They Almost Always Come Home (22 page)

I’m grateful she’s speaking my thoughts.

Frank strokes his rough whiskers. They’re well on their way

to beard status. It’s time to end this episode of
Survivor
. Frank must agree. He says, “Can’t chase every puff of smoke on the planet.”

We have to go home. I know that. We could spend the next

three years checking behind trees and under rocks, around

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the next bend and under smoke columns. “Can we chase this one?”

He closes his eyes and drops his chin to his chest. He’s been remarkably patient with us, all things considered. We may have reached the end in more ways than one. I consider apologizing but can’t think what for.

Frank heads toward his canoe.

We follow.

With a quick zip he opens the outside pocket of his pack and removes his stash of laminated maps. “Do you know what the odds are?”

It doesn’t take a statistics expert to know our odds are poor. A million to one? There’s still a chance, then.

“Can you tell what’s back there beyond that line of trees?” “You’re expecting a mall or something?” He flattens the map that holds his attention. “Trust me. It’s land or water. Those are your choices.”

We can’t afford to snap at each other. We need one another, particularly Frank and I, partners in pain.

You and Greg can’t afford to snap at each other. You need each
other.
Was that Jen’s counsel? Or Pastor’s? Why can I not remember?

I’m still caught in the distress of memory loss when Jen says, “Can you see anything that would appeal to Greg, make him change his plans?”

“Something a photographer might want to investigate?” I add. Calling Greg a photographer tastes strange on my tongue, but not unpleasant, like my first bite of Pad Thai.

Frank studies a path he traces on the map with his finger and checks with quick glances in the direction of the smoke column. It’s still there—the smoke. I feared it might disap- pear when I looked away, as Lacey did. And Greg. But it’s still

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rising, meandering against the unsuspecting blue-and-white background as if unaware of its power to prolong our quest. “This may be significant.”

Jen and I lean over his shoulders before he utters the final

syllable.

“What is it?” she asks.

I see it before he can get the words out. A waterfall. In print

so fine it could pass for the bottom line on the eye chart. Lacy Falls. Spelled differently, but would Greg have considered it a sign from heaven? Would he have seen the possibility on his own maps and felt compelled to capture the scene forever on film?

“How long would it take us to get there? How far is it?” We

haven’t mentioned the spot on the map. Jen noticed it on her own.

Frank refolds the map with Lacy Falls showing. He looks

in the direction of the smoke. “Be there in an hour or two, I figure. If you ladies can keep up.”

“So, are we agreed to pursue this?” I ask. A wave of determi-

nation sweeps over me. I’m going, with or without them.

Frank shrugs, his way of saying, “Absolutely. How could we

just walk away from what is obviously our X-marks-the-spot? Sooner we get there, sooner we slap Greg with a few hugs, a couple of versions of ‘My boy, you near scared us to death,’ and load his gear to head home.” He shrugs again, punctuating his enthusiasm for the idea.

Jen hesitates. Hesitates? Why should I have to talk her into

this? I finally have a feeling—a sensing from God. The smoke. The eagle whose flight path alerted us to the smoke. In the nick of time. What’s her problem?

“I need to call Brent,” she says.

“Sure. Tonight. Like all the others. If there’s no cloud

cover.”

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“I’d probably better try to connect with him now, before we chase smoke signals.” She stuffs her hands into the front pockets of her cargo pants. Her shoulders head north, toward her ears. What is that expression on her face?

“Jen, if you think we’re foolish to try to find out where the smoke’s coming from—”

“It’s not that.”

Frank shoots us a look that says, “Time’s a ’wastin.’ ” “Jen, believe me, I know I’ve asked a lot of you, more than any person has a right to. And despite his friendship with Greg, Brent must be more than a little weary of my hauling you all over the wilderness. I can’t imagine how much the girls must miss you.”

Actually, that’s not all that hard.

“I can’t hope to find a way to repay you, any of you. And I can’t pretend to have a logical reason to keep searching. It’s a hunch. Just a hunch. A puff of smoke that could be from a couple of tree huggers on their honeymoon. Or a Boy Scout troop. Or Girl Scouts.”

She slips her hands out of her pockets and places each one on its opposite shoulder, as if streamlining her body for a bun- gee jump. “It’s not that my family misses me too much. That’s not it.”

“Then what? I trust your judgment, you know. You’re well- endowed.”

“Excuse me?”

“With wisdom.”

She’s still poised for bungee jumping. But her face registers an emotion I haven’t seen on her for a long time. “I have an appointment.”

“We know. I’m sorry about that. Can Brent call and resched- ule it for you if we take another couple of days to get home? Another inconvenience, but—”

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“It’s the first session in a new round of radiation treatments.

I . . . I have a spot on one of my ribs.”

Cancer has its own dictionary. It changes the meaning of

the word “spot.”

What happened to all the oxygen in the air?

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J
en says the spot on her rib is small, minuscule. In my mind, it’s a sulfurous, undulating, dagger-toothed monster against which I have no weapons.

Reining in my distress is also impossible. “How could you not tell me?”

“I’m really sorry. I probably should have.”

“Probably?” Would it be tacky to wring the neck of some- one who is about to be sent back to Iraq for another tour of duty? “When did you find out?”

Jen toes the bed of rusty pine needles at her feet. The smell of pine resin rides the last few oxygen molecules not sucked out by her announcement.

Frank’s voice floats into our circle of pain. “I imagine the girl was trying to spare you more grief.” His words are laced with an empathy richer and sweeter than it was even a few days ago. What’s happening to us?

“Spare me?” Tempering my frustration takes more energy than I have in reserve. “In what rush of rationale did it seem prudent not to tell me?” If I had a mirror, the varicose veins in my temples and along the sides of my throat might scare me.

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We’re a trio, aren’t we? Jen needs radiation and who knows what else? Frank needs a prostate exam. I’m ripe for a stroke.

Jen draws a deep breath. “I made a judgment call. Brent and

I talked about it. We prayed about it. Both of us felt it would be best to wait until . . . until we knew something about Greg.”

Oh, my beautiful friend. I can’t lose you too. My heart’s not

that strong.
If Jen could read my mind, she’d call that “stinkin’ thinkin’ ” and threaten to disown me.

“When? When did you first know?” I’ve lost a few decibels.

Good.

Frank retreats. Suddenly every zipper, clasp, and closure of

our equipment needs checking. I don’t blame him for choosing that over this.

“The Friday Greg was supposed to come home.”

“How could you keep that kind of news to yourself all this

time?”

“I felt I had to.”

Jen’s explanation sits like curdled milk in my stomach. Not

because of her, but because of me. She’s right. I couldn’t be trusted with that kind of information during those early days of the siege against my sanity.

“Are you in pain?” That’s the question I should have asked

many minutes ago. God, forgive me.

“No.”

“Oh, Jen!”

She touches a place a few inches under where her left breast

used to be. “No pain. We wouldn’t know about the spot even now if it weren’t for Brent’s new health insurance. The com- pany demanded a chest x-ray for both of us, even though I had a clear one not six months ago. Guess I should be grateful, huh?”

“Jen, I’m so sorry.”

“Me too. I don’t want to add to your burden right now.”

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“
My
burden?” How long has it been since I exhibited even a fraction of the selflessness that comes so naturally to her? Jen heads toward the canoes. “Let me try to catch Brent at work.”

“Stop it!” I call after her. “There’s no way he’d let you skip radiation, even if we would. We’re going home. It’s time to—” I choke back my final two words and a grocery cart full of sorrow.

I can’t see. The flood distorting my vision started building years ago. How is it that I’m still upright? Ignoring the solid rock foundation beneath me, I drop to my knees, shudder- ing as if febrile. My mind embarks on a frantic search for a Scripture pill, a biblical capsule to ease the crippling distress. All that rises to the surface is the idea of scraping my boils with pottery shards.

Her rib. A bone shadow. Not good. When we get home, I’ll get Zack or Alex to help me search the Internet for informa- tion about survival rates—right after the funeral or memorial service or whatever it is we’ll call the service we hold in Greg’s honor. My boys will stay home a couple more days beyond that, won’t they? Or a couple of weeks? Could they miss the first few weeks of the new semester? I may never be ready to send them back out into the world again.

Independent and self-sufficient as they are, the loss of their dad will cut deep. My attempts to close the wound for them will feel like straddling a section of the Grand Canyon.

Nerve endings are curious things. The nerves in my skin ache for my husband’s touch. Now more than ever, I need to feel the weight of his arm around me, to press myself against his wide chest, to bury my face in his shirt and breathe his confidence into my lungs.

I need to tell him about Jenika.

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He doesn’t comfort with words. I could live with that if I

just had his touch. His warm hand against the small of my back as he steers me forward. His hand covering mine when I crave a reminder of his presence. The silent blessing of his body curved around mine when sleep eludes me. His hint- of-mint breath lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. The brush of his whisper-kiss when he knows “I need you, baby” won’t score as many points as “I’m here for you.”

The scent of his aftershave embedded in the threads of his

pillowcase. As powerful as any aromatherapy.

The sound of his voice on the phone. My constant.

My earth-constant. Heaven has its own version—the Lord

from whom Greg learned how to give.

The Lord from whom Jenika Morgan learned how to do

friendship. And joy. And stamina. And hope.

My nerve endings must have eavesdropped on my mind’s

meanderings. I feel the weight of an arm around my shoulders.

“Honey.” It’s Frank.

“I’ll be okay.”

“We know you will. But we have decisions to make.

Jen’s on the phone with Brent. You want to get in on this conversation?”

I’ve imposed upon their lives, thrust the dagger of my need-

iness into the stab wound of their own pain long enough. This is between the two of them. Regret floods through me. Of all weeks for me to keep Jen and Brent away from each other. What must have been going through her mind when I whined about a mosquito bite or hangnail or sunburn?

“Sorry, Libby. It’s a little hard to sympathize when cancer’s

eating holes in my bones.”

But that’s not what she said. She smiled and supported me

and swallowed the scream clawing at her throat. If there was

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no scream, that says all the more about her character, her faith, and the God of inexhaustible hope.

My God.

It’s time for me to step up to the plate and live like I believe it. Jen needs me to represent Him to her.

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J
en replaces the SAT phone in its waterproof case and turns toward me. “What did you say?”

“Mumbling to myself. How are the girls?”

“Good. They’re good.” Rather than return the case to the

backpack tucked into the canoe, she hugs it to her chest. I know the feeling. I considered sleeping with my canteen— Greg’s canteen—last night just for the connection with him.

I choke back a hundred thoughts. What’s the appropriate

thing to say right now?

“Jen, I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

“We’ll get through this.”

“By the grace of God. Just like last time.” She pulls her

fingers through the honey-toned hair at the back of her neck— the hair that had to start from scratch after chemo.

A Canadian jay, as gray as my thoughts, invades our space.

He lands on the spot we called the “kitchen” little more than an hour ago. Searching for crumbs? He can join the club. I’m searching for something with which to rebuild a life and help my dearest friend negotiate the bone-rattling rapids in hers. “This is really weird,” she says.

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“What is?” A better question would be “What isn’t?” “I read about that eagle we saw this morning.”

“What? Where?” I pat my breast pocket. Greg’s journal remains tucked there, close to my heart. She couldn’t have read about an eagle sitting on those pages. “My Bible. Revelation eight.”

“You’re reading in the book of Revelation on this trip?” “It fell open to that spot.” Jen looks away from me. “Are you going to tell me what it said?” “Not sure I should.”