard was that you had some sort of trauma-induced amnesia.”
“But my parents would have told me.”
He shrugged. “I’m sure they did what they thought was best.”
“How could I not know this?” It seemed like we were discussing a character from a book or a scene from a movie. All I could do was imagine. I kept trying to remember something, anything, but came up empty. “That’s why you don’t do water,” I said slowly, glad to know I could process recent events. “And that’s why Hulda called me the girl of the lake.”
“You know Hulda?”
I realized I’d let that one slip. I never knew how much I was allowed to say. “We’ve met.” Jack looked at me a little funny, but then again, he’d just told me we’d shared a near-death experience, essentially that he’d saved my life. I supposed the guy was entitled to look at me any way he pleased.
“I think you should hear the rest from your mom,” Jack said. “I’m probably already in trouble for saying too much.”
A storm of thoughts battered me. One was the realization that what I had felt when Jack held me — the fall, the darkness, the hopelessness — were memories, an unsettling reality. How had I survived? How had we survived?
“Are you OK? Do you think you can walk?” he asked. “The others will be getting worried.”
“They don’t know anything?”
“I couldn’t find your cell phone, though I swear I heard it buzzing.”
I patted the zippered inside pocket of my jacket. “It’s in here.”
“I gave up looking and just started running.”
I stood and took a few steps and was surprised at how wobbly I was. Without the fuel of adrenaline, my limbs had turned slack. Jack cupped his hand under my elbow.
“Easy does it.”
I leaned on his arm. “At least one good thing has come out of this whole we-touch-and-then-we-die experience.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Your theory — about getting it out of our system — it seems to be true. No more icy zaps.” After the first few haltering steps, I got stronger.
He shook his head. “Talk about a silver lining.”
We got a good rhythm going, if a bit slow. “What are we going to tell the others?”
“It’s your call.”
“I suppose the bear encounter is enough. I’ll say I felt faint. I want to talk to my mom about the lake story.”
“Bear story it is,” he said.
I could see the shock on the others’ faces as Jack and I came limping toward them. They had tumbled out of the car at the first sight of us coming along the path and were upon us in moments.
“What happened?” Pedro asked.
“Kat, are you hurt?” Penny’s voice registered alarm.
“We had a little incident with a black bear and her cub.” I was relieved that Jack took it upon himself to offer explanations. My mind was reeling in anticipation of the conversation with my mother. I didn’t think I had it in me to placate this group in the meantime. “She probably suffered a mild case of shock. She just needs somewhere safe and somewhere warm.” This from a guy who still was without a coat.
Jack helped me into the third row of Pedro’s car, and it felt right when he pulled me close to him. I remember feeling very sleepy and my head starting to bob. Jack’s hand firmly tilted my chin onto his shoulder, and his arm settled comfortably around my shoulders. I remembered nothing more of the car ride home, except that I did feel safe, and I did feel warm.
“Oh, my God. What happened to her?” There was panic in my mom’s voice.
“I’m OK, Mom. Just let me get to the couch.”
Jack, my new guard dog, helped me over to the sofa, which Stanley had quickly vacated. I leaned back and sighed with exhaustion, not even bothering to unzip my parka. Jack sat gingerly beside me. Stanley pulled a fleece throw from off a chair and placed it on my lap. I hadn’t even known I was shivering.
“Is someone going to explain?” My mom’s voice was demanding.
I exhaled loudly. “I met a bear today. Two bears actually: one adult and one cub.”
My mom gasped. “What happened?”
It took Jack and me twenty minutes, speaking in bursts and interrupting each other, to explain the bear encounter. A range of emotions played across my mom’s face in reaction to the story: fear, shock, disbelief. It was like watching a silent movie. I was relieved and thankful that Jack had forgotten to mention the birds’ role in the story, just as he had with the others. His recounting of the story had us backing away slowly and fortunate to have been upwind of the protective mother. It was just as well. I really didn’t know, myself, what to make of the birds’ involvement. And if the eagle had sh
own a kind of birds-of-a-feather solidarity, what was up with the black bird muscling in? But that was crazy thinking, right? Even if I was some kind of human Stork, it couldn’t possibly mean that I had winged watchers, make that bird watchers — the real deal.
When my mom finally seemed convinced of our eventual survival, I said, “That wasn’t the only adventure of the day.”
“There’s more?” she asked.
“I had a flashback. Of the skating incident.” I leaned forward, unzipped my jacket, and pulled my arms slowly from the sleeves. I turned to look at my mom, who had settled herself into the chair opposite me. “How could you keep something like that from me?”
My mom went white. She pursed her lips and pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan. “What do you mean you had a flashback? Specifically?”
“I remember dying. Is that specific enough?”
My mom looked at Jack, but when she spoke, it was more to herself. “I knew it wasn’t a good idea. You two spending time together.”
“It’s not his fault,” I said. “And you didn’t answer my question. How could you keep something like that from me?”
She shook her head defensively. “It was the therapist’s idea. You’d been through such an ordeal. He was adamant that we let you work it out for yourself. Or let it stay buried if that was how your mind best protected itself.”
“I have a shrink?” Ugh. How very LA of me.
“You haven’t seen him in years. You’ve been doing so well. It really didn’t seem necessary to continue.”
I suddenly remembered a special doctor. “You mean Dr. Sherman?” I also recalled that I had always been confused about the visits; they had seemed so pointless. It had been explained to me that he dealt with “insides only.” God, had I been gullible. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this just seems like something I had a right to know.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. Your father and I did what we thought was best for you.” Stanley leaned down and rubbed her shoulders.
My mom then turned to Jack. “Thank you,” she said, clearly trying to hold back tears, though not entirely succeeding. “Thank you again for taking care of her.”
“You’re welcome,” Jack mumbled, embarrassed.
My mom must have seen us drive up in my car. “Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asked.
“Back to my truck, I guess,” Jack said.
Stanley and his wiry red hair sprang to attention. “I’ll take him. Let you two talk.”
Jack seemed hesitant to leave. “See you at school,” he said with a backward glance. I was surprised by how much it pained me to see him go; something fisted in my chest as I watched the door close behind him. I was, however, exhausted. And my bed seemed the perfect place to rest my spinning and aching head.
“Can I get you something, honey? I made a casserole.”
“I’m not hungry. I think I’ll lie down.”
Though it was probably only about six p.m., I brushed my teeth, dressed in my warmest pajamas, and pulled the bed covers to my chin. My mom sat at my desk chair. At first she fiddled with the pens and pencils in the desktop mug, asking me if I wanted extra blankets or Tylenol. Then she started to explain the events of that fateful day.
“It was two days after Christmas. You were so thrilled to go skating outside. We usually visited in the summer, so the snow was very new and exciting to you. Amma gave you a pair of my old skates. You, of course, insisted on a proper skating outfit to go with them, so she dug up an old red woolen coat of mine from the attic. It came to your knees and had a matching fur-trimmed muff. She also found you a diamond-patterned knit hat that had pom-poms on strings, which I remember bobbed up and down as you spun around the ice.”
My mom exhaled and crossed her legs. Her eyes were distant. It was as if she were transported to that moment and reporting back, a kind of play-by-play. I felt very small and far away listening to her.
“You’d had lessons at the rink in Culver City, so you could do a few spins and turns. It had been cold for weeks already. The first snows had come in mid-November and were still on the ground. All the local kids were skating. They assured us it was safe. Amma and I sat on a bench watching you. Afi was at the store that day. And then Amma’s feet got cold, so we decided to wait in the Buick.”
I felt fingers walk down my back. They needed filing. The image she was painting was so vivid. I remembered my mom calling out to me that they would be in the car. I pictured Amma in her short little black boots, dark nylons, and plaid coat trudging through the snow. It was all coming back to me:
“I remember now. I didn’t know any of those kids. They weren’t very friendly. One big kid almost knocked me over, so I moved to an area of the lake where I could be alone. It was just on the other side of some orange cones. I did a jump, and a girl in a blue hat called me a show-off, so I skated a little farther away. I remember falling through. And I remember the cold. More than anything, I remember the cold.”
“Honey, if this is too much for you . . .” My mom must have heard the strain in my voice. She stood and came close to the bed, laying a hand on my forehead. “Don’t struggle. Don’t try to force it. If I remember anything from the therapist, it’s that the mind needs to deal slowly with trauma.”
I was suddenly very sleepy. “Mom,” I managed to say. “Is the accident why we never came back here? Why you went alone to Amma’s funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Not because Dad hated it here.”
“No. Certainly not. He didn’t hate it here.”
I rolled onto my side. My eyelids felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. “I really, really miss Dad.”
The last thing I remember is my mom looking down at me with a tenderness so keen it seemed to pulsate.
The baby cries, and I know instantly that I must find her. Obligation tears at my heartstrings. Is she hungry? Sick? Lonely? I start one way, only to be driven back by a gale. I try again, but a coil of wind spins me around so I face the other direction. Confusion wracks my brain. Which way toward the baby? She cries again, and I’m sure it comes from in front of me. Yet the next cry originates, I’m certain, from behind.
A gust lifts me off my feet and hurtles me down the path. The wind is in charge. I have no choice but to bend to its will. I feel its icy fingers under my arms, urging me along. I feel its hoary breath whisper in my ear, “Hurry. Hurry, Katla. Or it may be too late.”
I run and soon realize I am barefoot. The path transitions from hard-packed dirt to jagged rocks. Each step is pure agony, but the wind is insistent. At times it carries me over the path, and for this I am grateful. At times it sets me down hard, and I wonder if it’s laughter I hear echoing through the trees that tower on either side of me. Something wet now covers the surface of the piercing stones. I turn and discover red footprints behind me. I think crazily that I’m being followed, until I realize, with resignation, that I’m trailing myself.
The bleat of the child pierces the air. I am headed in the wrong direction. A trick of the wind! The cry came from my right. I must fight this storm. I know with certainty that I will do whatever it takes to find the child. Obligation fuels me. I will endure and defeat what comes between me and the baby. I release a sound so primal, so guttural, it could only be described as a growl. I glance into the thickest of forests. How could trees grow so densely? Can I even squeeze between them? I step from the path, shimmying between two thick trunks of coarsely textured bark. My coat, my lovely red coat, catches and rips. My hair, braided in two perfect plaits, pulls and tangles as twigs with spindly fingers crowd around my head. I push between tree after tree, as they seemingly tighten ranks.
The forest floor is strewn with sticks, and leaves, and acorns. I feel every jagged edge and pointy length radiating in pain up my ankles and calves. Soon the ground levels. It is ice, as smooth as glass, so slick I slide across its surface, and it is cold. Too cold. The pain travels up to my knees and thighs. Where are my boots? Where are my pretty white skates? My teeth cha
tter, and my shoulders rock with chills. To stop would be unthinkable; continuing, impossible.
Just then the terrain changes. I am on a decline. A solid frozen chute. I manage to stand for a minute, but then I fall hard on my backside. I fall and fall and fall.
With a crash, I am in the clearing. Jaelle and Monique sit atop their coarse chairs, unaware of my arrival, unaware of anything but the baby, who babbles contentedly in her earthen cradle. This time, the infant wears a wreath of bright-orange marigold blossoms.
I hear a rustle in the leaves to my right. I watch as my mother steps into the clearing. Her hair is a bird’s nest, so snarled I almost don’t recognize her. She fusses with the tangles, her fingers catching in the knots, clearly bothered by the disorder. And I realize that she, too, has fought the wind in her journey to this spot. She then approaches one of the chairs. I watch as she stares with curiosity, examining the interesting texture. She runs her fingers over the corrugated bark. She tests the seat, scooting to the left, then right, before leaning against the whittled backrest. She reaches an arm behind her, lifts a rug of sod from behind the trunk, and drapes this cloak of clover-green grass over her shoulders. She’s in the same predicament as Jaelle and Monique, in some sort of meditative state. The baby continues to gurgle, happily, batting at dandelion fluff as it dances above her head and still gripping the curls of vine, even with her tiny toes. A bit of fluff floats in my direction and tickles my nose as it descends. I stretch to swat at the seeded parachute and find it wet and cold. Snow blankets me suddenly, and I discover, alarmingly, that my limbs are frozen. I attempt to yell across to my mother, but by then, I’ve also lost the use of my voice.
I woke with a start. OMG. My mother. How could that be? She was too old, wasn’t she? Thirty-eight. She’d had me at twenty-two, senior year of college, six months after marrying. My birth was a feat my parents had never been able to duplicate, try as they might.
