“And how is the roommate?” My parents were less than thrilled when I told them I was moving in with a stranger, even though I pointed out that Mom had met Jack before, but they had been supportive regardless. Mom had even asked one of her friends who worked at the hospital about him, and they assured her that he seemed like a great guy.
“Jack is nice,” I tell her. “I haven’t spent much time with him, though. Our schedules haven’t lined up much.”
It’s not entirely true, but it’s not a lie either. We’ve fallen into an easy rhythm, even when we’re passing ships in the night. He’s incredibly easy to be around, and I’ve craved my alone time a lot less than I thought I would.
“Dinner is ready,” Mom says, pulling another dish from the oven, this one full of sizzling fall vegetables. “I’m going to make a plate and take it to your dad and then we can eat at the table.”
Worry spikes in my chest. “Is he that bad?”
Mom gives me a knowing look. “He says he’s not, but he’s hardly been able to walk. He slept on the couch last night because he couldn't make it up the stairs.”
I breathe in deeply through my nose, jaw tense, a swirl of anxiety wracking my gut.
“Don’t worry about it, Stevie,” Mom says, sounding firm. “We will be fine.”
I push up from the rickety wooden stool. “I’ll make him a plate. You two go ahead.”
Mom tries to protest, but I wave her off. “Really, I’ve got it.”
I step around them and begin to scoop food onto Dad’s plate—a roasted chicken thigh covered in fresh herbs and squash, sweet potato, and brussel sprouts covered in aromatic olive oil. “The veggies look great, Mom. Are they from the garden?”
She’s using tongs to plate her own piece of chicken. With a soft sigh, she says, “No, I haven’t had time to tend the garden. It’s overgrown with weeds.”
My gaze snaps to her, guilt pricking at me. My dad handles most of the farming on the orchard, but my mom’s pride and joy is her garden. She spends hours outside, her knees sunk into the foam kneeler I bought her years ago, hands sifting through deep brown soil, a huge sunhat tied beneath her chin. I knew that she hasn’t been able to spend as much time there the past year trading off shifts caring for Grandma with Dad, but the fact that her prized garden is covered in weeds makes a mixture of guilt and sadness rip through me.
I haven’t helped enough.
Mom doesn’t look at me, too busy loading up her plate, but I notice the hunch to her shoulders, the dark circles that didn’tuse to be beneath her eyes. The way her nails are bare, no longer chipped, but also not painted. She’s stressed, worn out. And I’ve been rotting on the couch for two weeks.
As I take the plate of dinner to my dad, I make a vow to myself to use any free time I have to help my parents out where I can.
Starting with the garden.
Ididn'tsleepenoughlast night, and I know it when my alarm goes off and I have to practically peel my eyelids open. I stayed late at my parents’ house, sweeping the dust bunnies that had gathered in the living room and programming something on my grandma’s new phone so that it would be more recognizable for her to use. And when my headlights slashed against the weeds growing in my mom’s garden when I pulled out of the driveway, I still felt like it hadn’t been enough.
I tossed and turned and fell asleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning, so now, I’m running on autopilot as I shower, dress, and pack up for my hike. I’ve done these steps so many times that I could do them in my sleep, which it kind of feels like I’m doing.
It’s still dark when I let myself out of the cabin and climb into my truck, driving the familiar route to my uncle’s backcountry tour office. It’s on the outskirts of town in a building that used to be a train station. The tracks still run behind it, even though a train hasn’t in years, and they’re now overgrown with tall grass, weeds, and wildflowers. The old train station sign hangs abovethe door on rusted hooks, but there’s a sign next to the door that readsFontana Ridge Backcountry Guided Toursburnt into the wood. The forest green paint is peeling, and the windows are so old that they don’t keep out the heat or cold, meaning in the summer, Uncle Silas has to heft a window air conditioner into the frame, and in the winter, he runs space heaters that leave pockets of cold air all over the building. My aunt always decorates the porch because my uncle can’t be bothered, and today there are large orange and red mums overflowing from pots beside the knotted wooden posts.
I park my truck in the gravel lot and shut off the engine. It’s chilly this morning without the sun, and according to the forecast, it’s supposed to stay that way. I’m dressed in layers, hair braided down my back, boots tied on my feet. I feel settled in a way I haven’t in weeks as I climb out of the truck, my breath clouding in the early morning air.
Unsurprisingly, Uncle Silas is already here when I let myself in. He’s got a single space heater running that he will no doubt shut off around noon when the sun seeps through the windows and begins to bake the small space. He’s seated on a bench behind the old front desk, clicking on something on the vintage computer, a framed Appalachian Trail map hanging on the wall behind him.
He looks up when I enter, assessing me rather than offering a hello. I never wear makeup on hikes, but this morning I dabbed concealer under my eyes so he wouldn’t see the dark circles there. I know if he senses any lingering weakness from my injury, there’s not a chance he will let me go.
Seeming satisfied, he says, “Good morning, Stevie,” in his signature gravelly voice. He used to smoke several packs a day when I was a kid, but then he started coughing and getting winded when he was hiking, and he quit cold turkey.
“Morning, Uncle Silas.”
“How you feeling?”
“Good,” I tell him and mean it. Despite the lack of sleep, I’m finally starting to feel strong again. I’ve even managed to go for a run for the last four mornings without any headache.
“Good,” he echoes, turning back to the computer. Behind him, the printer kicks on, printing out the forms my hikers will need to sign before we head out.
I move past him, walking down the hall to the prep room. There’s a TV mounted to the wall back here that’s always playing the weather forecast. As I pour myself a mug of my uncle’s tar-like coffee, gravel crunches outside. I assume it’s Michael, the other tour guide that Uncle Silas hired a few years ago when the business started to get busier and the two of us could no longer manage the schedule on our own.
But it’s not his voice I hear a moment later when I’m reviewing our backcountry campsite reservation. It’s a woman’s voice, soft, lilting, unfamiliar. My hikers aren’t due to arrive for at least another half hour, so I follow the sound, and find a woman dressed in hiking gear talking to my uncle. She’s short with dark blonde hair tied back in a braid. But what sticks out most is the shirt she’s wearing, the one branded with the company logo on it.
