Of All the Stupid Things (15 page)

Tara

MOM IS DRINKING YERBA MATE TEA WHEN I GET UP EARLY on Sunday for my long run.

“Why don’t we hit the trails today?” she says. “We haven’t been to the national forest in years.”

I don’t saying anything and Mom continues. “Sherman is getting stir-crazy in this house. It’ll be good to get out.”

I look over at Sherman. He’s pretending to be asleep but his tail wags when his name is mentioned. I nod. “You’re right. He could use a day out.”

“Good. I’ll pack a picnic and we’ll make a day of it. Oh, and there’s a message from Pinkie. She called again last night.”

I’m not surprised. I haven’t talked to her for a couple days and her mother-hen radar must be going off. But on the other hand, I’m not in the mood to deal with her smothering. “I’ll call her later,” I say.

I go back to my room to grab a fleece and change my sneakers for a pair that are better for rough terrain. Back in the kitchen, I add an extra scoop of protein powder to my breakfast smoothie. Mom left an ounce of wheatgrass juice for me on the counter. I drink that down while the bananas whirl around in the blender. I pour the smoothie into a bowl and sprinkle some granola for a nice crunch. I finish eating just as Mom packs up the picnic (she made chicken and veggie wraps). We load up Sherman (who started lapping around the house when I pulled out the leash), grab the food, and head out.

The day is clear and brisk, my favorite running weather. It’s still rather early in the morning so there are few people on the road. We make the trip in just under two hours; I remember it taking much longer, but it has been a long time since we’ve been to the forest. Years, as Mom said.

Sherman jumps out of the back as soon as we open the door for him. He goes straight for the squirrels, chasing and barking at them to come down from the tree and play with him.

I look around as I start my warm-up stretches. The leaves are just starting to change colors. There are only a couple of vehicles in the parking lot: a beat-up cream pickup and what looks like a rented blue car. It’s good to have a change of scenery. Get away from the house and the town with its people. It’s like we’ve entered a different world; I’ve forgotten how nice it is.

“It’s a shame we haven’t come down in a while,” Mom reads my mind.

“Yes, it is.”

We watch Sherman for a few minutes. The only things he’s thinking about are the squirrels, and maybe the tree that’s keeping him from getting them, but he’s happy nonetheless. We don’t say anything. No point bringing up the past. Or the present.

“Right then,” Mom sighs. “What trail are you going to take?”

I look at the trail head. “I don’t remember the White Lakes trail being too steep and it’s about the right distance—fifteen miles.”

“Should we picnic at the lake then once you’re done?” Mom asks.

I meet her eyes. Other than our height, the hazel eyes are the only thing we have physically in common. I do want to eat by the lake, but I hadn’t wanted to suggest it. I didn’t think Mom would agree to it. “Sure, if you want to.”

Mom puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “It’s our favorite place. There’s no reason we should avoid it.”

“Okay.” I nod my head a few too many times. “I should be done by noon.”

“Be careful on the loose gravel,” Mom warns.

I nod again as I straighten up. “I will. Hold Sherman so he doesn’t follow me.”

I get my water bottle, set my stopwatch and pedometer, and take off. I keep my eye on the trail ahead so I’m able to avoid any rocks on the path. It’s beautiful this time of year. And peaceful. For the first time in weeks I feel my head clear completely and enjoy the surroundings.

The tall, thick trees envelop me as I run by. A couple times I turn a corner and surprise the squirrels and birds that are on the path. Once I come across two people with frame backpacks, but other than that, there’s no one along the trail. I feel like I’m alone, with nothing but the trees and the dirt pounding under my shoes, and it’s great. I feel like I can run forever. Not because I have to, but because I want to.

I don’t remember specifics of the trail but as I pass certain landmarks, memories come rushing back, and they’re not as painful as I would have thought. There’s the rock that looks like Pride Rock from
The Lion King
. I remember standing on top of it on all fours and roaring across the plains that seemed to stretch for miles around. Now the rock is barely a couple of feet above my head and what I thought were plains is just a campsite clearing. There’s the tree that was almost completely uprooted in a storm but stayed alive (and it still is). I remember balancing along the trunk and pretending that it was upright and that I was actually walking up a tree.

And then I pass the meadow that holds the clearest memory of him in the forest. We had planned to set camp there, but there had been a herd of deer grazing. He motioned to me to be quiet and we crouched down to watch them. I was probably around seven or eight and I wanted to go pet them, but he said if I moved I would scare them away. After a few minutes I got restless. I crept toward them anyway, staying close to the ground. I was just a few feet away when a fawn noticed me. It snorted and the whole herd perked up and bolted. I remember how I sprinted after them, trying to catch up with them, but they were gone within seconds. I got angry when he laughed at me. But then he promised to help me became fast enough to keep up with the deer.

I sigh and feel my pace slow down just a bit. He was so good at making promises; it was keeping them that he couldn’t be bothered with. It doesn’t bug me as much as it used to. Maybe I’m finally beginning to accept that I can’t change what he did to me, to us. And maybe, just maybe, I’m better off without him. And maybe without Brent as well.

I take the last mile to the lake easy, partly to cool down and partly to enjoy the last bit of my run. It went by fast. I don’t feel like I ran fifteen miles, but my watch and pedometer say I have. I’m tired, but not as tired as I should be after a fifteen-mile run. I slow down to a walk when I see a family at our favorite spot near an old tree. Then I stop completely to watch them. My heart beats faster than it had been a few minutes ago. I squeeze my water bottle hard. I know them. Well, at least one of them.

The mom is dark and pretty. She looks Native American. No, more like South American. She laughs as she watches the other two people. The little boy, about four, is a lighter version of his mom. He kicks a soccer ball to the man while the man pretends he can’t keep up with the ball. The man’s beard is graying but what’s left of his beard is still the same color as my hair. They look like a perfect family. Happy. But I’m sure it looked the same back when it’d been me kicking the soccer ball.

Sherman bounces up to me then, slobbering all over my running tights. I turn quickly to see Mom coming up another trail. I’m about to suggest to her that we eat somewhere else. But she’s already seen the family.

“Kenny?” Mom gasps as she leans against a tree for support.

The man turns and blinks at us. “Linda! And wait, is that Tara? I can’t believe it. How are you?”

I don’t answer. My lips are pressed together; the veins in my neck show how tense I am. I focus hard on taking deep breaths. I’m not losing control again.

The man jogs toward us. He slows to a walk and stops a few feet away from me. He reaches out to hug me. I move back a few steps. He looks at me and I stare right back at him.

He runs his fingers through his beard. “Wow, look at you, all grown up. I wouldn’t have recognized you. You all right? Life treating you good?”

I stay quiet. I stay still. Only my lungs move: in and out, in and out.

“Kenny, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming back.” Mom holds on to Sherman’s collar. He licks her. I move over to them and place my hand on his head, rubbing his ear. Sherman gives us a doggie smile that shows all his teeth. The man steps away.

“Well, Maria Rosa wanted to see the country.” He gestures to the woman. “And we couldn’t come all this way and not visit my favorite lake. But really, what are the odds that you would be here too?”

Mom’s arm wraps around her rib cage while the other hand continues holding Sherman. Through her jacket, I notice she didn’t even bother putting on a bra this morning. “What are the odds indeed.”

The woman and boy come over with curious looks. I stare at the boy. He hides behind his mom’s legs. I still don’t say anything, just continue petting Sherman.

The man looks from the woman and boy to Mom and me. “Ah, Linda, Tara, this is Maria Rosa and our son, José Antonio.”

I cringe when he says “our,” although I already knew. Then he turns to the woman and speaks to her. I understand enough Spanish to know he says: “This is Linda and my daughter, Tara.”

Pinkie

I HAVEN’T SEEN OR HEARD FROM TARA IN A FEW DAYS.

Yesterday David and I were busy all day with a church event. I left a message for Tara, and then called some classmates about homework assignments. When I got off the phone, Tara still hadn’t returned my call. But it was late and she was probably in bed already. I pretend not to worry.

Today, Tara still hasn’t called. She isn’t like Nash; she knows how to operate a phone and is usually pretty good about it. (Still no word from Nash, and I’ve left him two more messages. I’m trying very hard not to obsess about it.) I leave another message for Tara since she probably hasn’t gotten the first one. Her machine is the only one I know that still uses a cassette to record messages. It’s probably faulty and deleting the messages or taping over them. I tell myself again that I shouldn’t be so obsessive and that there’s still not really an absolute reason to worry.

Tara

I STARE AT THE LITTLE BOY. IT’S THE ONLY CHOICE SINCE I don’t want to look at any of the grown-ups. He scrunches his face and sticks his tongue out at me. My lips twitch. I’m about to stick my tongue right back at him, but I don’t. That would mean that I accept him. Accept who he is. And I don’t. Not by a long shot.

I look for familiar things in him. At first I don’t see any. He is dark. He has stubby legs. He’s three or four years old. There are no similarities.

But that’s not true. His hair is dark but fine. His legs are stubby but strong. His face is long just like his dad’s, and just like mine.