Branching Out (19 page)

C
HAPTER
29

S
helby wasn't sure what compelled her to stand up and leave the concert, except for a longing to search for answers. She needed a sign, a signal, anything to grasp on to and pull herself out of this hole of sorrow in which she felt trapped.

Perhaps it was because her grandfather had often preferred Lake Superior over the church as his personal haven and sacred place—or perhaps she knew that, out here, she would finally be alone.

She could hear the faint sound of laughter bounce across the ice. Looking over her shoulder, she saw people and stars of amber lights collect along the shore. She knew that Ryan's light would be among them and hoped he would understand. While she knew she had been selfish with her time and wasn't giving him the love he deserved, she was so heavily burdened by the weight of her guilt and the feelings of failure that until she found the strength to pull herself out of it she knew she wouldn't be able to be the kind of life partner that he deserved.

The lantern she held in her hand cast an amber halo of light as she walked into the darkness, but she didn't need it to find her way. Hundreds of visitors had trekked to the ice caves during the day, making it easy for her to follow their well-padded path in the snow. The full moon was partially veiled by feathered clouds, but when its light shone through it cast the frozen lake in a heavenly lavender blue. Although she was alone in the cold, she felt safe.

Walking across the ice was akin to walking on sacred ground. The lake's history and majesty was far greater than any challenge she could face in life, and here she prayed she would find the answers. Lake Superior had been called many things—Kitchi-gummi, Le Lac Supérieur—and been admired by generations. The lake had witnessed more loss of life and far greater heartache than anything Shelby would face.

She was far enough away from town now that the only sounds she could hear were the quiet crunch her boots made with each step across the snow and the moans as the ice shifted and settled beneath her.
Keep moving,
she imagined the lake would say.
Olen is here. Jeff, too. Even your son's spirit is here on the lake. You're home.

“She is your lake,” Shelby's grandfather had told her since childhood, especially during the times they sat together on the water's edge, keeping warm in the winter by sharing a thermos of hot cider. “You can count on her being cold. And beautiful. And great. But most of all, you can count on her to always be here for you.” Shelby remembered the way he would lean in and kiss the tip of her chilled nose. “Just like your gran and me.”

Only he hadn't been with Shelby for the past few years.
Maybe he's here tonight,
she hoped as she continued to forge into the dark.

 

Snowflakes began to fall soundlessly and broke into her thoughts. They started slow, settling on her nose and getting caught in her lashes and quickly melting away. She hadn't walked more than another hundred feet before the light snow transformed into flakes that resembled the downy fluff of white goose feathers. They cascaded lazily downward from the evening sky and settled on the ice like a blanket being laid across a bed. She found it comforting. If it continued into the night, she knew that two inches would quickly accumulate to eight or nine. After their walk along the ice luminarias and the chili potluck, Bayfield's residents would return home, being careful while driving on the slick roads. She watched as moonlight gleamed through the mainland trees and cast shadows onto the pristine snow gathering from its shore.

Shelby could see the ice caves in the near distance now, while she imagined young children slipping into warm baths and then footed pajamas, getting ready for bed. Women like her grandmother would be wearing thick bathrobes and cozy socks while reading books in their favorite chairs or leaning into their husband's embrace while watching the evening news. Young lovers would use slippery roads and poor driving conditions as the perfect excuse to stay a little longer and crawl into bed.

Rather than loud traffic, demanding schedules, intrusive news reporters, and insurmountable expectations, the simplicity of these imagined moments made Shelby happy. A collection of quiet, compassionate family moments was what made life meaningful.

After walking nearly two miles, Shelby finally reached the ice caves that had formed along the brownstone cliffs that rose up from the lake. The first few cave entrances were too narrow, so she continued down until she reached a cavernous opening. In the moonlight, the jagged rock wall appeared like a frozen face of Poseidon, water cascades suspended in a frozen state with icicles of varying lengths and thicknesses clinging to and hanging from the surface. The cave entrance was an open mouth on the icy, bearded face.

Shelby walked closer and felt the upper crust of the ice crumble under each weighted step, as if she were breaking through a burnt-sugar layer on a French custard. She paused, noticing how snow was accumulating beside the cave entrance, where the curvature in the rock caught the breeze, spun the snow upward, and then let it settle into a low, smooth drift. Without thinking, she stepped off of the trail and walked toward it. Then, Shelby turned her back to the pillow of snow, extended her arms to her sides, closed her eyes, and let herself fall back. The landing was soft and the snow puffed up into the air and fell back down around her head. In synchronicity, her arms and legs moved back and forth like wipers on a car, pushing the snow up around her. She looked up at the sky and let the snow fall onto her lips and eyelashes. A sudden gust blew across the sinewy treetops that stood along the cliff's summit. In the faint evening light, she watched as a plume of fine snow whirled into the air and then fell down around her.

Shelby took care when getting up, wanting to leave her impression in the snow. She looked down at the impression and, satisfied, walked toward the rocks and disappeared into the gaping, dark mouth of the cave.

The snow angel guarded the entrance until the snowfall filled in its angular skirt and rounded wings. Before long, it would be blanketed in snow, never to be seen again.

C
HAPTER
30

A
s soon as he realized Shelby was out on the ice alone, Ryan's instincts kicked in and he took off running.

There wasn't time to tell Ginny or anyone else what was happening because Ryan feared that by the time he found anyone to help he would have lost sight of Shelby's light. He had been living with the belief that he had already caused one tragedy on the ice, and he would rather die himself than stand by while another person he loved fell victim to this lake.

When he reached the shoreline, the place where a crackling of fine ice skirted around exposed rocks in the shallows and broke easily underfoot, he felt a moment of panic. Out of breath, his heart racing, he bent over and put his hands on his knees.
Breathe!
He tried to steady his nerves, push images of breaking ice and waves of dark, icy water out of his head. He raised his head and looked out at the tiny light of her lantern, twinkling like a single star in the sky. Fading with each minute that he wasted in fear.

He stood up, felt inside his jacket to make sure the key he always carried with him was secure in a deep pocket, took a deep breath, and saw the cloud of his exhalation dissipate into the night air. He charged forward.

 

When Olen and Ryan went out on the ice that day, a few winters ago, they did so in a caravan of snowmobiles with roughly twenty other anglers. The forecast had been for a cold but otherwise bright winter day. No one had expected that a storm would blow across the lake as fast as a freight train and turn a day of bonding into a day of devastation.

He remembered how Olen had chastised him for not having the proper gear and insisted that Ryan borrow his coveralls, thermal fishing gear, and wool hat and face mask. Thinking back on that day, Ryan could almost smell the stench of stale sweat and old fish oil that clung to the clothes.

Once they had finished loading the snowmobile with gear, they took off in a roaring caravan of anglers racing off down the tree-marked ice road. One by one, the other snowmobiles veered off to find their perfect fishing holes until only Olen and Ryan continued racing across the hazy morning ice.

That morning Ginny had warned them of the possibility of a storm, but Olen had been certain that the weather would hold long enough for a full day on the lake. To this day, Ryan still couldn't believe how quickly the conditions had changed from tranquil, gray, overcast skies to a torrent of snow with barely a warning.

Their fishing spot had been windblown and devoid of snow. Although it was immensely thick, the ice had also been extraordinarily clear, a phenomenon unique to Lake Superior. Ryan recalled how the sun shone down through the ice and illuminated the seventy-five-foot depths of frigid water that moved below them.

The men caught some lake trout and a few herring that day. Not great, but a strong enough showing for Ginny and Shelby, who waited for them back at the farmhouse, and certainly enough for a shore dinner. “You earned your supper, rookie,” Olen had said to Ryan, along with a hefty whack on his back.

Everything about that day had changed in an instant. The skies turned sinister and a storm crossed over the expanse of Lake Superior's frozen surface so quickly that once the two men noticed it they barely had enough time to pack up their equipment back on the sled before they were engulfed in a torrent of snow and wind. And then, to make a bad situation worse, the ice started to break apart. The waves were building quickly and surely, creating powerful movement beneath the ice. Section by section, the underwater force was shattering the serene, glass-like surface that Ryan had admired all morning.

When Ryan had told the story about his final moment with Olen on the ice, he held back key details. He let the Meyers family believe that, just when Olen was about to start the snowmobile engine—which would have given him and Ryan enough time to race ahead of the storm before the ice broke around them and make it safely back to shore—Olen had noticed some gear lying on the ice some fifteen feet away. Then, Ryan said, Olen left him by the snowmobile while he went to retrieve it. Before Olen had time to return, they were separated by a break in the ice. The men tried to reconnect, but the conditions on the lake deteriorated too quickly for that to happen.

Now, as Ryan trudged across the ice in search of Shelby, the truth of what had happened that day was forefront in his mind.

After the other snowmobilers took off to find their own respective fishing areas spots, Olen had chosen to go out a little bit farther toward Basswood Island. When he finally turned off of the ice road, Ryan assumed they had reached the spot where Olen intended to fish, but instead Olen asked him if he'd ever driven a snowmobile.

Olen had put the vehicle in Park and left the ignition running before calling out to Ryan over his shoulder, “You've never driven one of these sleds! You want to give it a shot?”

“That's all right, Olen, maybe another time,” Ryan had said. “I don't know enough about this lake—where the ice is thick enough to ride.”

“Hogwash,” Olen had replied, moving off of the snowmobile to allow Ryan to move up to the front and take hold of the handlebars. “Now's as good of a time as any! This ice is as solid as asphalt on a city highway. Come on, what do you have to lose?”

“If you're sure—”

“Key's in the ignition, throttle and hand brakes, just like a motorcycle—it will come to you easily,” Olen had said as the men switched places.

Ryan had gone a bit heavy with the throttle at first, causing the sled to jerk at the start. But it did come easily to him and Olen motioned with his hand for Ryan to go off of the designated road and onto the untouched snow.

“How does it feel?” Olen had shouted from behind.

“Amazing!”

Once they reached their destination, Ryan had slowed the vehicle to a stop and set the brakes. He had helped Olen unload their gear and was about to walk it over to the spot where they would set up for the day when Olen said, “Don't forget the ignition key. I'm putting you in charge of getting us home in time for dinner tonight.”

“Got it.” Ryan went back to the sled and removed the key. He held it briefly in his hand, finding it amusing that Olen had attached the key to a neon-orange rabbit's foot key chain, before slipping it into the pocket of his coveralls.

Hours later, when the storm hit and they were racing to pack up the snowmobile, Olen didn't make that last-minute decision to retrieve forgotten gear that had been left on the ice, as Ryan had claimed.

Once everything was secure, the two men actually climbed aboard the snowmobile with Olen in the driver's position. The wind howled and whipped snow around their bodies as if the weather were toying with them—challenging them to get off of the ice in time—pushing their bodies like a shove from the bully on a playground.
Go!
the wind demanded.
Get off the lake!

Olen's gloved hand had fumbled around the ignition, looking in vain for the key. Then, at the same moment, the men remembered that Ryan had been the last to drive. Olen shouted over his shoulder, “Hand me the key!” just as Ryan was reaching for his pocket.

It had felt flat to the touch.

It must have dropped in deeper,
he remembered thinking. Then he had gotten off of the sled again, removing his glove and shoving his hand all the way down into the pocket until he reached the seam. It was empty.

Ryan had removed his other glove, holding the pair clenched between his knees, while he frantically checked the other side pocket and then both chest pockets. Nothing.

“Ryan, the key!” Olen had cried.

Ryan returned empty handed. He looked at Olen, wide-eyed and furious with himself. “It's gone.”

“What?!” Olen had jumped off of the snowmobile and begun feeling his own clothes, checking for the noticeable bulge of the key. “Think!” he demanded. “Where could it be?”

Ryan's eyes had gone to the ice, its glassy surface now swirling with windswept snow that was already beginning to form drifts around their feet.

Olen's eyes followed. “Shit! You don't think it dropped out of your pocket, do you?!”

Ryan had been too furious with himself to look Olen in the eye. He knew he had to find the key. An orange rabbit's foot in the snow. He had begun kicking up the snow around him and feeling with his boots for the key. But every time he pushed away the snow, the wind just quickly covered the spot again, leaving him unsure of where he had searched.

“You check here—I'm going back to our ice hole. Maybe it fell out of your pocket while we were fishing,” Olen had said without panic and without blame. He had been level-headed and determined as he trudged across the ice alone in search of the key.

A short while into their futile search, their time ran out. A series of loud cracks shot into the air like rifle fire and then they watched helplessly as the lake surface split open. Icy waves splashed over a rapidly expanding area of frozen shards and fractures.

It had all happened so quickly. As the storm's rage intensified and visibility lessened, the two men found themselves stranded and separated on ice fragments that were no bigger than eight feet across—frozen life rafts on an unforgiving lake.

In the end, while fear and remorse coursed through Ryan's body, he had listened to Olen's final words. “Watch over my family,” Olen had said loudly over the sound of the wind, but without a hint of anger or fear.

It was in that moment that Ryan realized, perhaps too late, that he had fallen in love with Shelby. No matter what happened on the lake that day, he was compelled to proclaim his feelings to Olen and, more important, to himself.

“I'm in love with Shelby!” he had yelled across to the older man who was barely visible as he lay limp and cold on the broken ice. “I love her!”

Ryan was unsure if he heard Olen reply, as the sound was weak and overpowered by the wind. He lifted his head, hoping to hear it again. “Make her happy,” came Olen's frail but assured voice. Ryan vowed to himself that, if given the chance, he would try. He would give his heart to the incredible woman who was waiting for him onshore, the woman whose love and infectious joy made his life richer than he had ever imagined it could be.

Just as Ryan set his head back down on the ice, fatigue taking over his body, he saw it. He had blinked a few times, trying to clear the hoary frost that had formed on his brows and eyelashes. Then his eyes focused on a shallow crevice in the ice that was just within reach of his outstretched hand.

Inside of it, caught on a slight ridge of white snow, was the orange rabbit's foot.

 

Shelby had never known the full extent of what happened on the ice that day, just as she never knew Ryan had removed the key from the rabbit's foot and kept it hidden in the deepest corner of his pocket whenever he ventured out on the water. He carried the key with him during their time sailing out of the Chicago marina on Lake Michigan. He had it the day he proposed, while boating on a windless day, and during the video shoots and film debuts for Olen's memorial fund. He had it with him even now, on the evening he had hoped would end with a walk with Shelby along a path of luminarias that glowed along the shore.

His heart raced as he continued walking across the frozen surface of the lake as snow fell around them and isolation set in. He kept his eyes fixed on the glimmer of light that came from Shelby's lantern, shining like a beacon in the snowfall. It reminded him of the lights of the rescue vehicles he had set his eyes on, back on the ice, telling Olen that soon they would be rescued.

This time, Ryan wouldn't fail.