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Crickets climb in the small brush, standing at the highest point to sing their song. It squeaks at the beginning, but after a while, I hum along. Thinking of the notes and how they carry a sweet, simple melody through the deserted plains.
The warmth of the atmosphere evaporates with the light. I cling to my clothes, not allowing myself to shiver until my survival instincts kick in. My lips are parched, and I wonder, if I were in Death Valley, it would be more fitting if I didn’t make it through the night.
I dream of Him. Not Enzo, but the man behind the counter at the hotel in Brazil; I dream he is a little boy running with his arms wide through a green yard. Splashing through puddles and dancing through the sand. I even hear his laughter, which sounds so pure I begin to cry. He sees me and comes to me. His tiny hand holding my face.
His voice is a whisper.
“What’s wrong?”
It’s so innocent, so childlike I can’t even respond. But the man sees a bird and runs to chase after it.
My chin drops, and I wake to the pink, yellow rise of a fresh morning. I nuzzle my head back into the dirt. My limbs are sore stiff. I take a few minutes before I try to stretch.
A blanket is around my arms. It touches my ankle barely above my shoes.
“I didn’t ask to be saved.”
Enzo keeps his head down, his knees pulled up as his arms hold his legs.
“Nobody worth saving asks to be saved.”
I pull the blanket closer to my chest. Turning to lay on my back, I see the clouds above, still thin with progress.
“How’d you find me?” Coughing out the cold air from my throat.
“Rachelle said she hadn’t heard from you. Gave me the coordinates.” He still won’t look at me. I can’t say it is easy for me to see his face either.
“Good ol’ Rachelle. Always a friend when you need one.”
“I didn’t know, Phoebe. Fuck, I didn’t know it had gotten this bad. I thought maybe you would get over it. I just assumed it was a phase.”
“Trauma is a phase for you?” The pitiful sound of my voice makes me cower.
“I listened to your voicemail a hundred times. I don’t think you realized, but it kept recording after you stopped talking. I heard the shots, the screams. I heard you singing that song about National Parks. Acadia, Arches, Badlands, Big Bend. When you get to Joshua Tree, you stop. It goes silent, except for the background. But you repeat Joshua Tree like you can’t remember what comes next. I keep hoping I hear Katmai come across the speaker. Hoping you will continue, move forward. But you are still stuck there, aren’t you, Phoebe?” Enzo has changed, and so have I. His face is older, his maturity rising to the surface, and I am sure his father is proud of the man before me.
I rub the scratchy blanket against my neck. I sit up, roll up the blanket, reach for my pack as Enzo hands me my water bottle. I don't want to talk about the incident now that he has found the time to listen.
I just got back from Amsterdam, and you won’t believe the trip I had. A year ago would have been better; the very minutes would have been great. A phone call or two to check up on me would have been acceptable a few days after. But I got nothing from him, not for a few months and it wasn’t hey, how are you? Are you still alive or thinking about dying?
The worst part was I wanted to know. I was waiting there, hoping you might reveal your journey without me asking. I wanted to hear about it so much, hoping it might take away the visions of Brazil. I read your message like I am sure you heard mine. I could feel the excitement in the letters you typed. But I was reeling in from a relapse of a darkening depression. I couldn’t find the happiness you wanted me to share. I couldn’t even find the energy to care.
“I’m alive, Enzo.”
“I know.” He lets out a breath, and I think I hear joy mixed with relief.
“So, why are you still here? Checked my pulse, found a strong heartbeat, and you should have bounced.” I take off my sweatshirt, pulling my backpack towards me. My hands move objects around until I can find another hopefully clean shirt.
“I want to help you.” Enzo pulls his knees closer to his body.
“I don’t need your help Enzo. But thanks for offering. If you want, I can write a letter to your superiors that say you succeeded at a wilderness rescue. Would that make you happy? Being rewarded for coming to save me?” I swear my eyes are dead. Enzo can’t stare at them long because he sees it too.
No longer am I the woman with a huge smile ready to conquer the world. My arms aren’t open wide, bringing strangers into my chest cavity. I’ve closed the doors on being the welcoming committee. Small slices of me make me feel bad I am not who he wants me to be. But I can’t muster up an apology, even if he believes he deserves one.
“I haven’t been in the Navy in two years, Phoebe.”
“Did they give you a star for your service?”
“I just want you to be okay.” Enzo’s voice is so tender and cautious, I feel wired with insanity.
