Beyond the Path

Every Saturday for eleven years now, I have followed the same route: A right at the end of the cracked concrete walkway that leads from my front door, then along the stones to the riverbank. From there, navigate roots and rocks that line the river as I descend the mountain towards town. The hemlock trees, normally stoic even in their droopiness, ripple in the wind that has arrived ahead of the storm charging up from the Gulf. My days resemble this trail, relatively unchanging for now. Such repetitiveness would have bored me back when I was intent on fitting the skin the world wrestled me into, disguising its demands as my only choices and the comfort of conformity as the sole path to fulfillment. The cadence of sameness does not bind me; I relish it like my favorite lines from a well-worn book.

I stretch the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands and wrap my arms around my torso despite the warm fall weather, plodding alongside the bend until the road appears. I hug the edge of the pavement as a familiar mustard-colored truck rumbles past and slows to a stop a few feet ahead. The driver waves out the window in my direction and I shuffle forward. 

“Hey there, Lorna. You want a ride the rest of the way?” 

Tom’s house is a mile up the road from me. He helped fix my well a couple summers ago and now his wife invites me for dinner every other week. Their only grandchild is a Broadway actor who lives in New York City; I must be a poor substitute, but I gladly accept my role as understudy.

“Sure, Tom, that’d be nice, thanks.” 

The door makes a grinding sound as I pull the handle and climb into the cab. Tom turns down the AM radio station and slurps from his coffee thermos. He doesn’t smoke anymore, but the faint scent of cigarettes still lingers. The smell and his deep, soft voice remind me of my grandpa who died of a stroke when I was nine after smoking a pack of Marlboro Reds every day for fifty years. I close my eyes and hear him praying over our breakfast, the ashtray on the kitchen table beside the plain cereal bowl in front of me that holds half of a grapefruit covered in sugar. I quit smoking seven years ago. I miss it.

“Martha wanted me to invite you for dinner next Friday, said she’s making that rhubarb pie you like.”

“I will be there. What can I bring? I’ve got some canned green beans from the garden.” 

My stomach growls and I realize I forgot to eat breakfast. I never do that.

“Sure, go on ahead and bring those. They’ll go nicely with the chicken I’m gonna butcher for us. Say, you heard anything about this storm? Weatherman says it will mostly die down before it gets here, but I’m not so sure.” 

His brow furrows, and the mole on his forehead disappears into a wrinkle.

“They seem to get worse every year, don’t they? If y’all lose power, you can always come to mine. I’ve got that generator installed now, and plenty of space.” 

“Well, hopefully everything will be fine, but I’ll let Martha know. She’ll appreciate that.” 

Tom knows as well as I do we are not imagining the increasing ferocity of each storm. I think we speak about it in a particular way to place a more comfortable distance between our present moment and our decreasing ability to withstand the new levels of devastation that will inevitably reach us. Maybe the pretense allows us to go on when we would otherwise succumb to the despair that fills the vacuum left by dissipating hope. 

He pulls to a stop at the market; we’ve taken this ride many times over the years. I thank him and climb down from the truck, giving a nod and a wave as I slam the door. Butternut squash line a table in front of the store and I stop to turn one over, thinking about how nice a bowl of soup would be for lunch tomorrow. 

“Lorna? Lorna, is that you? Holy shit!”

No need to turn, yet I do since there’s nowhere to hide on an empty sidewalk. 

“Hey, Caroline, wow, it’s been a while, so nice to see you. How are you? How’s the family? What are you doing here?” 

I wonder if I put too much emphasis on “you” instead of “here”... I hope my many questions conceal my lack of genuine enthusiasm. 

“Oh my god, this is wild! I rented an Airbnb up the road with Mark and the boys for the weekend. It’s so great to see you! I’m doing great, you know, same old same old–work, the kids, their sports, it never ends but they’re worth it! How have you been? What are you up to these days? Man, it’s been a long time!” 

Almost but not entirely convincing, she exudes an infectious cheerfulness, as if attempting (unsuccessfully) to banish any doubts about her happiness. Her need to project an image beyond reproach feels not dissimilar to my need to remain tethered to the moment and the hypothetical where dire subjects are concerned. Is this some kind of evolutionary defense mechanism? Are we simply unable to bear reality at 100% in all its truths and nuance and contradiction? Or is it that being face to face with those truths demands something from us we cannot abide–some action we are unable or unwilling to undertake? If I am not as helpless as I think, then surely I must do something, or be willing to die pretending there was nothing to be done.

“I have a place up the mountain a-ways. It used to be my great aunt’s before she died. I’ve been here since 2010. How old are the boys now?” 

Caroline never met my great aunt, but few people did. She kept to herself, too. 

“Wow, LUCKY! We love it up here, especially during ski season. Usually we stay at the resort even out of season, but we didn’t book in time this year. Kaleb is nine, Jack is eleven, fourth and sixth grade. Can you even believe it? Mark wasn’t sure he wanted to come because the leaf peepers are out and traffic is such a bear, but the boys and I talked him into it. I came into town because we don’t have coffee at the place. Who has an Airbnb without coffee? Madness! I heard there was a cafe and you know I need my caffeine fix.”

She stops to take a breath. I am already prepared to say no when she offers the invitation. 

“Get coffee with me! Let’s catch up!” 

“Oh, that’s nice of you, but I am so busy right now–”

“Nonsense, I have not seen you in ages, I insist. My treat.” 

She takes my elbow without waiting for an answer and drags me across the street to the cafe. “Have you been to this place? It’s so cute and quaint. I hope they have decent coffee.”

“It’s pretty good. Becky roasts the beans herself and makes her own syrups.” 

I don’t think Caroline gives a shit about either fact, and she proves me right with the familiar vacant nod and smile as she chatters away. We enter the cafe and she squeals as she sees the pictures of Becky’s family that line the wall.

“How freaking adorable! I love the vibe of this place already, so homey.” 

Becky is behind the counter and raises an eyebrow at me, but changes her expression to a smile when Caroline turns to face her at the register.

“Hey Lorna. Hey Lorna’s friend, what can I get for you?” 

She smiles warmly. I have always liked her.

“Hmmm… I want a hot latte with almond milk, but do you have any sugar free syrups?” 

Caroline scans the chalkboard menu.

“We have soy milk and a sugar free vanilla syrup.”

“Ugh. Okay, I suppose that will do, one soy latte with sugar free vanilla syrup please.” 

She frowns, but accepts her fate.

“And I will have a coffee with milk and sugar please, Becky.” 

“Do you take cards, Becky?” 

Caroline holds out her American Express.

“Uh, not that one. Just regular ol’ Visa or Mastercard, sorry.” 

A flash of irritation appears on Caroline’s face but vanishes as she stuffs the card back into her wallet and retrieves another.

“Mark is always on me to use the Amex so we can get the points, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she says conspiratorially, as if Mark might be eavesdropping. 

I nod and pretend to be in on the secret with her. She pays the bill and we sit at the table by the window. 

“I am so glad we ran into each other! I have been missing you so much! We bought a townhome in the city a couple of years back and Mark and the boys love it. We talked about selling this past spring because the market was so good, but Mark didn’t want to. My commute is insane, and it makes for long days, and he works from home, but his days can be long, too. Plus, someone has to get the kids to their practices, and cook and clean and… That’s how it goes! I’m so lucky, though! The neighborhood is perfect and the kids have so many friends.” 

Almost unnoticeably, her mask twists. Becky places our drinks on the table and I reach for mine too quickly. It wobbles once before I grab hold and take a sip without checking the temperature. I won’t be able to taste the soup tomorrow. 

“That sounds nice–ideal, even. You used to say you always wanted to live in a neighborhood that felt like the suburbs but in the city. Are you still doing dance classes? Or um, what was the other thing you were into… Dungeons and Dragons!” 

I giggle out loud at the image of the beige-wearing, gold-jewelry-clad woman sitting across from me playing D&D in her mom’s basement. Caroline turns red and a real laugh escapes her. 

“Oh my gosh, I forgot about D&D! I used to love writing those stories. How funny that you would mention that! What a nerd I was. I miss writing, though. Sometimes I get to do it for work, but nothing creative or fun like D&D, just sales pitches. I had to give up dance after Kaleb. It was… Too much.”  

The dog from the hardware store has risen from his usual spot to stretch before taking his time to cross the street. She turns her head to stare at him. I watch her until she speaks again.

“Do you still write?” 

“I do, when I have time and energy… Really depends on how busy work gets. Sometimes I get half a book out and then I can’t touch it again for months. But I also don’t have two small children, just a grown one. You’ll get back to whatever you want to soon enough, I’m sure.” 

I am not sure. I wonder if there is a limit to the number of moments in which a person can betray themselves before it becomes nearly impossible to find their way back. Is that not just another form of pretending, trading the finite precious moments of our future for this short-term facade of peace?

“Yeah, it is tough to find time for sure, but I’m so glad you’ve managed. Speaking of Henry, how is he? He graduated, didn’t he? Physics major or something smarty pants like that?”

“Close,” I smile at her. “Computer Science. He finished about a year and a half ago and got a job with a software company. Last month he moved into a new condo he bought in Philadelphia. We talk about once a week at least. He’s loving life.” 

“Awwwww I love that! He is such a great kid! Well, ‘man’ now, I guess,” she giggles. “Isn’t it wild? Seems like yesterday we were waiting tables, broke, hung up on some loser dudes, and look at us now! Living our best lives! I tell you what, 24-year-old me would not believe it.” 

Forty-year-old her does not believe it either. She takes a gulp of her latte and chokes. 

“Shit! Went down the wrong way! Hands over my head, that’s what I tell the boys!” 

Laughing, she coughs, and she raises one arm and covers her mouth with the other. 

“You okay?” 

I hand her my napkin as another coughing fit strikes her.

“Phew, my goodness, I’m okay,” she clears her throat. “Can’t seem to even get the basics right these days, dang!”

“Are you really okay, Caroline?” 

There was a time when I could ask this question in this way, and what followed would be a torrent of pent-up frustration and possibly even tears. There was a time when we didn’t pretend… Wasn’t there? 

“Oh yeah, I’m good, I promise, just got in a hurry drinking my coffee as usual.” 

She side-eyes me as she deliberately takes another slow sip. I don’t know what to say now, so I say the wrong thing.

“Have you seen Andie at all?”

She clears her throat again and realigns her mask.

“Not in ages. They got off Facebook almost a decade ago, and almost post nothing on Instagram. I guess they are happily chronically offline, unlike the rest of us! I tried reaching out a couple times, but got left on read, which I probably deserve.” She chuckles and looks at her cup, then back at me. I do not fervently protest in her favor, and she looks down at her cup again. 

“You know I can’t control what he does, right?” She is suddenly quiet but fierce, gripping my free hand that rests on the table. “He has such a kind heart, I wish you all could see him for how he is to me and the kids. He is so good to us, he takes such amazing care of us. I couldn’t throw away our life because of something so silly and small!” 

My shoulders slump. I take a deep breath and resign myself to putting on the full show, but just as quickly, I change my mind.

“Who is it “silly and small” to, Caroline? To Andie? To me? No, to you.”

“Wow. You are really trying to dredge up the past here, Lorna. I thought we moved past all this. I don’t understand why we can’t just agree to disagree? It is all theoretical anyway!”

“Our lives and the risks we take by simply existing are not theoretical, Caroline. Mark’s beliefs and the harm they pose are not theoretical. Yet you aligned yourself with him, you stood by your man… And clearly you still do.”

“But he likes you, he does! He doesn’t care what you…” 

“Goodbye, Caroline.” 

I stand and wave bye to Becky.

“See you next week.”

I do not wait to see if she responds.

Through the window, I see in my peripheral vision Caroline’s wide eyes and agape mouth, as if she were about to drink from the cup that remains frozen inches from her mouth. I cross the street to finish shopping and wonder if she will tell him about this. I decide not to care and fill my basket: two butternut squash, fresh basil, cream, extra AAA batteries. 

“Stay safe out there, Lorna. Let me know if you need anything. This storm is gonna be a bear,” the man behind the counter says as I hand him two twenty-dollar bills and he counts out my change.

“You too, Nick. See you next week,” I say and make my way out the door to begin the trek home. I don’t look toward the cafe, but I imagine her still sitting there, perhaps pondering her own choices, but probably not. The wind crawls over the mountain with soft whistles that promise to become a chorus of screaming howls from the past by nightfall. I wonder again for a moment if it is indeed too late to heed their warning, and then I realize that this idea and those like it were planted there—traps meant to stifle us in hopelessness, to make change feel inconceivable when it is the very concept that brought all life into existence.

I decide to take a new way home.