?????
The only reason Alecia owned hiking boots was because of Nate. How ironic then, that her first real hike involved looking for a girl he might have . . . what? Kidnapped? Killed?
The boots were a birthday present when Gabe was two. Right after the Christmas party from hell but before Gabe was diagnosed, that blurry middle time when life still seemed on plan, when the direction of their marriage, while aimless at times, was still a topic of conversation. Nate complained that they’d gotten lost, that they didn’t do things together, just the two of them anymore, and Alecia always thought this was staunchly childish. Like Nate and Gabe were on opposing sides, vying for her affection. She’d gotten strangely protective of Gabe’s feelings then, at the time just an innocent, babbling toddler, and they’d gotten in a fight about it. Nate had shaken his head at the argument: I just want us to stay people, as well as parents. To be a couple. They knew people whose entire coupledom was absorbed by their children, and they called each other Mommy and Daddy even when there were no children around, which was almost never. Suddenly it wasn’t about I like, or he likes, but rather we like, as in We actually really like The Wiggles, you know? Alecia could picture them, long after the children were tucked into bed, drooling into bowls of vanilla ice cream watching Australian folk singers jump around in rainbow-hued drunkenness sing about fruit salad. No, they were not these people.
But Nate thought they were.
So he bought her hiking boots when she’d never hiked a day in her life, when only Nate seemed to like the outdoors. But it was pretty typical of Nate to get her a gift that reflected only something he wanted to do (even though, admittedly, she hadn’t made any gesture at all, so who was worse, her or Nate? It was hard to tell, and one of those recurring rhetorical questions that over time built a marriage). She tried not to show her exasperation with him, and the boots sat in the box untouched. He’d organized a few hikes, only to have her beg off at the last minute: Gabe needing something, or a headache, or once a stomach flu. And no matter how legitimate the reasons—and they were legitimate!—the act of constantly rescheduling left them both a little deflated, until after a while, Alecia (or maybe Nate, she wasn’t even sure) stuck them in the back of her closet where they collected dust for almost three years.
Until now. Until she paced off two miles of untrodden woods, dense undergrowth and sticks slapping at her calves, her arms, her cheeks, her feet, new boots and all getting sucked deep into wetland, the beginnings of a blister forming on her big toe.
To her left one of the moms huffed out the first mile, losing her sneaker in the mud only once, her voice reedy, calling Carol! Carol! Until the mom to her left stopped. Alecia kept going, not sure her help would be welcomed anyway, and from fifteen feet, gave Bridget a little wave. She couldn’t discern from her friend whether Bridget was on team Poor Girl or team Wait and See or maybe on her own team: Team Figure Shit Out. Or Team Avoid Holden’s Mother.
“Alecia!” Bridget yelled, her arm waving above her head to get her attention. “Stop! Pass it on!”
Alecia called to the mom next to her, “Stop! They say to stop! Pass it on!” She waved lamely, not really knowing who they were. Harper or someone like him, she assumed. It couldn’t be time to turn around yet, they’d only walked for about a half hour at a snail’s pace.
“They found something,” Bridget said.
“They found Lucia?” Alecia asked. Bridget shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Alecia closed the distance between herself and Bridget, rubbing a branch scratch on her cheek. Bridget’s face was flushed, with either the exertion or the excitement.
“What if they found her?” Alecia asked again, but Bridget shushed her with a hand. A small group had gathered near the base of the embankment and Bridget slowly started picking her way in that direction. Alecia followed.
Harper, an EMT, and one of the firefighters stood in a huddle. When Alecia approached, they turned to stare at her, their faces unreadable. Their mouths forming words Alecia couldn’t hear. Bridget called, “What did you find?”
No one replied for a beat, then one of them said, “Show her.” And lifted his chin in their direction. Unclear on which her he was referring to, Alecia took a step forward, her arms and legs cold, her skin crawling.
Harper extended his hand. A white baseball cap, the burgundy embroidered coach thumbed over with mud.
She’d know it anywhere.
CHAPTER 26
Nate, Friday, May 8, 2015
There was no shortage of clichés about time: it healed all wounds; it was always a-changing (said with an upward lilt and a soft click of the tongue); it flew when you were having fun. What was lesser known, though, was how elastic it became when you had only time and nothing else. The days became evenings became nights became mornings, one blending into the other with graceful slowness and seemingly almost by accident. With no job, few allies, no to-do list—a longtime staple of adulthood—he reverted back to a teenager. Nate spent most of his hours on the couch, avoiding the adults in his life, watching endless hours of daytime television and SportsCenter. The only teenage staple missing was his cell phone, often left haphazardly around Tripp’s townhouse, the ringer turned down, the notifications off. Social media held nothing but vitriol for him, his texts were sporadic and went unanswered. How are you doing, buddy? From a handful of random gym friends, a few baseball dads, one a week ago from Peter Tempest. He thought more about the people he didn’t hear from: Dale Trevor, Tad Bachman, Bridget, Alecia. He could ruminate for hours on the hidden meaning of silence.
He’d never been a perfect husband, he knew that. But he did think he was a good husband. A good father. Maybe not a great one. He lost his patience with Gabe too quickly. Alecia said his expectations were too high, which might be true for everyone. Except all he ever wanted from his wife was her attention, which didn’t seem like a very high expectation at all. He didn’t care if the house was clean or his laundry was done. He didn’t say one word about the nights she ordered to go from Ruby Tuesday. He’d rather these shortcuts, preserving her energy for them, for their family, and childishly for him. Instead, she seemed to spin herself out before he’d even gotten in the door most nights. He walked in and she was raised and ready for a fight, picking and pecking until he lashed out, then blaming their argument on his quick temper.
Then again, his temper was quick, always had been.
These things, these marriage things, were the hard stuff. He’d take it all if he could just go home.