Authors: L.D. Cedergreen
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Before I could answer, he glanced behind me to see my mother walking toward us. “Bethany? Gemma? Is that you? Well, I’ll be damned. I haven’t seen the likes of you for years.”
Skipping the pleasantries, I launched into the reason I was banging down his door.
“Bill, I need you to take me to Upper Priest.”
“Upper Priest
? Why in heaven’s name do you want to go up there?” he asked.
“I saw your boat tied up on the dock
. Please, I need to go there right now.” My rushed words sounded crazy even to my own ears, and I worried for a moment what he must think of me.
“It’s nearly noon, Gemma.
That’s a long trip,” he said, scratching his bald head as if he still had a full head of hair.
“Please, Bill, it’s important.”
I felt my mother beside me then.
“Bill, good to see you,” she said
, as she shook his hand. “I’m so sorry for this intrusion.” She turned to me. “Gemma, what is this all about?”
“Mother, please, I need to go to Upper Priest.”
“I was going to go out for a little fishing today anyway. I guess we could venture up north for a bit,” Bill said.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” I said, holding my hands together in front of me with the compass pressed between my palms.
“I’ll just get my things and meet you at the dock,” he said, sensing my urgency.
I turned to walk toward the beach as my mother was suddenly in step beside me.
“Gemma Rose Lang, I swear I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”
I suppressed the need to correct her, to remind her that my last name was Walsh.
***
The long boat ride north was uneventful.
The water was calm for a late summer day, but it was midweek, and not many boats were on the lake. I sat quietly as my mind wandered to moments that felt like last week as my mother and Bill made idle chitchat, filling in the twenty-year time gap that spanned between them. When we finally navigated through the Thorofare, I directed Bill to the beach where Drew and I had always spent our time. Before the boat was completely beached in the sand, I jumped from the bow and waded through the knee-deep water. I followed my heart to the tree and held my breath as I stepped close enough to read the words carved into its bark.
GL + AM, Best Friends to Infinit
y
. Nothing more, nothing less.
My heart broke.
A part of me had wanted the new carvings to be here, the words that I had added that day. I wanted so badly for something—anything—to be real. I wiped tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand as I reached out and touched the words that marked a time in my life that I would never get back. He was gone. Drew was gone. And my recent memories were nothing but a dream, a rare coincidence. My heart threatened to break wide open in that moment, but I pushed it back, fought against the grief. Not here. Not now.
On the boat ride back to Kalispell Bay, I closed my eyes and let the wind beat against my face, my silent tears whisked away before they could be felt on my cheeks.
The boat’s motor filled in the silence that had fallen over the three of us. I heard my mother’s earlier whispers, explaining to Bill the recent trauma that I had endured, as if to excuse my absurd behavior. Neither of them knew quite what to make of the situation.
After helping Bill loop the boat ties through the cleats on the dock, I wandered slowly up the dirt lane toward the cabin.
My mother and Bill trailed behind me, giving me my space. I heard my mother ask quietly about the cabin’s new paint, and I whirled around, waiting for his response.
“Little Andrew Monroe, bless his heart, done that all himself.
He asked me to keep it to myself of course. It took him weeks. I guess he was already pretty sick by that point. But nonetheless he showed up every mornin’ and worked himself to the bone . . .” His words faded at that point as all I could hear was the beating of my heart in my ears, pounding steadily, as I pictured Andrew on the ladder, painting the siding of the cabin. His smile lighting up his eyes as we worked side by side, getting to know each other once again. He had been here.
“
Poor thing . . . So sad what happened . . . just like his mother . . .” Bill’s voice barely registered as I continued walking toward the cabin, tears stinging my eyes. I walked to the back and dropped down on the concrete step of the back porch. I hung my head in my hands, and the grief spilled out of me in steady waves, thrashing against the walls of my heart. I wasn’t sure how long I sat here, mourning Drew and the loss of the time that I thought I had shared with him.
The blue of the sky had turned to an orange and pink haze, almost glowing through the
treetops. I stared at the height of the evergreens that bordered the back of the cabin, obscuring the copper creek that I could hear clearly as it streamed in a steady rush over rocks and fallen logs, fighting its way to the open waters of the lake that waited just around the bend. I noted the mossy earth that lay at the foot of the trees, flourishing in the shade the evergreens provided. And that’s when I noticed fresh soil, turned over in a heap beneath the trees, as if someone had been digging around in the dirt.
Curiously I rose from the step and walked over, kicking the dirt around with my foot.
And without another thought, I fell to my knees and buried my hands in the cool, damp soil. Assaulted with memories of a day long ago when Drew and I had dug a hole in this very place. Choosing a spot at the birth of the tallest tree so that we would never forget.
How could have I forgotten
? A renewal of energy shot through me at the prospect of finding our time capsule that we had buried long ago. I felt it, the thermos, at my fingertips and tunneled deeper into the earth until it was free. I wiped the dirt from the steel container and slowly twisted off the lid, already picturing what I would find.
The thin colorful threaded friendship bracelets that I had weaved for us, the laminated picture of Drew and
me that I had used as a bookmark in all my Beverly Cleary
Ramona
books. Drew’s Susan B. Anthony silver dollar—that he had been hesitant to part with—and a newspaper clipping that we had cut from his father’s
Priest Lake Herald
on that day, secured in a sheet of plastic wrap, for a time reference. As I shook the thermos, the contents dumping into my lap one at a time, I recognized all these items—except one.
A foreign piece of treasure, secured in a plastic bag.
I could see my name written in neat print on a folded white envelope. I carefully peeled open the plastic seal and pulled the envelope from the bag. I ran my fingers over my name,
Gemm
a
, before sliding my index finger under the sealed flap and retrieving the folded paper from inside. With unsteady hands I slowly unfolded the paper, my mind bouncing back and forth between sheer curiosity and fear.
It was a letter dated two months ago.
Dear Gemma,
If you are reading this, then I was right about you, and I am most certainly gone.
I figured that, upon hearing the news, you would come to this place that once meant so much to us both. This is my cowardly way of saying good-bye. I didn’t have the heart to disrupt your life. To become a physical presence in your life again, knowing the plans that God had in store for me. And the last thing you need is to endure another good-bye. I did check up on you, just to make sure that you were happy and that your life was what you deserve. It seems that you are very successful and married to a good man. And from a distance, you seem happy. And I hope that you are—happy, that is. The one thing I am sure of, you are beautiful. Like take-my-breath-away beautiful. But then again, you always were.
When I was diagnosed just like my mom had been, I knew that this was the end for me.
I came here, back to the lake, to live my final days. I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. I miss you. I miss us. My one regret in this life—letting you walk out of it. I should have fought for you, fought for my best friend—the closest thing that I had to a family since I lost my mom. I was a stupid kid, blinded by my emotions and then my pride.
And so I wanted to say that I am sorry.
I’m sorry that I didn’t live up to the promises that we had made to each other. For what it’s worth, you have been with me, in my heart, every day since I last saw you. And I will carry you with me into the next life.
I do not fear what is to come.
I have made peace with my fate. I long for the quiet, an escape from the pain. And I know, somehow, that I will be with my mom again. And maybe I’ll be able to watch over you, to know you in a way that I haven’t in a long time.
I painted the cabin, my final gift to you, in hope that you will come here again, to this place, with your own family.
And my parting words, for what it’s worth: Let go of your regrets and truly live—you deserve every happiness.
I love you, Gemma Rose Lang.
I’ll always love you.
Remember me . . .
Your Friend to Infinity . . . and Beyond,
Andrew
Tears fell in rapid sequence, leaving wet swirls on the paper, soaking through the black ink that spoke the words of Drew’s heart. The idea that he was here recently, thinking of me and didn’t reach out to me, couldn’t pick up the phone and call, and the idea that I was too late, filled my heart with painful regret. And in the same moment, Drew’s words stared at me from the paper in my hands.
Let go of your regret
s
. I clutched the letter against my chest, drawing comfort from the fact that Drew had held this same paper in his own hands only two months before. I reached for the picture of us. A close-up of our faces, taken by my mother on a bright sunny morning. My large front bucklike teeth and freckles, wet blond hair falling in chunks around my eyes. Drew’s perfect round face, full cheeks dawning the biggest dimples I had ever seen and clear blue eyes shining light like the heavens. Our bright smiles were so authentic, full of promise and possibilities, unaware of what lay ahead. We didn’t have a care in the world. Why would we? We had each other.
Thirty-
Three
My mother convinced me to get in the car though I was reluctant to leave. I sat in the front seat, with Drew’s letter still clutched to my chest, finding some semblance of comfort by keeping his words close to my heart. The thermos and its contents were tucked away in my purse. The trees swept by outside my window, nearly lost to the approaching darkness as we drove down the highway in complete silence. My mother slowed as we passed by the gas station, the General Store, and Sal’s Garage.
“Stop the car,
Mother!” I yelled as I caught the movement of someone closing the large garage door at Sal’s.
Without question, my mother slowed the car and pulled off into the gravel lot where my gaze was fixed.
I opened the car door and walked toward the dark figure, praying that it was who I thought it was. My heart stopped when I saw the familiar blond hair and hazel eyes. I knew I was supposed to believe that I hadn’t seen him in years, but I felt like I had seen him yesterday. He looked exactly how I had imagined.
He began to walk into the shop through the smaller door before he looked up at the last minute and spotted me.
“Can I help you?” he asked, oblivious that it was me. I couldn’t blame him, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror since the accident, and he hadn’t seen me since high school.
Frantic, afraid that he would walk away and I would never see him again, I called out to him.
“Logan.” My voice broke, and I cleared my throat and called out once again. “Logan.”
He stepped away from the doorway and out into the night at the sound of my voice.
He stared at me for what seemed like forever until recognition finally flashed across his face. “Gemma? Is that you?” he asked, unsure.
“Yes.
Logan, it’s me.” My heart was clamoring in my chest, tears threatening to spill from my eyes, now that he was standing right in front of me. Under the floodlights, I could see how broken he appeared. He looked much older and tired and sad.
“Oh
, Gemma, I can’t believe you’re here,” he said as he pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. “Did you come for Drew?” he asked.
I nodded against his chest as my tears soaked his T-shirt.
I wanted to tell him everything in that moment. About the accident, my dream, Drew. But I couldn’t find the words beneath my grief.
“The service is the day after tomorrow.
You’ll be there, right?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
I was so distracted with proving my dream to be real, I hadn’t thought about his funeral. My chance to say good-bye, to pay my respects. His father would be there . . . and William. I took a deep breath.
“I’ll be there.
Where is it?” I asked.
“Here.
Ten o’clock. At the little chapel on the hill that overlooks the bay. It was what Drew wanted.”