I woke up early that morning and made some tea with the last bag in the box. I sat at the table in silence scribbling a few notes in my journal and when I was out of ideas, I let the pen fall out of my hand and slap against the wood table. My fingers drummed against the rim of the tea mug.
I was restless. I did what I do whenever I’m restless. I ran.
I left the front door unlocked, something I wouldn’t be caught dead doing back home, and trotted down the front porch steps. I ran down Hemlock and took a left on Shore Drive. I ran past the park, and past the boat ramp. I followed the road up the little hill and back to the highway. I crossed and ran head on along the two lane road, passing houses and farms. Before I knew it I was already to Quinn’s Market. Despite it being early Sunday morning, the store was open and bustling with people. Big diesel trucks were filling up at the gas station and the big shed I had seen the other day was open now, bursting with farm supplies – bags of seed and grain, bales of hay. It was there that I saw them.
Two men, probably in their mid twenties, one standing in the back of an old blue pickup truck, the other in the shed swinging halved bales of hay up to him. The man in the shed was enormous, (and to make me say that was impressive, since my best friends for the past four years had been football players.) He wasn’t just tall, he was big, built, like he had been lifting weights his whole life. He had short brown hair and a really friendly, round face. His eyes squinted into tiny crescents when he grinned and he had a big toothy smile. His dark blue t-shirt said "RESCUE" on the back and PHFR on the front pocket. That would explain it. He must be the world’s best firefighter. He was certainly throwing the hay into the truck with no problem.
The man in the bed of the pickup seemed less bulky, at least from where I stood. He could have been just as tall, but he was leaner. If the firefighter was the linebacker, this guy was the quarterback (forgive another football analogy.) He kept up with the big guy though. He was moving the bales with just as much ease, stacking them up in the truck. Suddenly he straightened up and pushed his hands against his arching back, stretching out his spine. A gloved hand came to his face and he wiped the sweat off his forehead. It was then that I saw his face. He wasn’t strikingly good looking, I noticed immediately. He wasn’t nearly as friendly looking as the first man, either. In fact, he looked kind of mean. His hair and coloring was the same as the other man's, which led me to believe they might be brothers. His eyes were bigger though, and much colder. Even from where I stood, I could tell his brow was furrowed as he squinted against the sun.
He was focusing at me, I realized with a panic. My first instinct was to ignore him – to look away and keep going. But, since these guys were the first people my age who looked like they belonged here, I was half tempted to go introduce myself. I wished whole heartedly that Hollie was here, she would have done it in an instant. I certainly didn’t have the guts.
I couldn't stifle a loud smirk when the big guy, still engrossed in his chore, swung a bale into the truck, not realizing the other one wasn’t paying attention. The bundle landed with a loud crack onto the tailgate. Startled, the mean looking one turned and yelled at his friend, throwing his arms up in the air. I was worried they were actually fighting for a minute as they exchanged words and animated gestures. But, there was a pause, and then a roar of laughter between them. So the mean-looking one could laugh? The smile stayed glued on my face as I ran ahead and turned around the bend, my two new neighbors disappearing out of sight.
All of a sudden I felt like I had been holding my breath for an hour. I folded my fingers together on the top of my head and tried to catch my breath. Frustrated, I slowed my pace a little, but still wasn’t recovering fast enough. I swore out loud (a little too loud probably, since it echoed along the highway) as I waited for a semi truck to roar past me before dodging across the street. I hopped over the barrier between pavement and forest floor and picked my way over a fallen tree trunk and into the woods.
I eventually found a well worn path through an alder grove and about a minute later the dense forest gave out to the beach. I knew it would. The shoreline is only ever a couple minute walk from the highway all the way through town.
I ran along the dirt trail as long as I could, until it gradually dissolved into loose, deep sand and rocks. It was too big a risk to my ankles to keep running, so I slowed to a walk. I picked my way through the pebbly brown sand and smooth rock until I came to a large dry piece of driftwood. I sat there for I don’t know how long with my elbows on my knees, chin in my hands, just watching the water.
I don’t know if it was the stinging, salty wind, my ruined run, the all too permanent absence of my friends, or a different aspect of my life uprooting, but tears started to fall. It was no use trying to keep a handle on it, there was no one out here to see.
Through blurred eyes, I could make out two or three dorsal fins of the familiar Dall’s porpoises as they appeared and ducked under the softly rolling water near a crab pot buoy. Seagulls squawked over the bright orange lobster shells that had found their way from cruise ship decks to this beach (you do the math.) A blue heron stood completely still a few feet from me, and was only visible after he flew away in a panic as two bald eagles landed yards away, one with a small fish clutched in a talon.
I remained completely still and just watched. The tear drops made little depressed spots in the sand between my feet. I wasn't sure how much time had passed, but when the eagles had flown away, and my face had reached a substantial puffiness from the crying, I ran home.
Was I being a baby about this? I don't know. I often think back to the genuiunely lost, abandoned feelings I felt in those first couple of days. It was like my whole world for the past four years had never really existed after all. If it could all disappear so quickly, what was the point of it to begin with? I felt disoriented and shaky in my thoughts, like my real life's reality was a path I had wandered from. On the other hand, things could be much worse. This was something everyone went through – it wasn't a crisis.
It was almost noon by the time I had gotten out of the shower, dressed, and had dried and straightened my hair. It was just about time for lunch with Celine. I was feeling a bit better. I was surprised, but crying it out a little bit and the hard run back home had helped a lot. So did the guilt trip I sent myself on for being such a baby. I convinced myself that this new neighborhood was going to be a little adventure of mine.
Despite the heat, I had on jeans and a t-shirt as I locked the front door. I didn't feel like a safety lecture if Dad should beat me home. My flip flops smacked down the steps, and cell phone in my pocket and keys in my hand, I opened the door to the Bronco. It was as though I had opened an oven door. No way was I enduring an air conditioning-less drive up to Celine's, even if it was only a couple blocks away. There was an orange in the passenger seat, and I grabbed it before I slammed the door shut and hid the keys on top of the front tire.
It was such a nice day outside anyway. The sun was peaking through the pine trees, and the tide must have been coming in again, because I could hear waves crashing on the beach.
I was early, so I walked slow, absentmindedly eating the orange and tossing the peels into the tall grass on the side of the road. Up at the highway again, I crossed like I had before and walked a block down to Spruce Avenue. The road was so remote here that it wasn’t even paved on this side of the highway. I passed big fields and barns and a couple houses, lots of horses here too. I hadn’t really wandered up here before, and never realized farms were so close to the house. About a quarter mile up the street it seemed to come to a dead end. But just like Celine had said, to the left of the road was a driveway that wove its way up the hill. I followed this road up and up.
Soon the rocky, dusty road replaced itself with a damper, mossy dirt. A wooden fence started about forty feet off the turn and wild lavender grew around its posts. There were trees all over – I was walking through the forest. This was the real deal though, the actual Olympic National Forest, not a little wood leading to the beach. With Spanish moss hanging from the tree branches, and the dense, dark trees blocking out much of the summer sun, I felt a little like Dorothy, walking along a gloomy forest trail, just minus the yellow bricks.
I kept walking, wondering if I should have driven.
Just then, the forest gave way to a clearing. A large white horse and her foal were standing on top of a hill, the mother grazing, the foal, jumping about, playfully nibbling its mother’s tail. Around the tiny hill were several more horses. I couldn’t see a fence anywhere, but I did see a large brown barn across the field. This had to be the place. Sure enough there was the house, standing there as I rounded the corner. I stepped up onto the southern style wrap-around porch and lifted my arm to knock but before I could, the door opened.
"Hello Miss Baker," Celine said warmly. "I didn’t expect you'd be on foot! I could have come to get you."
"I’ve got the truck at home," I laughed as she ushered me through the door. I followed her through a TV-less living room and large dinning room. "It was a nice day and I decided I could use the walk."
"It is a nice day out," she agreed. Putting all her weight into it, she pulled the sliding door open that lead to a back deck. "Maybe we can talk a walk after lunch?"
"Sounds good to me." She pulled out a rod iron chair for me and sat across from me. There was a terrifyingly elaborate spread on the table. "You did not have to go to all this trouble!" I said, mortified.
"Oh for goodness sake, relax," she laughed, filling my glass with lemonade. "I rarely get visitors."
"I thought you had sons," I asked, taking a sandwich from the tray. "Don't they take advantage of a mom who cooks?"
She laughed into her lemonade glass. "They do, but they would eat cardboard. This is a real lunch party."
"Can't imagine why no one would come up here." I realized I probably shouldn't have said that when I saw the brief flash of sadness across her face.
It flushed away quickly as she smiled again. "There are so few people here. You will come to understand that very quickly."
"I think I already am starting to. So far, I know you, and... you, and-"
"Me?"
"Oh yes, and you." I looked around the property as I finished a bite of sandwich. "Man, I could stay here forever. I'm going to be banging your door down."
"Please do," she said. "It gets lonely up here."
"Who needs people around?" I grumbled.
"The people of town and our family have, historically, not gotten along very well," she said. "So I guess we like it up here. It's good that we keep to ourselves. People tend to forget we are even here."
"But you said you know Dad? I’m sure if you know him, you must have other friends in town. Dad is kind of a recluse," I smirked.
"You might be surprised to know that your father wasn’t always so quiet."
I tried to imagine Dad how she must see him – how she knew him before he had kids.
"I guess the responsibility of two little kids and no wife would suck the fun out of anyone," I said bitterly. I looked up to explain, but she waved me off.
"I know all about it, Lana. Your father brought you and your brother up here for a while right after your mother moved to California," she said quietly. "It's terrible."
"Did you know her?" I asked, stunned that Celine might have known me when I was little. Even more shocked that she might have known Reena.
"I met her a few times, but I didn’t know her," Celine said carefully. "Meg, my adopted sister, and I babysat you two a few times when Ricky was out on work trips."
"What?!" I yelled, a little too loudly. "Why did we stop coming up here? Why didn’t he ever tell us we had been up here?"
"You’ll have to talk to him about that one, it’s really none of my business. I probably shouldn’t have said anything at all."
"No, I’m glad you did. I’ve been wondering how you knew so much," I smiled, calming down. "So did you like her?"
"Reena was pleasant enough, but I could tell she nervous. The thought of spending a lifetime in Edmonds with your father scared her I think. She had two tiny kids, no job – she was dependent on him entirely," Celine reasoned carefully, watching for my reaction.
"She was afraid of being left, so she did the leaving," I concluded out loud.
"They rushed into everything. Rick is one of those men who likes to be needed," she smiled, "In my opinion. And Reena is a woman who needs to take care of herself."
"You’re not telling me anything I don’t know about Dad," I smirked. "I think that’s why he had to go back to work. He can barely take care of himself, but he is a pro at taking care of everyone else."
"That’s not unlike someone else I know," Celine said slyly.
"What do you mean?"
"You."
"And how would you know that?" I demanded softly.
"Remember me saying there is hardly a soul up here?" I nodded. "Remember how I said your father and I have known each other since childhood?" I nodded again. "We talk. He talks about you and Eli every other sentence."
"Oh boy, that’s embarrassing," I muttered, looking away.
"And from what I've gathered already, his descriptions of you are pretty accurate," she argued. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Why did you decide to come back and live with your dad?"
"Why did I come back?" I repeated quietly. "Because I didn’t have anywhere else to go."
"And why didn’t you have anywhere else to go? Couldn’t you have gone on a trip with your friends, or moved for a job, or stayed in town, or done whatever you wanted to?"
"Okay, so I'm lazy," I reasoned.
"I don’t think so."
I felt my eyebrows come together in confusion. "Or afraid, I guess."
"I think you moved home because you are the last person in your dad’s life and you didn’t want to leave him." I opened my mouth to argue with her, but stopped, my lips pressing back together. "You sacrificed your summer to be with Rick. You’ve hid that truth from everyone, even yourself," she laughed. "See what I mean now?"
"Never thought about it that way. But Dad is perfectly capable of taking care of himself."
"That's not what I mean."
I knew that's not what she meant. "Elijah was lucky. He could leave me with Dad and not feel so guilty about going away to school. He’s only been a few times since turned eighteen. I’m jealous," I said, with an unintentional hint of self pity.
"You wouldn’t have been happy doing that though, would you?" She asked, picking up her glass.
"No, probably not. I love it here too much, and I love being near Dad, but it would be nice to have an adventure once in a while. Life has been totally mapped out until now with school and soccer. Now all the structure is gone, I don‘t know what should be next." She smiled and nodded her head as I rambled on. "You know, it's funny because all through school, I felt so trapped by everything I had to do – work, school, soccer – I never had time to actually experience college. I was trapped, and now the doors kind of swung open, and I'm left dumbfounded – I don't know what to do with all of this freedom."
"That’s the exciting part. Anything can happen now."
"Right, but how do I know what the right path is? How do I know I won't get halfway down one route only to realize I should have done something else?"
"You are looking at the point you are at right now as a left or a right, a right or wrong answer. It’s not that complicated. The beauty of it is that you can afford to make mistakes or change your mind. To tell you the truth, I think if you let it, the decision will make itself for you. You‘ll just know."
That made a lot of sense, but could I really leave something as important as this up to chance? Besides that, could I legitimately find something to frame my life around out here in the middle of nowhere? I kept seeing an image of me in the back of my mind, old, fat, unhappy, and stuck in some cubicle job - working for a paycheck and not doing anything that would matter after I was dead and gone. I was so afraid of that happening.
I suddenly realized our conversation. "Wow," I said, chuckling.
"What is it?" she asked, puzzled.
"I thought I was the psychology major. How did you get me to do that?"
"Do what?"
"Spill my guts like that?"
"Five trouble makers. I managed to acquire the divine skill for cracking through to the truth." She cocked her head and smiled, scrunching up her nose.
"I still can’t believe you have five sons. Are they quintuplets or what?"
"Casey is my oldest. He’s 28 and lives in Port Townsend with his father, Calen," she said proudly.
"What’s with all the C names? Calen, Casey, Celine?"
"That's not even the half of it. But you know, we didn’t even realize we had done that until our third son was born," she laughed. "Then we had to keep up the tradition."
"Makes sense. Don’t want to leave anyone out."
"No certainly not," she chuckled. "Anyway, he’s a journalist up there. Colin, my second eldest is an attorney in Seattle. He specializes in divorce and domestic abuse cases. Cooper is next in line, he’s 26 and teaches history to middle school kids."
"I think that must be the worst age for kids to be. Such little monsters," I sneered. "Didn't even like them when I was one of them."
"I think Cooper would probably kiss you for saying that," she laughed. "Anyway, my two youngest still live in the area, the two I told you about, that live up the hill. Carter is a firefighter, and Cole, my youngest, is a Fish and Wildlife officer for the Eastern Olympic Peninsula."
"That sounds like a cool job. What does he do?"
"Most days he checks tides and the fire scale, does a run through, and that‘s about it. The job has it’s perks though – he’s got a lot of free time and it pays really well."
"Does he drive a blue pickup truck?" I asked, suddenly remembering the two guys I saw earlier that morning.
"He does. Why do you ask?" she asked, smiling.
"I think I saw them today at Quinn’s."
"That was them. On the weekends they both come around to help their poor old mother with her chores," she said in a dramatically feeble voice.
"Poor old mother, yeah right.
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