Seven

LINDSEY ROLLS DOWN the window and takes some deep breaths as she turns off the country road into her parents’ drive—a long stretch through a field of tall ripening grasses and darting goldfinches. At the end of it, the artificial pond and waterfall, green watered lawns, trimmed flowerbeds, and what she calls the Friedland Folly–the ostentatious house her parents built for their retirement.

The two-story, three-bedroom oak and tiled “dream house” has become an oversized mausoleum for mother Opal to rattle around in. Coerced into moving from the house in town she loved, now she’s isolated out in the county with her failing strength and vision, unable to drive and depending on visits from her daughters. Meanwhile, Lindsey’s father Arlen roars around in his huge diesel pickup truck, wheeling and dealing with his cronies, or gone on fishing and hunting trips.

Lindsey suspects he made a deal with the devil to stay so energetic at eighty-five. When she was younger, she’d blithely assumed she could just choose what she’d inherit: her father’s toughness and adventurous vigor; her mother’s songs and gentle spirit. Now as the days come down to her (more Joni Mitchell playing on her inner soundtrack), she has to face the flip side of these traits: Dad’s restless self-absorption and hair-trigger anger; Mom’s singing voice turned to a fussy whine of suffering.

Lindsey suddenly puts on the brakes. Still partway down the dirt drive, she shuts off the motor, closes her eyes, and takes another deep breath. She gets out and walks into the hayfield. Moving slowly, holding out her arms to feel the scratchy stems, she lets the fringy tops slide through her fingers. Childhood habit kicks in, and she breaks off a stem, strips out the tender inner shoot, tastes the sweet greenness. Chewing on the bobbing stem, she returns to the Subaru, pulls out the audiobook reader she’s bought Mom, and heads to the house.

“Linny!” Opal blinks through her thick lenses, then beams. She struggles to rise from the oversized lounger where she’s propped up with back and neck cushions, heating pad, afghan, and napping shapes of striped cat and spotted terrier.

“Don’t get up, Mom.” Lindsey sets down the box and hurries over to perch on the arm of the lounger, leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek. She fluffs the thinning gray strands her mother still has permed into a pouf that now reveals a lot of scalp. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, I decided to add another half pill at night of the Remeron. I just couldn’t get to sleep worrying about Eric and the baby.”

“Mom, did you talk to Dr. Nichols about that?”

Opal loves to tinker with her meds, which sets off Lindsey’s alarm bells. Last time, she overdosed herself by upping her antidepressant.

“These young doctors, they just don’t understand how I suffer!” Opal looks indignant, and Lindsey makes a mental note to call Dr. Nichols. She’s the new GP, really sharp and specializing in geriatric patients. The family doesn’t want Opal changing docs again.

“Mom, remember what your counselor said. It’s best if you just pray for the grandkids, try not to worry so much about them.” The latest on Joanie’s oldest is he’s lost his job after falling back into the heroin habit, and his now-ex-girlfriend’s in jail for stealing to support hers. How Joanie is coping now that she has custody of their baby, who has developmental problems, Lindsey has no idea.

“Here, Mom.” She resets, puts on a smile. “I brought you something, I want you to try it out.” She steps over to the box and opens the flaps, sets aside the audio books she’s checked out of the library, then pulls out the compact player.

She wants to plug it in and demonstrate with the earphones while she’s caught Mom in position, let her see this could work, since she refused to try the magnifying reading lamp with the large-type books she can’t read any more: “It’s too bulky, it won’t fit by the lounger. I’ve got my little table there with my pills and everything.”

“Okay.” Linsey turns back to Opal, ready to plug it in.

But by this time her mother’s already struggling upright, plucking at the afghan with helpless little movements, fumbling with the button that releases the extended leg rest. “I’ve got to get up and get lunch ready. Your dad will be in from the shop in a minute.”

“Wait, it won’t take long….”

Too late. The window of opportunity creaks shut as Opal pulls herself to the edge of the lounger, grimacing and rubbing her back. Spike the cat and Bingo the terrier protest the disruption. Opal grunts and bobs forward in a false start at launching herself to her feet. Lindsey drops the player on the cushions and takes her mother’s thin shoulders, gently eases her up onto her feet.

She sways for a second, knit pants and matching top with appliqued roses hanging loose on her shrinking frame. She finds her balance and shuffles toward the kitchen on the other side of the breakfast counter.

Lindsey goes ahead and plugs in the audio player, sets it temporarily on her mother’s side table, where there’s plenty of room once she eases aside the water jug and tray holding all the prescription bottles. She inserts a book CD, slips on the headphones, and fast-forwards to the first chapter of an Agatha Christie novel.

“Okay.” She follows Opal around the counter to the sink, where she’s holding a kettle under the faucet, hands shaking. “I can do that, Mom.” She takes the kettle, fills it, starts to set it on a burner on the stove.

“Wait!” Opal plucks up a tea towel, clutches Lindsey’s arm, and wipes a couple of drops off the bottom of the kettle before she’ll allow it to be set on the burner.

Lindsey refrains from rolling her eyes, the old teenage response, and lets Opal direct the lunch preparations, lets her explain for the hundredth time the right way to set out the plates, how to use the can opener and which container to put the fluorescent orange preserved peaches in, the exact thickness the American cheese must be sliced “or Arlen will growl.”

“Who’s the goddamn idiot blocking the driveway?”

Having announced his presence, Lindsey’s dad slams the door. Still a handsome man with his deeply tanned face and most of his formerly-black, wavy hair, he stomps over in work boots and coveralls to give her a rough hug. “Where the hell you been? Figured you must’ve moved off to Oregon again.” From Arlen, this is a big display of affection.

“What about you? The last couple times I was out here, I figured you’d moved to Canada.” Lindsey plays along, doing the good ol’ gal back at him. “You score any fish?”

“Big waste of time. Humpies weren’t running yet, goddamn river all screwed up.” He turns to Opal. “Where the hell’s my sandwich? I told you I’ve got to get to town this afternoon.”

Opal’s hand tremor is noticeably worse as she hastily picks up the spatula, checks the white-bread cheese sandwich toasting in the buttered pan. She utters a little exclamation, flips the sandwich, reaches to turn down the heat. Black charring streaks the bread.

Lindsey finds herself moving quickly over to hide the sight from her dad, figures they can scrape off the bit of burned bread. But Arlen’s already spotted it.

“Goddamn son of a bitch! Jesus Christ, you’re worthless! All you do is sit there popping pills all day, can’t you manage one little thing for me?” He strides over, jostling Lindsey, and grabs the pan off the stove. He jerks around with it, face flushing, thrusts it clattering and hissing into the wet sink, as Lindsey pulls her mother aside, feels her trembling.

Something snaps inside Lindsey, her spine straightening in protest of that hunched-in posture of her mother’s. She guides Opal back to the lounger, tells her to just sit a minute, then she strides back over to her fuming father, who’s ripping into the fridge and throwing out packets of bread and cheese, slamming condiments onto the counter, swearing in a nonstop rant.

“Stop it!” Lindsey plants herself in front of him as he turns.

He stops short in surprise, then glares at her. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“Not unless you stop swearing.” Lindsey has no idea where this is coming from, or going.

He scowls, takes a step closer, fists clenching as he uses his height to force her to look up.

“Don’t.” Lindsey fights her own urge to back off, cringe.

Arlen still glowers, but he’s shifted somehow, not trying to loom over her now. They stare at each other for a minute, punctuated by some heavy breathing. Then he shakes his head, turns away, stomps down the hall into the bathroom. Bingo, yapping, runs after him.

On the lounger, Opal is crumpled over, a trembling hand patting Spike’s striped fur. Tears are sliding from under her glasses, catching in the soft wrinkles of her cheeks.

“Mom.” Lindsey sits down and holds her, rocking. She blows out a long breath as she realizes it’s the way Opal used to comfort her when she was little.

The back door slams, and a minute later Arlen’s truck rumbles into life, starts to roar off down the drive. Lindsey remembers her Subaru then, blocking the way, and braces herself for a crash. Instead, a blaring horn. She just sits there, patting her mother’s back.

It takes a while, but finally the blasting horn stops and the truck reverses back up the drive. Arlen comes to the glass patio door, opens it, stands there staring at Lindsey and Opal.

“You gonna move your goddamn—” He breaks off, shakes his head. “You wanna move your car?”

June 12

Dear Diary,

God—Goddess—the Great Pumpkin—if there’s anybody out there, give me patience. How much longer can we keep the juggling act going? Always one more egg to keep up in the air—now it’s Mom’s macular degeneration, and Dad just doesn’t get it that he’s not going to have his perfect grilled cheese sandwiches on demand any more. One of these days the whole shebang’s going to come down cracking and splattering all over their custom tiled floor.

(Eeek, shades of Nick!)

Fingers crossed: At least Mom’s accepting the new housekeeper to clean once a week—now that she can’t see the stray dust streaks or check that the upstairs carpet is vacuumed in precision parallel rows—and Dad hasn’t driven this gal off yet with his temper tantrums. But the way Dad’s running through their retirement funds like no tomorrow—now it’s a new boat!—if Mom needs to go into a care facility, how long could they pay for it?

Sisters and I have lost count of the crises with Mom and Dad, like the time she admitted he yanked her down the steps because he was in a hurry, and she fell and broke her shoulder. She always refuses to report him, lied about the black eye that other time. Back when I was off in the Peace Corps, Fran had actually talked Mom into leaving him, had rented a trailer to move her stuff. Opal backed down when Arlen threatened to burn down the house. I’ve talked to a lawyer, my doc, and Mom’s doc, and we can’t force her to move, can’t report Dad unless one of us actually witnesses the physical abuse. Fran and Joanie are clearly burned out after all the rescue attempts, and dealing with the crises with their own kids. Should I give up trying to save her? Have I even managed to save myself?

After the Mom and Dad visit, Lindsey’s ears are buzzing louder, tension clamping down on her jaw and neck. The hot flashes are accelerating with warmer weather, and she’s down to tank tops with no more clothing layers to rip off. She’s not quite ready for public nudity. Though that might come next, maybe a nice stint in a padded cell would be just the ticket. She and her mom can move in together, if Opal’s latest medication doesn’t keep the depression and anxiety in check—

STOP.

Lindsey holds up the imaginary Stop sign to her “whirling brain,” one of the tricks she learned from Kate in counseling. She takes some deep breaths, waits for the fiery prickles to subside, dabs sweat from her face and upper back. Even though it’s a gray drizzly day, low clouds brooding over the hills, she’s searching for the pocket fan she managed to misplace.

She visualizes Coolness, and an image of Fern Lake pops into her mind. Its perfect round bowl cupped in a cedar and huckleberry and alder-rimmed ravine, fed by rocky little snowmelt streams off the mountain. Voice of the forest calling, and she hasn’t listened lately. But it’s her day off.

When Lindsey gets to the trailhead and shoulders her knapsack with water and lunch, she realizes why she’s been resisting a visit to her favorite lake. She steps into the shadows under the ancient moss- and fern-covered maple that bows a curved limb over the trail to make a gateway, then she takes a deep breath of cedar bark and rich black soil. She waits, a reflexive pause.

But the old magic doesn’t kick in. The voice of the wilderness, the resonance alive in her blood and bones—she’d always arrogantly taken it for granted as her birthright here in her native forest—doesn’t happen for her now. All she can hear is the buzzing in her ears. And the panicky, angry, whiny, relentless voices in her head telling her she’s lost it forever. It was fading in the years with Nick and now it’s too late, she dulled her senses to bear the pain, thinking she could revive herself later, but maybe it’s a one-way street. And now she’s too old anyway. Who does she think she is—some twenty-year-old hippie? Grow up and face the facts, the world isn’t about joy and your pathetic dreams and complaints so face it from here on out you just slog through on duty and memories—

STOP.

She tries the halt-traffic drill again, but it’s no good, the voices of brain whirl are a constant for her now, only silenced by loud enough distractions. The wilderness song is too quiet to overcome her overwired nerves.

She presses her hands against her ears, but it only makes the buzzing louder, more insistent. She closes her eyes, a wave of dark dizziness washing through her.

Night. Car lights flaring toward them on the black highway, flashing to blind her and then fading behind. Lindsey winced, hands pressed over her ears futilely trying to block Nick’s tirade.

“Christ! What do you want? You trying to drive me crazy? Telling me I’m a liar now? It was your brilliant idea to bring the fucking kitten along!”

She hunched in silent misery on the passenger seat. Way past the point of trying to reason with him. Anything she said now would just stoke his rage.

“And don’t go into your goddamn martyr routine on me!”

Little HighJinks, trembling on her lap, mewed in shrill distress, and Lindsey lowered her hands to stroke him.

“You happy now? We’ve never left the cabin early before! It’s my vacation you’re screwing up. But what do you care?”

Lindsey shudders, blinks up at the towering maples and cedars, the vibrant palette of greens, remembering how she used to melt into their serene embrace, the whisper of breezes. Not today.

“Shit! Keep the goddamn cat off me, can’t you at least do that?” Nick had been ranting nonstop for the last hour. Even in the dim dashboard glow she could see arteries standing out on his neck, his hands clutching the wheel, blood pressure going sky-high again.

She scooped HighJinks back onto her lap, the kitten distraught and crying, struggling to climb up Nick’s shoulder and escape out the sliver of open window. Lindsey wanted to dive out into the night with him. Nick had been screaming at her ever since she finally couldn’t take more of his complaints and accusations, and suggested they cut short their vacation at the mountain cabin.

She’d been so pleased the week before, when he seemed upbeat about the trip, and he thoughtfully suggested they bring HighJinks along, since the kitten was too young to leave at a kennel. And now Nick was blaming her for ruining his “plans” to go backpacking, which she’d never heard him mention.

“Easy, now.” She rocked the crying kitten, trying to soothe him.

“Damn it! Shut him up!” Nick swatted backhanded at HighJinks.

“Stop it!” Lindsey finally snapped. “Let us out!”

Nick jerked his face toward her. An awful smile twisted his lips, and he gave the wheel a tug, squealing into a swerve that threw Lindsey against the doorframe.

“Nick, please!”

Kneeling beside the trail, Lindsey digs her fingers into the damp moss, as if it can anchor her. “Please, just…. Please,” she murmurs.

She pushes herself upright again, almost decides to turn back, but her body craves the release of movement. She brushes past a sword fern, cool drops sprinkling her bare legs, and strides fast up the first few switchbacks. She pushes herself to the point of gasping, feeling as if through a veil the flex of muscle in her calves, her heart settling into a deep pounding rhythm, fingertips tingling with the blood flow, lungs expanding to take in the cleansing moist air. Maybe she still needs to be numb, just keep going through the motions and someday the veil will lift.

The buzzing in her ears drives her on.

Lindsey’s ears were ringing, HighJinks yowling desperately to escape as he clawed his way out of her grip, sharp pain in her arms almost a welcome diversion from Nick’s shouts echoing in the car, but then the kitten scrambled toward him again and Nick grabbed him, threw him hard against the back window.

Lindsey screamed, “Stop it! Stop the car!” She unbuckled her seatbelt, started to crawl into the back to find the wailing kitten.

“Fuck you, bitch!” Nick tugged the wheel again, and the car was slamming crazily back and forth, throwing her against the back seat, then against the door. She hit her head hard on the window, stars flaring. Headlights loomed, sweeping out of the dark, a horn blaring as Nick swerved again. “You want out?” he taunted her, and swerved again.

“Nick, please! Just stop and let us out.” She’d found HighJinks now, the kitten a frantic ball of terror, scratching her as she folded him into her sweatshirt and hunched around him in a fetal curl on the back seat. “Please,” she begged.

Lindsey shudders, pushing faster up the trail to the overlook of massive granite opening a glimpse of the river valley and clouds lifting for a moment to reveal jagged snowcapped mountains.

Feeling at least the burn in her legs and lungs, sweating and panting, she crests the rise and drops into the lake ravine. Rain-beaded lacy huckleberry bushes shower her face, the trail turning mucky past a bog of skunk cabbage and rotting logs. In the subdued gray light, the mosses coating every rock and tree trunk somehow glow a brighter green than they would on a sunny day. Breaking through the deep foliage, she stands on a finger of rock extending into Fern Lake, its perfectly round, deep green bowl reflecting the calm gray clouds, the glossy dark green cedars and brighter spring green of alder leaves.

The lake waters are perfectly calm and flat under the overhanging alder boughs. No one else here on a drizzly day. No sound but the distant chortling call of a raven. Water striders glide beneath her on their sticklike insect legs as she steps out onto the gnarled root mass forming a suspended nest over the lake.

Lindsey scrubs at her face, takes a deep breath, and concentrates on quieting the ringing in her ears. She sets her knapsack aside, pulls off her boots and socks, settles into the meshed, mossy roots that make a perfect cupped perch for her butt. She dangles her feet in the water for a moment, taking a quick breath at the cold, then pulls them in to sit crosslegged. She gazes out over the lake.

The buzzing fades, and she almost hears a gentle voice: Let it go. You’re okay now.

A trout jumps, ripples spreading in circles. Nosing along the far shore, maybe a couple hundred feet from her, a pair of mallard ducks spread another set of ripples, iridescent green of the male’s head catching the light in a flash of brilliance.

Lindsey looks up, sees the clouds are breaking apart, gray wisps thinning, letting in the sun.

A breeze shivers the surface of the lake, glittering bits of sun flashing in a sweeping arc across the water. Shimmering reflections of light off the lake pulse along the silvery alder limbs overhead, strobing over Lindsey’s face. She holds out her bare arms to see the waves of electric energy alive on her skin. And suddenly there’s no separation—she is that branch reaching down to touch the water in pulsing reflections of light and shadow, its crooked mirrored arm stretching across the rippled surface toward her.

The limb grows, flowing across the water and up her chest, into her, piercing the brittle shell of her skin. It twines deeper, down into her heart, and rips her open. Lindsey can feel the pain now—ruthless, ecstatic. She’s alive. She gasps in a breath like the first breath of being born into the suffering and joy of the world. She’s alive. Alive.

She flings off her clothes, dives into the cold shock of the lake, gasps again and strokes fast across it, breaking the smooth skin of the surface with her own ripples. Concentric rings pulse outward, and she’s the center.