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Chapter 2: A Stranger in the Woods

Author: Ember Casey
last update Huling Na-update: 2023-11-28 14:09:01
Four hours later, my shift is finally over. The morning crew arrives at three thirty, and Cynthia and I say our goodbyes and head out to our cars.

"Good night," she calls to me. We always tell each other good night, even in the summer when the sun is already coming up by the time we get off.

Most mornings, I head straight home and collapse into bed, then sleep until noon. That gives me a few hours in the afternoon to take care of errands and everyday life things before returning to work again.

Today, though, I find myself lingering at my car door, my face tilted up. The sky is gray and pink, and a couple of birds are already singing, heralding the coming day. As Cynthia's car gets farther and farther away, their chirping is the only sound in the air. The rest of the world is still, holding its breath before the sun rises above the horizon.

The loneliness settles over me again. I stand there with my keys in the lock of my beat-up old car, unable to move, staring at that rash of pink at the tree line, and I'm starkly aware of how alone I am. Most of the time, I enjoy the solitude, but this morning, I just feel cold. Cold and separate from the rest of the world.

This is what you wanted for me, right, Mom? I think. A life of quiet contentment. Safety and security.

I turn and glance back at the diner. Through the green-tinted glass windows, I see Gloria and Dot preparing for the breakfast rush. There aren't any customers yet, but in another hour or so the place will be packed with people ordering stacks of flapjacks and plates of cheese-smothered hash browns before heading off to work. Gloria and Dot might as well be on the other side of the world from me right now.

A breeze sweeps through the parking lot, rustling my hair and sending a shiver down my back.

I miss you, Mom. And I promise I'm happy. For the most part, I know that to be true. I am happy - but sometimes moments like this stop me dead in my tracks. Make me wonder.

I shake my head and yank open the car door so roughly that I startle a swallow in a nearby spruce. It chirps at me as it zips out of the branches and flutters off to another, safer perch. I get in the car.

I'm yawning as I pull out of the parking lot. I should go straight home and crawl into bed, but I know I won't be able to sleep. Instead, I follow the street to the edge of town, turning onto a dirt road just past the wooden sign welcoming people to our neck of the woods. My car bumps over the uneven ground, throwing up bits of gravel. I first discovered this spot years ago, on a long walk where I got hopelessly lost. Since then, I've returned half a dozen times a year. I can't put my finger on exactly what pulls me back again and again - some strange mood, some restless itching in my brain - but I always seem to find my way here when I need to think.

When I catch the flash of the river through the trees, I pull over and park next to a fallen tree. Then I climb out of the car and walk down to the riverbank.

The morning light is reflecting off the rippling water, making it shiver between shades of dark green and warm gold. The river is slower and shallower here than it is where it crosses through town, and the water is studded with rocks. There's a large flat boulder halfway across, and if you're careful you can pick your way out to it across the smaller stones without getting your feet wet. It's my favorite spot, and I confidently leap from rock to rock until I reach the boulder. Then I pull off my ugly work shoes and socks and sit down on the edge, dangling my feet in the flowing water. The river is icy cold, and the shock seems to snap the world into focus around me. Some of the fuzzy restlessness in my head dissipates.

More birds are awake now, calling to each other in the trees on either bank. A tiny fish, no longer than my finger, leaps out of the water and flops back in again. In the distance, a car rumbles down the main road into town. The soft lowing of cattle comes from somewhere beyond the trees behind me. But overall, the world is still relatively still, waiting for the day to fully wake.

My toes flick across the surface of the water. My toenails are painted an electric orange, a choice I regret now that I'm seeing the color in daylight. I'll change it this afternoon to something that seems a little more me - a burgundy purple, maybe. Or a sky blue.

I'm feeling better already, just being here. I can breathe again. But the loneliness and grief still weigh down on me, making my shoulders feel heavy.

Maybe I should go out with Peter again, I think. Maybe the company would be good for me. Or maybe I should let Bill and the guys set me up with someone else. It doesn't have to be anything serious. Just a few dates. A chance to hold hands with someone. To kiss someone. To have a little human contact... It's been a long time since I've experienced any of those things. Most of the time I tell myself I don't miss them, but sometimes...

I graze my toes across the surface of the water again, sending a bit of spray flying. Then I close my eyes and tilt my head back.

I miss my mom so much. Most of the time, that grief is relegated to the back of my mind, to the place where I keep all my memories of my life before this town. But every year on the anniversary of her death, it all comes rushing forward, unable to be suppressed anymore.

I try to focus on the good memories. There aren't many of them, but they're there. Like my memories of the very first house where I lived as a child. I remember there was a creek in the back - a little vein of water that dried up every summer but always overflowed after the long rains of the spring. Most of the backyard would flood, making the ground all mushy. My mother would take me out there in my purple polka-dotted rain boots and let me stomp around in the mud, squishing it beneath the squeaky plastic boot soles. Often she'd sing her rain song. My mom had a song for everything, silly tunes that I'm pretty sure she made up on the spot:

The rain falls down

And soaks the ground

And soaks the trees

And soaks my knees.

It's funny, how well I remember the words even now. It makes me feel closer to her, so I keep indulging the memory.

It soaks my head

And the flower bed

And soaks my toes

And the tip of my nose.

I suddenly realize I'm singing it out loud, but after a brief moment of embarrassment, I laugh at myself and keep going. I'm all alone - who cares if I sing? Thinking of my mom drives the loneliness away, so I keep singing, louder this time:

"It soaks my hands!

And soaks the plants!

And soaks my shirt!

And soaks the dirt!"

I'm shouting the song up to the birds, who've been startled into silence by my voice. My mom used to let me help make up the songs, too, but being a kid I was even worse at coming up with lyrics than she was. I remember jumping around in the mud, laughing and shouting out rhyming words. House! Mouse! Hair! Bear! Face! Place!

The song stopped making any real sense then, but we sang it anyway. And she twirled me around, not even caring that she got mud splattered on her jeans.

I make up more lyrics myself, now, singing and swinging my feet in the water, watching the flying droplets catch the early morning light before falling to the river again.

And then, just as I'm trying to think of a rhyme for lips, I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. Something much too big to be a bird.

My voice cuts off abruptly, and I twist quickly - much too quickly, as it turns out. My elbow hits my shoes, sending them flying off the rock. I lunge after them, but it's too late - they fall into the river, and I, having thrown myself off balance, fall in right after them.

Cold water smacks me in the face. The water is only two or three feet deep, but I'm all the way under before I manage to get my feet beneath me again. My bare toes slide over the loose stones at the bottom of the river, but I push myself upright quickly. I need to find my work shoes. They're my only pair.

I see one bobbing a few feet away, sinking a little bit every second as it fills with water. I reach toward it, keeping my eyes open for the other. It can't be far. The river isn't that fast here.

Splashing behind me draws my attention away from my shoes, and I suddenly remember that there was something large on the bank. We get our share of bears in the woods along the edges of town, and normally I'm much more careful - but I was distracted this morning. My bear spray is still sitting in the glove compartment of my car. My hand scrabbles around on the bottom of the river until I find a rock about the size of my fist. I grab it and spin around.

But it's not a bear coming toward me - it's a man. A man I've never seen before.

The most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life.

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