Brynn

 

With the wind at my back and the rain whipping my hair into my face, I continue alone, all but blinded, slowly trudging up the challenging Saddle Trail and wondering if I am being foolish. Should I have returned to Roaring Brook with Carlotta, Emmy, and the Bennington boys? Is it madness for a novice hiker to continue alone?

During our companionable walk from Roaring Brook to Chimney Pond, I’d seen a lot of hikers, but Saddle has considerably less traffic, many walkers likely opting, as the rest of my group had, to return below and save the summit for another day. But I have the heaviest feeling in my heart that if I don’t get to Baxter Peak today, I never will. So I push forward, despite Kris’s warning, Emmy’s sweet concern, and my own trepidation.

My thoughts turn inevitably to Jem as the near-howling wind pushes at me and icy raindrops pelt my face, and I try to take some small comfort in the notion that his feet walked this trail dozens of times. I try to feel close to him, but to my immense frustration, I can feel my connection to Jem fading, even here, in this place that he loved so well. The trail is rocky and winding, and it impedes my slow progress. As the sky darkens and the rain falls harder, I have to concentrate wholly on forcing my body forward.

As two hikers approach me, descending from the summit, one of them shakes his head in warning. “Bad up there! You can’t see a thing.”

His friend nods in agreement, squinting his eyes against the rain. “Not worth the walk up!”

I wave at them weakly. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” says the first guy as he passes, both of us turning slightly so our bodies won’t touch each other on the narrow trail.

“Turn back,” says his friend, making eye contact with me for a nanosecond as he walks by.

I clench my jaw as their footsteps fade, pausing for a moment to tighten my hood. My hands are freezing, but I don’t want to take out my gloves yet. I’m not certain they’re waterproof, which means they’ll be sopping wet in two seconds if I put them on now, and my hands will be that much colder.

Underneath the gloves, in its sealed Ziploc bag, is Jem’s phone, still smeared with the fingerprint of blood. It’s that smudge that makes me keep moving through the punishing conditions. Picturing it, tears flood my eyes, and I look up at the steep, rocky trail, wishing I was anywhere but in these godforsaken woods in the middle of nowhere.

Sniffling pathetically, I reach up and swipe at my nose before trudging forward. I promised Jem that I’d bury a part of him at the top of Katahdin, and that’s exactly what I aim to do . . . no matter what.

“Coming up on the left!” I hear a voice call from behind me, and I glance back to see two men with walking sticks making their way briskly toward me.

As they pass by, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. They aren’t letting the rain get them down. Nor am I.

Lifting my chin, I soldier on, trying to ignore the weather, though my pants and socks are drenched and getting heavier and colder by the minute. To comfort myself, I softly hum one of my favorite songs, an old Beatles tune my mother used to sing to me as a child.

There are places I remember . . .

I wish I’d thought to call her this morning before setting out; no doubt she’s worried about me. Once I get home on Wednesday morning, I’ll take a couple of days off and go see my parents in Arizona. I’ll tell them all about my treacherous climb up a mountain, and how I’d been able to finally say goodbye to Jem. And maybe I’ll cry a little. Maybe they will too. But they’ll know that this trip wasn’t in vain—that it was a necessary step toward living my life again.

Living again.

What does that mean, exactly?

Hmm.

I guess it means calling my old friends to see if they still have room in their lives for me. I know that my closest friends will be happy to have me back in circulation. And though it will take courage and strength to say yes when they invite me out for drinks or to a BBQ, I’ll finally have the will to say yes. Even though my heart might still ache for Jem, it’s time to start saying yes again.

Maybe I’ll take my bike out of the shed behind my house, wipe off the cobwebs, and oil the chain. I could join my old biking club. I don’t know if there will be anyone I know still there, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to meet some new people, I guess.

I don’t know if my friend Mona still works at the Petal Salon and Spa near the bar where I used to work, but I could stop in and see. After two years, I could use a cut and color.

Maybe I’ll get some paint and repaint a few of the rooms in our house—my house—too. Freshen it up. Make it new. Make it mine. Start over.

Live again.

“Gah!”

I’m so engaged in my thoughts of home, I trip over a tree root in the path and fall to my knees with a cry. Gasping at the pain in my palms and knees, I push up from the ground and stand gingerly. My palms are bleeding, and my pants have ripped open at one knee. I wince at the mix of dirt, debris, and blood seeping from the tear.

“God!” I yell, looking up at the sky, fresh tears of rage mixing with raindrops. “Can you cut me a break? Please?”

He answers with a loud crash of thunder, and the rain starts falling sideways.

“Thanks a lot!” I sputter, crying as loudly as I please in heaving sobs.

My palms are a mess of mud-covered, bloody scrapes, so I use the back of my hand to push wet tendrils of hair from my face and let my tears fall freely, the warm saltiness mixing with the cold rain and slipping between my lips.

“It’s not fair!” I cry, fisting my broken hands at my sides. “He was good! He was young! I hate you for letting this happen!”

Another crash of angry thunder makes me cower a little, but I straighten my spine a moment later, turning my face to the onslaught of rain.

“I don’t want to be alone!”

Lightning brightens the dark sky for an instant, a jagged burst of white-hot light followed by a crack of fury.

“Please! Help me!” I say in a broken voice, my shoulders slumping as my strength is sapped.

I sigh heavily, a drowned rat, drenched and muddy, and shield my eyes to look up ahead.

The path is empty, but another strike of lightning draws my eyes to a structure of some kind off to the right. I squint. Yes. A cabin? No. A lean-to. A dark-brown painted clapboard lean-to. I cry even harder with relief as I approach. One of the many lean-tos placed strategically along the trails in Baxter State Park, it’s the ideal place to sit down, clean my knee, and wait out the worst of the storm.

“I take it back,” I mutter at the sky. “You came through. Thank you.”

Wiping my tears away, I move purposefully toward the little hut, only noticing, when I am a few feet away, that there appears to be someone else inside. Though I can’t see very well through the wind and rain between us, it looks like there’s someone sitting on the bench in the back.

Stepping up onto the floor of the lean-to, I almost sigh with relief as the loud patter of raindrops on my jacket ceases, but my heart flips over when my vision clears and I realize who’s sharing the tiny space with me.

Wayne.

You’re just tourists in my dreams.

He stares at me as I stand on the edge of the platform, his eyes slipping to my chest, then down to my ripped pants and bleeding knee.

A chill races down my spine as his lips tilt upward just a touch.

“Well,” he says, looking at me square in the eyes, “if it ain’t Grandma.”

Grandmaw.

I know he’s calling me that because I’m ten years older than my companions, but truth told, he and I are probably right around the same age. He grins at me and my skin crawls, but I force myself to hold his gaze, trying not to look intimidated, though he is easily twice my size and we are very much alone.

“Looks like you got a li’l scraped up there, huh?”

“It’s, um . . .” I gulp. “It’s Wayne, right?”

I don’t take another step into the lean-to, just stand on the edge, staring at him, trying to figure out whether to stay or go.

“Ayuh,” he says, pursing his lips. “It’s Wayne, all right. Ol’ Wayne, walkin’ all by his lonesome.” He cocks his head to the side. “You lost or somethin’? Thought you was walkin’ with friends.”

“They, uh . . . well, it started to rain, and I . . . well, they . . .”

As I mumble, he drops his eyes to my chest again, lingering there as he adjusts his glasses. I glance down quickly to find my windbreaker is plastered to my breasts, my freezing nipples clearly outlined through my T-shirt and the thin Gore-Tex slicker.

I cross my arms, and Wayne slowly raises his glance, his eyes darker now.

“All them fine friends got washed away, huh?”

“Um, no. They’re waitin’ for me,” I lie, hoping he’ll buy it. “I hurt my knee. Just wanted to clean it quick, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Don’t matter nohow to me,” says Wayne, reaching into his bag. I brace myself—for what? I don’t know—then relax when he pulls out an old-fashioned thermos. He tugs the cup off the top with a pop and unscrews the canister, pouring some steaming, amber-colored liquid into the cup. “Tea and syrup and scotch. Nectar of the gods.”

I nod, edging into the lean-to a little more. I want to sit on the bench and tend to my knee, but there’s only one place to sit, and I don’t especially relish the notion of getting closer to Wayne.

“Want some?” he asks, holding out the cup.

I loosen the straps on my pack. “No, thank you.”

“Ha! Lookit that. You got some manners, after all.”

He lifts the cup in cheers and grins at me, showing off his yellow teeth. He winks before throwing back his drink, his eyes locked on mine the whole time.

There is something about the way his eyes seize mine and hold them that makes me feel trapped, that makes me feel like . . . like his prey.

Get out of here. Get out of here. Get out of here.

I look away from Wayne, glancing quickly toward the trail, hoping to see some hikers coming or going, but there’s no one in sight. By now, the guys I passed before I fell are probably well out of earshot.

“See yore friends out there, waitin’ for you in the downpour?” he asks, his voice mocking.

I turn back to him and I can see it on his face. He knows I was lying. He knows that I am alone.

“Want me to take a look-see at your kneesie?” he asks, placing his empty cup on the bench beside his fatigue-style pants. Hunting pants.

My stomach flips over at the cajoling tone, and I look out desperately at the still-sheeting rain.

“Um,” I say, starting to feel breathless from the increased pounding of my heart. “No, um . . . I think I’ll just—”

“No, huh?”

“No, thanks,” I say, turning back to him.

“No, thanks,” he mimics, snickering softly as he leans down to rummage through his bag again.

I reach up and tighten the straps I’ve just loosened. No rain is bad enough to spend another moment alone with Wayne. He creeps me out way too much.

“Um . . . I’m just going to, uh, keep going . . .”

I don’t want to take my eyes off Wayne, but I need to turn my back to him to step off the lean-to platform, so I pivot quickly, taking a step forward when my feet fly out from under me and I am suddenly yanked backward.

I am thrown to the far left corner of the lean-to, landing on my battered knees, my hip bone slamming into one wall, which causes my forehead to crash into another. My head whips back from the force, and the left side of my face scrapes against the filthy wooden floor. The wind is knocked from me, and I blink rapidly, sucking in a sharp breath. A flash of panic—of pure, visceral dread—sluices through me with such velocity, the adrenaline rush numbs my pain.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” says Wayne from behind me. “Yore friends ain’t waitin’ for you.”

I flatten one hand on the floor and brace the other on the wall in front of me, trying to right myself in the tight space. My fingernails curl, clawing at the dirty planks on the floor, but my movements are sluggish.

“Please,” I mumble, my voice hoarse. Weak. Breathless.

“Please?” repeats Wayne. “Please let me walk with you! Please be kind to strangers! Please have a sip of my goddamn motherfuckin’ drink!”

I am still trying to sit up when his boot slams into my left side. This time, the pain is so sharp, I scream, my head lurching forward where it slams against the wall again. Bright flashes of light—lightning? fireworks?—blur my vision as I mewl in pain, tears spilling from my eyes. Every movement hurts as I maneuver into a half-kneeling, half-fetal position, facing the corner of the lean-to, hunching over in an attempt to protect myself.

I’m dazed and disoriented as I glance back to see Wayne squat down behind me.

“There we go,” he says. “You lookit me when I’m talkin’ to you, Grandmaw.”

I keep my arms clasped protectively, pathetically, over my chest as I suck in shallow breaths in sharp spurts. My hip throbs in pain as it twists slightly so I can face Wayne.

That’s when I see it—the glint of metal in his hands—and my heart, which is already racing, starts skipping beats, making me even more light-headed.

Oh, my God. Is there any way out of here? Away from whatever he has planned for me?

“P-please,” I sob, vaguely aware of something wet and warm trailing down my forehead. Am I bleeding? I want to reach up and wipe the blood away, but I pull my knees closer to my chest instinctively. My eyes stay trained on the shiny blade of the Bowie knife.

“You don’t look so good,” says Wayne, leaning forward.

I smell his breath—a mix of stale cigarette, scotch, and syrup—and avert my face. But he doesn’t like this. He reaches for my chin and grabs it, forcing me to look at him.

He holds the knife up to my face, using the blade to lift a strand of my hair. And though I am repulsed by the fact that he is touching me, I don’t move. Each breath I take feels perilous, but I can’t control the jerky rise and fall of my chest.

Releasing my chin, he takes one stubby finger and slides the digit across my forehead. When he withdraws it, smeared in my blood, he draws it to his lips, licking the red slick slowly. “You don’t look good . . . but you taste just fine.”

He pulls the straps of my pack away from my back, and I hear the blade slice through the thick nylon. The weight of the pack falls from my shoulders, slumping against my backside, the only thing between me and Wayne.

“Turn around,” he says.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Turn around!” he yells, his hand landing roughly on the base of my neck. “Now!”

I pivot awkwardly to face him, my back to the corner of the lean-to, Wayne about six inches away. He grabs my backpack and throws it over his shoulder so there is nothing between us but air.

“Drop yore arms.”

“P-please,” I sob.

He plunges the knife into the wood to the right of my ear, and I gasp, my breath wheezing and loud in my ears.

“Do it!” he yells, yanking the blade out of the wall.

Slowly, shaking uncontrollably, with tears and blood slipping in streams down my face, I lower my arms.

“Yore titties is like headlights,” he says, a high-pitched giggle following this observation.

His tongue darts out, and he licks my blood from his lips as he stares at me from a few inches away.

Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, God.

“P-please, Wayne. P-please—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, still staring at my breasts. “Yore ruinin’ it.”

Oh, God. Oh, God. No. No. Please, no.

“W-Wayne,” I say, shaking my head. “P-please. P-please d-don’t—”

“What?” His eyes slide up from my breasts, angry, affronted. “What? You think I’m a fuckin’ rapist? Fuck no! I ain’t want yore cootie pussy, Grandmaw.”

Why his words comfort me some tiny bit, I have no idea. But I whimper “thank you” as I stare up at him, literally backed into a corner, completely at the mercy of a madman. Is it possible that I can live through this nightmare?

“Thank you,” he mimics, so close, his vile breath dusts my face with every word. He giggles again. It’s childlike and feminine and turns my stomach. I vomit into my mouth, gagging as I swallow down the bile. Wayne doesn’t seem to notice—he’s smiling at me like he’s on autopilot. “Ask me what I do like. Ask me! Come on! It’ll be fun!”

“What?” I say, tears blurring my vision as he passes the knife back and forth from one hand to the other.

“No. Not like that. That’s not fun!” he says, frowning, the knife stilling for a moment. “You gotta ask me, Grandmaw. You gotta say, ‘Hey, Wayne, what do you like?’”

His eyes are wild with excitement, his lips stretching into a terrifying smile.

I swallow. “W-Wayne . . . what . . .”

I can’t speak. No more words will come out because I am sobbing softly, my body quaking with terror.

“You’re wreckin’ it!” cries Wayne, his face turning furious. His hand raises the blade over his head. “Ask me what I like!”

“No!” I wail, dropping my head to my knees and wrapping my arms around them. I hold myself as tightly as possible.

Jem. Jem, I’m so sorry. Mommy. Dad. Oh, God. I’m so sorry.

Wayne roars his fury just as I feel the steel point slice my skin open, forcing its ugly coldness into my side, the pain so intense and so unbelievable, I scream. I know I scream, though the sound feels like it’s apart from me, not a part of me. It sounds far, far away.

I list to my other side, still clutching my knees to my chest as the blade rips through my hip a second time.

I scream again, but this time it isn’t about Wayne or the knife or even the pain.

It isn’t about losing Jem, or Derrick Frost Willums, or never hearing my mother sing the Beatles to me again.

It isn’t even about living the last two years in unimaginable, freezing darkness, every waking moment a nightmare that I couldn’t escape from.

I am not screaming for my past or my present.

I am screaming for my future.

I am screaming because I know I want it and someone is taking it away from me.

I am screaming because my eyes are closing and the steel blade keeps landing and my arms can’t hold on tightly to my knees much longer.

I am screaming because the stabs don’t hurt anymore, which means I must be dying.

Again the blade.

Again the sound of my scream, weak and soft, torn from my fading soul.

And then . . .

Darkness.