Chapter Twenty-Five
Sommer
Thursday night
“Hey Abbie, did you know that Marna has been on three dates with a physical therapy guy?”
“I did,” Marna said, “but I started dry texting; I doubt it’s going anywhere.”
“Dry texting sounds like the opposite of sexting,” Abbie said. “Unless this is some referral to dry humping, which is kind of juvenile.”
Both women sounded exhausted while Sommer felt fine.
Usually they were the trail rabbits, but, since lunch, Sommer hadn’t had any trouble keeping up.
“Dry texting – replying without energy, very few words, then a slow fade.” Marna stabbed her walking stick into the soft soil at the edge of the trail.
“Or you could say, ‘This isn’t working for me’ and end it,” Sommer slowed to keep her distance.
Abbie pressed a hand against a tree. “Sometimes, I don’t notice shifts in my relationships because it happens gradually, then the leaves start to change color, and one day you realize that it’s the autumn of a relationship, right?
That winter is coming. And before things become chilly, it’s good to have a conversation. ”
“A poetic choice of words,” Marna said with a sniff and a heavy exhale. “I would have said ‘fall’ instead of ‘autumn’ and ‘bitter’ and ‘frosty’ instead of chill. Might be a regional thing, though. My imagery comes from my childhood in Maine.”
“What do you think happened?” Abbie asked.
“Red flags started popping up.”
“We all have them,” Abbie said. “Some people might think my erratic employment situation is a red flag.”
“It’s not,” Sommer said.
“Perception, right?” Abbie licked her lips and sighed. “Green flag to one is a red flag to another. What about you, Marna? What flag might you be waving that would have the physical therapist worried?”
“I bring home horror stories from the Emergency Department. They can be—”
“Awful,” Abbie interjected. “Three months later, and I’m still traumatized from your banana story.”
Freshly out of a relationship. Embracing her “I need to figure out who I am” era, Sommer was eschewing relationships and focusing on DIYing her little cottage.
“Sommer, you haven’t told us about any of your dates. Is there someone?” Abbie asked, sliding down until she sat on a log and unbuckled her pack, letting it drop.
They must be taking a break, though; they’d had one only about thirty minutes before.
“I realized I’d set my bar too low. So I moved it up a few notches to a place where I was comfortable. My base is now common respect, equal effort, dependability, and an ability to have honest conversations.”
“I hear you. My tank doesn’t hold what it used to.
I’m too damned worn out and tired to just be giving my emotions and energy away willy-nilly like I used to,” Abbie said.
“It’s not like I was banking good deeds and kindness; I usually act on instinct, but, in the back of my mind, there was always an expectation of reciprocity.
I make you soup when you’re sick, and you do the same for me. ”
“Are you thinking of your husband in that scene?” Marna asked.
“Ex, and you’ve heard the story before. It was a bout of some virus that brought me to my senses.
He got sick from work, I took care of him, and he was disgusting—maybe not by nursing standards, I’m not used to all that code brown business—but he got the whole nine yards, the clean sheets, the puke bucket with a glow-stick under the plastic bag so he could find it in the middle of the night.
Chicken soup. I had to work, of course, but when I was home, I was caring for him and helping him to be comfortable—making sure he had what he needed before I left.
He got better, but as one would predict, I got super sick.
It was on the weekend, mind you, when he was home.
He went outside, sat on the deck, and read. I took care of myself.”
“And he’s the one who brought the virus home,” Marna said, painting her words with indignation.
“That virus he brought home was my ticket to a more relaxed and comfortable life. I realized how much energy I put into resentment and longing. Take that out of the equation, and there’s more space for dancing naked under the full moon.”
“You do that?” Sommer laughed.
“Now I do,” Abbie said. “I’m going to the top of the mountain. If we’re the only people there, might as well.”
“Yup. A crackling fire, naked dancing. Fun, right?” Marna had no energy behind her words.
Abbie stopped and dropped her head. “Speaking of sick, I’m really not feeling great.”
“What’s going on?” Sommer asked.
“Right now my stomach is queasy, and I feel bloated and sorry about it, especially for you, Sommer, since you’re walking behind us. I’m passing a lot of gas,” Abbie said. “I’ve heard of something called altitude sickness. Could it be that?”
“High-altitude flatus expulsion. It’s a thing,” Sommer said.
“What kind of thing?” Abbie asked, dropping her butt to the ground with her knees propped up.
“Not a thing here,” Marna stopped and held tightly to both of the walking sticks she’d picked up on the way.
“You have to be over 11,000 feet, which is past the tree line, in order to lower the atmospheric pressure enough that the gas in your intestines can expand.” Marna lifted her head enough that she could catch Sommer’s gaze. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. My shoulders are sore, but the summit isn’t that far away.” Sommer paused. “Your sweat is looking oily, and your complexion isn’t good, my friend.”
“Yeah, my stomach isn’t good either.” Marna licked her finger and stuck it in the wind.
“West to east,” Sommer said. “We’re walking northwest. You aren’t getting kooties from me.”
“I’m more worried about you getting kooties from us. Stay six feet away and upwind,” Marna swayed on her sticks. “Son of a bitch.”
“Sit down, Marna.” Sommer took two steps to the other side of the trail so nothing would blow her way. Marna wouldn’t joke about something like that. Not under these circumstances anyway. “Tell me what’s going on. Is it something you ate? Did you and Abbie get gas station sushi on the way up?”
“I feel like shit,” Marna said. “And it’s very quickly getting out of hand.”
Sommer sat. “What’s your guess?”
“Honestly?” Marna turned and looked at the tree line. “Norovirus.”
“From falling in the water?” Abbie asked.
“Or because we decided to take advantage of the luxury of a ceramic throne before we left.”
“You washed your hands,” Sommer said.
“Like a surgeon.” Marna unbuckled her pack and let it slide to the ground. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t come into contact with it.”
“This is bad,” Sommer said, looking in both directions on the trail. If only they had passed someone and there was help at hand.
“Why bad?” Abbie asked. “How bad?”
Marna dropped her sticks and stumbled behind a tree to puke. “Bad,” she said between heaves.
Sommer turned to find the sun in the sky. “It’s not too late to hike down to last night’s spot.”
“No can do.” Marna came back to her pack, filled her mouth with water from the hose, rinsed and spat.
“I’ll help you.”
“No,” Marna lay flat on her back. “I want to die. I want to die here looking up at the stars through the tree branches.”
“That’s melodramatic,” Abbie said, leaning against her pack.
“How are you feeling, Abbie? If I help Marna, can you get down to last night’s camp spot?”
“I couldn’t,” Abbie said. “My legs are like rubber.”
“Okay, let’s think this through,” Sommer realized she was the only functional adult. This was on her. “I need us all on board here. If this is norovirus, no matter the way you contracted it—
“Feels very norovirus to me,” Marna said. “I’m willing to bet that’s what’s going on.”
“Which means what?” Abbie asked. “Be specific.”
“Average onset is twenty-four to thirty-six hours,” Sommer said.
Marna flicked a hand through the air. “Check.”
“Once symptoms start, they progress quickly from there. We’re talking severe vomiting, cramps, chills, low-grade fever, muscle aches, and diarrhea. It lasts about three days.”
“So we have to hunker down and get through it,” Abbie said. “We can walk down when we’re feeling better. We just ration our food.”
“Unless we get dehydrated. Then it lasts longer.” Marna made a wry face. “Or, we die.”
“What?” Abbie squeaked. She blinked at Marna then turned to Sommer. “Sommer won’t let us dehydrate. There’s a stream at the last place we stopped for a break. If she collects water in our dry bags and hauls it up to boil it, that should be okay.”
Neither nurse answered.
“Right?” Abbie’s voice took on a sharp edge.
“It’s electrolytes,” Marna said. “I rationed mine to use most on the way up when my pack weight and the incline strain taxed my body the most.”
“Same,” Abbie and Sommer said.
“Abbie, I’m going to explain the reality of this situation because we need a plan, and we need it fast.”
Abbie swallowed loudly. “Okay.”
“I can certainly haul water up,” Sommer said. “And we can certainly boil it. But with violent vomiting—”
“And an asshole that functions as a geyser,” Marna tossed in.
“—water isn’t enough. You need sodium and potassium.”
“The likelihood of keeping any water down is slim,” Marna said, “no matter how much water Sommer was able to haul. Also, the longer she’s around us and our things, the more likely it is that she’ll join our merry little band of norovirus incubators. Then for sure we’re shit-up-the-creek.”
“So we keep drinking and hope enough stays in.”
“Abbie,” Sommer said gently. “Without electrolytes, the more water you drink, the more likely you’ll get hyponatremia, where there’s too little sodium in your body.”
“Which does what?” Abbie asked.
“Fun stuff,” Marna said. “Like seizures and death.”
Abbie glowered. “Stop with the ‘and death,’ Marna.”
Marna opened her eyes just enough to peek over at Abbie. “Honestly, I hope I can.”
“What do you think the risk is, Sommer?” Abbie asked.
“Of having norovirus on the trail? You can’t walk out. That’s for sure. But being up here in the camp? Severe dehydration, which is your biggest risk, leads to low blood pressure, and that can cause heart issues, confusion, weakness, shock.”