Wilderness (11 page)

“OK?”

He couldn't see him. But he sounded near.

“Yeah,” said Tom.

But it didn't sound loud enough. He took a huge
breath and said it again.

“Yeah.”

He felt his hat being lifted by the branch right over
his head. He felt the sudden cold on his forehead. He
could feel the cold on his nose, pushing against it, like
a slow fist. He let go of the sled. He grabbed his hat
just as it came off his head. He pulled it back over his
ears. He could feel loose hard needles in the hat,
sticking into his skull. But they didn't hurt too much,
and the cold was off his forehead and ears.

The sled slid away before he could grab it. He had
to run – he tried to run. He tried to reach the handles
of the sled. It moved further. He was being left behind.
There was a branch in his way. The sled was gone. He
couldn't get past the branch; he couldn't get through. It
wouldn't give; it was solid – it wouldn't bend forward.
It was like a wall. He couldn't see. He was trapped. He
pushed. He groaned. His face was frozen. The branch lashed ice at him; it rubbed the ice right into his skin.
He couldn't hear the dogs. He couldn't hear Aki's
engine. He hadn't heard it for a good while. Aki and
Kalle weren't coming up behind him. There was no
one to rescue him. All he could hear was his own
breath and the wind. There was wood in his mouth,
and dirty ice, and spikes and needles jabbed at his lips
and nostrils. He pulled his head back. He put his hand
in front of his face. He shouted.

“Johnny!”

He pushed.

He shouted again.

“Johnny!”

“What?”

“I'm stuck.”

He cried then. He pushed. He called out to Johnny
again.

“My sled's gone.”

He heard Johnny.

“I have it.”

And that gave him strength; he could feel it. He
tried to push a different part of the branch. The tree
must have been on his left, because he moved a step
to the right and pushed, and the branch wasn't as
powerful. It must have been narrower there. He felt it
bend; he could feel it give.

He pushed. He even used his face. He pushed
straight into the needles and ice, and now he could step forward, and he felt the branch bend and pull
back the side of his face as he pushed through it. And
then it was gone, behind him. He was out.

The branch sprang back and smacked him hard. He
was on his knees. He'd fallen forward. He was gasping.
But he was free. He wasn't crying now. He wanted to
laugh, but he didn't have breath for it. He tried to stand
up. He put his hands on the snow, but they sank. His
nose touched the snow. His hands, arms, his feet, legs,
were in it. He could feel the cold pull his face.

He got one leg up. He was able to get his foot flat on
the ground. He could feel it solid under his boot. He
pushed, he straightened the leg. He lifted the other leg.
He straightened his arms. He rose over the snow, still
on all fours. Then he pushed his hands off the ground.
His balance was good. He stood; he stayed standing.

He could see Johnny. He thought he could see
him – and the sleds and dogs. He wiped the snow off
his face. He pulled his feet out of the snow. It was a
path again. The trees were apart. The branches and
needles weren't touching him.

Johnny was standing on his brake, leaning over a
bit. He was holding one of the straps that held the
dogs to Tom's sled. The dogs were quiet. They weren't
trying to get away.

“OK?” said Johnny.

“Yeah,” said Tom.

The dogs were looking at him. He could see that. Two more deep steps, and he was back on the sled. And
he knew – he suddenly remembered – they had to find
their mother. That was why he'd been fighting through
the trees. That was why Johnny was waiting for him.

They were alone. There was no one behind them
now. They were way off the safe paths, and their
mother was even further away. It was only them.

He heard Johnny.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Let's go.”

Tom filled his lungs, and let go.

“Wil-derness!”

It sounded brilliant. It sounded big and funny, like
the first time they'd shouted it.

He heard Johnny.

“Wil-derness!”

They were moving again, in a straight line. Tom
could feel the snow, brushing against and rushing past
his face.

He called out to Johnny.

“Maybe she can hear us.”

And he heard Johnny shout it again.

“Wil-derness!”

And then it was Tom's turn.

“Wil-derness!”

And Johnny's turn again.

“Wil-derness!”

“Wil-derness!”

They stopped for a second. They put their feet on
the brakes, and listened. They heard nothing. They
lifted their feet, and the dogs went again. They were
moving nicely, and evenly. The boys kept listening, but
they heard nothing.

Tom heard Johnny.

“Wil-derness!”

And Tom did it again.

“Wil-derness!”

They kept on doing it, together and apart, in deep
voices and cartoon voices, and back to their own voices.

“Wil-derness!”

And the dogs kept running.

And they heard it.

They thought they did.

Johnny put his feet on the brake. Tom waited till his
sled was beside Johnny's, then he put his feet on his
brake. They could see each other now.

Johnny called out.

“Wil-derness!”

They listened.

Tom called out.

“Wil-derness!”

They listened. And they heard it. Far away, but they
definitely heard it.

“Wil-derness!”

It was their mother.

 

 

It was a fight. Two arms, two fists joined, inside her
chest. Both pulling, straining. Pushing against her ribs.

She sat still. She concentrated.

“Are you OK?” said her mother.

Gráinne waited a bit. Then she nodded.

It wasn't true, but it was the answer she wanted to give.

“Are you sure?” said her mother.

Gráinne nodded again.

“I'm fine.”

“You look a bit pale.”

“No,” said Gráinne. “I'm fine.”

And she began to feel that what she'd said was true. The fists in her chest were fading away. She was still sitting at the table. And her mother was just sitting down, with a fresh mug of tea.

“It's lovely to have decent tea again,” she said. “The Americans don't really understand tea.”

She looked at Gráinne.

“Will I go on?” she said.

“Not about tea,” said Gráinne.

“No,” said her mother. “Not tea. I must have
sounded like my mother there. Tea, tea, tea.”

Gráinne said nothing. The fists were hardly there
now. They
were
there; she knew that. But she'd made
them move away. Gráinne was controlling it.

“I'll go on?” said her mother.

“Yes,” said Gráinne.

“Where did I stop?” said her mother.

That annoyed Gráinne. She knew exactly where her
mother had stopped.
I knew what I had to do – what I
was doing. And that was what I did. I went.
Word for
word, Gráinne knew it. She always would. She knew
it, and her mother should have too. Or she was
pretending, trying to be casual about it. And that
annoyed Gráinne too, because it wasn't honest. But
she said nothing. She didn't answer.

“So,” said her mother, in a drawn-out way that
sounded quite American. “So, I left.”

She shrugged.

“And I have to say two things here, and one of them
might sound ugly. OK?”

Gráinne nodded.

“I don't regret it,” said her mother.

Gráinne could feel the fists again, a sudden burst to
the front of her chest. She hoped her face was blank and normal. She could feel sweat, cold, on her
forehead. She stayed still.

“I don't regret it,” her mother said again. “I feel
disgusted, now, saying that. But I have to tell the truth.”

Gráinne nodded.

“It was the right thing to do at the time,” said her
mother. “I'd have done something – I don't know. It
couldn't have stayed as it was.”

She sighed.

“I don't regret it.”

She held her cup. But she didn't drink.

Gráinne waited for the fists inside to get smaller, to
retreat. She could hear the clock on the wall. She
could hear the fridge. She heard a door upstairs pulled
quietly closed. Her father. He was wandering around.

“You said, two things,” she said.

She was glad she spoke; she wasn't just waiting.
She looked at her mother.

“You said you had to say two things.”

“Yes,” said her mother.

“Go on.”

“Right,” said her mother. “Like I said, I don't regret
going. But there are lots of things I do regret, because
I went.”

Her hands on the table opened and closed.

“I regret not being with you,” she said. “It sounds so
lame, I guess. But it's true. I regretted that even before
I left. I remember it, exactly.”

She put her hand to her chest.

“It's still in there,” she said. “The feeling when I was
leaving. Like my ribs were being torn.”

She sucked in air; she was trying to keep talking.

“I always felt it.”

Gráinne watched her mother's hands. Opening and
closing, opening and closing.

“I look at you now, and it's great,” said her mother.
“I'm here. And you're here. And it kills me.”

She cried then. She couldn't talk. She lifted her
hands and waved them, as if to say,
I'll be back in a
minute
. Then she put her hands to her face and cried.
She bawled. Gráinne hadn't seen an adult cry like that
before. Her mother was crying like a child. Her face
was very white, and blotchy. She looked like she was
in pain, like her face was badly made and the different
parts didn't fit or match up right.

She rubbed her face with both hands. She stood
up. She went across to the counter, beside the cooker.
She picked up something. It was the kitchen roll, a big
roll of paper. Gráinne watched her blow her nose. She
blew twice, then she dropped the paper into the pedal
bin. She came back to the table. She sat down.

She looked at Gráinne. She smiled. Her face was
normal again, but she looked nervous.

“I feel better,” she said. “Will I go on?”

“Yes,” said Gráinne.

Her mother put her hands flat on the table.

“So,” she said in that American way again.
Soo-ooh
.
“I can hardly cope with it. Seeing you. No, it's great.”

She lifted her hands.

“It's wonderful. You can't imagine how wonderful it
is.”

Gráinne said nothing.

“It's so great,” said her mother. “But I missed so
much. Do you understand, Gráinne?”

Gráinne liked her mother – she knew that now. But
she didn't like this – the way she'd said her name, the
way she'd asked Gráinne if she understood.

“Yes, I understand,” said Gráinne. “How do you
think I felt?”

Her mother stared at her.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“Why didn't you visit?” said Gráinne.

“I should have.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Guilt,” said her mother.

“Guilt?”

“Yes.”

“Are you serious?” said Gráinne.

Her mother was surprised; Gráinne could see.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

The fists were beating at Gráinne's chest, trying to
break out. They were good now; they were like a
warning.
Calm down, calm down
.

“Go on,” she said.

“Well,” said her mother. “I did the right thing,
leaving. But it was a terrible thing to do. I know that.
And that was how I felt. It was bad.
I
was bad.
Abandoning my child.”

“Me,” said Gráinne.

“You.”

“Why did you go so far away?”

“It had to be far,” said her mother. “That was what
I thought. I felt that you'd be better off without me.
You and your dad. Especially you.”

“You didn't even visit,” said Gráinne.

“I couldn't.”

“Yes, you could,” said Gráinne.

“You're right,” said her mother. “I was dying to see
you. To be with you. But I couldn't do it. I felt so
guilty. I thought it would be better if it was like I was
dead.”

“But you weren't dead.”

“No.”

“So, it was just stupid,” said Gráinne.

She didn't shout; she just said it.

Her mother opened her mouth. But she didn't
speak.

“I knew you weren't dead,” said Gráinne. “And
there's no such thing as ‘like dead'. I knew you were
alive. And you never came to see me. You never asked
for me.”

“I'm sorry,” said her mother.

“OK.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I always thought it was because of me.”

“What?” said her mother.

“Why you left,” said Gráinne. “I thought it was
because of me.”

“No,” said her mother. “Believe me, Gráinne. It was
never like that.”

“And you never came home,” said Gráinne.

“It's a mess,” said her mother.

She sighed.

“Your grandmother sent me photographs, and she
told me how you were doing in school.”

A snort came from Gráinne's nose. She nearly
laughed.

“You should see my apartment, Gráinne. It's full of
pictures of you.”

“So what?” said Gráinne. “My room's full of pictures
of Marilyn Manson, but that doesn't mean I know
him. Or even care about him that much.”

She wished the light was off. It would have been
easier. Her head was hurting, just behind her eyes.
She was tired too, and thirsty. She wished it would
finish. She wanted it to stop.

But it was too soon; she knew that. They had to
keep going.

“Can you forgive me?” said her mother.

“Why are you here?” said Gráinne.

“To see you,” said her mother.

“Just see?”

“No,” said her mother. “I want to know you. Be with
you.”

“Why now?”

“I've always wanted—”

“Why
now?
”

“A friend of mine died.”

“What kind of friend?”

“My best friend, Gráinne.”

She smiled. She shrugged.

“We went to school together.”

“Did I ever meet her?” said Gráinne.

“I'm not sure,” said her mother. “Yes. Yes. You did.
She came to see me. She stayed here for a little while
after you were born.”

“Did she live in New York?”

“Yes.”

“Did you live with her?”

“No.”

“When you went over?”

“For a few weeks, yes.”

“What was her name?” said Gráinne.

“Bernie,” said her mother.

“I'm sorry she died,” said Gráinne.

“Thank you.”

Gráinne didn't have a friend like that. She didn't
really have friends at all.

“Anyway,” said her mother. “She told me she had
cancer, and five weeks later I was at her funeral.
Standing beside her husband and her son. And I knew
I'd made a terrible mistake and that I had to come
here and see you and try – I don't know. Make
amends? Start again? Say hello?”

She smiled; she cried. She wiped her eyes. She
looked at Gráinne.

Gráinne nodded.