We jammed ourselves into Pia’s Chevy Tahoe, which had been meticulously packed with ground sheets, extra tents, groceries, wet-weather gear, emergency rations of dried (astronaut!) food, even a fly rod. She was always fanatically prepared for any eventuality. None of us had ever lacked for sunblock, a lifesaving Chap Stick, an extra sweater, raincoat, or beach umbrella. But the obsession with preparedness was tempered by her lust for risk. At the dude ranch in Montana we visited one summer, Pia put in a bid to ride “the most crazy-ass horse on the playa,” so she could, as she put it, “challenge” herself. Conversely, I couldn’t bring myself to saddle up even the most ancient mare because I couldn’t get over that horses weighed thousands of pounds, as well as my certainty that whichever one I chose would sense my terror and hurl me off like the cowgirl wannabe I was.
But Pia actually did it. After pestering the head cowboy at this place, threatening to never come back, hinting she’d post negative reviews, and finally agreeing to sign away all liability, she climbed up on this unbroken horse the cowboys were afraid to touch, this Appaloosa demon that snarled and bucked, in seconds tossing her up and over its gorgeous head. I watched her do a complete flip in the air, landing hard on her hands and ass. I stopped breathing as I waited for the dust to clear. She got up and walked away, though she’d sprained a few fingers and bruised her tailbone badly. That was it, she declared, “for the day.” But I got this feeling, talking to her about it later over beers at the ranch’s Horseshoe Saloon, that she almost wished something more dramatic had happened, something that would have somehow freed her from herself.
I hoped there wouldn’t be too much bucking-bronco craziness this time around. My wish—the one I always had when we four were together—was that our energies would balance each other out. Sandra’s tact and level head would temper Rachel’s sharp wit and knack for speaking the truth, regardless of the consequences. As for Pia—and I could only guess about the others—being with her made me feel buoyant, more robust somehow. In shape by proxy. Because as much as she drove me to distraction, she always seemed to be vaulting toward the unknown with her own brand of wonder and a fearlessness utterly foreign to me. It took me out of myself. I was looking forward to that.
As Pia navigated the city streets, I found myself gazing from the front passenger seat at all the things I would no doubt appreciate later: telephone wires, streetlights, houses with running water, indoor toilets, and warm beds. I wondered what kind of snakes Maine had, what sorts of stinging insects. A large part of me wanted to back out, feign sickness, make my phone ring with some sort of emergency: “Wini, we can’t get these carob chips out of this month’s Devil’s Food Vegan Brownies! Get in here now!” I forced myself to do none of the above, but still felt shivery even in the morning sun.
We crossed the Tobin Bridge, following signs to points north. Boston receded quickly behind us in a blue-gray haze.
“So, Pia,” Rachel said, leaning forward from the backseat. “What are the chances we freaking croak on this river?”
Pia laughed. “Statistically? You’re in more danger driving home from work than you are camping or white-water rafting. Some drunk asshole could be flying at you the wrong way and, splat, it’s over! And it’s only a long weekend, for crying out loud. Rachel, seriously, what are you missing by going on this trip?”
“A little weeding,” Rachel answered gamely. “Was going to clean out the shed with Ryan. Maybe hit the mall on Sunday.” Ryan was her third husband, a maxillofacial surgeon with a couple of teenage daughters a few years older than her two sons. She tended to marry well—divorce even better—but never seemed to truly settle into domestic peace.
“Sounds life changing!” Pia said. “Sandra?”
“Correct papers. What else? Maybe sort out the kids’ school clothes for fall.” Sandra taught undergraduate English and philosophy classes at her local City College of Chicago.
“Win?”
“Get some food for Ziggy. Swim. Scare up some freelance work.”
Pia’s hands flew up from the wheel to dismiss us before she settled her sunglasses down over her eyes. “I rest my case.”
Pieces of the northern suburbs slipped by, places so familiar I failed to see them anymore, so with a kind of gladness I felt myself letting go and drifting off. Sometimes the engine’s rumbling beneath us lulled me into a misty consciousness through which I watched Pia drive—one of her favorite things to do—then felt myself falling off again into a firmament of my own design. I woke as we crossed the bridge from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where I gazed down at the sparkling blue water of the Piscataqua River and sailboats bending under a brisk wind.