Into the Fall

Chapter 1

September 2016

It was cold the night Matthew disappeared. Sarah sat up into a frost-filled morning. Her eyes refused to open, so she tucked her nose beneath the lip of her sleeping bag and tried to ignore the invading chill. Her body, though, had other ideas, led by a bladder that hammered against her sleepiness. She moaned at the thought of tromping through the wet woods to the toilet at the campsite.

“Matthew,” she croaked. Her hand reached out beside her. An empty sleeping bag deflated under her touch. Months later, she will say she woke that morning to find her husband missing, but at her most vulnerable—when fear and loneliness creep in on sleepless nights—she’ll admit in those few moments, she knew Matthew was already lost to her.

Charlie and Bella were mummied in their kid-size sleeping bags, heads poking out like gophers. Sarah felt a kernel of unease at the sight of Matthew’s empty bag but shoved it beneath poor sleep and restless dreams. She pushed herself to her hands and knees with a sigh as she rustled around the tent floor, looking for clothes. The taste of last night’s s’mores and warm beer lingered on her tongue. She grabbed a fleece and pulled it on over the stretched-out long johns she wore as pajamas before tiptoeing around the kids.

Outside, Sarah straightened and listened to the pop of joints, stiff after the previous day’s paddle in the canoe. Even in her sleep-deprived state, she could not deny the beauty of this place. The campsite sat on a narrow strip of land stretching into the lake like an accusatory finger.

Mottled granite slabs under her feet sloped toward a half moon of beach, grainy with centuries of silt and glacier droppings, before fading into Nagadon Lake. Across the water, rock shoals stood against reddening maples and bonsai-like jack pines, displayed like a living Group of Seven painting. There were few other campers this late in the season, and cottagers stayed indoors on days like this, preferring hearth fires and board games to unpredictable skies.

There were no signs of Matthew’s loping gate or head of thick hair on the campsite.

Sarah called out, just in case.

“Matthew?” The final syllable reverberated against wood and water. She felt an emptiness in the echo: Matthew’s constant buzzing silenced by the solidity of rock and root. He could be off for a swim or a paddle, she told herself, glancing at the overcast sky. She grabbed toilet paper from the tent vestibule and took a step toward the latrine path.

The path led to the open-air pit toilet, beyond which lay only forest. The background thrum of the water muffled as soon as Sarah slipped among the trees. She brushed away a tangle of spider silk from her face. Sarah was a city girl, more used to the hum of rubber wheels on concrete and the base pulse of humanity; she knew what to expect from the creatures that walked asphalt paths. She found this world—the woods, the lake, the creatures that scuttled beneath dead leaves—capricious and uncontainable. Gnarled trees and spiny bushes felt alive and watchful. She was reactive in this environment, obsessed by basic needs—food, water, shelter—and fearful that Mother Nature would betray her. The forest had its own pulse, pumping through moss-wrapped trees and deep-rooted ground cover. Sarah might not have known what it was, but she knew to respect it. She quickly used the latrine before scampering back to the campsite.

The first time Matthew had suggested camping, Sarah had been quietly aghast. Outside the restaurant window, Christmas lights twinkled against the puddled streets of a mild December evening. She’d never camped before. It’s 2007, she thought. Why would anyone voluntarily leave the comforts of central heating and down pillows to sleep on the ground?

They sat at the corner table of an Indian restaurant, rich in curry smells and lingering shadows. They were still new then, feeling each other’s edges and deciding what to trust.

Knowing her job in theater made her a sucker for great writing, he paraphrased Ralph Waldo Emerson, trying to convince her. “You’ll love Bella. She’s a mutable cloud which is always and never the same .”

“Bella?” Sarah raised an eyebrow. Would a third party be joining them?

Matthew placed his hand over hers across the table, lightly running his thumb over her knuckles. “It’s what I call the Mirabelle River. We’ve spent too much time together to stand on formalities. The river is spectacular. She runs along the Ottawa Valley, fed by an endless number of lakes. You can spend days on her shores exploring outlets and tributaries and never see another soul. You’ll see; you’ll be as charmed with her as I am.”

“You seem pretty enamored of a river,” Sarah said. She mutely took stock of what she knew about this man: computer geek, nature enthusiast, relentless charmer. They had only been dating for a couple of months. She enjoyed their time together, knew she could fall for him, but how well did she really know this man? What would she be getting herself into if she disappeared into the woods with him? Her face must have betrayed her reservations.

“I’m not crazy, I promise,” Matthew said, laughing. “It’ll be fine. It’s just a special place for me, that’s all. I want to share it with you. I’ve never taken anyone else up there, actually. It’s a first for me.” A shyness overtook his broad smile. “Kind of like introducing you to family.”

Sarah felt like an awkward teenager who had just been asked out by the football captain.

Is this love, she’d wondered, or smarm?

A few months after that December night, Sarah found herself out on the Mirabelle, and it had not failed to charm—and terrify. She felt more like Homer Simpson than Ralph Waldo Emerson: oafish and out of her depth. She loved the lush quiet as her paddle slipped into opaque water, but she also felt ridiculous when the canoe tipped on a small set of rapids, sending her plunging into the current and scrambling for purchase on a muddy bank. For every charming group of river otters playing on a granite slab, there were voracious mosquitoes using her arm as a makeshift buffet. There was grace and absurdity and no end of dirt in her food. It could be breathtaking as well. On that first night, the river slipped into evening attire, cloaking itself in dozens of fireflies beneath the pinpricks of countless stars. She couldn’t tell where the sky ended or began, as if the Mirabelle had swallowed the world.

Over time, Sarah perfected her technique for using the outdoor latrine and for all aspects of camping. This 2016 version of Sarah took perverse pride in her ability to start a fire, cook halfway decent noodles on a faltering camp stove, and steer the canoe with only minimal scarring to her paddle. While she would never completely embrace the great outdoors, she could give weekends over to Matthew’s passions. It’s what you did in a relationship.

Sarah scanned the waterline for the telltale shape of her husband, but only a light wind rippled the lake’s surface. An athlete in university and a sometimes weekend warrior, Matthew was still sleek and muscled well into his thirties. This lake was a playground for him, riddled with little coves and bays well within his swimming range.

“Mama?”

A sleepy child’s voice drifted from the tent. She quickly abandoned the search for Matthew. “Coming.”

“Mama, I need to pee.”

Charlie. Her little peanut. At four, he was what Matthew would call, not unkindly, a mama’s boy, and Sarah luxuriated in being the center of his world. Bella, on the other hand—they had named her after the river—was their eight-year-old wandering spirit who had emerged from the womb grasping at everything the world had to offer. The girl trailed after her father from adventure to adventure, already making steps toward her independence.

Sarah poked her head into the tent and was greeted by the sight of Charlie, his stuffed dragon, Norbert, in hand and both legs stuffed into one pant leg, struggling to walk toward the door. Bella was curled into a tight ball in her sleeping bag with her head resting on the large stuffed dog she had insisted on bringing, over Sarah’s objection. It was now coated in frog ooze, camp smoke, and crushed insects, but Bella seemed not to notice.

“Mama, I think my pants aren’t working.”

“You put them on wrong, doofus,” Bella said.

“Be nice, Bella.” Sarah stifled her own laugh. Charlie stared up at Sarah, more pleased by his sister’s attention than hurt by the insult.

Breakfast was a struggle. Matthew had strung the food bag up the night before to protect it from bears, throwing a line over a high branch a few dozen feet into the woods. Sarah had to trudge over uneven terrain to retrieve it, stumbling over roots and dodging branches, fearful of stepping on a small rodent or, worse, a wasp’s nest.

“Shit,” she said when a sharp branch caught her shin. Sarah heaved the heavy canvas bag back to the firepit and dropped it on the ground. She pulled out an old propane stove, setting it up on a knee-high camp table composed of two tree stumps and a strategically placed log, and turned her attention to the food bag.

“Pancakes!” Charlie shouted. “Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes!” He danced around the firepit.

“No pancakes this morning, Charlie.” Sarah struggled to open the hard plastic latch on the food bag.

“I want pancakes! Pleeeaaaassse, Mama.”

“Where’s Daddy?” Bella demanded.

“No, Charlie. It’s oatmeal this morning,” Sarah said. She yanked out their collection of breakfast food: some tacky bagels, instant oatmeal packages, and hot chocolate powder. A waft of stale peanuts and overcooked pasta burped out of the bag, churning Sarah’s stomach.

“Mom,” Bella said, her voice drilling.

“Please, please, please!” Charlie spun around Sarah as she wrestled with the stove.

Sarah hooked up the little propane canister and tried to get the flame going. Her fingers were awkward with cold. The stove refused to catch; the smell of propane hit her like a slap.

“No. No pancakes today, Charlie.” The wind gathered just enough strength to snuff out the paltry flame from the lighter. “Come on, come on, you stupid lighter.”

“Daddy would make pancakes,” Bella said, punctuating herself with a toe kick of the spent ash in the firepit.

“Well, Daddy’s not fucking here, is he?” Sarah said it under her breath, but not quiet enough. She froze.

“Mama, you said a bad word,” Charlie said. Bella smirked, taking in this new lesson in parental failure.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” Sarah sat down heavily on a damp log and felt the moisture seep through her pants. “Mommy lost her temper, that’s all. Daddy’s just gone for a swim. How about I make us some hot chocolate while we wait for him?”

Sarah busied herself again with the stove, feeling an irksome rush of gratitude when it finally lit. She poured hot chocolate powder into dented tin mugs, the wind tossing sprays of the powder into the air. When Sarah was angry or upset with him, Charlie had a habit of making himself small and watching her with doe eyes. She hoped he didn’t notice the quiver in her hand or see her eyes close against the lake as she waited for the water to boil.

Sarah sat on a log in front of an anemic fire. A bowl of instant oatmeal perched on her lap as she wrapped her hands around a mug of too-sweet hot chocolate. The sky was fully overcast now; black, bulbous clouds had crept in like creatures on a hunt. At the far end of the lake, sheets of rain darkened the horizon as if blinds had been pulled down.

The warm liquid did little to dispel the creeping chill, nor did the two layers of clothing and the wool hat Sarah had shoved on her head. The wind painted striations across the iron-colored water as waves echoed against themselves into small whitecaps. Sarah faced the lake and kept a roving eye on the surface. It had been over an hour since she first dragged herself from the tent. Each little ripple of movement caught her attention and reverberated in her shoulder muscles. Matthew should have been back by now. His solo forays never lasted this long. And he had planned to take the kids fishing this morning. The uneasiness she had shoved away earlier oozed its way back, slithering over nerves.

Charlie and Bella hunted for frogs along the shallow beach edge. Windswept waves bubbled up the beach, making it hard to spot any creatures. Charlie scanned the shoreline, while Bella refused to look at Sarah, instead offering only grunts or nods in response to any questions. Like father, like daughter, Sarah thought, in response to her daughter’s sullen mood. Sarah looked out to the lake and bottled curse words up in her head.

“The canoe,” Sarah said, jumping up. Charlie looked up; Bella kept her back turned. Distracted by the kids and making breakfast, Sarah had forgotten to check if Matthew had taken the canoe out.

The land spit on which they were camped offered two shorelines. The tent faced out on a small strip of sandy beach. The other side of the point—hidden by a narrow line of trees—offered a steeper drop into the water, perfect for catching small bass that nibbled on the rock algae, beside a half moon of rough-sand beach. They always turtled the boat overnight, turning it upside down on the shore to keep out the weather. Last night’s forecast had been thundershowers, so Matthew thought it best to move the canoe to the more protected side of the point.

A well-trodden path joined the two sides. Sarah followed it, quickening her pace and chastising herself for failing to look earlier. If Matthew was paddling instead of swimming, maybe he’d lost track of time again.

At the opposite bay, it took seconds for Sarah to confirm that the canoe was gone. The bay was small and well protected, but she walked around nonetheless, gathering some of the gear left out by the kids the day before. She picked up fishing rods and a can of bug spray and settled the strap of a damp tackle box over her shoulder.

“It’s a wonder we don’t leave half our crap behind every time,” she said to herself, bending down to gather one of the kids’ abandoned life jackets. As she turned to head back up the path, a flash of yellow—Matthew’s expensive kayaking life jacket—caught her eye beneath the deep green of a balsam fir, the tree’s needled branches reaching over as if to hide its prize. Sarah had spent extra money for the more streamlined version, and still, Matthew left it lying around.

Sarah snatched the life jacket from the tree as she passed. Irritation built to a burn in her belly. She was halfway back to the tent when the thought struck. If Matthew was out on the lake in the canoe with a storm pending, why was his life jacket looped around her wrist?