Rosie (9 page)

“No.”

“You don't want to teach.”

Silence.

“You'd be a great English teacher, loving books so much.”

“I don't know. Classrooms are so
loud.”

“We have
got
to think about what to do with you.”

“Judo-chop my shoulders. Thank you. Ohhhhhhh!” Elizabeth moaned, a rich soft vibrating moan.

Elizabeth agreed, for reasons she did not entirely grasp, to go backpacking with Rae the following weekend: maybe an urge to move, one step after another, maybe to try something new for the first time in years. And within minutes of telling an ecstatic Rae that she would go, paranoia and dread set in: she would never return alive. She would spend the entire weekend obsessing that the house had burned down, that Rosie was dead, that she would lose her mind up in the mountains not knowing for sure. Goddammit, why on earth had she agreed to go?

Rosie wailed. “Noooooooo, please. Noooooooo.”

“Mrs. Thackery said she'd love for you to spend Saturday night with them.”

“Noooooooo,” Rosie cried, her palm against her forehead, tortured eyes piercingly blue against water and redness, lips stretched outward like a square-mouthed jack-o'-lantern.

“Rosie, for God's sake, stop being so dramatic. You've spent the night with the Thackerys a thousand times.”

Rosie leaned against the refrigerator, possessed. “I'm begging you,” she whispered.

Elizabeth smiled gently at her. “Come on, baby.”

“Don't you Come on baby
me,”
she said, trying another tack. “You could get killed! By wolves! And I'd be an orphan, didja ever stop to think about that?” She saw herself clearly, chained to the wall at an orphanage, eating mush from cracked dirty bowls in between beatings.

“Come here.”

“Oh, no, you don't.”

“I could get killed crossing the street tomorrow,” Elizabeth said in a spirit of ironic reassurance, but Rosie took it for the bitter pill it was. She sank into a chair at the kitchen table.

“I always have nightmares at the Thackerys.”

“You've never told me that.”

Rosie wouldn't look at her.

“Are you afraid I'm going to desert you?”

“No,” she lied.

“You're usually desperate to stay overnight with Sharon.”

Rosie scowled, tore a paper napkin into tiny pieces.

“You and I have to learn to let go of each other from time to time. I'll miss you, and think of you, and when I'm walking back down the mountain, I'll be thinking how happy I'll be to see you again.”

“Tssssst.”

Rosie breathed deeply, picturing the night when her mother would be off sleeping in the hills, surrounded by bears and rattlesnakes, one of which might crawl into her sleeping bag.... And Rosie with Sharon, lying in the twin beds, whispering their favorite jokes and stories: Johnny Fucker faster, and the mummy with the green diamond eyes, and the psycho killer with the hook hand. And Sharon would fall asleep, and she would lie awake in the pitch dark, in a strange house, in a separate bed, alone with the memory of the moment when the teenage girl looks into her rearview mirror at midnight on Lover's Leap, and sees
the mummy with the green diamond eyes....

“Rosie?”

Rosie awoke from her daydream and, defeated, got up from the table. Evading her mother's arms, she walked forlornly to her room and flopped face down on the bed. She lay feeling sorrow for this poor little girl whose mother might get killed in the mountains, knew,
knew
that if her mother went off, she would never see her again. Maybe the Thackerys would adopt her. That wouldn't be so bad. At least she'd have a father, and she loved Mrs. Thackery; there would be Hostess cupcakes in her lunch box.... She started crying. She
did
have nightmares at the Thackerys, dreams of quicksand, dreams of prison. Dreams where she couldn't move her feet when something deadly was approaching; of being mistakenly put in the gas chamber, of being thrown off the Golden Gate Bridge by a madman, or her mother. Once she had dreamed that she was at her own funeral, and no one seemed to see her. Once she'd dreamed that a bandit had her and the Thackerys lined up naked against the living room wall; another where a bandit had a gun pointed at her, and she was sitting on the toilet, and he said he'd kill her if she didn't pee—and she had, in the bed.

She heard her mother's footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Rosie?”

“Go away.” Come in. Don't go.

Her mother came in and lay down beside her and stroked her bottom.

Still, her face was hard and imperious Saturday morning when Rae and Elizabeth took her to the Thackerys: little Mount Rushmore, I couldn't care less.

But she bid them goodbye with the sad, wet, apologetic look with which a puppy might look up at the person who has just put it into a burlap sack with some kibble and bricks.

The two women stood outside Rae's car in the parking lot of the Pretty Boy Trailhead, staring at the expanse of fir, pines, oaks, magnolias, evergreen, and acacia through which a narrow dirt road ran north. Elizabeth scrutinized the woods as if about to clean up the morning after a dinner party, Rae with the beatific look of a child upon first seeing the Christmas tree. She helped Elizabeth into her backpack, adjusted the shoulder straps, complimented herself on choosing such a well-padded model, then slapped Elizabeth on the ass: “Giddyup.”

Elizabeth shifted her weight, acknowledged that it was not nearly as heavy as she had anticipated, and waited for Rae to put on her own pack and lock up the car. The sun shone white in the blue sky, birds sang; infinite greens.

They turned toward the trail and had walked in silence for a hundred feet when Rae remembered something. “Wait here a second.”

Elizabeth turned and watched her friend tramp back to the car, where she removed the keys from the trunk lock and returned to where Elizabeth stood.

“Give
me those.”

Surrounded by spring-colored growth, wildflowers, the moist clean smell of new leaf and wet earth, they started up again, walked the slight incline alongside a rushing, rain-swollen creek which would turn into a river near the meadow. Rae bounced along as if she were dribbling a basketball.

Birdsong, crickets, frogs, movements in the brush, sunlight slanting through the treetops in sheets and broad beams, all mesmerized Elizabeth.

“Not bad.”

“I'm so happy you came with me.”

“So am I.”

“The best part is being away from the phone.”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder how many times Brian's called.” Elizabeth said nothing. “I told him I was leaving soon, that it was all over between us.”

“Good. About time.”

“He didn't understand. He was unhappy. I feel sorry for him.”

“You felt sorry for Claude Rains at the end of
Notorious.”

“Well.”

“Try to forget about him. It takes a while for your psychic bones to knit after a breakup, but they will.”

“You promise?” Elizabeth nodded. “Right now I feel like I'll never get him out of my mind. Now, in my stomach, when I think of him, I get rocket-fueled butterflies.”

“It'll pass. You're addicted—you've got a Jones' for the guy—it means your habit. Your addicted craving.”

“Yeah, I know. I'm hooked. And it was doomed from the start, because he panicked at the idea of commitment.”

“Doom is erotic.”

“Yeah.”

Was the house on fire, Rosie alive, the iron unplugged? She remembered Rosie dawdling that morning, a spoon of honey held six inches over her cereal, creating fine golden coils; Rosie, watching Elizabeth apply mascara; Rosie, watching so intently that she seemed to be memorizing her face; Rosie, flopped on the
easy chair, spindly legs draped over the velvet armrest, baby finger hooked over her bottom lip, reading
A Wrinkle in Time,
slowly slowly raising her eyes when Rae stepped into the house.

“Last night I almost went crazy,” said Rae. “It was very late, well after midnight. I was totally obsessed and hyped up, scared that if I went to Santa Fe I'd die. I felt crazy, dangerous, like that guy in the motel room in Saigon at the beginning of
Apocalypse Now....
There were so many voices, talking in my head, like, you know, Nurse Ratchet—no-nonsense, diabolically patient—and my spiritual director, who's sort of a cross between Hanuman and Lenny Bruce, wise and snappy—you know, like, ‘Be here now, baby, avoid the rush.' And so on. It was like a bunch of speed freaks doing
Spoon River flnthology.
Then all of a sudden, clear as a bell, I heard my mother's voice; it was like she was in bed with me, soothing her small worried child. It was so real, in the way that a hallucination is real, that I felt like crying and found myself hugging my shoulders. It was unconditional, the hug: I felt like I was home.”

“Yeah? Rosie had one of those bouts with existential dread the other night. She was scared to go to sleep because she might have a nightmare, and when she's dreaming it feels exactly like it's really happening, and she couldn't tell what was real, because dreams feel real. And so, that night, everything felt meaningless.”

“What did you do?”

“Lay down beside her and listened.”

“You're a wonderful mother.”

“Sometimes.”

“You hungry yet?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“Holding up okay?”

Elizabeth nodded. “We there yet?”

Rae smiled. “Not yet.”

Elizabeth was looking straight ahead at the path, and did not see the look of misery that crossed Rae's face. Pretty Boy Meadow was in fact a good six hours away.

Elizabeth felt strong and free, calm and in awe of the forest, the creek, the birds, and the flowers, felt that having only just
tasted backpacking, she would never be able to get enough of it.

But she had gotten enough by the end of the second hour, when the straps began digging into her shoulders; her feet, in hiking boots, were on the verge of going numb but were, in the meantime, aching and swelling and probably blistering.

“The honeymoon is over,” she announced.

“Then we must stop immediately and eat. You'll see.”

“I'm tired.”

“We'll sit down for a while, eat chocolates and lunch. You'll get a second wind.”

“I hate backpacking.”

“There, there.”

“I
knew
it would be like carrying boxes to a U-Haul. I can't believe I let myself get sucked into this. When will I learn?”

They had stopped walking. Rae began to help Elizabeth off with her pack. “Matron is here; we'll eat a nice lunch. After we rest, you'll want to go on.”

“I seriously doubt that.” I have to go home. I
have
to.

Elizabeth sat with her back against the trunk of a massive redwood, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Hors d'oeuvres?” Rae asked, handing a box of See's chocolates to Elizabeth, who shook her head. “Look!” said Rae, withdrawing a tin of smoked oysters from her pack, opening her mouth in happy mock surprise. “And Wheat Thins! And liver-wurst! And mayo!” She held up each item and looked at Elizabeth as if they were playing peek-a-boo. “Mandarin oranges! And Italian peppers in wine sauce.”

Elizabeth smiled, happier now to be sitting down, weightless, about to eat. Now, here, midway (she thought) between the meadow and trailhead, she simply
was:
she would be a good sport, gracious, adventurous.

After they ate, they lay with their heads touching—thick black coils and soft reddish-brown ripples—staring up at the sky through the treetops, daydreaming. This was, Elizabeth realized, extraordinary.

“Hear that high, melodious bird above the others?” Rae asked. “It's a hermit thrush. But doesn't it sound like a nightingale?”

“‘The nightingales are singing in the orchards of our mothers.'”

Rae sat up and reached for her pack of cigarettes in the side pocket of her backpack, lit one, and inhaled deeply. Elizabeth's eyes were closed; Rae watched her, lovingly and then with panic. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Elizabeth?”

“Yeah.”

Rae stared at the silver-white ash and, when she inhaled, at the burning ring of orange. “Nothing.”

Elizabeth opened one eye and looked at her.

“Well, I just thought that if you were ready, we should start up again.”

“Okay. In a few more minutes.”

They helped each other on with their packs and headed north. “This time we'll take it more slowly. And if you get real tired, we'll do the Indian shuffle. My dad taught me how to do it; it's the way the Indians crossed the Bering Strait, thousands of miles.”

“But we've only got a couple more to go.”

“Anyway, it's like this.” Rae stopped, then ever so slowly took a baby step, and then another, for fifteen feet. “See? It's great; takes forever to get anywhere but you're not tired when you do.”

They walked along, talking of mothers and Rosie, books, and insanities, and, inevitably, Brian.

“One more thing, Elizabeth. Then, I swear to God, I'll shut up about him.”

“Oh, Rae. I'm so sick, so sick, of Brian. He's an asshole. And here you've got yourself on trial, and you're the judge, and the prosecution, and the defense, and the audience, and the jury....”

“And
the media coverage.”

“And the media coverage. And your jury is not made up of peers, it's made up of all those voices you heard last night in your head.”

Rae walked along silently.

“You just don't have to hurt so much.”

“I don't?”

“No! You're like the mad king when you're with him,
bursting into spontaneous weeping, first of sorrow, then of joy, celebrating your death and rebirth, over and over again.”

Elizabeth began to hate backpacking after another hour on the trail. The pack was too heavy for words. Her back and feet ached. All that kept her going was the thought of rest—and rum. She and Rae had run out of things to say, and Rae looked increasingly nervous, which Elizabeth attributed to her concern with Elizabeth's mood. Be a good sport. It will be over soon. That's it, one step after another.
I really
want to go home, want to be home, but since I'm here, with Rae, I will try not to be a bitch.

“God, the air smells good,” she said. “Clean and sweet, like creek water.” Half an hour more, I figure, of birds and flowers and trees. “And pine: God, these woods. I know why you love it so much now.” Friendly as possible.

“You are undergoing the great rewards of what we call the Backpacking Experience—the air, the freedom, the landscape. Don't you feel you could keep walking forever?”

“No.”

Rae's face fell.

“I am suddenly happy with the anticipation of completion; like when I'm stuck for a long time with people who bore me, or who are beginning to get on my nerves. Up until the last fifteen minutes or so, I'm tight and judgmental and desperate to leave, but then, when the end is in sight, I feel such relief that it makes me act friendly.”

“Oh.” Shit, thought Rae.

“I figure we've got about half an hour to go. I've got exactly thirty-six minutes of backpacking enjoyment left in me.”

Rae took the deepest possible breath; Elizabeth didn't notice. They walked along.

“Oh, my aching back,” said Elizabeth.

Rae groaned. “Elizabeth?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

Elizabeth stopped and looked at her, kindly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other for several moments. Rae looked miserable.

“Did you forget something?
Did you forget the rum, Rae?
Goddamn it—”

“Brought the rum,” Rae said hastily.

“Brought the rum?” Rae nodded. “Then it doesn't matter what else you've forgotten.”

“We're an hour and a half away,” she mumbled.

“What? We're what?
Just what the fuck do you mean by that?” She had her hands on her hips. “I don't fucking believe you, Rae.”

“I lied. I knew you wouldn't go if I said it was six hours. I was surprised you came at all.”

Elizabeth was all but baring her teeth and snarling. “We're an hour and a half away?” she asked coldly. Rae nodded. Elizabeth turned away and began walking quickly forward, so furious that her eyes didn't focus.

Rae jammed her hands in her pockets and walked forlornly behind, with her Stan Laurel face on. Elizabeth was seething, hiking rapidly, angry about the pains in her legs and shoulders and back, at her bad mood, at being trapped with Rae, whom she was temporarily hating,
backpacking,
a million miles from nowhere. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.

Rae caught up with her after ten minutes. Her eyes looked as if she had been crying, but Elizabeth didn't soften.

“Don't talk to me.”

“Listen.”

“No.”

“You've got every reason to be mad and I'm sorry.”

“Just shut up.”

“So we're an hour and a half away, and then we've got a long evening ahead of us, and then a long hike tomorrow, and I'm going to go nuts if you hate me the entire time.”

“You should have thought about that before you lied.”

“I did think about it, but I lied anyway because I wanted us to do it so badly.”

“What if someone did this to you?”

“I'd be mad. But then I'd figure that what was done was done, and I might as well have a decent time instead of a shitty time.”

“Well, I feel like having a shitty time.”

“It's your funeral.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Let's stop and have some juice and a few See's Bordeaux, then take the next hour slowly. Then it'll only be as far as walking from your house to town, which we've done dozens of times.”

“Never after having walked for four hours with thirty-pound packs on our backs.”

“Elizabeth, I am really, really sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

“I made a mistake. I'm only human.”

“Rae, why don't you grow up.”

They walked along in silence for a long time.

“Is there anything in the world I could do right now to make it up to you?”

“No.”

“Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“I suppose you think it's funny, in some way, one of your cute kooky Rae trips, but I don't. I'm sore. I think I'm going to be sore for quite a while.”

“But then dinner will be no fun, and the campfire will be no fun, and walking tomorrow will be no fun. I think you might as well forgive me. It's in your best interests.”

“Rae? Shut up.”