After
AFTER
With Grayson’s phone call still heavy in my mind, I want nothing more than to walk straight off the cabin’s porch and into the forest. But if Michael taught me one thing, back when we still spent time trekking up and down mountainsides, it’s to never venture into the wilderness without three things: clothing warm enough to survive the night, a way to make fire, and a way to make light.
In the woods , he said, you never know what’ll happen. If something goes wrong, you might not find your way out again on your own schedule .
The first two items are easy enough. I layer running shorts over leggings and stuff a waterproof shell into a backpack, then slip in two lighters and a water bottle.
Which leaves me in need of light. My battery-powered headlamp is still in a dusty drawer back in Seagrove, so I venture out to the dim one-car garage no one’s ever made a habit of parking in and search for a substitute.
Here, too, evidence of my family’s long ownership has vanished, but behind a stack of spare window screens, I find an overlooked red metal kerosene lamp. Wire loops circle the glass bulb in the middle. A rusty dial adjusts the wick up and down.
The lantern evokes memories of thunder-drenched summer nights, when the power went out and I played board games with my parents by lantern light. As a child, the flickering magic of those evenings intoxicated me. I always felt like we’d gone on an adventure, even though we hadn’t set foot beyond the door.
Now the memories only push an ache against my ribs. I’ll never have nights like that again, no giggle-soaked Monopoly matches with my own children. Not that I would have, anyway—Michael and I agreed early on that we didn’t want kids, and witnessing Kate’s struggles with motherhood has only confirmed that for me—but the other part, the husband I could cuddle up beside and haggle over Park Place with and pop kettle corn with... I thought I’d have him forever.
My eyes tingle. I blink away the sting and carry my reclaimed lantern outside. It’s close to six o’clock, and while the shadows haven’t yet fallen, the light has melted in that peculiar way that makes everything warmer and sharper and closer. In the yard, long grass the color of Michael’s hair waves in the breeze. The saw-blade mountains gleam, their faces lifted toward the sun.
Between the two waits a tangle of deep green shadows. The trees seem to peer at me, friendly and remembering. Welcoming.
I cross the burbling creek that bisects the yard, and the world shifts. The sunlight retreats, plunging me into a realm of muted bird chatter, pungent wafts of evergreen, and blue shadows that lap against my skin like cool water. I swing the lantern at my side while pine needles crackle underfoot.
There’s no trail, so I memorize landmarks. Most people don’t realize how easy it is to get lost in the woods, but it can happen with little warning. Once, in Mount Rainier National Park, Michael and I stepped off the trail to find a picnic spot, then lost our bearings. He coached me through it, explaining how to use the surrounding topography to reason my way back in the right direction. Soon enough, we had our boots on the trail again.
At the memory, a whimper rises in my throat, and I clamp down on it until the urge passes.
God, I wish we’d stayed like that forever. I wish I’d had a life with the real Michael, the pure one. The man he would’ve been if he and Grayson had never torn each other’s heart out.
I reach a clearing where the moss piles thicker, cloaking the fallen trunks with mantles of green. I arrange myself cross-legged with the lantern before me. Cast-off pine needles prick through my pants.
I heave a breath and peer around, feeling suddenly ridiculous. This place is beautiful, but what did I expect? That I would listen to the birds sing, maybe raise my face against the dappled light, and simply be over it?
Yet the longer I sit, breathing in concert with the forest, the more my splintered edges soften. This place is the exact opposite of my home in Seagrove. No spotless surfaces to polish to within an inch of their life. No chrome-plated appliances to advertise my washed-out reflection whether I like it or not.
Not a straight line or squared corner in sight. Just gentle beauty and the earthy lullaby of rustling pines.
A twig snaps, shattering the calm.
I rise, instinctually brandishing the lantern as if to ward off shadows. Yet daylight still lingers, so I force my arm back down and squint into the underbrush.
Branches rustle. Something large pushes fallen leaves aside. A moment later, a furred head emerges from a bush. A very wide furred head.
I stare into the bottomless dark eyes of a black bear.
My pulse hurtles into overdrive. I try to remember what Michael used to say—look the animal in the eye? Don’t, so as not to seem like a threat? Shout? Stay quiet?
It’s been so long that I can’t remember. I only know I shouldn’t flee.
The bear snuffles and paws at the ground. A silky cub totters to its side.
Blackened terror lurches through my veins, sending me staggering backward. This much, I do remember: the most dangerous bear in the forest is a mother with her young.
The bear lowers its head, and instinct takes over. I revert to the same thing that’s saved me countless times before.
I run.