Doctor Mendez took a long, appreciative sip before answering, which had me wondering if anything at all escaped or perturbed him.
I picked up the makeshift coffeepot Pete had made out of an empty coffee can and started to pour the black, steamy liquid into my mug. I’d get my answer when the doctor was ready.
“Swing the can around a bit,” he said, “so the grounds concentrate on the bottom.”
Holding the coffee can by its wire handle, I did as he suggested, pretending that my question about Morgan mattered less than it did.
“He packed up and left,” the doctor said finally. “Said he wanted to take more camera shots and would meet up with us later.”
I tilted the mug to my lips to hide my disappointment.
“Ready for a big day?” he asked, the silky baritone of his voice smoothing some of the morning’s wrinkles.
I forced Morgan from my mind and stared at the towering clouds. “Yesterday, Veronica pointed out some thunderclouds.”
“We may encounter rain.”
“Are we still headed for the Tassajara Hot Springs region?”
“No reason to change the plan now, considering it brings us closer to civilization.”
“Civilization?”
“Our next stop is about six miles from the Tassajara Hot Springs, which includes a Zen Buddhist monastery and a nearby camping site.”
“I’m glad,” I said, “just in case . . .”
The doctor nodded.
“What do you think about Joshua?”
“So far, so good. I have resumed his meditation and breathing exercises during our camp breaks, and his bond with you and Gabriel appears to remain strong.”
“But today’s the day we pass through the area where he lost his parents.” Would Joshua’s meditation and breathing exercises and his bond with Gabriel and me be enough to counteract the pain he might experience? Would our attempt to help him give full expression to his emerging emotions do him more harm than good? I searched the doctor’s face for a clue as to his feelings about what we might encounter but perceived nothing—not a crease in his forehead, not a curve of his lips, not a shrug of his stocky shoulders.
“I fully agree that Joshua needs you,” I said. “But I still don’t get why Morgan asked you to stay.”
“He must have had a good reason.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Worrying won’t help.”
🗲🗲🗲
Thunder clapped and then rumbled in the distance, low, long. I turned in my saddle to check on Veronica, who, in my mind, served as the atmospheric barometer for our group and our surroundings. The frown on her face was hardly encouraging, nor was the way her gaze remained fixed on the horizon.
Signs of the destructive fire that had passed through the area two years before increased with each quarter mile we traveled. I saw boulders that had cracked due to intense heat, scorched earth, and erratic gaps between tall healthy trees, filled with misshapen branches denuded by the flames that had torched them. Intrigued by what Pete, as storyteller, might add to my understanding of the traumatic event, I urged Blondie to the head of the line.
“Mornin’,” Pete said.
“Good morning, I think. Will we get rain?”
“Prob’ly.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
“Uncomfortable, mostly.” He surveyed the cloudy sky. “Been through a lot worse. It’s you and the kid I worry about.”
“So, you are worried?”
“Bad choice of words.”
“What happened here with the fire?”
“Seems like yesterday,” he said before releasing a long sigh. “Lightnin’ sparked the Tassajara fire that ended up destroyin’ over 87,000 acres of land.”
“It must have been horrible,” I said.
“Depends on who ya ask. Fires are actually good now and then to burn off litter and duff. Chaparral, for one, needs fire for growth and reproduction.”
I took in our surroundings through new eyes and noticed the light green signs of sprouting new growth. “But the fire also caused harm.”
“You got that right,” Pete said. “It wiped out trails and campgrounds, a real bummer for members of the Esselen tribe, who make their livin’ from pack trips and guided tours like this one. They also raise cattle in the area.”
“Plus, lives were lost,” I said.
“Only two that I know of.”
Obviously, Pete wasn’t aware that the two casualties were Joshua’s parents, which was probably for the best. He had enough to worry about, considering the change in weather. As we rode on, I caught more signs of nature rebuilding itself. In places, the grass grew so thick and tall it came up to our horses’ knees, probably serving as shelter to a new crop of animals as well. Namely, mice. “What can you tell me about the mouse totem?” I asked.
Pete’s eyes widened with what looked like surprise, an expression I hadn’t expected to see on his wizened cowboy face. My original impression had been that nothing would surprise him, particularly anything coming from a tenderfoot like me.
“Accordin’ to the stories we share on our wilderness-spirit expeditions, the Native American considers the mouse a great power and helper,” he said. “Why’d ya ask?”
“Joshua gave me his mouse totem as a gift. It meant a lot to him and now means a lot to me. I was just wondering if maybe it had some kind of symbolic meaning.”
“Well now . . . gimme a second to gather my thoughts.”
Pete was a natural in his Mark Twainish ability to tell a tall tale, and he didn’t disappoint me now. “The mouse is near-sighted, so can only see what’s right in front of ’em. It teaches us not to look too far ahead or we’ll miss out on what’s already there. It also teaches us that we can’t really experience anything unless we’re touched by it. We’ve got to feel what we see . . .”
Pete threw a quick glance my way, apparently to see if he still held my attention, and then gave a slight nod and continued. “The mouse is the totem of the South, where folks like you and me get a stab at blossomin’ and unfoldin’ after awakenin’ in the East. Though, to be quite honest, not many people I know of make it to the blossomin’ and unfoldin’ stage. They get bogged down, like sleepwalkers, to the point where they stop growin’ altogether.”
Saddles creaked. Hoofs struck stone and thudded on earth. We were following an old Indian trail, and each bend treated us to more signs of plant life bouncing back in abundance after the destructive fire: the baked-cookie smell of sappy pine warmed by the sun, the bracing scent of decaying vegetation, and the coolness of the moisture in the air. I couldn’t get enough of the high, steep cliffs or the creeks cutting through them. I couldn’t get enough of the silence and the peace. How long would it last?
🗲🗲🗲
“Just hunky-dory.”
Her lack of vitality had me eyeing her with suspicion, but I decided not to dig into what was wrong. Instead, I asked a question for which I was determined to get an answer, no matter what Veronica said about curiosity. “Tell me about your dad.”
A loud shriek tore the heavens, and my heart somersaulted in my chest.
“Damn hawks,” Veronica said, “enough to give you the creeps.”
The horses snorted, and Pete laughed at a joke he’d shared with the doctor. “About your dad,” I said.
Veronica shrugged. “He told me I wasn’t adopted.”
Not adopted?
It took me a few seconds to digest what she’d just said. Even then, my brain didn’t fully comprehend what it meant. We were sisters, identical twins. If she wasn’t adopted, then . . . “He’s your real . . . I mean . . . biological father?”
“Our biological father.”
I pulled back on Blondie’s reins. She whinnied and came to a halt.
Veronica rode on. “His name’s Bob,” she said in a voice as toneless and tightly controlled as Rod Serling’s in his chilling reminders of a world beyond our control.
Bob?
Not Geraldo, as I’d believed for twenty-eight years.
No, no, no, I love you Daddy. I’ll never forget you. You were the greatest.
“Finished asking questions?” Veronica called from at least two horse-lengths away.
Hell no.
I urged Blondie forward with the kick of my heels. I knew my birth father’s name, but it conjured no pictures, no memories—no love. Was he tall? Was he handsome? Did he ever think of me or regret leaving me behind? What was his story? What was my story?
When I caught up with Veronica, she presented me with a sad smile.
“I can’t take it all in,” I said. “Bob. Oh my God.” I thought my head would burst. My father was alive, and Veronica was my link. She could take me to him. He was only a six-hour flight away. “So, your mother is . . .”
“My step-mother.”
“And our biological mother?”
“Is dead.”
“Her name was Antonia Flores,” I said.
“Yeah, Dad told me.”
“Remember Heather, the one who took the picture of Margarita’s mirror?”
Veronica didn’t answer, looked straight ahead.
“While researching her family tree, she discovered an Antonia Flores here in Carmel Valley, who delivered a set of twins the year we were born and died soon after. She was a descendant of Margarita Butron, six generations removed.”
“Pop was married to my step-mother when we were born,” Veronica said, followed by a quick hiss through her teeth. “That makes him a cheat.”
The prospect of meeting my biological father suddenly dropped to near zero on my to-do list. From deep inside, a tingling blossomed into knowledge. Something tragic had happened to our mother. Before she died.
🗲🗲🗲
I unsaddled and groomed Blondie, then gave her a carrot and some water for a job well done and handed her over to Jake. We didn’t converse or make eye contact, an unvoiced arrangement, on my part at least, to make our coexistence tolerable.
Time to catch up with my journal.
I sat near the edge of the rapidly flowing stream and entered my private space, where anything was possible except for my ability to understand. Shadow shapes appeared and disappeared in the water that flowed over hundreds of colorful stones, sometimes cradling the bank and sometimes carving it. I thought about the undivided, flowing movement of consciousness, of how our thoughts and ideas unfold like ripples, eddies, and whirlpools in streams of water, some recurring and persisting, others vanishing as quickly as they appear.
I thought I heard someone crying.
“Antonia, is that you?” I whispered. “If so, cry for us all.”
I wrote without thought of what I was putting down, wondering if someone else was directing my hand. This went on for some time, and would have gone on longer, if Pete hadn’t rung his ‘chuck wagon’ dinner bell and yelled, “Ya’ll come eat or starve.”
🗲🗲🗲
With food came strength, and with strength came an easing in mood. Pete was determined to make this trip a success, which for him included entertainment. “Cowboy Night,” he announced.
Before Morgan had a chance to bow out this time, Pete handed him a scaled-down travel guitar. “You’re needed tonight.”
“Sit by me, Sis,” Veronica said while Pete distributed the rest of the instruments, “so I can braid your hair.”
My face must have registered surprise at the sudden reversal from mean girl to caring sister because she added, “Humor me.”
No sooner had I settled next to her than Veronica yanked the beanie off my head and pulled a comb and two rubber bands from the pocket of her fringed, rawhide jacket. The pull and tug of the comb through my tangled hair hurt, but I bit my lip and kept silent, determined not to whine like a baby.
“You’ve certainly done a number on Morgan,” Veronica said.
My disastrous conversation with Morgan at sunrise had been replaying in my head all day. And now this?
“He loves you,” Veronica said.
Love? Yeah, right.
“You’ve got the power to make him do just about anything.”
I’d been trying to keep my mouth shut, but insinuating that I had—or even wanted—power over Morgan was pushing too far. “I want power over my own life, not anyone else’s.”
She had finished combing my hair and started to braid it, not an easy task, considering my hair was only shoulder length. I’d probably end up looking like Pippi Longstocking, but at this point, I didn’t much care.
“Something about loving yourself before you can love others?” Veronica asked.
She made my quest sound petty, but I refused to budge. I knew what was best for me—not my mother, not Cliff, not Morgan, and most definitely not my sister. No more relying on others to protect me or tell me what to do.
“Why don’t you like yourself?” she asked.
Jeez, what was it with all the self-taught therapists around here? “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Veronica.”
“Do you believe Morgan loves you?”
I didn’t answer. Even if I knew what to believe, which I didn’t, it was none of her damn business.
Abruptly, Veronica stopped braiding my hair and slapped my shoulder with her comb. “What are you, clueless?”
I didn’t like where the conversation was going, but if I’d learned anything about my sister, she wouldn’t stop until she was satisfied.
And satisfied she was not.
“Do you think I’m powerful?” she asked.
Dumb question. “Powerful and beautiful,” I said.
“We’re identical, for God’s sake,” Veronica said, drawing Ben and Pete’s attention.
I waited for their gazes to drift away before saying, “It’s not a case of genetics but attitude.”
“Yeah right, gets me into trouble every time.”
“You go after what you want. You’re free. You know who you are.”
Veronica shifted from behind me and brought her face up to mine. “You think I’m free? You think I know who I am?”
“Dear God, yes.”
“What a bunch of crap,” she said, favoring me with another slap of the comb. “I have no clue who I am, Sis. But I do know what I want.”
“That’s good,” I said.
She shook her head and her response came out soft as a deathbed confession. “I’m very needy.”
Needy, my foot. “Veronica?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
Her mouth curved into what looked almost like a smile, but she didn’t return my endearment. At least not in words. At this moment, I believe she softened toward me. It was the moment everything changed.
“And just so you know,” I whispered, “I can take care of myself.”
She forced air through her nose in a good imitation of Blondie, minus the head toss and foot stomp. “Come on. Let me finish your hair.”
🗲🗲🗲
Morgan started by picking a wordless country tune on his guitar and the rest of the group joined in, hesitantly at first, and then with gained confidence. When the melody ended, Morgan asked. “Anyone know “Cattle Call?”
“Sure do,” Pete said. “It’ll take a bit of yodelin’, but I’ve got it covered.”
After singing about cattle prowlin’ and coyotes howlin’ and doggies bawlin’, Pete yodeled. “Doo, doo, do do, do doo,” reminding me of the cowboy reruns starring Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. And I loved it.
Morgan then sang “To Make You Feel My Love,” and though he didn’t look my way, I fantasized that he was singing it just for me.
During the next song, the doctor’s flute took center stage, sounding like a bagpipe in its lonely call. Ben joined in on the harmonica, followed by Joshua on the drum, and I decided that the simplicity of the Grand Ole Opry songs of old were appropriate out here somehow.
Everyone, except me, joined in while Morgan crooned “South Wind of Summer.” They sang of the wind singing through the trees and hanging low in the breeze and strong hearts flowing over, while my eyes filled with tears.
Veronica changed course by asking the crew to play “Powerful Thing.” After she finished bellowing out the accompanying words, I said, “You have a beautiful voice, Sis.”
“And you don’t?”
“Actually, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you saying that you don’t, or that you can’t, sing?”
I should have kept my big mouth shut. “Both. I think.”
“And I thought I was screwed up,” she said.
Veronica instructed the musicians to play “Paper Wings” and then poked my shoulder with her knuckled fist. “Join me.”
Gillian Welch had performed this song in a movie I’d once seen, and it had affected me so deeply that I’d memorized the words. Now, as my voice blended with my sister’s, I sang for the first time in as long as I could remember.
And it felt good. More than good, actually. It felt magnificent.
Morgan ended the evening by singing, “Red River Valley,” and his voice touched me, as he touched me in so many ways.
For a long time, my darlin’, I’ve waited
For the sweet words you never would say
Now at last all my fond hopes have vanished
For they say that you’r going away.
When he finished, all was silent, except for the crackling of the fire, gurgling of the nearby stream, and call of the night animals.
An owl hooted, hoo-h’HOO-hoo-hoo, and I whispered, “Amen.”