They Almost Always Come Home (11 page)

“Tonight wouldn’t be too soon.”

“Do you have a
feeling
?”

“You mean, from God?” I don’t have that kind of relation- ship with the Lord anymore. I don’t
hear
from Him. He doesn’t promise me things like He does some others. Feeling? I haven’t felt anything for longer than I can remember. “No. Wishful thinking.”

I help her don her own backpack, surprised at how clumsy I am with all those pounds on my back. Like the weight of grief, it makes me stumble on simple motions. It throws off my normal balance. I can’t move gracefully. I don’t glide. I waddle. What I need is a gymnastics class and some of Lacey’s agility. Jen and I hit the trail, wobbling and bent too far forward, which we soon realize is a hazard.

“You take the lead,” I tell Jen. “You’ll be quicker on your feet.”

“Don’t count on it.”

I lean my backpack bustle against a tree and let her slide past me in the narrow corridor of the forest. It takes a surge of courage to push off from the leaning tree and start after her. A large part of me wants to wait in the Blazer. For days, if neces- sary. Until they find him. Or don’t.

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L
ike a boxer boasting about the bruises he gained during his last match, Greg regaled me with stories about these portage trails.

Portage
. A French word synonymous with torture.

On a good day, walking a rugged portage trail with the

aid of two sturdy stabilizing poles would be challenge enough. Today, parts of the path are as slick as yogurt because of the recent rain. And we’re carrying who knows how much weight on our backs. I don’t know about Jen, but I feel as if my back is nine months pregnant and at least as awkward.

I used to watch “Survivor” on TV and pity the contestants

who scratch their poxlike bug bites during the personal inter- views at their jungle camps. Now I want to tell them, “Try strapping half a house to your back and itching at the same time.”

“Ahk!” Jen cries out.

“What?”

“I just swallowed something! I think it’s still flying!”

“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “It won’t live long.”

Jen sends me a dark look. “You should consider a career in

professional comforting.”

10

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They Almost Always Come Home

She coughs. So do I. Sympathy cough.

Certain sections of this portage are downright impossible. I stand on a fallen log that’s split open. Surveying the next twenty feet of the trail offers me no viable options. All I see is what appears to be a path made of ankle-deep mud. We’ll never know how deep unless we step into it, and I’m not vol- unteering. Conjoined trees on the left of the trail. Something that resembles moss but could be cleverly disguised quicksand to the right.

I’m grateful I let Jen lead.

She tiptoes along the left edge of the mud pit, hugging trees like a woman who suddenly thought better of the idea of jump- ing off the ledge of a tall building.

I don’t tiptoe well. The ooze into which I slide threatens to suck my hiking boots off my feet and take my socks with them. I spread my toes inside my boots and lumber out of the muck onto a stretch of trail that descends like steps with tree roots as treads.

So much for the hiking boots. We’re all of fifteen minutes into the wilderness, and I’ve ruined one of the two pairs of shoes I brought.

With the caking of mud, my feet seem as heavy as the load on my back. Because the mud on my shoes is as slick as that on the trail, my boots are like fresh-waxed skis on sheet ice. I have to be all the more cautious where I step.

“The rocks are our friends,” I chant. “The rocks are our friends.”

I lose Jen. She’s no doubt in the next province by now, as slowly as I’m taking the so-called path.

Marathon runners say they reach a point they call “the wall,” when their minds tell them they can’t go on, not another step. By my calculations, I hit three invisible walls on this first portage. As I emerge into the light and joy of the shoreline at

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the edge of Beaverhouse Lake, I promise myself I won’t ask how many more of these portages we’ll face before the trip is over. I don’t really want to know.

“Frank, that was no half a mile,” I complain as I drop my

backpack on the shore near the two canoes and a breathless Jenika.

“Yeah. May have underestimated. Tell you what. I’ll make

the last trip back up the trail solo. I’ll haul the last of the equip- ment while you women recuperate.”

I’m drowning in the words “last trip solo.”

Jen answers for both of us. “Thanks, Frank. That’s big of

you. But I think there are two packs and a couple of hand- carried items still back there.”

“Don’t think I’m gonna go soft on you girls more than this

once,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads back into the northwoods version of the Trail of Tears.

Soft? I close my eyes. We just experienced the soft part of

this trip?

********

Most of the mud slips off my hiking boots when I wade into

the water. My assignment is to get the now-loaded canoe far enough from shore that it won’t drag on the rocky bottom once we push off. Jen’s in the back, steering, supposedly. Frank’s out on the water, halfway to the Atlantic Ocean. I’m working on getting into the canoe more gracefully than I emerged from the woods. Not to worry. I’ll have other chances.

“Don’t swamp us before we get a good start,” Jen chides.

Still maneuvering my body into the triangle reserved for

me, I glance back at the equipment crammed into the bottom of the canoe. Most of it shows mud or water-spot evidence that testifies to my lack of grace. I’m grateful the SAT phone is

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They Almost Always Come Home

tucked in the waterproof bag. We can’t afford to let that thing get as soaked as I am.

“There’s a trick to this,” I say as I settle my bottom onto the canoe seat that’s only a hair more comfortable than aluminum bleachers. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”

Jen and I experiment with the wilderness equivalent of parallel parking. We’re backing the canoe out of the cove, turn- ing it around to face the direction Frank’s going, and—in his words—
starting to
fix to commence to begin
to follow him. I imagine Jen’s grateful for her summer camp experience with a canoe. I now wish I’d chosen canoeing over basket- weaving for my elective. What are the odds I’ll need to pull out my basket-weaving or pot holder-making talents up here?
Lord, please tell me I won’t need to use my CPR training
. In his dented tin can canoe, Frank looks like he’s jogging in place or treading water, waiting for us to catch up to him. My heart spasms. “Jen! We have to go back!” “What?”

Frank’s too far away to catch every word, but I can tell from his posture that he’s not happy with my announcement. “How could we have done that?”

“Done what?”

“I was in such a hurry to get on the water, so concerned about pulling my own weight on the trail, that I didn’t look around the parking area for clues. The Blazer might be rest- ing on top of an important piece of evidence! We have to go back.”

I stop paddling. That alone will fuel Frank’s ire, I’m sure. I’m more convinced than ever that this is a bad idea—this whole trip. Great detectives, aren’t we? Greg could have been lying in the underbrush along the edge of the parking area, and we would have missed him.

“What’s she yapping about?” Frank asks Jen.

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“She’s worried that we should have combed the put-in point

for evidence, Frank.”

“I did that. Thoroughly,” he says.

“You did?” I want to believe him.

“When?” Jen asks.

“When I went back for the last load, while you girls were

taking your sweet time resting at the end of the portage trail.”

I would have argued, but the only point on which I could

hold any ground was changing
sweet
to
sweat
.

Frank investigated. He took care of it. “Anything turn up?”

I ask, reining in my galloping hopes.

His agitation carries well across the water between us.

“Would I have kept something like that to myself?”

I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever regain full brain func-

tion. It must be the lack of sleep. I take a breath to fuel an apol- ogy, but Frank interrupts my self-loathing.

“We’re not,” he says with finality, “going back. Not until

we find him. Get those paddles back into the water and try to keep up.”

“Lib.” Jen’s voice sounds parental.

“What?”

“Start paddling. We’re moving forward.”

So we are.

After a million, I stop counting paddle strokes and grunt-

ing like a tennis star with each one. It’s all about rhythm and efficiency of effort. No wasted motion.

I haven’t even begun to conquer the proper method when

Frank uses his canoe paddle to point toward a spot along the far shore and mouths the word “portage.”

I’ve been in labor three times. The second was fourteen

short months after the first. Not nearly long enough for my body to bounce back as it should have before tackling such a monumental project again. With Alex, I saw six shift changes

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They Almost Always Come Home

in the nursing staff while on the maternity floor, if that says anything about duration.

Piece of cake compared to this.

When I was in labor, I had the option of calling for an epi- dural. I didn’t, but I could have, and I drew enormous comfort from that knowledge.

No epidurals exist for the pain I’m in now. It’s not all physi- cal. I don’t need a psychologist to tell me that.

But in addition to the contractions my heart endures as we cross the water, my arms ache, my hands are cramped, my back screams its protests, and I’ve lost all feeling in the part of me that’s glued to the canoe seat. I guess that’s an epidural of sorts—the numbness.

The packs in the bottom of our canoe look more and more like pillows. How often does Frank turn around to check on us? Could I sneak in a nap? Stretch out my legs? Stop the end- less rhythm of paddle strokes?

“You doing all right?” Jen asks from her perch behind me. “Peachy. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve never seen a canoeist pull off a limp before.” “Limp?”

“Your strokes are slowing, and they’re not as even as they were before. Should we ask Frank to let us take a break?” “Us?”

“I’m significantly younger than you are.” “Great time to rub that in.”

“But this is more physical exertion than I’ve put out since I ran cross country in high school.”

“You ran cross country? Did you ever tell me that?” “One season.”

“Just the one?”

“I quit for my parents’ sake.”

“Why?”

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“To save them from the embarrassment. It didn’t bother me

to come in last every race.”

Memories of all the ways I unintentionally embarrassed my

mother—according to her—slide through my mind.

“It earned me a special trophy during the sports awards

ceremony,” Jen rambles. “ ‘Heart of a Champion,’ which I think meant ‘Least Likely to Place, Much Less Win.’ ”

I’ve found another excuse not to paddle. Overwhelming

empathy. “Oh, Jen.”

“Like I said, it didn’t bother me. It probably should have, but

I joined the cross country team for all the wrong reasons. Boys. Track and cross country guys didn’t have the swelled egos of guys on the other sports teams. Made some great friends. And please keep paddling.”

“Yes, ma’am.” My arm strokes resume with false vigor.

“After that first season, I could no longer imagine forcing

my parents to wait at the finish line long after the other par- ents packed their lawn chairs and coolers and headed home.” “You’re exaggerating.”

“Not by much. I wonder now how much stronger I’d be if

I’d stayed in sports throughout high school and college, and if I ever found an exercise program I liked in adulthood.” “I hear you.”

“You’re watching for blisters, aren’t you, Lib?”

“Blisters?” I’m watching the shoreline for a snatch of fabric

from Greg’s shirt. I’m watching the water for a floating clue. I’m watching the horizon—what we can see of it through breaks in the trees—for signs. I’m watching the sun sink too close to the horizon. But no, I’m not watching for blisters.

“Did you bring gloves?” she asks. “If we’re paddling this

many hours every day, we’ll either have to toughen up fast or wear gloves.”

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They Almost Always Come Home

I don’t feel tough. I’m beaten down by the effort it takes to do anything up here, and by the fact that I didn’t get my wish. Dusk will soon be upon us. When we pull out the SAT phone tonight, we won’t report victory. Greg’s still missing. Over and out.

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S
even quadrillion nautical miles after launch, we nose the canoes onto the shore at the base of a picturesque hump- backed island. I assume Frank intends for us to take one of our disturbingly frequent bathroom breaks. The island seems little larger than the swim raft at camp.

“Start hauling gear, ladies,” Frank barks as he uncoils his

legs and sprints out of his canoe.

“Where?” Jen asks before I can.

Frank points with his forehead and chin. “Up there.” He

hoists the rough canvas Duluth pack, the tackle box, and the waterproof container for the SAT phone, and takes the rock climb two-at-a-time like a teen bounds upstairs to his room after school.

“Jen?”

“What?”

“Do you suppose he means we’ll camp here tonight?”

“Looks like it.” She keeps her voice low as she unstraps the

cord securing our packs to the safe interior of the canoe. Sound carries too well here.