Journey, The (31 page)

"You did nothing wrong, Shelly. You loved Michelle and she loved you. She talked about you quite a bit over Christmas. I envy the bond you had with her. I never got to know her well."

"Don't feel badly. I knew her better than anyone and she was still a mystery. There are so many things I wanted to ask her and so many things I wanted to do with her, and now I'll never get the chance." Shelly shook her head and then looked away. "There I go again, talking about me. Your dad is the one who deserves sympathy. How is he doing?"

"Not well. Not well at all. He asked Susan and me to handle the guests while he pulled himself together. It really hurts me to see him like this. He wasn't this way with my mother. But then, he had a lot of time to prepare for her death. You can't prepare for something like this."

Karen barely got the words out when she started to cry and put a hand over her mouth.

"This is so hard."

Shelly grabbed her arm, pulled her close, and gave her a hug.

"I know."

When they finally separated, Karen wiped her eyes and picked up a box she had placed on a nearby wooden bench. She handed the box to Shelly.

"What's this?"

"It's a diary that Michelle kept. She wrote it specifically for you. My dad wanted me to give it to you before you left," Karen said. She put a hand on Shelly's shoulder. "He said you should read it sooner than later. He said you'd find some answers."

Shelly took the box and gave Karen another hug.

"I will. I'll read it today. Tell your dad thank you. Tell him thank you for everything."

Later that evening, long after her parents had gone to bed, Shelly took the diary out of the box and started reading. She approached the task with more than a little trepidation. She was reading a journal from the grave, after all, and she knew that there was no guarantee that all of the surprises it contained would be good ones. But she knew that Mr. Land would not have encouraged her to read it soon if it did not in someway better her life.

Shelly read the first page and then the second. Both piqued her interest. But instead of reading the rest of the book from cover to cover, she flipped through the pages and looked for something particularly interesting. She found it about halfway through in a December 27 entry entitled "A Letter to My Friend." It read:

My dearest Shelly,

If you have made it this far into my diary, you have probably connected a lot of dots and figured out that there is more to me than meets the eye. If you haven't, that's OK. When I began writing this journal, I did not intend to write for anyone but myself. I did not plan to provide a road map for others but rather to record thoughts and feelings that might make it easier for me to cope with a difficult time. I certainly did not want to reveal information that might influence attitudes or alter lives.

But that was in August. It is December now and much has changed since I first stumbled into your world. I have grown close to you and others. I have a fiancé! I have obligations and commitments that I could have never imagined when the school year started. I am also another year older and increasingly aware of my own mortality. So I decided that now was as good a time as any to repurpose this diary and write with an eye on the future and a focus on others.

That does not mean I am ready to divulge all of my thoughts now. If you are reading this as a young woman, it's because I've changed my mind and decided to share an important secret or because I am no longer around to share it. I do hope it's the former. I look forward to the day I can tell you all the things I want you to know, things that will surely make your life richer, happier, and more fulfilling. I plan to mention many of these things in this journal in the days to come. Please consider this information and my suggestions as just that – information and suggestions. Though we have a common bond, we are separate and distinct individuals who have an obligation to lead our own lives.

Read what I have to say, consider it, and think of its potential impact on others, but know that the gift I am about to bestow is one you can freely discard. All that I ask is that you allow me to be a part of your life and the lives of the people around you. If you do that, I will consider my mission complete. Now that I have your attention, let's get on with the show. Pull up a chair and let me tell you about the world to come, a world I have already seen and will see again. Let me tell you about the amazing times to come, times I hope we can experience together. But first, let me tell you about a girl I know . . ."

CHAPTER 60: SHELLY

Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument – Friday, August 13, 1999

The hike to the ridge went more quickly this year. The kids had a little more spring in their step and the thirtysomethings they called their parents had not yet succumbed to the limitations and excuses of middle age.

Leading her party of four up a meandering trail, Shelly stopped near the conjunction of two trees that had been uprooted and thrown together in 1980. The site looked different than it had even a few years earlier. In the eighties the slope had resembled a hillside on the moon, a gray, gritty, desolate wasteland. Today it was a visible reminder of nature's recuperative power. Grasses of every shade of green mixed with foxglove, lupine, Indian paintbrush, and young fir trees, including a few that were well into their teenage years. Birds and small animals could be found every step of the way. Though the evidence of destruction was everywhere, so were the signs of rebirth. In another fifty years, hell on Earth would be Eden again.

Shelly had visited the site every year since 1988. She had come alone at first. Friends and relatives were tough sells. Few wanted to traipse though dead trees and ash when there were so many smoother, cleaner, and more picturesque trails to hike. But the treks to Barton Ridge were never about recreation. They were about remembrance. Shelly vowed that she would return to this hallowed place every year as long as she was physically able to remember the woman who had given her life to save hers.

She sat down on one of the crisscrossed logs and looked back at her family. Kevin was eight now, a little man with a big heart and a zest for life as large as the Pacific Northwest. He had insisted on climbing the hill without any assistance, evidence that the independent spirit that Shelly had tried to instill in her children was taking hold. He had his mother's piercing blue eyes, thick brown hair, and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts.

Irene was a different kind of charmer. Shy and witty, she had her father's sandy blonde hair, priceless dimples, and insatiable appetite for learning. She displayed less enthusiasm for hiking, so Shelly was not at all surprised to see her cling tightly to her father as he carried her up the trail. He had babied her since Day One, but Shelly didn't mind. She derived great joy watching her husband and daughter interact and shower each other with affection.

Shelly smiled as she thought of that husband and father and his amazing transformation from the awkward, introverted boy she had known since birth to a decorated Army Ranger with confidence, muscles, and dreams of the future. She had rediscovered the boy next door the summer between her sophomore and junior years at Yale. She hadn't seen Brian Johnson in two years and hadn't known what to say when he had walked into the Preston house at the start of a 30-day leave wearing a uniform and a smile that had been hidden much too often as an adolescent. But she had known what to say that night when he had asked her to a movie and three years later when had asked her to be his wife.

The decision to go to Yale had turned out to be an easy one, thanks to Michelle and her handwritten instruction manual on life. Mrs. Land had provided Shelly not only with the encouragement to follow her dreams but also with the means to finance them. She had given her specific stock tips that had allowed her to pay off her student loans a hundred times over.

Shelly and Brian had invested his savings and most of their wedding cash in the Microsoft Corporation when it held its initial public offering in March 1986. That move alone had made them millionaires by 1995 and had allowed them to invest in other stocks, real estate, and a small company that published Shelly's books for children. She had taken the lead in managing their finances and had diversified their holdings in a way that would spare them any pain from the coming NASDAQ crash.

Shelly planned to encourage Scott Richardson to do the same. Michelle had written that his software company had taken a major hit in 2000 and said she owed it to her first husband to guide him toward safer financial waters. Shelly had remained friends with her former boyfriend and adored his new wife, an Indian American programmer he had met on a trip to San Francisco in 1992. But she did not regret breaking up with Scott, permanently, in the summer of 1980. They were different people with different values and visions.

She did regret not spending more time with April Burke after graduation. Once the best of friends, they were now just good friends who called each other maybe six or seven times a year. It had been that way since the two had traded coasts in 1984. While visiting Shelly in New Haven that year, April had volunteered to sing at Shelly's church and had been discovered by a record producer sitting in the pews. She moved to New York and cut her first album six months later. She lived there with her investment banker husband and three children.

Shelly was grateful that Michelle had saved April's life but even more grateful that she had helped her extend the lives of her parents – their parents. Shelly had hounded Fred Preston to see a doctor about occasional chest pains and then pestered him more to stay on his medications. She had pressured her mother in similar ways and, as a result, had prevented his heart attack and her stroke. Fred and Evelyn Preston had lived to enjoy two more grandchildren.

Robert Land had lived to enjoy not only his grandchildren but also a new wife. He had found love for the third time at a school fundraiser in 1982 and had married 40-year-old Rhonda Bowers, a florist, the next year. Robert and Shelly spoke often. They lived just two blocks apart on Unionville's North Hill and got together frequently at family dinners. But they rarely spoke about Michelle and never discussed her time-traveling past. That would forever remain the closely guarded secret of a few.

Shelly rarely spoke about the Pennington mansion and had discussed its dark past with only three people: Brian, Robert, and Allie Mitchell. The Johnsons had purchased the house for a hundred thousand dollars in 1997 and had it plowed into the ground. They had returned the empty two-acre lot to the city on the condition that it be maintained as a public park and named in honor of Michelle Land. Even the mayor had given his blessing.

When Brian, Irene, and Kevin joined her on the twisted log, Shelly slipped off her backpack and pulled out a Douglas fir sapling. She walked to a place about twenty feet off the trail – where searchers had found Michelle's body – and planted the tree in the rich volcanic soil. She would let her children do the honors next year and hopefully start a tradition that they would carry on long after she was gone.

Shelly led the family the rest of the way to the top of Barton Ridge. When they reached the summit, she walked ahead of the others to a small sign that she had not seen the previous year. It marked a fork in the trail and the beginning of an alternate path. Shelly knew from the map in her pocket that the new route led to the same destination, a busy trailhead on the south side of the mountain where they had parked their Land Rover. But it covered two miles, instead of the usual one, and went over rockier terrain. She paused to check her compass, the one from Michelle, and then took one last look at a wilderness on the mend. Even scarred and incomplete, it was breathtaking.

"The kids are getting tired, Shelly," Brian said as he held Irene in his arms. "We should probably take the shorter route."

Shelly walked slowly to Brian and Irene. She gave her husband a knowing smile, gently pushed Irene's hair off her shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. She was sound asleep. When Shelly moved on to Kevin, who stood a few feet away, she crouched to his level and looked him in the eyes. He appeared sleepy but determined to march on.

"What do you want to do, honey?" she asked. "Be honest."

Kevin hesitated only for a moment.

"I want to take a different trail, Mom. I want to try something new."

Shelly flinched when she heard the words. Leave it to an eight-year-old to see the big picture. Smiling through tears, she put a hand on his face and then gave him a hug.

"Me too, Kevin. Me too."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It may not take a village to bring a novel to the public, but it does take individuals willing to donate their time and talents. Many thanks go to beta readers Cheryl Heldt, Diana Zimmerman, Jon Johnson, and Mary Heldt for helping me refine the early drafts and to editor Aaron Yost for taking those drafts to the next level. Your efforts will always be appreciated. I am also grateful to those who provided outside research assistance, including Mike Klein of the Library of Congress, C. Mitch Ison of the Nevada State Library, and Mary Schaff of the Washington State Library. Thanks to all.