For a few minutes, I’m the only one in the big orange vessel. I lean back in the sunshine, admiring the cloudless, perfect sky between the towering canyon walls.
Two hawks—or eagles, it’s hard to tell at this distance—arc lazily through the slice of stunning blue above me. I follow their flight path, mesmerized by their grace, andgently chiding myself for the threadbare hope that blossoms in my chest.
They aren’t Parker. I know better than that. But there’s no escaping the memory of the last thing he said to me before his rasping voice on the walkie-talkie went quiet.
The time had come to say our goodbyes. There was nothing else to be done. The EMTs, police, and friends had stepped away into the darkness, giving us as much privacy as they could.
“I’m so sorry,” he kept saying, over and over, his voice sounding strange and strangled and incredibly far away, even though he was only thirty feet beneath me.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I told him. “I love you, Parker. I love you so much.” I kept repeating those words, trying desperately to ease the pain I heard in his voice. But the truth was, I could already feel the rage bleeding into my grief, like poison. Why did he have to go into this fucking cave? Why couldn’t we get him out, when I could still hear his voice? How could he leave me alone when I loved him so much?
Parker went silent for so long, I thought he was finally gone. I couldn’t even hear his labored breathing anymore.
I laid my face, covered with snot and tears, on the ground. A wail rose up in my throat.
That was when he whispered, “Hey. I’m gonna come back to you as a hawk, okay?”
It surprised me so much, my wail popped like a soap bubble. I’d actually laughed then, between my exhausted sobs. It was a very un-Parker-like thing to say.
Parker was a realist—like me. We didn’t believe in anything woo-woo or spiritual, like karma or astrology or reincarnation or reiki or destiny, or even God. We just believed in each other. Parker was my magic. My nod from the universe. And despite our no-nonsense pragmatism, we’dalways used the word “soulmate” for each other, whispered like a secret.
“A hawk?” I’d asked him, closing my eyes so I wouldn’t see the industrial drilling equipment, the ripped-open earth, the glare of emergency vehicle lights flooding the barren desert.
“Yeah,” he’d whispered, sounding the way he did when he was about to drift off to sleep in bed beside me. “That way … I can find you. That way you’ll know I’m there. If I come back as a worm or something … it’d be pretty damn difficult.”
“Okay, smart thinking,” I’d said, stifling my cries, pulling my knees to my chest in the dirt and clutching the microphone while my heart shattered into a million pieces. I didn’t believe him for a second, but knew then that I’d never, ever stop looking skyward.
I’d listened for a reply, waiting for him to say something else. Anything else.
But there was nothing more. He was gone.
The police and paramedics tried to warn me not to look when they finally pulled Parker out of that cave five hours later. But I couldn’t help rushing to his side. I couldn’t be anywhere else.
When I saw his puffy, mottled face, I barely recognized him. He’d essentially drowned on dry land from the pressure on his lungs and head, which had turned him into a bloated, warped version of himself. His blue eyes were swollen shut, the dark blond stubble peppering his jawline caked in mud. His hair was dirty, matted and wild, and his fingers bloody. He’d fought like hell. And he’d lost.
I’ve seen plenty of hawks since that moment, circling over rivers, diving to catch a gopher in the hills near our apartment, perched on a telephone wire on the highway.
I watch every one of them carefully, despite myself.
None of them ever seems to notice me. They’re just birds.
The two majestic birds circling across the canyon now are no exception. After a minute, they disappear beyond the far canyon ledge, flying so close together they look like each other’s shadow against the sky.
Once everyone has finished with the groover, Bryan lugs the now-full toilet back to the gear rafts, looking like he hates his life. I wonder, briefly, if I hate mine—and if I’ll ever love it again. But before my thoughts get carried away, the other women settle into the rafts and we push out into the current once again.
“We’re already at Marble Creek,” Josh announces, pointing to the rapids ahead. “We’ve been making pretty damn good time for a late start. If we can keep up this pace, we’ll get to Camas Creek in about three hours, just after sunset.” He grins as Bryan’s raft, which has taken the lead, drops into the upcoming Class-Three stretch of whitewater. “Here we go!” Josh calls. “Everybody send up a prayer for Flip-Flop!”
If Bryan hears him, he doesn’t turn around. And after a few seconds, Bryan’s raft disappears around the bend in front of us.
“Give me all forward, now!” Josh howls, and I sync my paddle with Deborah’s as we hit the first wave head-on. We sail to the right, bouncing along the froth and directly into the next trough.
Josh pumps a fist in the air. “Nice, team! Now all—”
“Shit!” someone wails from the gear raft behind us, barely louder than the roar of the rapids.
I whip my head around at the same time everyone else does—just in time to see two enormous, yellow plastic jugs—our only potable water—toppling down the gear stack on Macy’s raft, heading toward the whitewater.
12
