The expanse of the Salish Sea and all its islands were invisible from my spot, but I could hear its restless pulse, feel the ebb and flow. Like putting your ear to someone’s chest and feeling the course of the blood, the steady thrust of the heart. I closed my eyes and tried to draw the image out of my memory: beyond the shore, at the distance of about twelve nautical miles, lay Marrow Island — where Katie was living now, on a commune; where my father and eight other men were burnt to death after the earthquake.
Two. THE WOODS
MALHEUR NATIONAL FOREST, OREGON
APRIL 24, 2016
CAREY WAKES AT dawn to get to the ranger station by eight. It’s a forty-minute drive from where we are, down three Forest Service roads near the Wolf Creek Trailhead. He kisses me behind the ear and slips out of bed, tucking the blankets back around my body. No central heat in the cabin; it’s always cold in the morning. He starts the coffee and oatmeal and heads for the shower. I stare out the window at the pine trees, listening to the birds, the air-splitting jeer of a jay, the constant trill and chatter of the flycatchers. I close my eyes again and just listen. There’s a pine with one lazy arm draped over the roof that scratches the outside wall in the breeze. I’ve become so accustomed to the sound, it almost disappears. I try to pick it out under the birdcalls and the river, the shower and the coffeemaker.
The faucet squeals when Carey shuts off the water. His movements are quiet, deliberate. Maybe it’s from working in the wilderness. He doesn’t stomp around like some men, putting his full weight into everything. It’s like the signs at the trailheads: LEAVE NO TRACE. He recognizes the traces left behind by other men and a few women. I see the marks in him, too. As he comes back into the bedroom, the floor creaks. I roll over and watch him pull on a pair of briefs, socks, an undershirt. His khaki shirt and trousers hang from the back of the door.
I slip out of bed and go to the bathroom. The coffeemaker is sputtering its last drops into the pot.
“Pour me a cup?” I call from the toilet.
It’s waiting for me on the table.
It’s still too hot to drink, so I stand on my toes and kiss the back of his neck. We don’t talk much in the morning. He portions the oatmeal and butters toast, and we sit down to eat. There’s a pile of mail on the table and Carey glances at it. The letter on the bottom, which I tried to hide below the bills, was for me. I let it sit there a week before Carey opened it for me and I read it by the fire, half thinking about tossing it in.
“Have you answered her yet?” he asks.
I shovel a full spoon of oatmeal into my mouth and shake my head. He doesn’t look upset, just confused.
“It’s not like you to run away from something,” he says, biting off a corner of his toast.
“It’s exactly like me to run away,” I say through my oatmeal. “What else would I be doing here?”
He locks eyes with me, shrugs.
“Other than you,” I say, too late.
He swallows the rest of his coffee and takes his dishes to the sink.
“Deathbed request, Luce. Don’t get many of those in a lifetime.”
Jesus, Carey. Always taking the high road, I think, but don’t say. I can’t say anything. My cheeks are hot; I know he’s right.
He pours the rest of the coffee into a thermos and puts a can of soup and a sandwich into his lunch pail. He hadn’t bargained on me coming out here when he accepted the post in the Malheur. He asked me to visit and I came. After three weeks he had asked, “So I guess you’re staying?” And I had said, “I can’t imagine leaving.” The you was implied, I thought. I can’t imagine leaving you. I just couldn’t say it at the time. Two months later and I’m still not saying anything right.
He doesn’t look at me as he’s getting ready to go. I meet him at the door, put my hand on the deadbolt but don’t turn it.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I know,” he says, leans down to kiss me. I kiss him slower and deeper, and feel his hesitation, feel him trying to swallow the hurt. I let him go and open the door. He gets in his truck and backs down the bed of pine needles we call a driveway, lifts a hand to wave before he pulls onto the blacktop. I watch from the porch, the burnt-sugar taste of his mouth still in mine.
Back in the cabin I pick up the letter. It had been forwarded to Carey’s PO box in Prairie City. When I saw the letterhead with the roses and the cross, I had a good idea what it would say.
April 5, 2016
To Miss Lucie Bowen,
I am writing on behalf of Janet Baldwin, formerly Sister Janet Baldwin, one of our own, the Sisters of the Holy Family. As you may know, before her conviction and incarceration at the Women’s Correction Center in Walla Walla, Janet was diagnosed with progressive adenocarcinoma. She refused radiation and chemotherapy offered by the State during her incarceration. After several weeks, hospice workers and the Chaplain successfully petitioned for Janet’s compassionate release. The Sisters of the Holy Family were moved to take in our sister Janet, and we are seeing her through her final days here in Spokane at our Provincial House.
Janet has made few requests, but she wished for me to contact you especially, and asks if you are able to visit her here. She believes that you may have something that will help her in her final hours — a keepsake of your time together, perhaps. She cannot be more specific — her mental capacities are failing — but believes that you will know what she needs. Even if you do not have the item, I believe that your presence would be a comfort to her. Janet speaks of you often, with such warmth.
We can accommodate you here at the Provincial House as our guest. You are welcome to share in our meals and Communion as you wish. I have provided my mobile phone number. You may call anytime to arrange your visit or to inquire further. If you cannot come, please consider writing what is in your heart, and know that we will share your words with Janet in her final days. We will keep you and all who have known Janet in our prayers.
In God’s Love,
Sister Rose Gracemere
I sit out on the steps on the side of the porch in a patch of sun. The steps lead down the path to the bank of the river. The wind cuts through the trees, and goose bumps crackle up my arms.
What keepsake? She spoke of me warmly? She must be losing her mind. Katie was her favorite; it was Katie she would ask for. But Katie couldn’t go to her; she was under house arrest in Bellingham, so she asked for me? What would Katie have that Sister J. wanted? Neither of them were the keeping type.
“What we hold on to says a lot,” Sister J. said once. “But what we let go, sings.”
Inside again, I pack a few things for the day. I’ve been hiking the old logging road to the fire lookout, about two hours up the mountain. There’s nobody staying up there this early in the season, so I can be alone. More alone than in the cabin, with the drab furnishings and random objects left by previous rangers. The boarded-up smell that never leaves a temporary residence. The shady intimacy of the trees, crowding around the cabin like very tall people, looking down, watching. At the lookout, the elevation creates solitude, looking down on the trees and across to the rolling hills down onto the plain. I’m supposed to be writing a book, but mostly I watch the river below or sleep on the cot until it’s time to come back to the ground.