Dakota Blues

by Lynne Spreen

“You can reload at lunch. I’m bringing home-made tortellini.” Fern glanced over her shoulder at Karen. “We always do pot luck after the walk. You’re welcome to join us.”

  The path narrowed, forcing them into single file, and the conversation faded as the hikers watched their footing. Mares’ tails feathered across the cobalt sky. Karen took a deep breath of the clean air and broke into a grin. It felt good to be alone in the midst of strangers, listening to their chatter without the need to join in. Here she had no obligation to anyone but herself, free to enjoy some exercise and a few hours away from camp.

  A half-hour later, the ranger called a halt when they reached the campfire circle at the one-mile point. The women sat on split-log benches arranged in a crescent under a stand of cottonwoods. After a short speech on wildflowers, the ranger wandered off, working his smart phone.

  Karen leaned over and stretched, her hips and lower back protesting. “Are all of you traveling alone?”

  Fern nodded. “We RV as a group. We’ve been all over the country more times than I can count.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “It’s fantastic,” said Belle. “You can do as much or as little as you want, take a nap, read, or go for a hike, but you’re never lonely. We’re kind of like a commune on wheels.”

  “What do you drive?” Karen sat down on the log next to Fern.

  “Pretty much everything,” said Fern. “I’ve got a Class B van, but some of these gals drive all the way up to the big old Class Cs. That’s your fifth wheels, your motor coaches.”

  “Amazing.”

  “What, you think we’re too old?”

  “No, I’m impressed. You guys are awesome.”

  “That’s right. We are awesome, aren’t we?” Belle laughed and high-fived Fern.

  Karen had needed a few days adjusting to the Roadtrek but these women, twenty years her senior, were driving rigs as big as a city bus. Then she remembered Barb. And the Bronco. And Sandy.

  She shook her head. Breathe.

  “That woman over there,” said Fern, gesturing, “she and her husband used to own a trucking business, and she drove a Peterbilt for years. Now that’s a tough assignment.”

  “All of us drive,” said another. “It’s either that or stay home. And I am not about to stay home. Might’s well bury me then.”

  “Amen.”

  The ranger waved and the hikers fell in.

  “Look at him go,” said Fern. “I wish I was that young.”

  Belle whacked a pinecone with her walking stick. “What matters is how you feel. I feel young in my head.”

  “Me, too. I’m always doing something new, and I think that keeps you young. Gal over there last week bought a new twenty-four foot Prowler fifth-wheel. You don’t do that if you have an old lady frame of mind.”

  They passed along the far edge of the campground where the RVs thinned out. A shovel clanged against a rock, and a white-haired woman stopped working. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, leaned against the shovel, and waved. The hikers waved back.

  “That’s Eleanor. She’s always fixing something,” said Belle. “Until her husband died, she never even drove a car. Now the RV is her fulltime home.”

  “She doesn’t look sturdy enough to handle it,” said Karen.

  “Don’t write her off. She’s tougher than she looks.”

  The group passed by, waving. A gray-faced dog sat leaning against the woman’s leg. Karen wondered what it felt like to fall asleep by yourself at night in your own house on wheels, after puttering around during the day and then cooking whatever you wanted and reading and listening to music until you felt like sleeping. With internet, you could stay in touch with the world, and with your RV, you could go anywhere, all over the country, by yourself or with friends. A woman alone used to be a scary proposition, but if you stuck with a group of fellow travelers, it might be fun.

  Karen didn’t have friends in her Newport neighborhood, although she had helped out with fund-raisers and fashion shows. The neighbors were nice enough. They smiled and waved before pulling into the garage and closing the door behind them. Without her work, Karen might have felt lonely, but most days she was too busy to notice.

  The unfamiliar exercise began taking its toll on her leg muscles, and she was happy to see the camp store come into view. It was high time she got back to make lunch. Frieda would be waiting.

  “You sure you don’t want to come by?” asked Belle. “It’s no trouble. We can always make room for two more.”

  “Thanks. I would, but my friend is kind of shy.” Karen waved goodbye and trotted away. The hike and companionship had served as a welcome break, but she couldn’t risk lunch. If Frieda met these ladies, she’d want to spend another week here in Moab, and Karen needed to get back and face her future.

  Back at camp, Frieda sat in a dappled patch of sunlight, her large-print Readers’ Digest open in her lap. “I was beginning to think you got lost.”

  “Give me a minute to make ham sandwiches.” Karen saw Frieda make a face. “What?”

  “Ham again?”

  “It’s all we have left.” A truck stopped at the end of their driveway and Belle leaned out the window. “Hey, Karen, we’re on our way to lunch if you and your friend want to change your minds.”

  “Somebody invited us to lunch?” Frieda asked.

  “I thought we should stick around camp and start packing.”

  Frieda planted her cane. “Nothing doing. This is why you camp, girlie. Make new friends and create memories. Come on, help me up.”

  Karen knew she had already lost the argument, but the idea of not having to eat the ham took away the sting. Besides, if she let Frieda win this one, they could probably start packing this afternoon. The thought of breaking camp tomorrow excited her. She was homesick. It was time to return to reality. She helped Frieda into the front seat and climbed in after her.

  Belle drove to the far end of the campground where a group of RVs were parked in a half-circle. Wind chimes danced from their awnings, and a row of chairs lined the edge of the river. Two picnic tables had been dragged together, end to end, and covered with red-and-white checkered oilcloth. A dozen women had already started on the hot casseroles, salads, and sweets contributed by everyone. Bottles of wine and a tub of beer stood at one end of the table.

  “This is fantastic,” said Frieda, settling into a chair at the head of the table as Karen brought her a full plate. “You ladies do this every day?”

  “Twice a week,” said Belle, pouring a splash of wine into a paper cup for Frieda. “Stick around. After lunch, we play cards.”

  “Count me in.” Frieda grinned at Karen. “Have some more wine, honey pie. We’re not going anywhere soon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “What I like about being old is, I don’t care what people think about me anymore,” said Fern, gnawing on a fried chicken leg. “I’m free to express my opinion.”

  Belle chuckled. “When did you ever not?”

  “And that can go too far. Some old people use age as an excuse for bad behavior. Like this old fart at church,” Gina began.

  “When do you ever go to church?” asked Belle.

  “I do every Sunday.”

  “I’ve never seen you there.”

  “Because you’re asleep,” said Gina. “Ask the rest of them. But anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, seniors often feel entitled to act belligerent just because of their advancing years.”

  “Works for me,” said Fern.

  Karen helped herself to another plateful of casserole. She was enjoying the back and forth between the old ladies, and she could see Frieda nodding and smiling along, completely relaxed.

  “I heard it’s the absence of hormones that makes you mean,” said one woman from the end of the table.

  “They took away my hormones and baby, let me tell you, I got mean,” said another.

  “When you’re younger you hold back, trying to be nice and all. I heard it�
�s the hormones make you pliable. Any truth to that, Doc?”

  A woman with spectacles and a long white ponytail nodded. “Some think it’s nature’s way of encouraging a woman’s receptivity to breeding and nurturing.”

  “Too much information,” said Frieda.

  Doc continued. “But after menopause, you break out of the fog and start to feel more independent again. Some say you return to the person you were before puberty, and that person is more true to who you really are.”

  Karen felt that way herself lately, as if she were getting in touch with her inner eleven-year-old.

  “I’ve been the same from Day One,” said the Cougar. “No man is safe around me.” She scrunched up her shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut in a girlish grin.

  “That’s just too much trouble,” Fern said. “Comes a time in life you should kick back and stop worrying so much. Some things I just don’t care about any more. You’ve heard of the Bucket List? I made a Fuck It List.”

  “Fern, we have guests. Watch your language,” said Belle.

  Fern grinned at Karen. “Fuck it.”

  “So, what’s on your list?” asked Karen.

  “Well, I figure I’m never gonna bungee jump, or run for President.”

  “Or win the Miss America Pageant,” said Frieda.

  “You don’t know that.” The Cougar scowled. “They have older categories all the time.”

  “What about you, Karen? What’s on your Eff It List?” asked Belle.

  “I don’t have one.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I just turned fifty.”

  “Fifty’s the minimum. You are now officially old enough for a Fuck It List,” said Fern. “Pour me some more wine, and let’s make her one. Anybody got a pen?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The hoarse cry scratched through the darkness, reaching into Karen’s dreams. She sat straight up, listening and wondering if the horrible sound was real, but in the next second she bolted to her feet, flailed at the light switch, and threw open the flimsy dividers. Frieda lay twisted in bedding. Her mouth drooped and one eye remained closed. The other roved the room, the white showing. She struggled to speak but could manage only garbled sounds, more painful than any cry for help.

  “Shh.” Karen grabbed for her phone and knelt down on the floor next to the bed. Hands shaking, she punched the keypad. “It’s okay, Frieda, I’m getting help.”

  “This is the operator. What is your emergency?”

  Karen blurted out the van’s location twice. Then she hung up and covered Frieda with a heavy blanket, putting a pillow behind her shoulders and raising her up so she could breathe more easily. “They’re sending somebody. You’ll be okay. We’re going to get you to the hospital.” She turned on the heater and sat on the edge of the bed, gently pulling socks onto Frieda’s small feet.

  “You’ll be okay,” Karen repeated, slipping her arms around Frieda, warming her. “We’re only ten minutes from Moab. I’ll call Sandy as soon as we get to the hospital.”

  Frieda shook her head. “Home.”

  “We’ll go home later. First we’re going to get you to a hospital. Hang on.” A few minutes later, Karen saw headlights bouncing down the dirt road toward the van. She eased away from Frieda, yanked open the door, and ran outside.

  “Over here!” She waved her arms over her head as the lights hit her in the face. The ambulance braked in a cloud of dust, and men in dark shirts and heavy boots piled out. She felt the hot breath of the ambulance’s motor as the paramedics stomped past, piling into the van with their equipment. As soon as she could edge herself in, she peered over their shoulders, straining for information.

  Minutes later, the men carried Frieda out of the van and onto a gurney, her face nearly swallowed up by an oxygen mask. They collapsed the legs of the gurney and slid it into the back of the ambulance with a great clatter. Karen tried to climb inside, but an EMT blocked the door, his face sympathetic.

  “Can’t do it, ma’am. I apologize.”

  The camp host, a thick woman in a plaid jacket, watched from sidelines. Karen hurried over. “I need a ride.”

  The woman ground a cigarette butt under her heel and gestured toward her truck. According to the clock on the dashboard, it was almost two when they pulled out of the campground entrance and began chasing after the ambulance. The flashing red lights ricocheted off the canyon walls as they raced toward Moab, the friezelike etchings ghostly in the darkness.

  At the hospital, Karen jogged alongside the gurney, pawing through Frieda’s wallet for her medical card and answering questions as best she could, but when they arrived at triage, the nurses booted her out and pulled the drapes closed.

  She returned to the waiting room and slumped in a chair. Then she thought of Sandy. Whatever was going on with Frieda, Sandy would need to know immediately. Swiping at her wet cheeks, Karen searched Frieda’s purse for the address book. The phone rang twice, three times before being picked up, and as soon as Karen said hello, Sandy dropped the phone and began screaming. Seconds later, Karen heard the phone being jostled, and then a man’s voice. Richard listened quietly, asking only for logistical clarifications while she explained.

  “I have a plane,” he said, his voice calm. “We’ll be there in three hours.” He gave her his cell number before hanging up. Karen stared at the phone. She didn’t even know these people and now she found herself shepherding their mother in her last moments.

  Sandy had been right in predicting disaster. Karen tried to console herself with the knowledge that Frieda, ever independent, had chosen to make this trip. It was her decision, and the decision had made her happy.

  Karen hugged the purse. The cold air in the waiting room smelled like dirty sneakers and pesticide, and the chair was all hard angles, its arms sticky. She leaned her head against the wall and watched the images on a muted CNN. The stories jumped from the latest setback in the Middle East to anorexic supermodels to a commercial about steak knives.

  Nothing changes, Karen thought. People you love go through all this suffering, they fall out of love and hurt each other and fight for life in a hospital room. Life and death. Nothing changes and an oblivious world keeps rolling along.

  Rolling. She grimaced, remembering the Bronco cartwheeling through the sagebrush.

  She would never know exactly what had happened, and told herself for the hundredth time there was nothing else she could have done, but the memory wouldn’t go away. Alone in the waiting room, she couldn’t find the easy wisdom that had seemed so accessible on the open road, and now the only other person who could help her deal with it was probably dying.

  She closed her eyes.

  After dinner last night, she and Frieda had talked for hours, of men and children and love and work.

  “Don’t be afraid to live your life,” Frieda had said, staring into the flames, “because if you don’t, someone else will.”

  Someone else had. A whole trainload of somebodies, from her family to her teachers, to her husband, her job, her coworkers–all in the interest of being good. Thinking of herself as doing the right thing.

  “Ms. Grace?”

  Karen opened her eyes. A nurse stood before her.

  “You can join Mrs. Richter now.”

  Karen gathered her things and followed the nurse into the land behind the door of the ER, where the ill or maimed lay in un-private rooms and moans emanated from behind thin curtains. She found Frieda in a green-draped bed, around which various machines chirped and sighed. Lines and tubes connected the old woman to the machines, but her chin nestled on her chest, and her eyes remained closed. Karen pulled a hard chair over next to the bed and put her hand over Frieda’s.

  When a doctor looked in, Karen demanded information, but when the young man rubbed his face, she tempered her voice, wondering how many shifts he’d worked.

  “Mrs. Richter has had multiple strokes since they brought her in,” he said, consulting a chart. “The last was about an hour ago. It
was a pretty strong one. We’re keeping her comfortable. Beyond that? We’ll have to see.” He apologized with his eyes and hurried away.

  Karen studied Frieda’s face for a creased brow or a flicker of anguish, but she saw no movement to indicate whether the old woman remained in this room or if her spirit had already moved on, unburdened. Loneliness swamped Karen, and her forehead dropped to Frieda’s arm. It felt cool, but a pulse still fluttered under her papery white skin.

  An hour later, she heard footsteps and crying, and the drapes flew back and Sandy rushed in, followed by a tall man in a windbreaker. Karen stood up, offering her chair.

  “Oh, Mom,” Sandy wailed, but the monitor registered no change as she threw herself across her mother’s body. Richard put his hand on his wife’s back, making small, useless circles while she sobbed. Sandy straightened up and dug in her pocket for a tissue. “What did the doctors say?” she asked, her eyes still on her mother.

  “All they can do is confirm that she’s had strokes.”

  “Strokes plural? Oh, my God. How bad is she?” When Karen didn’t answer, Sandy glared at her, her face slick with tears. “Are you happy now?”

  Karen took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

  “How sorry can you be? You got what you wanted. You got somebody to keep you company while you went gallivanting across the desert.”

  “I am so sorry, Sandra. Please know this. Your mom was happy at the end. Last night, at dinner, she talked about you. She really loves you, and she wants you to be happy.”

  “Happy! Get the fuck out of this room. Now. NOW.” Richard pulled his screaming wife into his arms and nodded at Karen.

  “I am sorry,” Karen said again. She parted the drapes and let them fall shut behind her while Sandra sobbed. The ER staff barely noticed as Karen left, pushing through the door to the waiting area and disappearing into the waiting room.

  In the hours since she arrived, the room had filled with wailing children, hikers with swollen ankles, and trail bikers who tried to fly. She waded close-mouthed through the crush of coughing, drippy-nosed humanity, cutting a path to the door and bursting outside. In the light of late morning, she sucked in a cleansing lungful of fresh air. Past the entrance she found a sun-baked cement bench, and sat against the warm back rest, letting the heat soak into her muscles.