How often in the last twelve months had I followed this road out to the Beautiful Dead? First for Jonas, then for Arizona, and earlier this spring for Summer—sometimes eager and hopeful, more times in despair.
The best occasions would be driving when I had news for them, fresh information, a detail that would rescue each of them from everlasting limbo. The worst were full of doubt—crazy-girl, deluded Darina driving out to Foxton in a rainstorm because she couldn’t, wouldn’t accept that Phoenix was gone.
I drove through Centennial onto the interstate, gained altitude, felt the granite mountain slopes rise steeply to either side of the winding road. I was in the shadow of Turkey Shoot Ridge where Jonas died, glancing down on Hartmann Lake in the distance, perfect in the early sun. I glanced at my watch and calculated that I would reach Foxton Ridge by seven a.m.
Today, ten days before Phoenix’s deadline, was I hopeful girl or was I crazy, delusional Darina? Somewhere in between, with nerves stretched to a breaking point, wishing every second that the drive was over and that I was in Phoenix’s arms.
I reached the lightning-stricken pine trees that line the road as you come into Foxton junction, glimpsed a couple of new Western-style luxury buildings high on a hill, and signaled left at the old grocery store onto the dirt track by the creek.
My car kicked up clouds of dust, hit a hollow, bounced, and veered toward the cliff edge, giving me a snatched view of the white-water rapids below. I steered it back on track past the fishermen’s shacks—on, on toward Foxton Ridge.
Hunter had promised that Phoenix would be there, waiting for me. I’d already glimpsed him in the classroom, in my kitchen, standing by the picket fence. He’d been there an instant then faded. In the heartbeat after he’d disappeared, I’d sensed his massive disappointment in me for turning my back on him.
Sorry, so sorry, my love! I put my foot on the gas, sped recklessly toward the ridge. At the end of the track, I jumped out of the car and ran through the silky green grass.
You need me—I know you do. More than ever before.
Here was the stand of aspens and the rusty water tower, there was the valley, the poppy-strewn hill sweeping down toward the ranch house and the barn.
Please, Phoenix, don’t tell me that I’m too late!
I paused for breath, stared at the truck abandoned down the side of the house with two wheels missing, the hood dented, the glass in the windshield cracked and crazed. I looked from there to the big barn, so old and weathered that it almost looked like part of the landscape. I saw weeds springing up outside the open door, the giant moose horns branching above.
Not too late, please!
I wanted wings to start beating, a barrier to keep me out, to tell me the Beautiful Dead were back.
“You promised,” I told Hunter out loud.
But there was warmth and sun—no wind, no wings as I set off again down the hillside.
I’d made maybe ten strides when a voice called out.
It came from the ridge so I stopped and turned. There was a man—a deer hunter or a hiker dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt hanging open over a white T-shirt—standing by the open door of a silver SUV. He must have driven off-road and was maybe curious to find out why I abandoned my car in this deserted spot.
“We need to talk!” he yelled.
Bad timing, mister! I’d been building up to this visit for weeks and didn’t want a stranger interfering with my big reunion. But what could I do? I had to walk back up the hill and throw him off the scent.
“You don’t know me,” he said as I drew near. “But I know you.”
I broke my stride and frowned at him. “Are you following me?”
“Coincidence. I was up early, driving in your neighborhood. I knew your car.”
“You knew my car?” If I was feeling uneasy before, double it now that I got a clear view of the guy. He was tall, late forties, and I felt as though I’d seen him before.
“A red convertible. Zak told me.”
“Zak?” Since when did I develop this parrot habit?
“It fits,” he said, looking me up and down. “You would be Phoenix’s type of girl.”
My eyes widened, and I clammed right up. I looked again. His hair was dark, going gray at the temples, his face tanned, with wide, gray-blue eyes. Why so familiar?
“Michael Rohr,” he said, walking toward me and offering to shake my hand. “I’m Phoenix’s dad.”
• • •
We walked together along the ridge to Angel Rock.
“I thought you were in Germany,” I said.
“I lived in Europe for ten years,” Rohr admitted. “I came back when I heard the news about Phoenix.”
“You didn’t make it to the funeral.”
“I missed it by a week. Picked up my ex-wife’s email in an Internet café, came back as soon as I could.”
“Brandon never mentioned that you were in town.” I was wondering what good Michael Rohr thought he was doing, showing up after the event when he’d played no part in their family life for a decade. Most likely Brandon thought the same.
“Brandon doesn’t like that I exist,” Michael confirmed. “Ditto my ex-wife.”
“What about Zak?”
“The kid’s OK with me being around. He was too young to blame me for what happened—when it happened.”
“Between you and Sharon?” I relaxed a little as we walked away from the ranch house and barn, though it freaked me out that what was familiar about Michael Rohr was that he was the double of Phoenix, thirty years on. I tensed again as it hit me hard that Phoenix would never get to his late forties, would always be young.
“Phoenix never talked about the divorce. I just knew you weren’t around.”
“The split wasn’t pretty,” he admitted. “There were other people involved. Their mom was pretty angry. Still is.”
This part at least was true. Whenever I encounter Sharon Rohr she comes across as a bitter, worn-out woman—one of life’s angry victims. And she definitely doesn’t bond with me.
Under Angel Rock, Michael and I stopped and looked out toward Amos Peak.
“Is there something specific you want us to talk about?” I asked.
“They say you come out here a lot.” He chewed the inside corner of his lip as he spoke so his words came out low and indistinct—another Phoenixism. And he left gaps in the conversation, just the same way.
“It was our favorite spot,” I lied. “Anyhow, who’s ‘they’?”
“The guys in town. I hooked up a while back with Russell Bishop.”
“You did?” This took me a while to process. Russell is Zoey’s dad—Herr Commandant. “I didn’t think he talked to anyone worth less than ten million dollars.”
“We go way back to when we were kids. I grew up around these parts.”
“You did?” I repeated.
“After I met Sharon, we moved to Cleveland for work. After the split, she ended up back here, I guess because this is where she has her roots.”
There was a lot I still didn’t know about the Rohr family, I realized.
“So Russell tells me you’re good buddies with Zoey.”
“The best.”
“You helped her through a hard time. He also says you were dating my son.”
I nodded.
“Can’t talk about it, huh?”
I shook my head.
“Even after a year.”
“Less than a year.”
“Almost a year.” With his hands in his pockets he stared at the distant mountains. “You know why I went to work in Germany? Because Sharon kept the kids away from me, wouldn’t let me anywhere near them. I tried the legal route. I tried everything.”
“So why move away?” If he wanted to see his kids so much, how come he went to live thousands of miles away?
> “The problem got too big for me to solve. I had to turn my back, walk away.”
A small light went on in my head. “Gotcha.” Think Mom and Dad, recognize how little I’d seen my own father these last five years—he wrote me once to say it was too painful. I nodded and turned to walk back toward the SUV.
“So the rumors about this old place don’t scare you?” Michael asked, nodding his head toward the barn and the ranch house. “It’s a little creepy, don’t you think?”
“Why did you decide to follow me?” I snapped.
“Just to ask how you’re doing.”
“No—really?” I attempted sarcasm. It failed.
“Sure. And I wanted to ask about you and my son. But I understand you’re not ready.”
I swallowed hard. OK, so this was Phoenix’s father, but even he didn’t have the right. “I won’t ever be ready,” I told him, dead set on walking away. Michael stopped me.
“I guess I knew that. But I had to try. There’s a ten-year gap in my relationship with my son, and I’m determined to fill it with a few details.”
“Sorry.” This time I did set off toward the two vehicles parked along the ridge and felt Michael follow close behind. He took long strides and soon caught up.
“I have something for you,” he said quietly.
An older man showed me a precious picture for the second time in twenty-four hours—this time it’s Michael Rohr sliding a photograph from his pocket and holding it between trembling fingers. “Take it.”
I held the color print—two boys in profile, one tall, the other shorter and holding a football to his chest, wearing an oversized team shirt and gazing up at the older figure, giving him total eye contact. Brandon, age maybe sixteen, is grinning down at kid brother Phoenix, age ten.
“Keep it,” Michael told me.
I refused the offer. “No, it belongs with you,” I whispered. But after that I decided to try to answer some of the questions.
“What was he like—my middle son?”
“He was beautiful.”
“You loved him?”
“Totally.”
“How was he with other kids?”
“Quiet. He preferred to be on the outside.”
“A loner?”
“At first. He was new to the school. He felt like he didn’t belong.”
“But you liked that about him?”
I nodded. “He scared me a little. I thought maybe he would look down on me. It turned out he thought I was the moody one—until he got to know me.”
Michael soaked up every word I said, almost holding his breath as if this would help him store the memories more clearly. “What was Phoenix’s thing? What did he like to do?”
“He’d stopped playing football,” I said with a smile as I studied the picture again—Phoenix wearing his dark hair short, with his little boy face, his skinny arms. “He liked listening to music, walking in the mountains, swimming in the lake.”
His dad nodded as if this was enough and he couldn’t bear any more. He murmured thank you, slid the picture back into his pocket, then turned away.
“Thank you,” I told him. I watched him open the door to his SUV. “Would you like me to talk to Brandon for you?” I asked suddenly.
Michael shook his head. “You wouldn’t change his opinion of me, I can tell you that for sure.”
“So will you stick around for Zak?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He was getting in the car, starting up the engine.
“Zak’s in trouble with the school.”
This was news to Michael. He turned down the corners of his mouth, narrowed his eyes. He glanced quickly at me then started to reverse out along the ridge. “I’ll check that out. Thanks for talking to me.”
“No problem.” A heavy, sad feeling came over me as I watched him leave. Add one more name to the list of people wounded by Phoenix’s passing. Someone like me, who didn’t know how to move on.
• • •
I had to be sure Michael Rohr was gone before I walked down into the valley, so I waited until the SUV had disappeared among the aspens and the sound of its engine had died.
Then I waited some more.
Doubts crept back into my mind, like wind rustling the aspen leaves, disturbing my purpose. Why did it have to be like this, I wondered. Why couldn’t I run down the hill straight into Phoenix’s arms, plain and simple?
Because this is the end game, Arizona’s dry, dead voice inside my head reminded me. I looked up, expecting to see her face among the bright, fluttering leaves. You do this for Phoenix, you solve his mystery, and you never see him again.
Her voice became a sigh. It turned into a rustle of wind, a sound of wings beating, building, sweeping along the ridge, and swooping down the hillside.
Yes, this time I knew—the Beautiful Dead were back.
I walked—I didn’t run. My legs felt wooden, my feet heavy as lead. Down in the valley the green grass rippled.
It was weird how dead spirits brought new life to this silent, deserted place. The wings beat and raised a wind strong enough to rattle the panes in the ranch house windows, to rock the truck on its rusting axle and blow wide open the old barn door.
I ignored the house and headed straight toward the barn, my feet still dragging, my heart thumping. I stood in the wide entrance, one trembling hand resting against the doorframe, waiting for my eyes to grow used to the gloom.
They were there, in their circle, turned in toward the center the way they’d been when I first saw them. But this time there were only four Beautiful Dead—Hunter, Iceman, Dean, and my wonderful Phoenix, emerging from the shadows as my eyes adjusted. They were all stripped to the waist, their skin pale and smooth, each bearing their death mark tattoo.
“Arizona! Summer!” I murmured. I longed to have them back, to see the soft faces of girls among the strong Beautiful Dead guys.
“We have come back from beyond the grave,” they murmured in chorus as the beating wings stormed across the yard and seemed to drive me farther into the dark space of the barn.
The ritual was the way I remembered it—solemn and simple, recognizing their reason for being here.
“We are here to seek justice. It was a painful journey,” Iceman said. “Hunter brought us back.”
The overlord gazed at each in turn—first Iceman, then Dean, and finally my Phoenix, whose back was turned.
“He brought us here,” Dean echoed.
“For one last time,” Phoenix said. And now each of them reached out his right hand to meet the others in the center of the circle—four strong curled fists touching lightly, four spirits returned from limbo.
I was under their spell, watching with held breath, standing under a windstorm of beating wings.
“Phoenix, your time has come,” Hunter murmured.
“Darina is here.”
• • •
I’m in his arms, and it’s real. His flesh is pale and cold against me—his cheeks, his lips. I feel his breath.
“God!” he murmurs, sinking his head against my shoulder. A tidal wave of relief hits me, and I drown. I close my eyes, stop breathing, hold on tight.
“I was scared we’d never do this ever again,” Phoenix tells me, the words tumbling out. He’s kissing me and talking, kissing me again.
I’m hanging on to him, dizzy and swaying. I can’t talk. I can’t believe it’s happening at last. I look into his eyes.
• • •
We sat together on the bank of the creek, Phoenix and me. The others left us alone, giving us the precious gift of time. I held his hand and felt his cold fingers wrap around mine as we watched the clear current swirl around granite boulders that sparkled in the sun.
I gazed at the water. If I look at your face, you’ll disappear.
“I won’t,” he whispe
red. “Darina, look at me.”
I turned my head. His fingers were still intertwined with mine, his eyes searching my face.
If I say anything, you’ll vanish.
“I won’t,” he promised. “Darina, this is our time.”
My fingers held on even tighter than before. “Stay with me.”
“I’m here. This is the way it’s meant to be.” His voice was the same slow drawl, his eyes somewhere between gray and blue, the lashes long and curved, straight brows above.
“I waited forever. I came here so many times.” My voice was quivery and small, my grasp full of fear.
“It’s the way it’s meant to be,” he said again. “Believe me.”
And then we were walking hand in hand away from the deserted house and barn, out through the meadow under a vast blue sky.
The crushing pressure around my heart was easing. I was loosening my grasp.
Phoenix smiled at me. “You came back.”
“You came back!”
“I’m always here. I’m with you wherever you go.”
I felt the sun warm my face, knew that his would always be cold as death. “I do see you here on the far side,” I told him. “Maybe only for a moment, but I know you’re here.”
Phoenix, my beautiful Phoenix, nodded. And oh, my heart was racing, but not with terror. I smiled back.
“That’s what I love—the way your eyes soften and melt.”
He put his arms around me, lifted me clear of the rippling grass, and I felt the world tilt as I locked my arms around his neck and he laid me on the ground among the bright poppies, his body next to me, his lips on mine.
• • •
“There’s a thousand things I want to say and not enough time.” We sat in the ranch house, face-to-face across the kitchen table. “When I’m home, I rehearse it all. I plan to tell you the things I remember best, how it felt the first time you talked to me, my fluttery heart, my head not believing what was happening.”
Phoenix nodded. “All I could think was ‘Dude, don’t say anything stupid. Don’t fall over or walk into the door.’”
“I was so scary?”
“It took me half a year to find the courage.”