What I Carry

by Jennifer Longo

  I hesitated, held it tight. Ten years, and I couldn’t make it right; how was Kira going to fix it? What if she lost it?

  “I can do it,” she said. “Trust me.”

  Her smile was so true.

  I dropped the tangled chain into her open hand.

  KIRA DROVE HER MOM’S CAR, pointing out her favorite beaches and abandoned water towers, where, according to her, kids hung out to take their parents’ blood pressure and glaucoma medications because “they just grab whatever they can and they’re too drunk to read the prescription labels.”

  “Jesus, is it a high school or a rehab facility?”

  “I’m serious!” she said. “Not a lot for kids to do on an island of farms, and it’s not always easy to take the ferry into the city because everyone’s parents have damn Find My Friends and if you turn your phone off…”

  “Francine wants to get me a phone.”

  “You should let her! I could text you cat GIFs all day.”

  “Terry Johnson would never forgive me.”

  “Fine, dog GIFs, then.” She pulled off to a wide shoulder and parked. A light bobbed toward us.

  “Hey,” Kira called to the light.

  “Hey,” Sean answered, and aimed a hiking headlamp like a flashlight. “You’re here! Hi, Muiriel!”

  I heard his smile in the dark. The black pants suddenly felt too small. Was this sweater trying too hard? And the updo-hair nonsense—I was not Audrey Hepburn. I was me, dressed like an administrative assistant on employee-evaluation day.

  “Thanks for getting us in,” I said.

  “No problem, it’s a free-for-all.”

  “Oh, Sean,” Kira sighed. “How you can be so completely unaware of your place in the social strata of this school is baffling.” She turned to me, aimed her thumb at Sean, and said, “INFP. Light on the P.”

  “Patience?”

  “Perception.”

  He had a knit hat over his dark hair.

  Oh my God, why did I let Kira put this makeup on me?

  Above the thick stand of evergreen trees between us and the bay, sparks spun and flew. Wood and pot and vape smoke mixed in the sea air, and I followed Kira and Sean along a path into the trees. We walked together, following Sean’s headlamp through the dark until the path opened to the wide, fire-lit beach. Dark forms moved, silhouetted against flames reaching into the sky. I closed my eyes and breathed in the woodsmoke, now mixed with sand and seaweed.

  “We had bonfires all the time in Huntington Beach,” Kira said. “Surf all day, light a fire, drink beer, smoke a bowl, fall asleep, miss school, get suspended. Good times.”

  Sean put one arm around her.

  Her face in the firelight was wistful. “I miss it so much.”

  I stepped near her. “Well, I’m glad you’re here now. And sober you is delightful. For what that’s worth.”

  She bumped her shoulder against my arm.

  “Sean!” someone called from the fire, and jogged to us. Tall, whitish-looking guy in a hoodie with a camera—an actual camera with a long lens—on a strap around his neck, trying to see our faces in the dark, and then he brightened with recognition. “Kira!”

  “Elliot.”

  “I’ve wondered where you are. You not taking art this year?”

  “No,” she said. “I am…not.”

  “Why?” He turned to me and put his hand up in greeting. “Hey. I’m Elliot.”

  “Muiriel.” His causal friendliness took the edge off how strange it felt being out at night, with other kids. At a party. In the dark I was just a regular teenager there to have some dumb fun and then go home after—for all anyone knew, home to a bedroom and a family of my own who knew me well and who in the morning would ask only, “Did you have a good time?”

  Tonight I was one of them.

  Elliot smiled at the three of us, nodded at Sean. “Ladies’ man,” he said. Kira and I laughed. Sean was dramatically affronted.

  “You don’t know! I could be rolling with half a dozen girls; I could be bringing them all here one at a time on my bike handlebars because that’s how much game I have.”

  Kira patted his arm. “Oh, honey, of course you could. No one’s doubting your…game.”

  Elliot watched Kira’s every word, clearly charmed. He lifted the camera to his eye. “You guys mind?”

  We moved closer together, Sean’s hand on my back, and the shutter clicked. No flash.

  “Nice firelight,” Elliot said. He turned to Kira. “Will you show your ink to Dave and them? They don’t believe me.”

  “Believe you about what?”

  “That you drew them…that your parents let you.”

  “Who is ‘Dave and them’?” I whispered to Sean.

  “Art geeks,” he whispered back.

  Art geeks? Even I knew that “Dave and them” getting invited to this but not Kira was simply behold the power of Katiana.

  Kira studied Elliot. “Okay,” she said. “Muir, if I lose you in the dark, meet at the fire at ten-thirty?”

  And then, above the fire and voices, the already-familiar, distinct cackle of Katiana. Kira exhaled.

  “Will you be all right?” I asked her, low. “Stay away from them.”

  She nodded. “I’ll keep the fire between us.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ll stab them with the stick of judgment.” She raised her voice. “Sean, you keep track of Muir?”

  “Yeah, okay! Sure!” he said. We watched her walk to the fire, Elliot beside and towering over her, and over most of the rest of the kids at the fire. Gangly. Artsy. Pretty cute. Kira was smiling up at him.

  “Elliot’s okay, right?” I asked Sean. “Not a drunk dumb-ass?”

  “Oh yeah, no—Elliot’s a good guy. We can keep an eye on her from a distance.”

  We watched the silhouettes in the firelight.

  “Hey,” Sean said. “She’s not taking art?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Wanted a break, I guess.”

  “Huh.” He frowned. “She doesn’t really have a stabbing stick. Right?”

  “Little joke,” I said. A private joke. Between me and my friend. It would have been so easy to tell him Kira needed help with Katiana, ask him to call off the dogs. But I’d promised her—and what was I even thinking, muddying the waters of my imminent life of freedom by caring so much already? I wasn’t doing a good job of moderating my response to all this…kindness.

  Friends, just not “life or death” dependence.

  “Want to walk?” Sean asked.

  I did.

  A little way from the firelight, at the water’s edge, we sat on a precarious pile of driftwood logs. Seattle’s skyline, lit like Christmas, sparkled on the horizon. Fishing boats bobbed. The ferry cruised past, windows warm with light, sending little waves that lapped the rocky shore.

  “What’s it like living with Francine?”

  “Lots of tea and toast.”

  “Sounds about right,” he said.

  “She’s nice,” I admitted. “It’s okay.”

  “She’s been really good to my mom and me. They volunteer for a bunch of random island stuff together; we’ve known her forever.”

  “You and everyone else. You’ve been here your whole life? On the island?”

  “Born and raised. You were born in Seattle?”

  “California. Seattle when I was a year old and since.”

  “So now it’s just you with Francine?”

  “And Terry Johnson. Eleven months and I’m out of foster care and on my own.”

  “Why?”

  “Eighteen. I’ll age out.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Right. Then what happens?”

  I breathed deep in the clean, cold dark. “Don’t kno
w.”

  “Where will you go?”

  I shrugged.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Down the beach, laughter and then music. Someone had hooked up speakers.

  Sean sighed. “That’ll get the cops out.” We watched the fire. “Want a beer? Or a lemonade malt beverage flavored for ladies?”

  I laughed. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Then I am, too.” He moved nearer to me. Salt air and Ivory soap. Lots of houses use it; I like the scent and the small white cakes with Ivory pressed in. Clean.

  It was so easy at Salishwood, but here alone with him in the night and the water and the stars and the Ivory…my heart thudded.

  “I’m…sorry about your dad,” I said lamely. “Kira told me.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Kira’s whole family, Tiana’s mom, Francine—we’ve got people all over the island who make sure we’re okay. It’s been almost eight years, so I’m pretty much on the mend.”

  Tiana’s mom. There it was, the obligation Sean was tending. Kira was right; he wasn’t friendly with her of his own volition. Aside from that, the idea of a whole island of people watching out for you, up in your business, even in a nice way? Imagining it made me a little claustrophobic, but also kind of fascinated, and sidebar, why did I even bring his dad up at all? I take it from Where do you live? to Let me reopen that wound about your dead dad from eight years ago? Classy.

  “So,” he said, “here’s the thing: Jason, whose job you have, was kind of a Natan apologist, but I feel like with you, I’ve got a partner in suffering, so thank you.”

  A refreshing turn, even if it did involve Man Bun.

  “Absolutely,” I said. Partner.

  “And I’ve got this renewed motivation to…get rid of him? Somehow?”

  His arm was against mine. I did not move. “Why does Jane keep him around? She’s not dumb; she must hear his bullshit like we do. Doesn’t she?”

  “She must,” he said. “I don’t get it. And by ‘get rid of’ I mean, like, fired or something, not like put a hit on him.”

  “Yeah, I got that.” Get the guy fired? Bold. I liked it.

  “He’s got another two years at Salishwood before he graduates, so we need to think of something or we’ll be stuck with him….I mean, if we’re going to be around that long. If you are.”

  “Well,” I said, pointedly ducking his question, “we can start with how he’s terrible with the kids.” I tied my shoe, using the opportunity to move my feet right beside his in the sand beneath the driftwood. He did not move.

  “Yes. Which, by the way, you are a master class in how to be with kids. They listen to you.”

  My face went warm. “I’ve just had a lot of practice.”

  “Right,” he said, instantly reticent. “That’s…That makes sense.”

  “No, I didn’t mean…I just like kids. Not just because of foster care. I worked at the library and tutored and all that….”

  “Oh, I know, I didn’t think—”

  I laughed. “Hold up. Let’s— I won’t be careful if you’re not. Compliments just make me itch.”

  “Okay.” He smiled, relieved. “To sum up: my dad’s dead, you’re in foster care, life is fucked, no walking on eggshells. Done.”

  If my eyes weren’t truly bright before, they were dazzled as hell now. Infinitely more attractive than the mysterious and sensitive, emotionally scarred boy who lost his father but just can’t talk about it was the sensitive, emotionally mature boy who lost his father and admits it broke his heart and can freely appreciate how fucked up life can be.

  He was the antidote to my cornball-insincerity allergy.

  “Finally,” I said. “I know what my first tattoo will be. Will all that fit on my forearm?” I held my arm up and estimated the font size.

  “Hey, you know, for someone who says she’s never really hiked, your stamina is impressive.”

  “How do you— Are you watching me when you’re supposed to be working?”

  “Well, I mean, you’re right there, I see you….”

  “You see Natan, too. You hanging out with him a lot by firelight?”

  His was the best, truest laugh I’d heard in forever. I think maybe in my life I’ve had a laugh deficit.

  “Yes,” he said. “Every chance I get, so I can learn his Gaia ways. Did you see last week, the beard ponytail? I think he used an orthodontic rubber band. He has to go.”

  “First of all, how dare you. I am going to hire him to play guitar and sing at all my important social functions. He shall honor me at my birthday with ‘Tender Essence.’ ”

  “Gross.”

  “And at my wedding, he will wear his long, luxurious hair loose and flowing, and he will serenade me as I walk down the aisle, also to ‘Tender Essence.’ ”

  “No. Nope. Not the wedding. You’ll walk through trees, into a clearing with birds singing—that’s how that will go.”

  What?

  “Because you love the forest so much,” he said quickly. “That’s what I would think you would…”

  I messed with the sweater clinging to my boobs in a way I wasn’t used to, trying to even it out. “You’re so lucky your mom is a ranger.”

  He nodded. “My dad always wished she would; she loved the wilderness as much, maybe more than he did. They hiked constantly. I was in a backpack in the mountains five days after I was born.”

  What a dream childhood. What a horrible loss.

  “When he died, Mom took me out of school for a year and we went to California, to the Sierra Nevada. We just walked into the woods and…stayed. Till we felt better.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Like Roosevelt.”

  “What’s like Roosevelt?”

  “Teddy Roosevelt. You walked into the woods.” He shook his head. “You— Okay, Roosevelt’s mother died, then later that same day his wife died—two days after giving birth to their only daughter.”

  “No.”

  “On Valentine’s Day.”

  “Jesus Christ, do not make this shit up.”

  “I’m not!” I said. “You were raised by two forest rangers—how do you not know this?”

  “Because! Ranger training is about how to dig people out of avalanches and hand out violations for illegal campfires—I don’t know! What happened after everyone died?”

  “Well, what do you think happened? He went into woods. Like, went on long walks for days; he would disappear in the trees, away from people and machines and buildings and noise, and he had to ditch his newborn daughter for a while to do it, so that kind of sucked, but the point is—he walked into the wild, and it calmed his freaked-out heart. Being alone in the forest, out by himself, walking in the mountains brought him back to life. It saved him.”

  Sean looked out at the water. “That is insane.”

  “Oh, wait, so then years later he’s president, and who begs Roosevelt to come to Yosemite to convince him to save it from destruction? And who in, like, half a day of walks through the valley gets Roosevelt to, of course, completely understand and be all, I get it. I’m in. And then ten years later Roosevelt fulfills his promise and makes Yosemite a national park, safe forever, all thanks to who?”

  Sean turned to me, his face earnest, so beautiful, so close to mine. “Pinchot?”

  No sound but the water on the sand and the muted laughter and music from the bonfire.

  “Pinchot met Muir in person only one time,” I said, low.

  “I know.”

  “Talking some shit about letting sheep graze in and destroy protected reserves. Remember what Muir said to him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “ ‘I don’t want any more to do with you.’ ”

  He smiled, his face half in shadow, half in firelight.

  “
Pinchot knew Muir was right,” I said. “ ‘Earth hath no sorrows…’ ”

  “ ‘…that earth cannot heal.’ Did I mention…where we walked after my dad, the Sierra Nevada? It was the John Muir Trail.”

  Oh Lord. “Two hundred eleven miles.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  My heart ached.

  “Muiriel, who named you?”

  “The nurses at the John Muir NICU.”

  “Do you have a middle name?”

  “Medical Center.”

  He laughed.

  Two inches apart.

  “Are you ever scared?” he whispered.

  “Of what?”

  “Being alone?”

  “I’m not alone.”

  Out in the dark water ship bells rang. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned my face to his and kissed him.

  He was surprised for maybe half a second, and then he kissed me back.

  “Wait,” he said. “This doesn’t count as a date, does it?”

  I opened my eyes. “I mean, there’s like thirty other people here, so…no?”

  “Next Saturday?”

  “Next Saturday.”

  He put his hand in my hair and pulled me to him.

  “Muir?”

  Kira’s voice in the dark shot me up and away from Sean so fast he nearly fell back on the sand.

  “Hi,” I called. “It’s me!”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I need— I’m going to take off, but please stay. Sean, can you bring Muir home?”

  Sean stood on the driftwood. “What’s up? You okay?”

  “Yes, I spilled beer all down my front. I’m going home to take a shower.”

  I climbed over the logs and seagrass to her. “I’m coming with.”

  Sean was right behind me.

  “Muir, no, we just got here.” Kira’s voice was strained, and when I stood beside her, I could see she was near tears.

  “Kira, stay,” Sean said. “You can wear my hoodie, come on!”

  She stepped back. “Thanks, but seriously, I smell like a brewery. I think I’m done for the night. Muir, you stay. Please.”

  I turned to Sean. “Listen. We have a packed schedule of braiding each other’s hair and having tickle fights in our negligees to get to.”