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She could remember the day it was taken; she and her mom had been making Christmas cookies. There was flour everywhere, on the counter, on Annie’s face, on the floor. Her dad had come in from work and laughed at them. Good God, Sarah, you’re making enough for an army. There’s just the three of us. . . .
Only a few months later, there were only two of them. A quiet, grieving man and his even quieter little girl.
Annie traced the smooth surface of the print with her fingertip. She’d missed her mother so often over the years—at high school graduation, on her wedding day, on the day Natalie was born—but never as much as she missed her now. I need you, Mom, she thought for the millionth time. I need you to tell me that everything will be all right. . . .
She replaced the treasured photograph in the box and picked up a colored one that showed Annie holding a tiny, blotchy-faced newborn wrapped in a pink blanket. And there was Blake, looking young and handsome and proud, his big hand curled protectively around his baby girl. She went through dozens more pictures, following Natalie’s life from infant to high school senior, from graham crackers to mascara.
Natalie’s whole life lay in this box. There were countless pictures of a smiling, blue-eyed blond girl, standing alongside a succession of stuffed animals and bicycles and family pets. Somewhere along the way, Blake had stopped appearing in the family photos. How was it that Annie had never noticed that before?
But Blake wasn’t who she was really looking for.
She was looking for Annie. The truth sank through her, twisting and hurting, but she couldn’t give up. Somewhere in this box that held the tangible memories of her life, she had to find herself. She went through print after print, tossing aside one after another.
There were almost no pictures of her. Like most mothers, she was always behind the camera, and when she thought she looked tired, or fat, or thin, or ugly . . . she ripped the photo in half and ditched it.
Now, it was as if she’d never been there at all. As if she’d never really existed.
The thought scared her so badly, she lurched out of bed, shoving the photographs aside with a sweep of her hand. As she passed the French doors, she caught sight of a disheveled, desperate-looking middle-aged woman in her husband’s bathrobe. It was pathetic what she was becoming. Even more pathetic than what she’d been before.
How dare he do this to her? Take twenty years of her life and then discard her like a sweater that no longer fit.
She strode to the closet, ripping his clothes from their expensive hangers and shoving them in the garbage. Then she went to his study, his precious study. Wrenching the desk drawer open, she yanked ev
erything out.
In the back of one drawer, she found dozens of recent charge slips for flowers and hotel rooms and lingerie.
Her anger turned into an honest-to-God fury. She threw it all—charge slips, bills, appointment reminders, the checkbook register—in a huge cardboard box. On it, in big bold letters, she wrote his name and office address. In smaller letters, she wrote: I did this for twenty years. Now it’s your turn.
Breathing hard, feeling better than she had in days, she looked around at her perfect, empty house.
What would she do now? Where would she go? She touched the compass at her throat and she knew.
Perhaps she’d known all along.
She’d go back to the girl she’d seen in those rare black-and-white photos . . . back to where she was someone besides Blake’s wife and Natalie’s mother.
Part Two
In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer. —ALBERT CAMUS
Chapter 4
After hours of flying and driving, Annie was finally steering her rental car across the long floating bridge that connected the Olympic Peninsula to the rest of Washington State. On one side of the bridge, the waves were in a white-tipped frenzy; on the other side, the water was as calm and silvery as a newly minted coin. She rolled down the window and flicked off the air conditioner. Sweet, misty air swept into the car, swirling tiny tendrils of hair across her face.
Mile by mile, the landscape rolled into the vivid greens and blues of her childhood world. She turned off the modern freeway and onto the two-lane road that led away from the shore. Under a purplish layer of fog, the peninsula lay hidden, a pork chop of land ringed by towering, snow-capped mountains on one side and wild, windswept beaches on the other. It was a primitive place, untouched by the hustle and bustle of modern life. Old-growth forests were draped in skeins of silvery moss, and craggy coastlines were sheltered from the raging surf by a towering curtain of rock. At the heart of the peninsula was the Olympic National Park, almost a million acres of no-man’sland, ruled by Mother Nature and the myths of the Native Americans who had lived here long before the white pioneers.
As she neared her hometown, the forests became dense and dark, covered still in the early spring by a shimmering, opalescent mist that concealed the serrated tips of the trees. It was the time of year when the forests were still hibernating, and night fell before the last school bell had rung. No sane person ventured off the main road until early summer; legends were told and retold of children who did and were never seen again, of Sasquatches who roamed the thickets of this wood at night, snatching up unsuspecting tourists. For here, in the deepest reaches of the rain forest, the weather could change faster than a teenage girl’s mind; it could turn from sunshine to snow in a heartbeat, leaving nothing but a blood red rainbow that wept into ebony at the edges.
It was an ancient land, a place where giant red cedar trees grew three hundred feet into the sky and fell into utter silence, to die and reseed among their own, where time was marked by tides and tree rings and salmon runs.
When Annie finally reached the town of Mystic, she slowed her speed, soaking in the familiar sights. It was a small logging community, carved by early, idealistic pioneers from the great Quinault rain forest. Main Street ran for only six blocks. She didn’t have to reach its end to know that at Elm Street the rutted asphalt gave way to a puddled, pockmarked gravel road.
Downtown wore the shabby, forgotten look of a white-haired old man left out in the rain. A single, tired stoplight guided nonexistent traffic past the huddled group of brick-and wood-fronted stores. Fifteen years ago, Mystic had been a booming town supported by fishing and logging, but the intervening years had obviously been hard ones that had driven merchants to more lucrative communities and left in their wake several vacant storefronts.
Rusted pickup trucks were parked at an angle behind thirty-year-old meters; only a few people in faded overalls and heavy winter overcoats could be seen on the sidewalks.
The stores that were left had down-home names: The I of the Needle fabric shop, the Holey Moses Doughnut counter, the Kiddie Corner consignment clothing store, Dwayne’s Lanes bowling alley, Eve’s Leaves Dress Emporium, Vittorio’s Italian Ristorante. Each window displayed a placard that read THIS ESTABLISHMENT SUPPORTED BY LOGGING—a resentful reminder to distant politicians, living in pillared homes in faraway cities, that logging was the lifeblood of this region.
