direction Frank’s going, and—in his words— starting to fix to commence to begin to follow him. I imagine Jen’s grateful for her summer camp experience with a canoe. I now wish I’d chosen canoeing over basket- weaving for my elective. What are the odds I’ll need to pull out my basket-weaving or pot holder-making talents up here? Lord, please tell me I won’t need to use my CPR training . In his dented tin can canoe, Frank looks like he’s jogging in place or treading water, waiting for us to catch up to him. My heart spasms. “Jen! We have to go back!” “What?”
Frank’s too far away to catch every word, but I can tell from his posture that he’s not happy with my announcement. “How could we have done that?”
“Done what?”
“I was in such a hurry to get on the water, so concerned about pulling my own weight on the trail, that I didn’t look around the parking area for clues. The Blazer might be rest- ing on top of an important piece of evidence! We have to go back.”
I stop paddling. That alone will fuel Frank’s ire, I’m sure. I’m more convinced than ever that this is a bad idea—this whole trip. Great detectives, aren’t we? Greg could have been lying in the underbrush along the edge of the parking area, and we would have missed him.
“What’s she yapping about?” Frank asks Jen.
96
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“She’s worried that we should have combed the put-in point
for evidence, Frank.”
“I did that. Thoroughly,” he says.
“You did?” I want to believe him.
“When?” Jen asks.
“When I went back for the last load, while you girls were
taking your sweet time resting at the end of the portage trail.”
I would have argued, but the only point on which I could
hold any ground was changing sweet to sweat .
Frank investigated. He took care of it. “Anything turn up?”
I ask, reining in my galloping hopes.
His agitation carries well across the water between us.
“Would I have kept something like that to myself?”
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever regain full brain func-
tion. It must be the lack of sleep. I take a breath to fuel an apol- ogy, but Frank interrupts my self-loathing.
“We’re not,” he says with finality, “going back. Not until
we find him. Get those paddles back into the water and try to keep up.”
“Lib.” Jen’s voice sounds parental.
“What?”
“Start paddling. We’re moving forward.”
So we are.
After a million, I stop counting paddle strokes and grunt-
ing like a tennis star with each one. It’s all about rhythm and efficiency of effort. No wasted motion.
I haven’t even begun to conquer the proper method when
Frank uses his canoe paddle to point toward a spot along the far shore and mouths the word “portage.”
I’ve been in labor three times. The second was fourteen
short months after the first. Not nearly long enough for my body to bounce back as it should have before tackling such a monumental project again. With Alex, I saw six shift changes
97
They Almost Always Come Home
in the nursing staff while on the maternity floor, if that says anything about duration.
Piece of cake compared to this.
When I was in labor, I had the option of calling for an epi- dural. I didn’t, but I could have, and I drew enormous comfort from that knowledge.
No epidurals exist for the pain I’m in now. It’s not all physi- cal. I don’t need a psychologist to tell me that.
But in addition to the contractions my heart endures as we cross the water, my arms ache, my hands are cramped, my back screams its protests, and I’ve lost all feeling in the part of me that’s glued to the canoe seat. I guess that’s an epidural of sorts—the numbness.
The packs in the bottom of our canoe look more and more like pillows. How often does Frank turn around to check on us? Could I sneak in a nap? Stretch out my legs? Stop the end- less rhythm of paddle strokes?
“You doing all right?” Jen asks from her perch behind me.
Frank’s too far away to catch every word, but I can tell from his posture that he’s not happy with my announcement. “How could we have done that?”
“Done what?”
“I was in such a hurry to get on the water, so concerned about pulling my own weight on the trail, that I didn’t look around the parking area for clues. The Blazer might be rest- ing on top of an important piece of evidence! We have to go back.”
I stop paddling. That alone will fuel Frank’s ire, I’m sure. I’m more convinced than ever that this is a bad idea—this whole trip. Great detectives, aren’t we? Greg could have been lying in the underbrush along the edge of the parking area, and we would have missed him.
“What’s she yapping about?” Frank asks Jen.
96
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“She’s worried that we should have combed the put-in point
for evidence, Frank.”
“I did that. Thoroughly,” he says.
“You did?” I want to believe him.
“When?” Jen asks.
“When I went back for the last load, while you girls were
taking your sweet time resting at the end of the portage trail.”
I would have argued, but the only point on which I could
hold any ground was changing sweet to sweat .
Frank investigated. He took care of it. “Anything turn up?”
I ask, reining in my galloping hopes.
His agitation carries well across the water between us.
“Would I have kept something like that to myself?”
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever regain full brain func-
tion. It must be the lack of sleep. I take a breath to fuel an apol- ogy, but Frank interrupts my self-loathing.
“We’re not,” he says with finality, “going back. Not until
we find him. Get those paddles back into the water and try to keep up.”
“Lib.” Jen’s voice sounds parental.
“What?”
“Start paddling. We’re moving forward.”
So we are.
After a million, I stop counting paddle strokes and grunt-
ing like a tennis star with each one. It’s all about rhythm and efficiency of effort. No wasted motion.
I haven’t even begun to conquer the proper method when
Frank uses his canoe paddle to point toward a spot along the far shore and mouths the word “portage.”
I’ve been in labor three times. The second was fourteen
short months after the first. Not nearly long enough for my body to bounce back as it should have before tackling such a monumental project again. With Alex, I saw six shift changes
97
They Almost Always Come Home
in the nursing staff while on the maternity floor, if that says anything about duration.
Piece of cake compared to this.
When I was in labor, I had the option of calling for an epi- dural. I didn’t, but I could have, and I drew enormous comfort from that knowledge.
No epidurals exist for the pain I’m in now. It’s not all physi- cal. I don’t need a psychologist to tell me that.
But in addition to the contractions my heart endures as we cross the water, my arms ache, my hands are cramped, my back screams its protests, and I’ve lost all feeling in the part of me that’s glued to the canoe seat. I guess that’s an epidural of sorts—the numbness.
The packs in the bottom of our canoe look more and more like pillows. How often does Frank turn around to check on us? Could I sneak in a nap? Stretch out my legs? Stop the end- less rhythm of paddle strokes?
“You doing all right?” Jen asks from her perch behind me.
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