Just then I hear a rustling below me, then the unmistakable sound of sneakers on rock, the small grunts of exertion as somebody climbs the rock wall. Somebody is coming up.
Bummer. I’ve never seen anyone else here before. It’s a public trail, and anyone can hike it, I suppose, but it’s typically deserted. It’s a difficult climb. I’ve always counted on it being a place I could go to be alone.
Well, I guess flying is out.
Stupid somebody, I think. Find your own thinking spot.
But then the stupid somebody’s hands appear at the edge of the rock, followed by her arms, her face, and it’s not a stupid somebody after all.
It’s my mother.
“Oh, hi,” she says. “I didn’t know there was anybody here.”
She doesn’t know me. Her blue eyes widen when she sees me, but it’s not in recognition. It’s in surprise. She’s never come across anybody else up here, either.
She is beautiful, is my first thought, and younger than I’ve ever seen her. Her hair is curled in a fluffy way that I would have teased her about if I’d seen it in a photograph. She’s wearing light-colored jeans and a blue sweatshirt that slouches off the shoulder in a way that reminds me of this one time when she made me watch Flashdance on cable. She’s a poster girl for the eighties, and she looks so healthy, so flushed with life. It makes an achy lump rise in my throat. I want to throw my arms around her and never let her go.
She glances away uncomfortably. I’m staring.
I close my mouth. “Hi,” I choke out. “How are you? It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
She’s looking at my clothes now, my skinny jeans and black tank top, my loose, blowing hair. Her eyes are wary but curious, and she turns and gazes out at the valley with me. “Yes. Beautiful weather.”
I hold out my hand.
“I’m Clara,” I say, the picture of friendliness.
“Maggie,” she replies, taking my hand, shaking without squeezing, and I get a glimpse of what’s going on inside her. She’s irritated. This is her spot. She wanted to be alone.
I smile. “Do you come up here often?”
“This is my thinking spot,” she says, in a tone that subtly informs me that it’s her turn now, and I should be on my way.
I’m not going anywhere.
“Mine, too.” I sit back down on my boulder, which is so not what she wants to happen that I almost laugh aloud.
She decides to wait me out. She takes a seat on the other side of the outcropping and stretches her legs in front of her, reaches into her bag for a pair of police-officer-style mirrored sunglasses and puts them on, leans her head back like she’s taking in the sun. She stays that way for several moments, her eyes closed, until I can’t stand it anymore. I have to talk to her.
“So do you live around here?” I ask.
She frowns. Her eyes open, and I can feel her irritation giving way to a more general wariness. She doesn’t like people who ask too many questions, who show up out of the blue in unexpected places, who are too friendly. She’s had experiences with that kind of thing before, and none of them ended well.
“I’m just finishing my freshman year at Stanford,” I ramble on. “I’m still kind of new to the area, so I’m always hounding the locals with questions about the best places to eat and go out and that kind of stuff.”
Her expression lightens. “I graduated from Stanford,” she says. “What’s your major?”
“Biology,” I say, nervous to see what she’ll think of that. “Premed.”
“I have a degree in nursing,” she says. “It’s a hard path, sometimes, making people better, fixing them up, but rewarding, too.”
I had almost forgotten that about her. A nurse.