There was only one person missing.
Come home, Dmitry.
* * *
Dmitry is a wanderer. He always has been.
He wandered away for the first time in kindergarten. When the frantic principal finally found him, in a tree, almost at the top, and asked what he was doing up there, Dmitry said he was trying to find a red and purple butterfly.
He wandered away from home in first grade and was found sitting in the middle of a woman’s vegetable garden.
He wandered in second grade onto a city bus because he said he wanted to find a blue door.
Third grade he wandered to the woods a half mile from our house and found a trail. He was brought back by hikers, stunned to see a small child alone.
Fourth grade he wandered to a duck pond and watched the ducks for hours.
In fifth grade he was found in the backyard of a neighbor playing with a white dog.
Dmitry was popular in school. Sports came easy to him. He was angry, often, and he took it out on every field, every court he came across. He got in fights with the opponent. He was the center on the basketball team and fouled out almost every game for being too aggressive. He hit baseballs out of the park.
Dmitry also loved art, music, and writing, particularly poetry. Math was a nonstarter.
Sometimes he wouldn’t go to school. He would be gone all day and the school would call home, and my parents would go looking for him, until he was about thirteen, and then they gave up. They knew he was walking, wandering, exploring, searching, and he was fine, or as fine as Dmitry could be, and there was nothing they could do short of locking him up.
He was always vague about where he went, but mostly he headed into nature. He hiked. He backpacked. He camped. He fished. When my parents gave him a camera, that was it. He loved taking photos. Then they gave him a journal so he could write down information about the photos. He had found his calling.
After high school, at the beginning of summer, he left. He had saved his money from working at the restaurant, and he literally walked out the door with a tent, sleeping bag, and his laptop in a backpack. He started walking and camping and meeting people.
He created a blog called We Need To Know Each Other and wrote down what he did, who he met, and their problems and concerns. He wrote about traveling. He wrote about solitude, being alone, but not lonely, and about being lonely while with others.
He wrote poems about not knowing who you were, who you came from, who you could be in the future. He wrote about emotions. He wrote about nature, preserving nature, and tied that back into his feelings.
One of his poems is called “Screaming.” Others, “If Mountains Cried,” “Rivers Who Call Your Name,” and “Coyote Lonely.”
He shared his day and his life and his thoughts. He took photos of people, arching bridges, barren deserts, soaring mountains, thriving cities, destitute slums, tragic situations, victorious celebrations, poverty and extreme wealth, art and books, bookstores and museums.
He walked from Oregon to New York City—in a roundabout way—over the course of two years. A small press saw his blog and photos, and picked it up. Dmitry titled it The Loneliest Walk Together. They were hoping to sell 3,000 copies. It became a cult classic type of book. He has sold over a million copies. His blog gets endless hits a month, and people walk the same trail he walked—Oregon to New York.
After the U.S. wandering, he started wandering the world, and he started volunteering his time, and his well-read blog, to raise money to preserve and protect forest land, meadows, mountains, and rivers. Because, as he said, “A wanderer needs a natural place to wander.” He also started volunteering in poverty-stricken areas of the word, in orphanages, schools, and villages, because “we need people healthy enough, and safe enough, to wander.”
His readers lived through him, vicariously, on the beaches in Mexico and the jungles of Vietnam and in the mountains of Spain. They read about living the simple life in Thailand and the isolated life in the northern wilds of Canada. They were with him roughing it in Montana or with a backpack in Guatemala. India. Pakistan. Kenya. South Africa. Remote islands.
He has posted photos of migrant workers, young girls rescued from the sex trade, drug traffickers, desperate immigrants, war victims.
When he’s been in one place long enough, and it is unpredictable how long “long enough” will be, he “moves on.” His next book is coming out soon.
His wandering has not cured him of his depression, though, that comes and goes, the nightmares and flashbacks scraping at him, reminding him of something, but not enough, shadows flitting in and out, never giving him enough to hold on to.
* * *
I called Dmitry on a Saturday afternoon from my tugboat, the river choppy that day, rushing faster than usual, the clouds gray and white, full, ready to burst.
He asked how I was, and how everyone else was. “How are you, Dmitry?”
“Fine. But I had another blond woman episode happen to me. I was on the beach, late. It was quiet, no one else on the beach, and I swear I felt my mother around me. Or that blond woman, whoever she was to me. I felt her presence again. Soft. Loving. Like she was hugging me.”
This happened now and then to him. Dmitry said he could feel “her” around him.
It started to rain, but I didn’t go in. Maybe the rain could help ease my pervading guilt.
“The Garden is back, too. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Ah. The Garden. Usually The Garden was a cheerful image he had, but he had at least one terrifying image of the garden being demolished by some invisible force and him screaming, a dark shadow hanging over it. “What are you seeing in The Garden?”
“I see beets and potatoes, and they make me feel almost ill. Why do I hate them? Why have I never been able to eat either? I swear it has something to do with my childhood, but then sometimes I think I’m imagining the whole thing.”
“I believe you, Dmitry, and I think it’s all from your past, too. I’m so sorry.” I’m sorry I’ve kept the secret. I shouldn’t have. I tilted my head back and the raindrops slid down my face, cool, wet, blaming me.
“I’m sorry I talk about this all the time now, Toni. The visions this last year are getting stronger, more detailed. I feel like they’re trying to tell me something, which makes me feel like I’m possessed or something. ”
“You’re not possessed.” The skies opened up. The rain poured. I was drenched. I didn’t move.
“Part of me thinks it’s all in my head. That it’s something I’ve dreamed up. That I’m not mentally healthy.”
I heard his anguish, his confusion. “You are mentally healthy. Your memories are real. They’re too specific. They evoke too many emotions not to be. What you’re seeing has to be a part of your childhood. You asked for your mother when you were a little boy. Come home soon, Dmitry. Please. We can talk it out more.” I was worried about him. He was sinking into his depression, I could tell.
“I’m headed that way. And I’m going to ask Mama and Papa some questions. But enough about me. What story are you writing now, Toni ... how are you really doing? Tell me, please ... and how is Valerie with that case ... what about Ellie? She’s still hyperventilating, isn’t she ... why is she getting married when she can’t breathe when she thinks about Gino and a wedding dress ... I asked her that the other night ... and Mama and Papa?”
I was soaked by the time I finally went back into my tugboat. Whoever has said that rain is emotionally cleansing has clearly not been a guilty secret keeper.
* * *
It was not a happy sisters night.
We decided to meet on my tugboat for dinner. Ellie arrived wearing jeans and tennis shoes, her hair in a ponytail. I knew she’d been crying, because her eyes were more green than blue. Valerie stomped in, tense and tight, still in her suit and heels from the trial.
I had done two interviews that day for home articles I was writing. One home had rooms decorated with “world themes.” There was an
African giraffe living room, a Paris boudoir for a bedroom, a Chinese-themed family room, etc.
The other home was owned by a couple who had six kids and had remodeled their home to be kid friendly. The four-year-old twin boys had eardrum-busting temper tantrums when I was there. The fourteen-year-old told her mother that she was “ruining her life,” and the sixteen-year-old boy took off with the car after being told no. They definitely needed more friendliness in that house. I would not be mentioning that in the article.
We sat down to eat on my deck, at the table, all stressed and tired. I hoped the gentle sway of the river would infuse us with some peace. If not, I hoped the vodka would work.
I had made pancakes, eggs, and bacon.
Valerie said she thought the Bartons were going to kidnap her, then she said, “Why have you been crying, Ellie? Maybe it’s because you’re tired of wearing a paper bag over your face?”
I threw a piece of bacon at her. “That’s enough, Valerie.”
Ellie threw a piece of bacon at her, too. “Shut up, Valerie.”
But Valerie wouldn’t stop yakking her mouth about how Ellie should call off the wedding.
“Valerie,” I said. “She’s not on the witness stand. Stop attacking.”
Ellie shoved her chair back and stood up, beyond frustrated. She stalked toward the edge of the deck, about an inch from the river, then spun around, her face red and furious. “You know what, Valerie? You are the most arrogant person I know. You think you know everything. You don’t. You’re bull-headed. You’re Type A for asshole. And you lost your gentleness and kindness a long time ago. You’re like a human shark, do you know that?”
Oh. My. Gosh. That was Ellie. Finally fighting back.
“I would rather be a human shark than a wimp.” Valerie threw down her napkin, her high heels tapping on the deck as she stood within a foot of Ellie.
“I am not a wimp. You’re an overly ambitious, cold robot, Valerie. You like filleting people. You like the power. No one else can breathe around you. You suck the air out of the room. You’re always talking about your job and murder and crime. You hardly ever ask anyone else what they’re doing, and you get bored easily with their answers because it’s all about you.”
Valerie’s mouth open and shut, like a fish. “No, it’s not.”
“I’m getting married, and I’m happy, and you can’t be happy for me.” Ellie dragged in a ragged, rumbling breath. There was that “married” word again, which always triggered her. “I celebrated your wedding, the births of your kids, I go to all the parties, and now when it’s my turn, all I get is you criticizing Gino, criticizing me.”
“That’s because I’m worried about you because you can’t even pick out a wedding dress without lying on the floor of the shop. You can’t even set a date. You can’t even talk to Aunt Polina about the flowers without bending over to vomit, yes, she told me that happened.”
“Damn it, Valerie. I am going”—gasp, gasp—“to get a wedding dress, and set a date, and order stupid flowers from Aunt Polina and get married!” She bent over and muttered to herself, “Calm down, heart, be still, go to your island of calm ... embrace your strength and courage and ... and ... rainbows and daffodils and ... breathe, please ...”
“Open your eyes, Ellie. You’re making a mistake.”
Ellie flipped back up. She was angrier than I’ve seen her in a long time. “You want me to open my eyes?”
“Yes.”
“They’re open. Now close yours.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes.”
Valerie closed her eyes. Dumb thing to do.
Ellie pushed Valerie right over the edge of the deck. She tumbled into the water. Luckily the Sergeant Otts were not swimming by at the time.
“She’s going to lose her heels,” I said to Ellie.
“I could not care less. Thanks for the pancakes.” She turned and left, grabbing her last pancake to take with her, as Valerie bobbed sputtering to the surface, shoving hair out of her eyes.
“Wow,” Valerie said, treading water. “She is pissed.”
“Yep, she is.” I dropped a hand down to Valerie and helped her out.
“I hope I gave her something to think about.”
“I think you did.”
“I lost my heels.”
“Yep.”
“That was one of the best things that Ellie has ever done.” She pushed her soaking hair out of her face.
“I was glad to see it. Surprised that you didn’t see that coming.”
“I saw it.” She twisted her silk shirt up and rung water out of it. “I wanted to see if she would do it, and she did.” She peered into the river, murky now, gray, blue, and black. “I’m going to miss those heels.”
13
We had two weeks before the launch of Homes and Gardens of Oregon. There were ads, but not a lot. Companies were waiting to see the magazine before they invested in it. They wanted to know we had readers and they wouldn’t lose money. But the ads were Ricki’s and the Oregon Standard’s advertisers’ problem. My problem was content.
I was writing two to three stories a week, interviewing people, checking out homes to see if they were beautiful/interesting enough to feature, writing my column, setting up photo shoots, and working with Ricki and the rest of the Hooters of Homes and Gobblers of Gardens.
An architect asked me out after I interviewed him about his own home. He gave me a list of 10 Reasons Why You Should Work With an Architect to Build Your Dream Home. Then he asked me to dinner. I said no.
He said, “Damn. Any chance you’ll change your mind?”
I thought of Nick. “No, but thank you for asking.”
“Sure. But damn. You’re beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“Damn.”
Later, in the car, I thought how curious it was that I thought of Nick, not Marty, when I declined the architect’s offer of dinner.
It gave me a sense of hope.
It made me feel guilty.
It turned my stomach upside down, but then my heart gave a pitter-patter.
I am emotionally screwed up, but I put on a front and fake it so I can function. Sometimes I wonder how many other people are doing the same thing.
I went to the mall afterward to practice Keeping The Monsters At Bay: Shopping Defensive Strategies.
I bought a red skirt with a side slit, a new pair of jeans, three bangle bracelets, and two dresses—one black, one patterned—for work.
I had a brief memory of feeling like a starving street urchin in Moscow. Then I remembered the bone-rattling chill of the winters, and the time that my shoes had a hole and the snow kept coming in until I stuffed it with a newspaper.
I bought a pair of warm boots, with faux fur, to remind myself I was not living in poverty anymore, slipping my hand around other people’s wallets.
* * *
It was ridiculous.
My parents had picked my husband out for me. Marty’s parents had picked him his wife.
As my mother said later, after Marty had asked me to marry him, in a river, in our kayak, “I knew he be perfect for you, my darling daughter, and that what I want for you. I want perfect. I want a Marty for you. He remind me of, what the bird, Alexei? That right, the blue heron. He excite in bed, isn’t he? Like your papa. He excite in bed. It makes lots of babies. I want the little babies, you know. Any in there now?” She leaned down and patted my stomach, staring at it as if she could see through my skin. It wouldn’t have surprised me if my mother had that talent.
“No, Mama.”
“Humph. You no wait long time.” She shook her finger. “I want be grandmother.”
I rolled my eyes, and she laughed, and whispered, “His mama and I already planning wedding. You like it, I know you like. We do everything you like. She love you, too, like Grandmother love me. Mother-in-law, daughter-in-law, get along. Life better. I love you, my Antonia.”
My father hugged me, then cried. “Antonia, I want for
you happiness. That what I want. And here, with Marty, you have. I am happy now.”
Being in love with Marty was peace. It was “excite,” like my mother said. It was the happiest time of my life.
And then it wasn’t.
* * *
The neighborhood gang met at my tugboat to strategize how we were going to save our home.
“Heather Dackson is going to represent us,” Jayla said. “I gave her the deposit money and she’s working on it.”
“I don’t want to leave. I go from the hospital, tending to sick and hurt people,” Beth said, “to this dock, living in nature.”
“I leave the college, and my students, and my old brain is fried and here”—Charles swept a hand up—“I recharge.”
“Being on my tugboat has made me find a peace I didn’t think I’d find again,” I said, then was surprised that I’d said something so personal.
They nodded, smiled at me.
“Ya,” Daisy said, a purple daisy in her purple hat, “I love it here, too. But you know what I love? I love you. You’re my family on the dock. My family on the river. I’m getting crazy. Crazy Daisy, I call myself. Eighty-five years old, I think, and up here”—she tapped her head—“I get forgetful and confused, but I always know how to find my way home. I follow the river and I listen to the whales and they tell me where to go.”
“It is home,” Vanessa said. “And you make the dock special for all of us, Daisy.”
“Really?” Daisy’s voice caught.
“Yes.”
“We love to listen to you sing,” Charles said.
“You do?”
“I look forward to it every day.”
“I can’t help these dumb tears,” Daisy said, waving a hand at her face. “I never used to cry, and now I do. I think it’s because of this river family. Black and white couple, like vanilla ice cream and chocolate chips, two loving lesbians, a hooker who wears glasses and reads books, and a lady who sits and cries in her kayak. That’s you, Toni. And the sex god. He’s not here. You’re family.”