“Wilcox!” the driver called out. “This here’s Wilcox!”
I don’t know what I’d expected, but I’d expected more than this: a long empty road interrupted only by Gus’s General Store, with a bench out front that served as the bus stop.
Needless to say, nobody was waiting on that bench. There was nobody as far as the eye could see. We’d have missed Wilcox altogether if the driver hadn’t bellowed its name.
We thanked him and climbed off the bus.
He nodded. “Good luck.” He pulled the lever and the doors closed behind us with a loud sigh.
What had made him say that? Did we look like we needed some luck? Were hope and desperation written all over our faces? Our tired bodies? Our half-empty backpacks?
We sat on the bench and Emmett took out his map and a compass.
I looked longingly at Gus’s General Store. What I wouldn’t have done for a Good News bar. Instead I reached for what was left of the French bread and broke it in half.
“It’s a good five miles if this map can be trusted. Maybe more.” Emmett tore at the bread with his teeth. It had gone from day-old to almost-two-day-old. Hard as a rock.
“At least it’s pretty here,” I said.
Bushes bloomed with dusty rose-colored flowers, long and soft like feathers. The farmland and the hillsides were every shade of green, from a light almost-yellow to the dark green of forests. A bird flew overhead, all black save for a shock of red at the crests of both its wings, and you couldn’t hear a sound beyond the rushing of a nearby creek. Other than the fact that we were far from the ocean, it wasn’t a dramatically different landscape from the Central Coast, but there was beauty to me in the fact that I was somewhere I’d never been.
I tilted my face to the sun. I let it warm me.
“Do you think Gus might find it in his heart to fill up our water bottles?” Emmett asked.
“Maybe. If we smile real pretty at him.”
“That should be easy enough for you,” he said, and I felt my face go from warm to hot.
Inside it smelled of burnt coffee. Gus wasn’t Gus but a teenage girl named Lila, who wore cutoff jean shorts, a plaid flannel shirt, and the specific sort of boredom that belonged to long summer days devoid of human contact. She filled our bottles from a tap in the back.
We thanked her and she shrugged, not seeming particularly interested in or curious about what we were up to, two strangers in a town where she probably knew everyone.
We started walking up the road. It felt like we walked a hundred miles, undoubtedly because, as Mom loved to point out, I didn’t get much exercise. Eventually we veered right onto an unpaved road. We walked by houses and farms; everything so spread apart you had to wonder why people needed that much land. Could you know your neighbors, know your community, when so much space divided you?
“It’s looking like it’s farther than I thought,” Emmett said, scowling at his map. We stopped underneath the shade of a tree with a wispy trunk and a full canopy of tiny green leaves. We drank from our bottles. In the distance I saw cows, big and deep brown. Mean-looking cows I was happy were kept to their side of the road by a wooden fence.
“We’ve got to make it by sunset. That’s when we have to take the plunge. As the sun is setting, just like in the legend.” He looked up at the sky. “We’ve still got time.”
I was tired. I hadn’t had much sleep. And like the way revelations sometimes came to me in the haze just before losing consciousness, something occurred to me.
“Emmett,” I said. “You’re a terrible swimmer.”
He looked at me.
“You told me so that day on the beach. At the cove. Sitting on the surfboard table. You asked me to teach you to swim.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m a terrible swimmer.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
He gave me the signature Emmett look. The how could you ask such an obvious question look. “Hold on to you.”
“But what if I hadn’t come? What if you’d been alone? What if I wasn’t here?”
He reached over and took a strand of my hair that had fallen into my face and tucked it behind my ear, just like my mother always did, though it felt entirely different.
“But you are here,” he said. “I had a life vest, but I didn’t bring it. I don’t need it. Because you are here.”
hold on tight
By the time we reached the edge of the land that held the miracle waters, it was closer to sunset than Emmett wanted it to be. I could tell by his quicker pace and the way he kept drumming his fingers on his thigh.
We walked along the perimeter of the fence looking for a break where we could enter without sacrificing our flesh to the layers of barbed wire. We finally found a wooden gate the owners must have used to enter on foot or horseback. The gate and the path it opened onto were too narrow for any vehicle.
It was locked, of course. And there was a sign:
NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. THAT MEANS YOU.
I was already facing prosecution beyond what I could possibly fathom—my mother’s law was greater than the law of the land—so this sign intimidated me less than I’d have expected.
My long legs came in handy as Emmett hoisted me up and over the gate. He followed. Here we were, finally. Off the roads. On the land. Somewhere near the birthplace of legend.
Emmett stared at his compass. He stared at his map. His eyes darted back and forth between the two and then he started off on the path, through the tall grass dotted with wildflowers.
The sun was already starting to slip behind the hills in front of us, but that was only because the hills were high; there was still some time left before real dark.
We wandered through open fields; we climbed up those hills and then down again. We walked in and out of the shade of trees. We even had to wade across a creek. I let my mind go completely. Following was liberating. Trusting someone else. Relinquishing control.
Finally, Emmett stopped. We were on a path that looked familiar, just around a bend in the hillside, but I thought that was only because to me, so much nature starts to look the same after a while.
“We’re walking in circles,” he said. He crumpled up his map and threw it. It didn’t go very far. “I don’t know what I’m doing. We’re so close, and I don’t know how to find it.” He sat down on a fallen tree, and I sat next to him.
He put his head in his hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I wanted to ask if maybe there was a chance that the hot spring didn’t exist. That the kindly librarian and all her microfiche had been wrong. But I remembered the sack of stones. I didn’t want to be the one to sink him. I wanted to be his life vest.
I put my hand gently on his shoulder. We watched the sky turn one small notch farther on the dial toward black.
And then: the sound of footfalls. I braced for a large animal to turn the bend and discover us, maybe one of those angry-looking cows, but instead it was a man. Tall and slim, with heavy hiking boots, a gray mustache, and dark sunglasses.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey, you kids!” He started walking faster toward us, and I found myself wishing it had been a cow, because I was pretty sure we could outrun a cow. There was no way we could outrun this hostile-looking man.
We stood up.
“Can’t you read? This is private property. You are on my private property.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Emmett said. “I guess we’re lost.”
“Lost on my side of a barbed-wire fence? I don’t think so. You’re on my land. And this is my path, where I like to take my afternoon walk and not have to talk to anybody. You are officially ruining my day.”
He took off his sunglasses and placed them in his shirt pocket. He became less menacing as soon as I could see his pale gray eyes.
He put his hands on his hips. “So what did you come for? Huh? My Mexican avocadoes? To have some fun with my livestock? Or are you looking for a spot to
drink beer where your folks won’t find you?”
“None of that,” I said.
“So?”
I looked at Emmett. He’d been keeping his secrets so long I don’t think it occurred to him to tell the truth. I nodded to him. Go ahead. Tell him. Tell him why we’re here.
“We’re looking for a hot spring,” Emmett said, staring at his sneakers. “From a legend my father used to read me. Waters. Miracle waters that healed a village.”
The man let out a deep sigh.
“Oh, that.”
Maybe we weren’t the first kids who’d run away to look for miracles on his land. Maybe it was our turn, and tomorrow there’d be more just like us. Maybe everyone was looking for a miracle.
“You’re not too far off,” he said. “West. You need to keep west. Go back down this path to the valley floor. Follow the creek. Soon enough, you’ll be able to smell it.”
Emmett looked up at this man, whose posture had softened considerably.
“So it’s true? The waters are here? The ones from the legend?”
“That’s what they tell me, son.”
“And is it true? Do they work? Are they miracle waters?”
He scratched at his mustache. “I can’t say. All you can do is go and find out for yourself. So go on. Get off my walking path. Follow the creek. Find the hot spring. And then, after you do, please be kind enough to leave my property.”
“Yes, sir,” Emmett said. “Thank you.”
The man nodded and took a few steps ahead of us, where he bent down to pick up Emmett’s crumpled map like he was collecting a thoughtlessly discarded candy wrapper. He tucked it under his arm and continued around another bend in the path, out of sight.
We started to run. Back down the hillside to the valley floor. We ran along the side of the creek. We ran west, chasing the slipping sun.
I hadn’t had time to consider what the man meant when he said soon enough we’d smell it, but out of this valley of wildflowers and blossoming trees came the scent of rotten eggs. Strong enough to stop us in our tracks.
“Wow. What died?” I held the sleeve of my sweatshirt up to cover my nose.
Emmett took in a deep, greedy breath. He broke into a grin.
“Sulfur,” he said. “We must be close.”
And we were. In front of us, a dense cluster of trees, gathered as if protecting something. Something that the world might eat up whole. And no more than a hundred paces into these trees we came upon the spring. Steam rising from the dark waters. A boulder to the side. A place from which to leap.
It was smaller and less majestic than I’d imagined. I think I’d confused my fantasies of visiting Hawaii with finding these waters; I’d convinced myself that this faraway place I longed to reach would be like something on a postcard. But the creek and the wildflower-strewn valley were far lovelier than this dark, smelly, steaming, watery hole, sheltered in a knot of tangled trees.
Emmett’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“This is it,” he whispered. He kicked off his shoes. He took off his shirt. Even in this moment, I was able to admire the smoothness of his skin, tight over the muscles just starting to push their way out of his lanky torso. The patch of hair underneath each of his armpits.
The smell of his sweat mixed with the smell of sulfur. It was an earthy, natural smell. The smell of life.
He scrambled to the top of the boulder.
He looked down at me and reached out his hand.
I sat and unlaced my shoes. I took care removing my sweatshirt and the long-sleeved T-shirt I wore over a tank top. I folded them both neatly and placed them next to my balled up socks. I proceeded slowly, with caution, not for the sake of caution itself, but because I wanted this moment to last forever.
I rolled up my jeans to my knees.
I climbed up the boulder and stood next to Emmett and I took hold of his outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” he said to me. “A million times, thank you.” He wiped at his eyes with his free hand. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”
“Don’t forget,” I said. “Hold on tight.”
He nodded.
We stood like that for a minute. Squeezing each other’s hands. His eyes were clenched shut. He was concentrating. He was praying. Hoping. Dreaming. He was begging for his miracle.
I closed my eyes too.
I pictured Nick in his hospital bed. His surfboard sketch. I thought of Swoozie and all the love in each embrace. I thought of Mom and her closet of sweaters and the secrets she hid there. Her calculator ribbon. Her ledger book. Her blossoming romance. Her life. I thought of my own life. The start of eighth grade. The ways I might begin again. Find real friends.
Though I didn’t know him, I thought of David. Of Emmett’s father. His mother. I imagined them together. Happy. I heard the faintest sound of laughter.
Emmett squeezed my hand tighter. I opened my eyes. He was looking at me.
“Are you ready?”
I nodded. “Ready.”
“I’ll hold on. I won’t forget.”
We stepped to the edge of the boulder. We took a long look at each other.
And then we leapt.
epilogue
I’m guessing that when you think back on your first kiss, it doesn’t involve a 76 station on the side of Interstate 5, the sound of passing eighteen-wheelers, and the glare of four eyes belonging to two angry mothers. But that is where my very first kiss happened. This wasn’t even a real first kiss, as it didn’t involve my lips. Emmett kissed me between my eyes, just like the boy in the legend did to his soon-to-be bride as she clung to life, a kiss to say don’t leave me, don’t slip away, I will make everything right.
It also turned out to be a kiss goodbye. It was the last I would ever see of him.
I thought he might kiss me as we sat shivering on the bank of the spring with our clothes soaked through and our feet dangling in the steaming water. We looked into each other’s eyes the way I’d always imagined people did right before they leaned in closer and touched lips for the first time. But that was all we did. We looked at each other. Into each other. We were still clutching hands.
When we finally walked out of the woods that night, cold, damp, and unsure of what we had done, of whether any of the miracles we shut our eyes and dared hope for might come true, it was late. The sky was dark and full of stars. I was tired and hungry and stinking of sulfur. I felt profoundly happy.
At Gus’s General Store Lila helped me place a call to my mother, who unleashed a whiplash-inducing array of reactions. But the strongest sound in her voice was relief. I was safe. My phone call spelled the end of her worst nightmare.
She asked me for Emmett’s home number. She said no mother should ever have to go through what she’d been through over the past twenty-four hours. I cupped my hand over the phone and asked him. He took a pen from the store’s countertop and wrote it on my palm. I read it aloud to my mother.
“Don’t move a muscle,” she said. “I’ll be there as fast as humanly possible.” She hung up, dialed the number I’d given her, climbed into her car, and drove through the night.
Lila gave us cans of soda and slabs of beef jerky and some Kraft spreadable cheese that came with little red sticks and stale crackers. Eventually she had to lock up and go home, and she left us out front, on the bench, with a few blankets she found in the storage room to protect ourselves against the creeping cold.
My mother pulled up around three in the morning. She didn’t turn off the headlights or close her door. She jumped out with the ignition still running and raced over to me and pulled me into her. She leaned back and looked at my face. She stroked my cheek. She reached over to Emmett and she touched him too, because despite everything, he was still a boy and she was still a mother.
“Get into the car,” she said angrily, but then, in an act of kindness, she opened the back door for us both. She might not have understood why, but she knew that we’d need this last time together. To sit next to each other
with our legs touching, listening to each other breathing. Emmett reached over and he took my hand again, and he didn’t let go for the entire five hours it took to reach the interstate turnoff halfway between San Francisco and Los Angeles, where Mom had arranged to meet his mother.
After the sad, silent wave we gave each other as we climbed into cars that would drive us in opposite directions, Mom didn’t say a word to me. Talk would come later. Fury and scolding, about how I’d aided and abetted a fugitive. Questioning, about whether I’d let him do things to me that I wasn’t ready for. Reprimanding, about the way I’d put myself in danger. Reminding, about how the world was an unsafe place I wasn’t yet old enough to navigate without her guidance.
And then, finally, understanding, when she was able to stop talking and really listen to why I’d run away. Why, after being such a reliable kid for so long, I’d gone and done something so reckless. So crazy. So completely irrational.
Because, I told her, I wanted to believe.
Every day for the first two weeks after getting back home I went to the bus station to look for Hum. I’d bring along a bag of macadamia nuts and sit in the grass, throwing one after the other after the other, waiting for him to come bounding toward me with one of those nuts between his teeth. He never did, and eventually I stopped going to the bus station.
Emmett’s number remained on my palm for days—it turned out to be a permanent marker he’d reached for that night—but I never called him. I never did for the same reason I stopped going to the bus station to look for Hum.
It was easier to invent my own ending, like the way Mom had always told me my father’s heart stopped working, that he was all done living, so that I wouldn’t have to know that he died in fear and in pain of a disease that ravaged his young body in a matter of months.
I chose to imagine that Hum had found a better life. To imagine that David could hear and understand and even laugh at Emmett’s stories of Conan the Barbarian, that their father returned to live with the family, and that come the following spring, they would plant a cucumber patch in their backyard.
The Summer I Learned to Fly Page 13
