Backwater

“I might rephrase that.”

  “Observe her entire culture. What she thinks, believes, and does. Pay close attention to her habits.”

  “Octavia …”

  “Find something that will really impress the admissions people at Stanford.”

  “You can’t have my story!”

  Tib rammed her cane on my door. I opened the door to her determined face.

  “Will you be joining me to face your father, young lady, or do I have to slay the dragon myself?”

  * * *

  “Listen up, Daniel, I’ve got something to say!”

  Dad put down his paper and looked at Tib standing there—a blind woman with a big cane who wasn’t going to take any guff. This was the wrong approach with Dad, in my opinion. You needed to ease into these conversations with him. Start discussing something innocuous, then dance slowly around the main theme before he knew what hit him. But Tib had a sense of urgency about everything since her eyesight went bad. She’d given up segues.

  “Ivy’s found out where Josephine is. She’s living up in the mountains, Daniel. I want Ivy to find her. Ivy wants to, too. We’ve got a good guide who knows where Jo is and will take Ivy up there and protect her.” She said it without taking a breath.

  Dad froze.

  Tib told Dad this meant more to her than anything in the world, it meant more to the family than anyone knew.

  “Josephine’s a member of this family whether she’s here with us or not, Daniel. We all have a piece of history with her and I think it’s time we stopped pretending that’s not the case. You were close as children; don’t you forget that. Now Ivy would like to say something.”

  I would?

  Tib shoved me forward.

  “Ah … well, Dad … on the subject of … Josephine … I’d just like to say that … I mean, it would appear that …” I groaned.

  Dad stared ahead, visibly shaken, not speaking.

  When you’ve silenced a lawyer, you can probably do just about anything.

  * * *

  He wasn’t silent for long, and by now he had company.

  At the mention of finding Josephine, a great earth force was unleashed and the kitchen filled with sputtering, opinionated Breedloves.

  Archie said it wasn’t safe, Josephine might need medical treatment.

  Whit said she’d always needed it.

  Three cousins said we should find her.

  Seven cousins said we shouldn’t.

  Dad said if Josephine was still alive, she obviously didn’t want the family to know, so why take it any further?

  Fiona said that dysfunctional family members always took time away from others.

  I tried mentioning that Josephine was obviously an important person in this family because without even being present, she could throw the whole lot of us into conflict and confusion, but everyone was arguing so loudly, they didn’t pay attention.

  Dad said, “You don’t seriously expect me to go along with this?”

  Tib leaned forward—her face was flushed. “If you shut the door on this opportunity, Daniel, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”

  Egan looked smug and nodded.

  “Tib, any thinking parent would have grave concerns about Josephine’s ability to behave responsibly.” He said that sad as it was, his sister was stuck in the backwater in a God-forsaken place, and he wasn’t going to subject his daughter to that.

  Several Breedloves muttered “stuck in the backwater” in unison.

  “You’re stuck in the backwater yourself, Daniel, with your bitterness and pride. Any place where Jo is, I can promise you, God won’t forsake.”

  “Tib, she’d lock herself in her room and our father would have to get the tall ladder and climb up the side of the house sometimes just to get her to come down to dinner!”

  “She was always happier by herself, Daniel. You know that.”

  “She talked to animals and believed they talked back. She kept snakes in Tupperware containers. She taught her turtle to fetch.”

  “That was a good one, Daniel. You’ve got to admit it.”

  “She’d walk through the park and wild pigeons would sit on her lap and she’d tell them stories. She was never normal.”

  “Now who’s to say what normal is these days, Daniel? If you kept seeds in your pocket you might have more of a crowd around you, too.”

  The murmuring crowd of Breedloves was turning into an angry mob. Most of them were content to let Josephine stay right where she was. They didn’t want to understand why she left or why she was different.

  But I had to move forward. I had to understand.

  Still, history teaches that not everyone appreciates a person who’s ahead of her time. Take Luwinda Breedlove, a midwife in the 1850’s who washed her hands before delivering babies long before it was scientifically advisable. She had a better delivery success rate than the local doctor, and when he confronted her and asked what she was doing that was so all-fired special, she stared him right down and said, “I wash my hands, genius.”

  So I stared them down.

  “I have to do this! When history opens a door for us, it’s never advisable to shut it!”

  Then I shouted that there were times in life when we’ve got to go for all the gusto we can.

  I wished I could have taken that back—I sounded like a beer commercial.

  I added that it wouldn’t cost much except for supplies, but I wasn’t getting anywhere.

  “Listen to me,” I shouted. “I think she came here at night and decorated the graves. I think in her own way she’s trying to reach us.”

  A hush filled the room.

  Finally, Dad spoke. “Do you understand, Ivy, that you’re talking about visiting a person who is mentally ill?”

  “Is she mentally ill, Dad, or is she just different?”

  “It is exceedingly clear that Josephine is—”

  “What? Psychotic? Emotionally impaired? Isn’t she part of this family, too? A family history can’t just be about the people we understand. You’ve got to let me find her, Dad, and see if we can learn from what she has to say!”

  6

  The next day Dad stood by the fireplace shrouded in sadness.

  He examined the sprig of holly in the silver vase on the mantel. Holly was my mother’s favorite plant because she said it reminded her that pain and beauty co-exist in life.

  I’ve never understood why Dad never remarried, except that his father never remarried after his wife died quite young, and his father before him died a broken-hearted widower. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about—Dad talked about the law and golf. Aunt Tib said it’s because he’s afraid of loss.

  I couldn’t imagine him being afraid of anything.

  “Just because a person knows how to hide something doesn’t mean they don’t have it,” Tib told me. “I don’t believe your father’s ever forgiven himself for letting your mother die.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Let me tell you something about lawyers, Ivy. All day long they’ve got people looking to them to make things better. When a man who can move mountains can’t move a stone to help his dying wife, that’s a powerfully deep blow.”

  Dad touched the holly leaf too hard, pricked his finger, and stood there as a little drop of blood dripped out. He sighed sadly. Then he turned to me and said that against his better judgement, against all that he held proper and good, I could go.

  * * *

  I called Mountain Mama, who said to be at her place at six A.M. Saturday morning. She said to dress warm and in lots of layers. I’d need serious climbing boots. “Remember,” she warned. “Whatever you bring you carry on your back.”

  I had two days to pack and it wasn’t easy. I packed layers of clothing, boots, wool socks, too much underwear, my tape recorder, and remembering the emaciated hermits, I threw in twenty-four Hershey bars with almonds for strength.

  * * *

  Saturday, five A.M. I lugged my bag down the old, cre
aking stairs thinking of the generations of Breedloves who had climbed many mountains and forged many streams.

  Tib had gotten up early to say good-bye. “You get her story now. Make me proud.” Her voice cracked with emotion.

  “I will.”

  I thought of the ancient teenage warriors who had to prove themselves in the wilderness before they could become full members of the tribe and receive the mantel of manhood.

  Make that personhood.

  I lifted my bag like it wasn’t heavy, gave Genghis a long, mournful hug.

  Told Tib I’d see her soon and not to worry.

  I didn’t mention that I was worried enough for the entire universe, and walked out the front door with Dad, who said if I wanted to reconsider, it was okay by him.

  * * *

  It was a tough morning for Dad.

  He almost turned the car around when he saw the Mountain Mama, Inc. billboard with the purple mountains majesty and the neon sun.

  He almost dragged me back to the car when he saw Mountain Mama herself standing in her front door in full wilderness regalia—a huge aluminum frame pack on her back, a thin, pointy axe in a strap slung over her shoulder. She was chugging cranberry juice from a gallon jug.

  I was getting my duffle bag from the trunk. “Stay here,” he ordered, and marched over to her. He and Mama had an animated talk which I couldn’t hear.

  Finally, Dad’s shoulders dropped and he looked back at me like I was going off to war. He shook hands with Mountain Mama, who slapped him on the back so hard he almost fell down in the snow.

  I guess it was time.

  I gave him a hug, which we don’t do too often. “Thank you, Dad, for letting me do this.”

  His face sank. He patted my shoulder, went back to the car, and drove off slowly down the snowy hill. It was still dark.

  Mountain Mama and I watched the car disappear.

  “What did he say to you?” I asked.

  She sniffed. “He threatened to pull my license, prosecute me to the ends of the law, and destroy life as I knew it for me and future generations if anything happened to you.”

  It was how Breedlove lawyers showed affection.

  “Let’s get you a pack,” Mountain Mama said. “Think you can handle forty pounds?”

  “I’m weak.”

  “You look pretty strong to me.”

  “I have a mutant DNA condition.”

  She studied me. “We’ll begin with confidence building and move on from there.”

  I dragged my bag after her. “How do we do that?”

  “We put you in situations you’ve never been in before so the true sense of your grit and courage can come out.”

  Mountain Mama threw an aluminum frame backpack at me. I tried catching it. Missed.

  “You know the first rule of wilderness survival, Breedlove?”

  “Use fear—don’t let it use you.”

  “That’s the third rule, Breedlove. The first rule is Decide You’re Going To Make It.”

  She pinned a button on my coat—a yellow-and-black yield sign with a slash through it like you’d see on a road.

  “We do not yield, Breedlove.”

  I gulped.

  * * *

  “Now the problem we’ve got,” Mountain Mama said, “is getting this old girl half-way up the ridge to the trailhead. The sun hasn’t hit full here yet and we’re going to need some more light.” We were in her ancient jeep that had lost its shock absorbers sometime during the Vietnam War. She vroomed the gas, shook her head at the sound, and jolted to a stop on a narrow, snowy trail.

  She jumped around back and gave it a swift kick in the right rear bumper, which I felt in the front seat. She jumped back in the truck and lurched down a dark, bumpy road.

  She shouted over the churning engine. “Here’s the plan. You stand up and lean out your side and hold that flashlight over there so it shines ahead of my lights.”

  “You mean while we’re moving?”

  “I don’t need much and I don’t ask for much. This is how we get up the mountain.”

  “I have trouble standing on things that are moving. I stood on a float once and thought I was going to vomit.”

  “Time to lose that memory!” Mama pointed at the big flashlight at my feet. I picked it up, stood shakily, leaned out the passenger side and shone the light.

  “Hold her steady.” Mama pulled onto a narrow, wooded trail, rammed the lurching jeep up an incline; it slipped a bit at the corner, but she steered it expertly around a fallen tree.

  “I’m not sure about this,” I said, clinging to the roof frame.

  Mountain Mama slapped the steering wheel. “Fear is a gift, Breedlove. It shows us how to overcome. Like most gifts, it can be exchanged. I want you to change that negative energy into the positive energy that overcomes panic. I’m going to teach you how to rely on yourself in any situation. That’s chapter four, Breedlove—You or Nothing.”

  “Could we start with easier situations?”

  The jeep lurched forward. I reached deep for the presence of mind that overcomes panic and tried my best to think of fear as a gift.

  The gift that keeps on giving.

  But then I remembered that I came from people who were so full of adventure they lived on tiny ships with worm-eaten planks and made it across the Atlantic Ocean without killing each other.

  They were seasick. They were scared, but they committed themselves to the future.

  I straightened my shoulders, summoned Mayflower mettle.

  Mama revved the jeep, started up the mountain, jerking like mad. I clung to the side.

  The jeep jutted forward, upward, snow and ice crunching everywhere. Fast turns, unexpected jerks, a family of deer leaped off in the distance. A screech owl sounded, or maybe that was the brakes. It was like being on an action adventure ride, stuck in a wild, spinning car, trying to keep your breakfast down.

  I tried closing my eyes, but that made things worse.

  I tried looking down, but that made me nauseous. I could start puking and embrace the true spirit of Breedloves on the Mayflower, but I just concentrated on the light and kept it as strong and steady as I could.

  I don’t know how many times I almost fell out, don’t know how I managed to hold on and live.

  “Life doesn’t get interesting unless you take a few chances,” Mountain Mama screamed and revved the jeep up, up. “Here’s the shortcut to the trailhead.” She made the last steep climb, rammed the jeep into second gear, heard the big wheels spinning in ice, rammed it forward, shouting, “Hold on, Breedlove, and shine her steady!”

  I clung to the frame with both hands as the jeep twisted and turned up the narrow trail to something that only a wilderness guide could see.

  Mama pulled the jeep between two huge pine trees and jumped out. I flopped forward in my seat, trembling.

  She marched over to my side, slapped me hard on the back. “Chapter seven, Breedlove—Celebrate Your Victories, No Matter How Small.”

  “Whoopee,” I said weakly, and covered my face.

  7

  The first problem with my frame pack was that it weighed forty pounds.

  The second problem was that I had to carry it.

  We’d been hiking for two hours through wooded forest that would have been more starkly beautiful if my back wasn’t assaulted by pain. Mountain Mama said the second rule of wilderness survival was learning to rely on yourself. I felt like I was living a how-to best seller and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the end. I trudged behind her and said maybe we could find another word than survival and she said that the cornerstone of a meaningful life was being hurled into the jaws of death and coming out the other side.

  We hiked up to a ridge. I was surprised at how warm I was getting, despite the cold. We passed a three-foot snow drift; I looked behind me to see the footprints I’d laid in the snow. The wind picked up, swirling snow where my steps once were. No one could find me now if I needed help.

  I trudged forward, wo
rrying.

  What if we didn’t find Josephine?

  What if we did?

  The wind picked up with a fury.

  Snow began to fall, blowing fiercely and thick.

  It was inane doing this in the middle of winter. Soon I was engulfed in a white cloud of pulverized ice. It beat against my face and eyes. Tears ran down my frozen cheeks. I tried wrapping up my face, but my scarf was covered with ice balls.

  I couldn’t see anything, not even Mountain Mama.

  My face and eyes stung from the lashing cold.

  “Do you know why people climb mountains, Breedlove?” Mountain Mama’s voice was steady, sure, close to me, although I couldn’t see her yet.

  “Because they’re there?” I croaked. “I can’t see!”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Fear is definitely using me at this moment.”

  “No it’s not.” Suddenly, Mountain Mama’s great hand grabbed mine. I held on like she was a lifeguard saving me from drowning. She stood before me like a white, mountainous blur. “It’s just a whiteout, Breedlove. It won’t last forever. But we’re not going to be hot shots and start walking any which way because that’s how people get lost. That’s what happened to my father.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stupid fool thought he didn’t need a compass. He didn’t make it. Whiteouts can trick the best.”

  We observed a moment of silence for her dad.

  “We have a compass, right?” I said this loudly.

  She put her hand in her pocket, took one out, held it out front.

  “It’s not broken or anything? You’ve checked it recently?”

  “We’re going north,” she said, moving forward purposely. “There are times in the woods where just trusting your instincts aren’t enough. Remember that, Breedlove.”

  “I’ll try,” I said miserably, and followed her slowly, clutching her hand through the swirls of white, biting snow.

  * * *

  The whiteout stopped as quickly as it began, and Mountain Mama had shrugged off the stark reality that we almost got sucked inside the Swirling Snow Mountain Death Fog, never to be heard from again.

  The new fallen snow made walking harder; we kept sinking knee-deep into snow drifts. Mama put on snowshoes and tossed a pair to me. It was like strapping long, thin tennis rackets to my boots; strange to walk in at first, but they allowed us to walk on top of the snow.