A fire needs three things: a dry bed, fuel, and room to breathe. Maybe I hadn’t given it enough room to breathe.
Everything in the cottage seemed closer than it ought to be. I pulled too hard on drawers; I ran into the corner of the cutting board with my hip. I opened a sticky cupboard door straight into my forehead. It felt like it would bruise. I sat in a kitchen chair and laid my head on the table, cheek on the cold Formica. Beside me, my workbag held my computer, notes for articles I had pitched or was thinking of pitching. Since Mom had handed over the deed to the cottage, I only had one story on my mind. It was a more personal story than I was used to writing: this trip back to Orwell and Marrow; how the two islands had changed since the disaster. I had pitched it to an editor at the Pacific Standard who wanted more—visuals and an arc.
There was an envelope sticking out of the front pocket of my bag, a letter from my only childhood friend from the islands, Katie. We met at Orwell Village School when we were eight, when my parents moved back into Dad’s childhood home and he took a job at the ArPac Refinery on Marrow Island. I was an only child; Katie was, too. They lived a mile away through the woods, and over the years we wore a path through the trees between our yards. She became a kind of sister I would find and lose and find again over the years, after Mom and I moved away, through high school, when we went off to college. I had thought I lost her for good a decade ago. But then this.
I pulled the letter from its pocket. There were other papers behind it, in a manila envelope: the deed to the cottage I was sitting in. I dragged everything out, spread it out on the table.
Mom had given me the deed and Katie’s letter at the same time, in a little bundle tied with string. We were sitting in the atrium of Café Flora, drinking mimosas at our monthly brunch. I had opened the envelopes, confused: the deed, with my mother’s signature and the stamp of a notary, the address and a description of the cottage on Orwell Island; then the beat-up letter with the return address simply Kathryn Paley, Marrow Island, WA 98297. The postmark on the letter was three weeks old.
Orwell and Marrow were two separate islands, but they were often mentioned together because they were so remote from the other islands in the San Juans—right up against Boundary Pass and Canadian waters—and they relied so much on each other. Before the earthquake, the only ferry service to and from Marrow had been from Orwell. After the quake, there had been no reason to go to Marrow at all, only reasons to avoid it.
Unless you were someone like Katie.
“I guess she’s still living out there on the commune?” Mom had nodded at the letter, tipping back the rest of her mimosa. Mom had never trusted Katie and had once told me she reminded her of a feral cat. “I guess she finally settled down.”
“You’re giving me the cottage,” I had answered.
“It was always yours, Lucie.”
“We both know that’s not true,” I’d said.
We had looked at each other for a long time, and the bright expression she was wearing faded. There were so many lines on her face. There had been times over the years when I knew she wanted to be rid of the cottage, when it was a burden to her. And to her new husband, who worked for a developer and saw the “potential” in tearing the place down and building something modern.
“You can always sell it.” She had leaned toward me, put her hand on mine. “I know you could use the money.”
I had thought about texting her before I left for Orwell, letting her know I was going to check on the cottage. But I didn’t. I had written to Katie, though. A postcard, mailed a few days before the trip, telling her I was coming.
I pulled on my boots and one of Dad’s old coats from the closet, took my coffee and Katie’s letter out to the porch. I sat on the steps and reread the letter, looked over Katie’s tight cursive—tall, compressed letters strung together and tilting across the unlined paper so that I tipped my head to the right as I read.
Dear Lucie,
I’ve tried your old address & the e-mail at the newspaper. No luck. I’m assuming your mom & stepdad haven’t sold their house on the lake, so hopefully they’ll get this to you. I’ll keep this short, just in case. I’ve written a few long letters that came back to me.
I’ve read your articles and I’m so proud of you. You always knew what you wanted to do, and you went for it. I always admired that about you. I think I was jealous, even. I never knew what I wanted to do, so I tried everything. Things changed for me at the Colony. It was supposed to be a three-month externship, but I knew I belonged here. There’s too much to explain, but you would be interested in the work we’ve done here. Your interest in the state of the planet, your sense of justice. You always needed to see things put right. I want you to come see what we’ve done on Marrow. It hasn’t always been easy, but the work we’ve done here is unprecedented. We’ve transformed the island, Lucie. The island everyone abandoned. Have you even been back to Orwell in the last twenty years? You should come home, Lu.
I’ve been here for almost ten years & I’ve thought of you every day. How could I not? How could I have thought I was putting distance between us? Sometimes I even think I see you, down at the end of the table at meals, like at summer camp, or wandering the shore with your head down, looking for agates. Then I blink, and you’re gone. I know how it sounds—but there it is. I’m saying it because you probably won’t even read this.
I miss you, Lu.
Katie
Squinting into the fog, I could make out a faint light still shining from the window at Rookwood, but the mist and trees obscured most of the house. It had been the summer home of Maura Swenson, an artist and heiress of a lumber and mining fortune. The Swensons were lumber millionaires, maritime industrialists. Maura built Rookwood in 1918, in the Arts and Crafts style, as a showcase of Pacific Northwest materials. Great fir beams and limestone flagging from her father’s mills and quarries, stones from the Skagit and Snohomish riverbeds, hardwood carvings of ravens and pine boughs in the eaves. All handcrafted. Every inch. Grandpa Whit and Grandma Lucia had been the caretakers. Maura willed them the cottage and the land it was on when she passed away.
Maura’s daughter Julia had been like a grandmother to me after my own passed away. I could still remember the timbre of her voice and the waft of her eau de toilette. I ran in and out of Rookwood all summer long, chasing Julia’s cocker spaniel, Daisy, in the yard. Katie and I had played hide-and-seek in the immense house. For weeks after the earthquake, Mom and I stayed with Julia at Rookwood, not sure if our own cottage was safe. We ate strange meals from the well-stocked but ancient pantry. Julia taught me to wedge clay and crochet lacy coasters, telling me the stories of her favorite saints, the patrons and patronesses of the sea, of boatmen, of laborers, of children. We would pray together for my dad’s safe return every night.
The expanse of the Salish Sea and all its islands were invisible from my spot, but I could hear its restless pulse, feel the ebb and flow. Like putting your ear to someone’s chest and feeling the course of the blood, the steady thrust of the heart. I closed my eyes and tried to draw the image out of my memory: beyond the shore, at the distance of about twelve nautical miles, lay Marrow Island—where Katie was living now, on a commune; where my father and eight other men were burnt to death after the earthquake.
Two
The Woods
MALHEUR NATIONAL FOREST, OREGON
APRIL 24, 2016
CAREY WAKES AT dawn to get to the ranger station by eight. It’s a forty-minute drive from where we are, down three Forest Service roads near the Wolf Creek Trailhead. He kisses me behind the ear and slips out of bed, tucking the blankets back around my body. No central heat in the cabin; it’s always cold in the morning. He starts the coffee and oatmeal and heads for the shower. I stare out the window at the pine trees, listening to the birds, the air-splitting jeer of a jay, the constant trill and chatter of the flycatchers. I close my eyes again and just listen. There’s a pine with one lazy arm draped over the roof that scratches the ou
tside wall in the breeze. I’ve become so accustomed to the sound, it almost disappears. I try to pick it out under the birdcalls and the river, the shower and the coffeemaker.
The faucet squeals when Carey shuts off the water. His movements are quiet, deliberate. Maybe it’s from working in the wilderness. He doesn’t stomp around like some men, putting his full weight into everything. It’s like the signs at the trailheads: LEAVE NO TRACE. He recognizes the traces left behind by other men and a few women. I see the marks in him, too. As he comes back into the bedroom, the floor creaks. I roll over and watch him pull on a pair of briefs, socks, an undershirt. His khaki shirt and trousers hang from the back of the door.
I slip out of bed and go to the bathroom. The coffeemaker is sputtering its last drops into the pot.
“Pour me a cup?” I call from the toilet.
It’s waiting for me on the table.
It’s still too hot to drink, so I stand on my toes and kiss the back of his neck. We don’t talk much in the morning. He portions the oatmeal and butters toast, and we sit down to eat. There’s a pile of mail on the table and Carey glances at it. The letter on the bottom, which I tried to hide below the bills, was for me. I let it sit there a week before Carey opened it for me and I read it by the fire, half thinking about tossing it in.
“Have you answered her yet?” he asks.
I shovel a full spoon of oatmeal into my mouth and shake my head. He doesn’t look upset, just confused.
“It’s not like you to run away from something,” he says, biting off a corner of his toast.
“It’s exactly like me to run away,” I say through my oatmeal. “What else would I be doing here?”
He locks eyes with me, shrugs.
“Other than you,” I say, too late.
He swallows the rest of his coffee and takes his dishes to the sink.
“Deathbed request, Luce. Don’t get many of those in a lifetime.”
Jesus, Carey. Always taking the high road, I think, but don’t say. I can’t say anything. My cheeks are hot; I know he’s right.
He pours the rest of the coffee into a thermos and puts a can of soup and a sandwich into his lunch pail. He hadn’t bargained on me coming out here when he accepted the post in the Malheur. He asked me to visit and I came. After three weeks he had asked, “So I guess you’re staying?” And I had said, “I can’t imagine leaving.” The you was implied, I thought. I can’t imagine leaving you. I just couldn’t say it at the time. Two months later and I’m still not saying anything right.
He doesn’t look at me as he’s getting ready to go. I meet him at the door, put my hand on the deadbolt but don’t turn it.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I know,” he says, leans down to kiss me. I kiss him slower and deeper, and feel his hesitation, feel him trying to swallow the hurt. I let him go and open the door. He gets in his truck and backs down the bed of pine needles we call a driveway, lifts a hand to wave before he pulls onto the blacktop. I watch from the porch, the burnt-sugar taste of his mouth still in mine.
Back in the cabin I pick up the letter. It had been forwarded to Carey’s PO box in Prairie City. When I saw the letterhead with the roses and the cross, I had a good idea what it would say.
April 5, 2016
To Miss Lucie Bowen,
I am writing on behalf of Janet Baldwin, formerly Sister Janet Baldwin, one of our own, the Sisters of the Holy Family. As you may know, before her conviction and incarceration at the Women’s Correction Center in Walla Walla, Janet was diagnosed with progressive adenocarcinoma. She refused radiation and chemotherapy offered by the State during her incarceration. After several weeks, hospice workers and the Chaplain successfully petitioned for Janet’s compassionate release. The Sisters of the Holy Family were moved to take in our sister Janet, and we are seeing her through her final days here in Spokane at our Provincial House.
Janet has made few requests, but she wished for me to contact you especially, and asks if you are able to visit her here. She believes that you may have something that will help her in her final hours—a keepsake of your time together, perhaps. She cannot be more specific—her mental capacities are failing—but believes that you will know what she needs. Even if you do not have the item, I believe that your presence would be a comfort to her. Janet speaks of you often, with such warmth.
We can accommodate you here at the Provincial House as our guest. You are welcome to share in our meals and Communion as you wish. I have provided my mobile phone number. You may call anytime to arrange your visit or to inquire further. If you cannot come, please consider writing what is in your heart, and know that we will share your words with Janet in her final days. We will keep you and all who have known Janet in our prayers.
In God’s Love,
Sister Rose Gracemere
I sit out on the steps on the side of the porch in a patch of sun. The steps lead down the path to the bank of the river. The wind cuts through the trees, and goose bumps crackle up my arms.
What keepsake? She spoke of me warmly? She must be losing her mind. Katie was her favorite; it was Katie she would ask for. But Katie couldn’t go to her; she was under house arrest in Bellingham, so she asked for me? What would Katie have that Sister J. wanted? Neither of them were the keeping type.
“What we hold on to says a lot,” Sister J. said once. “But what we let go, sings.”
Inside again, I pack a few things for the day. I’ve been hiking the old logging road to the fire lookout, about two hours up the mountain. There’s nobody staying up there this early in the season, so I can be alone. More alone than in the cabin, with the drab furnishings and random objects left by previous rangers. The boarded-up smell that never leaves a temporary residence. The shady intimacy of the trees, crowding around the cabin like very tall people, looking down, watching. At the lookout, the elevation creates solitude, looking down on the trees and across to the rolling hills down onto the plain. I’m supposed to be writing a book, but mostly I watch the river below or sleep on the cot until it’s time to come back to the ground.
Carey doesn’t know that I go to the lookout, though he could track me, if he wanted. I’m reckless. I bring only enough food and drink to satisfy my afternoon appetite. I make balls of peanut butter and crunched-up cereal—Grape Nuts on the outside keep the balls from sticking together in the baggie, a trick one of the rangers’ wives taught me. I pack a thermos of tea and the metal water canister I found when I was up at the lookout one day. Some previous tenant left it there; his family name was written in faded black marker on the side: Goodkind. A providential name. Or maybe it’s just a reminder to only drink the right water. The good kind. I pack the tablets to kill the protozoa when I fill it up in the stream.
Carey takes me on day hikes through the forest on his days off. Out to the lookout and back down the other side of the ridge, nearer the river, and back up to the logging road. We did this several times, until I was familiar enough to take the trail by myself when Carey was at the station. Carey knew I was going out, but he didn’t know how often I became disoriented. (Lost. Say it. Lost.) The first time was after a night of late-season snowfall, in March. I sat on a mossy stump in a clearing drawing a map in the snow, trying to visualize myself from above, high in the clouds, see the whole forest and the river, the logging roads, the stone chimney and whitewashed clapboard of the decommissioned guard station we were living in, the red roof of the ranger station miles away, where Carey was probably heating up leftovers in the microwave for his lunch. There seemed to be three trails, all headed into three plausibly familiar clusters of trees, though I knew that there was only one trail, really. Only one was actually the path that looped back to the logging road, then back down to the Forest Service lane just up from our cabin. When creative visualization failed, I stood and headed up one path, thinking it must be the one, only to trudge into deeper and deeper snow until I was waist-high in a wintering thicket of huckleberry. I followed my footsteps back to the clearing,
and by then it was late afternoon and the light was faint behind gathering clouds. I realized I would have to follow my footprints to get back to the cabin. So I did. It seemed so simple, really, just going back the way I came. Following my own footprints is still the most reliable way back home.
Carey said once that taking the same trail in the opposite direction is like walking on the other side of time. Everything looks different on the way back. Same trees, same stobs and snags. Same switchbacks and curves; same vistas, same fallen tree bridge across the creek. But going back the way you came, it’s just as easy to lose your footing, but it’s harder to get lost. The light shines on things you didn’t notice on the way there. The path back, it’s the story you tell yourself, afterward.
The fire lookout has windows on all sides. Built by the WPA in 1937, the hand-hewn log cabin keeps watch at 6,013 feet elevation in the Malheur Range. The cast-iron wood stove still works, but now there are also solar panels on the roof. It’s not plumbed, and there are strict rules about bodily waste and food, because of the wildlife. Black bears and bobcats, mostly, but wolves have been reintroduced on the other side of the range, and the occasional solitary males and females will split off and wander, looking for mates, looking to start their own packs. I’ve heard they don’t live long alone.
I feel safe here away from people, though I probably have plenty to fear. There’s a CB radio I don’t really know how to use and an air rifle for sounding the alarm, which makes me feel like I’m in a movie about the apocalypse. Lying on the cot, I let my mind go to the place where mushroom clouds sprout from the distant horizon. And just like that, I’m back on Marrow Island. Sister Janet leading prayer before supper. We all hold hands and bow our heads. It’s not a prayer I recognize, but it’s lilting like a song. It’s about letting go; it’s about rebirth. I open my eyes and steal glances at the others. Their cheeks are rosy from cold, damp work outdoors all morning. They look content; stoic. I close my eyes again. I smell the rich, earthy stew steaming in our bowls. The hands in mine are rough and light, like driftwood.
Marrow Island Page 2
