by Lisa Gardner
Inhale. Exhale. Drink. The thundering in my ears begins to subside. I remain too hot, physically spent, and incredibly shaky. My feet—I didn’t know they could hurt this bad, and I don’t even have blisters. I’m not sure where I’ll find the resilience to begin again.
Miggy hands me his heavy water bottle. I return it to its side pouch. He does the same for me.
He peers at the steep ridge of dirt punching relentlessly up through the hot, dry woods. Where the rest of our party has gone before us. Where we must now follow.
“I wanted to golf,” he murmurs. “That weekend. I voted for golfing. Why the hell didn’t we just go golfing?” Then, almost savagely: “I hate these goddamn woods.”
Which is when I finally understand the real reason Miggy broke from his friends—there is more than sweat beading down his cheeks.
“I hate these goddamn woods, too,” I tell him after a moment.
He laughs brokenly.
We trudge on.
* * *
—
By the time we reach the top of the endless incline, we have all retreated someplace deep inside ourselves. My mind is a carousel of discordant memories.
Myself dancing under hot lights, whirling, whirling, whirling, till the crowded bar was nothing but a blur of neon and a cacophony of wild laughter but I didn’t care because this wasn’t my body and this wasn’t my life and I’d never have to feel any pain as long as I kept spinning.
First time I woke up in a pool of vomit and didn’t remember how I got there.
First time I woke up in someone else’s bed and didn’t know how I got there.
First time I woke up in county lockup and recalled exactly how I got there but still wanted nothing more than another drink.
My twelve-year-old friend’s dog Shaggy, a big, lovable mutt who roamed the neighborhood with his wagging tail and goofy grin, until one day there was a squeal of tires followed by a terrible thump and my father told me not to look outside. I went to my room and tucked myself way back inside my closet because I didn’t want to know. Later, Sophie came over and I snuck us a six-pack of beers from the fridge. We drank one after another, never talking, and my father had to know what we’d done—two semiconscious twelve-year-old girls staring at him blurrily from my bedroom floor—but he didn’t say a word. And I loved him for that.
The first time I saw Paul.
The last, last time I took a drink.
The sound of Detective Lotham’s heartbeat, solid and steady, then increasingly rapid as I pressed myself against him just last year, after my first successfully completed case in a place that came as close to any as feeling like home.
I’m not sure why I’m recalling these particular memories. The good, the sad, the reverent, the humbling. I just know I have to focus on anything other than the agony that is my body.
By the time we arrive, the others have taken up position before a wide, rushing stream, packs off, bodies sprawled. Nemeth and Martin look like their usual stern selves. Like the rest of us, their shirts are soaked with sweat, hair plastered to their scalps. But unlike, say, Scott and Neil, who have collapsed on the ground and obviously plan on never getting up again, Nemeth and Marty look ready for another eighteen miles. Luciana is somewhere in the middle, withdrawn, marshaling her resources. Daisy lounges in the dirt at her feet. The SAR dog looks up at our approach, thumps her tail in greeting, makes no attempt to rise. I understand completely.
The terrain has opened up dramatically. A huge expanse of wild grass, beaten golden brown by the sun this late in the summer, and dotted with white, yellow, and purple wildflowers. The air is crisper at this altitude, limned with the promise of glacier peaks and even the first hint of winter. All around us sweep the green, blue, and brown ridgelines of rolling mountains, some modestly short, some staggeringly tall.
It is all heart-stoppingly beautiful. The kind of views that drew pioneers far from the security of the known into the wild promise of the unknown. I would’ve made an excellent explorer, assuming I didn’t drop dead of exhaustion first.
It takes me a few tries to unclip the buckles around my chest and waist. My fingers are clumsy and swollen. I try to shake off my pack and nearly hiss from the pain in my shoulders. I bite it back quickly, not wanting to give away just how much I hurt.
To judge by the look on Nemeth’s face, he’s not fooled for a second. Beside me, Miggy has finally wrestled his bag to the ground. Without another word, he crosses to the river’s edge, drops to his knees, and plunges his head straight in.
It gives me the incentive to ditch my gear and follow suit as fast as I possibly can.
The water is a total shock. Not just cold, but cold. It’s bracing and brain numbing, perfectly refreshing and excruciatingly painful. I want to jerk away and gulp down entire mouthfuls. I hold steady, letting the water flow over my face and neck till I feel on the verge of an ice cream headache.
When I sit up and toss back my head, my long wet ponytail slaps between my shoulder blades and sends a fresh torrent of icy chills shivering down my overheated torso. It’s about as close to orgasm as I’ve ever come with an audience.
Beside me, Miggy removes the blue bandana from around his neck, dips it in the water, then uses it to scrub at his face, neck, bare arms. After a final dunking, he ties the dripping cloth around the bronze column of his throat.
Sheer longing must be stamped in my face, because next thing I know, Bob is kneeling beside me. “Want it?” Orange bandana still folded into a fresh, clean square.
“Last time I wanted something that bad, it was a bottle of rotgut vodka.”
Bob grins. “Take it, it’s yours.”
I copy Miggy’s technique down to the last detail. I might be stupid, but at least I’m a fast learner.
“Water?” Bob asks me.
“You want some?”
“No. How much do you have left? This is a good place to refill.”
I feel like I should know what he’s saying, but my physical exhaustion has impaired my ability to understand the English language.
Bob dangles two giant water jugs from their straps. Next, he produces what looks like an elongated plastic pop top, attached to an empty bladder. The water filtration system. I have a similar one in my pack.
As I watch, he fills the empty bladder with running water from the stream. Screws on the filtration top. Then, turning it upside down, he squeezes the water out of the bladder, through the charcoal filter pop top, into his drinking flask. Now I get it. And I should definitely refill both my bottles. Except that would involve standing up, and moving.
I promised I would not be deadweight. I promised I would not slow down the team. I still have to bite my lower lip as I rise painfully to my feet. Miggy is not moving much better. My impression is that Scott and Neil also wouldn’t mind being buried where they lie. There is thinking you’re active and fit, and then there is Nemeth fit.
When I turn, he’s standing right there. I try not to startle or flush guiltily. He hands me my water bottles and the filtration system from my pack.
“Final mile to go,” he says. “We’ll be camping tonight not far from a stream-fed lake. You can soak your feet in the water there. It’ll help.”
I nod.
“Today’s the hardest. Once we reach the target area and start our search, we’ll have to slow down and pay attention, not to mention respect Daisy’s need for breaks.”
I’ve never loved a dog more.
Nemeth steps back to take in the rest of the group. He might be a hard-ass, but clearly he’s also an experienced guide who knows how to size up his audience. Marty would walk to the ends of the earth without ever stopping, to bring his son home. Bob would follow because his heart is as big as the rest of him.
But for the bachelor party buddies, myself, even Luciana, this level of exertion is pushing our limits. Day one, Nemeth ca
n’t afford for any of us to break.
“Ten more minutes,” he announces now. “Then we’ll gear up. Good news, we got plenty of daylight left, so you can take your time on the home stretch. Upon arrival, we’ll make camp, have a hot meal, then Marty and Luciana will walk us through the game plan for tomorrow.”
We nod as a unit. Nobody talking but everyone paying attention.
Then, in the distance: a strange, shrill scream that prickles the hair on the back of my neck. I drop my hand to the Rambo knife, feeling a jolt of fight or flight as the cry builds in intensity.
“Any questions?” Nemeth asks.
Scott, eyes wild: “What the hell is that?”
“Just an animal.”
The second shriek echoes disturbingly. Daisy’s ears prick forward, her body taut. I grip the handle of the tactical blade.
Nemeth remains unconcerned. “All right, break’s over. Gear up.”
That was not the ten-minute break he promised us. It makes me pay attention, catching the look Nemeth and Martin exchange while I note Bob’s posture has taken on a tension I haven’t seen before.
A third cry. Shrill. Building, higher, higher, higher. Then, a sudden sharp cutoff. Like a blade severed the sound. Or the creature making it.
Daisy whines, presses closer to her handler.
Another exchanged look between our two leaders, but no words spoken.
Nemeth shoulders the rifle, takes point. Bob prepares to bring up the rear.
They’re lying to us. Wild animals, my ass. But why? What don’t they want us to know?
Nemeth hops boulder to boulder over the broad stream before disappearing into the thick copse of trees beyond. Martin follows, then the others, one by one vanishing into the woods.
I grip my tactical blade. Very reluctantly, I follow suit.
CHAPTER 10
When I was ten, I became obsessed with camping. I don’t remember why. Probably the other kids in my class were talking about fun-filled family adventures and I grew jealous.
I pestered my parents relentlessly. My mom was firm on the subject: “You know I don’t have time off, and if I did, I’m certainly not spending it sleeping on the ground.”
My father, the appeaser, never said no, but also didn’t say yes. So around and around we went, me convinced that I couldn’t live another day without sleeping in a tent, my parents convinced that eventually I’d grow out of it.
My father had recently lost his job. Downsizing, he said as he popped open another beer. His unemployed days turned into weeks, his body slowly merging with the sofa into one hops-scented blob, while my mom, currently working two positions, returned late each evening in a state of tight-lipped rage. Furiously cleaning the kitchen, throwing in loads of laundry, collecting all the empties. She never said a word, but my father, watching her through his drunken haze, would do the talking for both of them.
“You’re right. Absolutely right. I should find work. Get off this damn sofa. Tomorrow, honey. I promise. Tomorrow.” Then he’d crack open another beer and return to his Naugahyde bliss.
One afternoon, I took it upon myself to tend the house. I scrubbed the counters, scoured the bathroom, vacuumed the floor. Was I protecting my father? Saving my mother? Can any child answer that question?
My mother arrived home late, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. She peered tiredly at the spotless kitchen, then at me, sitting patiently at the table, even though it was nearly midnight. I thought she might smile in gratitude. Give me a huge hug. Burst into song?
She said, “For God’s sakes, Frankie, at least learn from my mistakes.”
Then she headed for her bedroom.
Later, I listened to them fight: “I mean it, Ron. Seven days from now if you’re still like this, I’m out. And I’m taking Frankie with me. You’ll never see either one of us again.”
Then I listened to my father cry.
The next afternoon after school, I returned home to my father sitting upright, his back ramrod straight on the edge of the sofa. He had his hands clasped tightly before him, clearly waging some kind of internal war with himself. A tremor snaked through his frame. He screwed up his face in fierce concentration till the shaking stopped. Though his hands still gave him away.
Finally, he noticed me standing in the doorway. “You’re home. Thank God, you’re home!”
He exploded into a whirlwind of nervous energy, fixing me a snack, unloading my backpack, fussing over my schoolbooks. I must have homework. Didn’t I have homework? Let’s do homework!
I didn’t have homework. But I found some math worksheets and spread them out on the table. We did the problems together, first giggling lightly, then laughing hysterically because we were both so terrible at it. For weeks afterward, the phrase carry the one had us rolling on the floor all over again.
My mom came home to dinner. Frozen pizza, but still, my father took it out of the wrapper and baked it himself.
That night there was no fighting. That night, the house was so quiet, I couldn’t sleep from the sheer agony of the unknown.
The following afternoon, my father had collapsed back into the sofa, covered in sweat and shivering uncontrollably. I bathed his forehead with a wet washcloth, fetching him blanket after blanket.
Eventually, my mother arrived. I waited for the yelling, the blame, the torrent of rage. But to my surprise—my father’s surprise?—she took a seat next to him. She rubbed his back.
She said, “I’m so proud of you.” She murmured, “I’ve missed you, Ronnie.”
She whispered . . .
That I couldn’t hear.
Couple of days later, my father’s sweating and vomiting stopped. His color returned. He once more achieved the vertical position. I came home to more snacks. My mother gained a clean house and evening meal. And the house existed in a perpetual state of peace and quiet. So much peace and quiet. I couldn’t figure out how people did it, living day after day with this amount of peace and quiet.
One day my father greeted me with a huge grin on his face. Surprise! He and I were going camping. Well, actually, we were going to spend the night in a borrowed tent in our backyard, but close enough, right? I bounced all over the house in excitement. Yes, yes, yes!
My mom actually smiled, caught up in our enthusiasm.
Saturday morning was all about prep. We were going to need all the makings for s’mores, plus hot dogs and baked beans. I thought we should definitely have a fire. My father thought we should definitely not. He spun some yarn about mythical forest sprites who would carry away our food and return it magically cooked. I was offended. What? Did he think I was still five?
Just yesterday, he assured me wryly. And the day before that, I was a newborn. Then he cleared his throat and ruffled my hair.
Late afternoon, we carried our gear outside.
My father attempted to assemble the borrowed tent. Much cursing and swearing ensued. I ran piles of blankets and pillows from the house to the yard because we didn’t have sleeping bags, something my father hadn’t realized till just now.
Everything took way longer than expected, my father’s expression becoming less excited, more frazzled. But eventually, the sun just starting to descend, he had produced a tent-like shelter, while I had procured every piece of bedding we owned. I would organize our sleeping quarters. My father would inform the forest sprites of our dinner reservation.
He was gone a very long time. But then, I had a lot of blankets to arrange.
When my father finally reappeared, bearing a tray of cooked franks and baked beans, he was beaming from ear to ear. So pleased with himself. So happy. So very, very happy.
Just like that, I knew why he’d been in the kitchen for so long. His smile faltered. He opened his mouth as if to say . . . No! . . . You’re wrong! . . . I’d never do such a thing!
But the words didn’t come. He cl
osed his mouth, held out the tray. We sat on the ground and ate our meal with our hands, dipping the franks into the baked beans and making a huge mess. I wanted to giggle at the baked beans dripped across my father’s lap, the smear of ketchup on his cheek. I wanted to scream, “Carry the one!” just so he’d laugh uproariously and I could collapse beside him and we’d both be so very, very happy.
I wanted this moment to be real.
But my father was gone. In his place was a drunk who talked too fast. About childhood memories and random facts and oh, wait, look at the color of the sky. He always loved the smell of grass, there was nothing like sleeping under the open sky and we should do this again, wait, we should do this now, and hey, why had we never gone camping before this? Next week, Yosemite!
My father disappeared into the house with our dishes, eventually weaving and stumbling his way back out. He grabbed for the tent to balance himself. Both it and he collapsed to the ground. Never mind. Ghost stories!
By the time my mom appeared, I was carting the blankets from the tent back to the house, so I could drape them over my father’s passed-out form. He and the sofa were one again. Which left my mother and me on our own. She stared at his prone form, still in her coat, clutching her purse. I couldn’t read the expression on her face. Rage? Resignation? Relief that our household was finally back to normal?
I told my mother I was tired and going to bed. Then, clutching a pillow to my chest, I turned sideways as she walked by. I didn’t want her to see the half-filled bottle of bourbon I had stashed behind my back.
Later, in the privacy of my room, I sat on the floor behind my bed and studied my father’s precious bottle of booze. I twisted off the black cap. I inspected the amber liquid, sniffing the slightly sweet brew, dripping it across my palm, licking it off my fingers. I wanted to taste what my father tasted. I wanted to feel what my father felt. I wanted to understand this powerful liquid he loved more than anything in the world.
Even me.
