by Lynne Spreen
Karen scooped up the last spoonful of mousse. She rolled the flavor around on her tongue, formulating her thoughts. “I don’t know. But I liked him a lot and I’ll miss him.”
“You could be making a big mistake. I’m not going to tell you what to do. But don’t throw away a chance at love.”
“Love is the last thing on my list.”
“Work isn’t everything.”
Karen laid down her spoon. The light had faded outside, but a couple hours west, the sun still lingered over the Pacific. Suddenly, she felt dizzy with homesickness. The Midwest had its own allure, but it seemed like months since she’d inhaled the salt air, watched a crimson sunset or the retreat of the morning fog, or the pelicans skimming the waves like threads of smoke. She remembered the church-bell clang of masts from sailboats bobbing in the marina. “When was the last time you were in California?”
“Never,” said Frieda.
“You’ll love it. The variety, the energy. Did you know if California were a country, it would be the eighth largest economy in the world?”
“Just because a factory makes a lot of widgets doesn’t mean you should live in it.”
“California’s like a kaleidoscope. You have the liberal big cities like L.A. and San Francisco, but you’ve also got the Central Valley. It’s a conservative farming area, a lot like the Dakotas. Then you’ve got sandy beaches down south, but up north, it’s rocky, and the water’s so rough the surf can break your neck. We’ve got barren deserts and the glitz of Palm Springs. We’ve got alpine lakes–I mean, think of the pictures you’ve seen of Yosemite.”
“So visit once in a while. You’ve got family in North Dakota. You just got reacquainted. Lorraine and all of them. Don’t give them up.”
“I’ll visit. I promise.”
“Long as you’re clear about things.”
“I’m clear.”
“Because there’s nothing worse than waking up at ninety and realizing it’s gone.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The next morning, Karen zipped up her suitcase and took one more look around the room, but she couldn’t drag herself to the door. The room was too beautiful, and the solitude too rich. Sheer curtains billowed from the windows, framing the waving grass slopes of Aspen Mountain. She sank into the plush chair and tried to memorize the contours of the mountain and the color of the sky, a special shade of heartbreak blue dotted with cottony-white clouds. Perhaps she would come back some day, maybe even in winter with her skis.
No, not perhaps. Work was fine, work was essential, but idyllic escapes had their place, too. A person couldn’t be just one thing. She had been too narrowly focused. In the future she would remember this place, and this feeling. The days ahead would challenge her as she worked to carve out a new groove, and she would need meditation and silence. Her mental health would depend on it.
Before leaving the room, she checked her voicemail one last time. Phone reception could be spotty on the road ahead as they crossed the desert southwest. She clicked through the menu and waited for the first message to play.
Stacey had left several. “Thank God,” she said when Karen called back. “Are you home?”
“I’m still in Colorado. What’s wrong?”
“We’re being sued. We, as in the company, for allegedly not protecting the confidentiality of our medical files. There is no flippin’ way I’m going to jail for this company.”
“They can’t come after you personally.”
“It won’t matter because when they do, I’ll be dead. They are working me to death. The lawyers keep demanding all these documents and I already have my own job and now I’m doing your work, too.” Stacey took a breath. “Wes keeps asking me for stuff from your files and I keep dodging him, but he’s getting pissed and I don’t care. I’m not going to let him screw things up.”
“Kid, you’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t slow down.”
“I’m not going to have a heart attack. I do my job and then go home and get drunk with Jason. In my spare time I send out resumés. So how’s your vacation?”
Karen winced. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yes. Do you remember that time when the manager at the Citrus Family Clinic–”
Karen listened until Stacey finished, and then suggested actions Stacey hadn’t thought of. Her assistant was grateful.
“You’re welcome. Now, how’s Peggy? Have you heard from her?”
“Just a couple days ago. She sounds depressed.”
“Isn’t she on a cruise?”
“Yes, and she keeps sending me emails about how bored she is and how the food is crap and the ports are too busy. Some people are never happy.”
“You know Peggy. She likes to bitch.”
“Yeah, well, send me on a cruise. I wouldn’t complain,” Stacey said. “Can I call you again if I get stuck?”
“Absolutely.” After deleting several more messages, Karen got to Steve’s. “Please call me back right away,” he said. “I know you’re checking your messages.” His voice stopped and she almost pressed delete, but then he continued.
She replayed the message. This couldn’t be happening. She played it again.
She was losing her mind.
It couldn’t be true.
And then she hung up, turned off the phone, and went to meet Frieda for breakfast.
Chapter Thirty-Four
She drove without speaking for an hour, trying to puzzle out Steve’s news. Frieda seemed to get the hint and busied herself with her travel guide and the passing scenery. The highway cut through the twisting curves and terraced cliffs of Glenwood Canyon. Tough little trees clustered at the base of the canyon walls, and sage and scrub oak clung to outcroppings farther up.
When the mighty Colorado River appeared alongside, Karen was jarred from her thoughts. On impulse, she turned off the highway and found a rest stop at the river’s edge.
“You need the bathroom?”
“No, I just want a closer look.”
Karen parked the van, got a loaf of bread out of the pantry, and helped Frieda to a bench on the river bank. They threw pieces of bread to the ducks while shore birds darted on stick legs before them. As Karen tore the bread into bits, she could feel her hands shaking. Before long, the bread was gone and the ducks went to forage further afield.
A couple of women approached, one old and one not. Between them they swung a giggling toddler. Their men followed behind, hands jammed in pockets, ball caps on heads. One wore a camera around his neck. The group called out a greeting and moved on.
Karen watched them go, mindlessly fiddling with her wedding ring. It was a modest band with a small chip, all that Steve could afford when they got engaged. Later, when they had more money, he wanted to buy her a lavish replacement but she had declined. It had been with her at the wedding, and she had never wanted more. Now she studied the small, dull stone. If a diamond’s theoretical power to bind life partners turned out to be false, then what was a wedding ring but an overhyped bit of jewelry? She pulled it off and rolled it between her fingers, steeling herself to flick it into the river.
“There’s a million pawn shops between here and California.” Frieda looked away, as if she weren’t the one who had just spoken.
Karen stuck the ring back on. “I’ve never lived alone in my life.”
“I didn’t either until Russell died.”
“How long were you married?”
“Sixty years, and I loved him every day of it. Even now, I start to say something to him and then I remember he’s gone and I feel sad all over again.”
Karen threw a rock at the water. Instead of skipping, it dove straight in.
“Didn’t you ever think about it?” asked Frieda. “Make any plans? At your age, women start to lose their husbands. You knew that was a possibility.”
“I figured it would happen way down the road, not when I turned fifty. I thought we’d get old together and then he’d die and a couple years later, I would. Beyond t
hat, I didn’t think about it. I never expected to get divorced.”
“Death, divorce, no matter what, you have to keep moving forward,” Frieda said. “It helps if you stay busy, most of the time anyway. But sometimes you just have to wallow around in the pain a while. When you get sick of yourself, you get up and go back to your normal life.”
The river rippled by, carrying bits of brush and branches, and occasionally something more interesting, like a wooden door with the knob still attached. A great blue heron took flight, its wingtips touching the water as it lifted off.
“He reminds me of a pterodactyl,” said Karen.
Frieda nodded. “Something to be said for dinosaurs.”
Around one o’clock they crossed the state line into Utah, and stopped for gas in the farming village of Fruita. When Karen restarted the van, the ticking sound turned into a chattering growl. “Great,” she said, turning it back off.
“That used to happen to me and Russell sometimes.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t remember. Look, there’s a garage right over there.” Frieda pointed up the street. A bright yellow banner, decorated with peace signs, hung out front. In the service bay, Karen smelled solvent and patchouli. A pair of blue-jeaned legs stuck out from under a battered green truck.
“Hello?” Karen said in the direction of the legs.
“With you in a sec.” A young woman rolled out from beneath the truck and stood, unfurling to six feet. Long, blonde dreads swept back into a ponytail and she wore silver rings through lip and nostril. She cleaned up with a rag and followed Karen outside. After a few minutes of poking around, the girl closed the hood. “Give me a couple hours.”
“Is it bad?”
“I don’t think so, but I want to make sure. There’s an organic lunch place two blocks over. Why’nt you go over there and relax, have a bite, and then come back?
“Do those things hurt?” asked Frieda.
“We’ll see you after lunch.” Karen put her arm around Frieda and moved her in the direction of the restaurant.
When their food arrived, Karen removed the bun from her veggie burger and set the two halves on the side of her plate. “I’m outgrowing my clothes,” she explained when Frieda looked at her like she was crazy. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Frieda hadn’t touched her sandwich. “Whatever happens, I’m not going back.”
“Don’t worry. I get a good feeling about the girl. I think she can fix it.”
“It’s an old van.”
“I promised you’d see the ocean, and you will. Once we get to California, you can stay with me as long as you want. Now, why don’t you eat that sandwich before it gets cold?”
When Frieda picked up one half and took a small bite, Karen felt relieved. “I had this idea. After we get back and settled, we might take one more little trip, up the coast. We could see Santa Barbara, or maybe even go as far as Monterey. I’d love to show it to you.”
“What’s up there?”
“Have you ever seen those car commercials where they’re driving on a winding road on a cliff overlooking the ocean? That’s Highway One. It’s the scenic route. There’s this restaurant called Nepenthe’s where you sit on a patio a couple hundred feet above the water.”
“I don’t know if it’s smart to plan that far ahead. Besides, you have to sell your house.”
“No problem. We’ll find a rental in Corona del Mar or somewhere. We could have coffee on the patio every morning and read the paper like we did at the Hotel Jerome.”
“You’re a good girl, but don’t go and get your hopes up. You know I have medical problems.”
“Who doesn’t? Enjoy life. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to tell me?”
Frieda managed half a smile.
Karen reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t worry. Even if you need a doctor, I know all the good ones. At least I got something out of all those years in the field.”
Frieda picked up a French fry. “What about your work?”
“Things will get busy soon enough. Finish your lunch and let’s go see some country.”
The young mechanic explained the problem as she closed the hood as they walked up. “So I did a few adjustments and a lube. You shouldn’t have any more trouble. She’ll run for years if you keep taking good care of her.”
Karen opened her wallet. “Is this your garage?”
When the girl smiled she looked all of twenty. “I won it in a poker game. Place was a dump. Nobody thought I could do it, but I did.”
“Good for you, young lady,” said Frieda.
When Karen started the van, it ran quietly. She unfolded a map. “Moab’s about two and a half hours, a nice drive right along the river. I’ll bet we could find a place to camp tonight, if you’re up for it.”
Frieda sat up straighter in her seat. “Tomorrow we could go to Arches National Park, where they have all those red rock formations. We could pack a lunch. You know there’s a road all through the park. You don’t ever have to get out.”
Karen stuck the map back in the visor. “Moab it is.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Karen turned off the main highway onto a stretch of bad road that carried them into a bleached-out stretch of stark desert. There was no sign of the storied red cliffs, and she wondered if she had taken the wrong turn. However, the van was running well and the afternoon sun stood high in the sky.
“Let’s give it another twenty,” she said. “If we don’t see anything then, we’ll turn around and figure out Plan B.”
“I’m sure we’re on the right road.”
“How do you know?”
“I just have a feeling. Now drive.”
Ten miles south, Karen came to a stop sign and turned right, relieved to see the Colorado River once again racing alongside the roadway. Soon the distant hills drew nearer, taking on the color of rust and the shape of mythical castles. Colorful rafts appeared, bristling with the arms and legs of riders paddling furiously in the fast current. Yellow daisies lined the river’s banks, and clumps of red salvia laced the rocks near the roadway. The canyon walls became steeper, their sheer red sides splashed with iron-black desert patina.
Frieda leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. She pointed at a dirt road where a limping buckboard advertised a campground just past the wood gates. “Turn here.”
Karen paid at the adobe camp office and followed the manager’s directions to an open site. Trees shaded the campground and oleander bushes screened them from visitors. Across the canyon, massive red rock cliffs soared into the sky, their walls blackened by leaching iron and scored by wind and weather until they resembled Ionic friezes on ancient Greek temples.
“I had no idea it would be this beautiful.”
“God’s country.” Frieda opened her door. Arm in arm, they crossed the uneven ground to the far side of the camp and the river, where deep rapids whispered of danger. “Will you look at that? How fast it runs. And over there,” she said, pointing a wobbly finger upriver, “over there is a path down to a little beach where the fish hide under a rock just off the shore.”
“How would you know that?”
“Came here with Russell. I remember now. It was before Sandy was born.” Frieda stared off across the river. “Can you imagine how long ago that was? I was maybe twenty, twenty-five. Hard to imagine now. I feel like I’ve always been old.”
“You’re just tired. Let me get a couple chairs. You relax while I set up. Then take a nap and when you wake up, I’ll start dinner.” Karen brought out two folding chairs and helped Frieda sit where she could watch the river from a safe vantage.
“I do appreciate you,” said Frieda.
Karen leaned over Frieda’s shoulder and wrapped her in a hug. Then she went back to the van, where she unrolled and staked the awning, shook out the rug, and hammered the surviving flamingo into the ground. She converted the dinette into Frieda’s bed and helped her into the van.
While Frieda napped
, Karen plunked down in a camp chair and stared at the river. She fell silent as the arguments in her head started.
You ruined our marriage. Why should I trust you?
Because I’m sorry and I want you back.
Then she fantasized about hurting him. How can I torture you? Let me count the ways. After a few minutes of Inquisition-style fantasies, she realized it was a toxic way to spend her valuable time. She closed her eyes and tried to treasure the moment, savoring the fragrance of desert sage and the damp earth along the river’s edge, the quack of ducks and the rasp of a cactus wren calling to its mate.
Just this, she whispered, repeating an old mantra and trying to clear her mind of anything else. She breathed from the belly, forcing it in and out, filling and emptying her lungs as her shoulders relaxed. From time to time, she sensed a fleeting warmth that almost bubbled into happiness.
But then Steve would come back and shatter her peace. She was almost glad to hear Frieda awaken.
Karen put a pot of water on the small galley stove, remembering that her mother threw in salt to hasten the boil. Unwrapping a half-pound of ground beef, she dumped it into a plastic bowl, added chopped onions and seasonings, and squished it all together. The mixture rolled easily between her hands, and soon six small meatballs were browning in a skillet.
“You need any help in there?”
Karen turned away from pouring a jar of spaghetti sauce into a pan. “I’m fine,” she said, coming to the door and wiping her hands on a dish towel. Outside, Frieda sat in a folding chair, watching the evening come on.
When the pasta had cooked al dente, Karen loaded up two plates and carried them out to the picnic table. Together they dined by the last light of evening, watching the colors change on the canyon walls, and the night birds dart low across the river, chasing insects.
“This spaghetti is delicious,” said Frieda. “I feel like a queen, being waited on hand and foot.”
“You deserve it.”
“Some would say otherwise.” Frieda chewed and swallowed. She reached for a glass of water. “I just want you to know my daughter’s birth certificate says Sandy.”
