Comfort and Joy Read online

  I can get there.

  I take one painful, wobbling step, and then another and another. As I approach the edge of the clearing, I wait for them to see me. Any minute they’ll rush to my aid and take me back to my real life.

  To the empty house on Madrona Lane where I’ll spend the holidays alone, to the Volvo with the tree strapped on top. To the calendar that will tick off days to my sister’s wedding and the birth of her child.

  Don’t go back.

  Is that my mother’s voice or the wind?

  “No one knows I was on the plane.” I say the words out loud for the first time, and at that, the voicing of it, I glimpse an opportunity.

  No one will notice my absence until school starts.

  I glance around the forest.

  Behind me, the trees are thicker, closer together, but moonlight shows me a path between them. It is almost like a sign, that beam of light. Although I feel shaky, and more than a little light headed, I begin walking away from the crash site.

  It isn’t long before I see a break in the trees, and hear the distant roar of cars.

  Somewhere up ahead is a road.

  THREE

  I walk slowly through this dark and ancient forest. My head still hurts, my vision is blurring, and this place is like nowhere I’ve ever seen. It is as if I’m journeying in another dimension. Before me, everything is a labyrinth of shadow and moonlit smoke. Spiderwebs connect it all together; in the uncertain light, the strands seem to be made of colored glass. Mist coats the ground, swallows my feet and the spongy earth.

  At last, I come to the end of the woods and the start of civilization. It is a road, old and untended, and I turn to follow it. The dotted yellow line painted down its center is inconsistent, an afterthought, apparently, a suggestion rather than a law. Every few feet a yellow sign warns drivers to watch out for elk.

  Every time I hear an approaching engine, I hide in the trees. I don’t want some Good Samaritan to “rescue” me. It’s mostly emergency vehicles, anyway, going too fast to see a lone woman who doesn’t want to be seen.

  At last I come to the edge of a town. A brightly painted sign welcomes me to the heart of the rainforest. The sign is splattered with mud and half hidden by a gargantuan fern, so I can’t read the name of the town, but I see the word Washington.

  I’m not in Canada.

  “But I’m supposed to be in Hope,” I say to the emptiness around me. Trees commiserate, whisper in understanding. They know how it feels to be uprooted, disappointed. It’s bad enough that my one spontaneous decision in life leads to a plane crash; I could at least crash near my destination.

  Then again, what difference does it make where I am?

  I step out from the veil of trees and follow the ribbon of asphalt into town, smoothing my hair as I go. I have no idea how long I’ve been walking; this place seems too unreal to be tethered by something as scientific as time.

  I should be wondering where I’m going, but I don’t care. My mind is floating.

  The town that isn’t Hope looks like a movie set. Night tucks in around it; what’s left glows in the light of streetlamps and holiday lighting. Santas and snowmen hang from lampposts; strands of white lights frame the windows.

  The stores are closed for the day, and I’m glad. I don’t want to see anyone yet.

  What I want is a bed. My head is hurting again and I’m beginning to feel the cold. In a small, warm diner I find a wall of pamphlets and one old man drinking coffee at a bar. I see an advertisement for the Comfort Fishing Lodge, and a feeling of destiny settles around me, makes me shiver. It is the pretty little place I read about in Hunting and Fishing News. The place that welcomed me to come and stay awhile.

  I could use some comfort. And I certainly need a place to stay.

  I leave the light and heat of the restaurant and try to follow the map on the brochure.

  I am alone again, and cold, and my head is really starting to hurt, but at least I have a destination.

  I find Lakeshore Drive and follow it, walking along its crumbling edge, stepping over tire-sized potholes, for so long my feet start to ache. It begins to really bug me that I’m missing a sock. It’s odd; my head hurts, my skin feels raw, my stomach is on fire where the seat belt bit me, I’ve walked away from an accident scene (that has to be illegal), and I’m worried about blisters on my feet.

  It is quiet out here in a way I’ve never experienced; it’s not the city way of silence, when folks are asleep and their cars are parked. This is a preternatural kind of quiet, where birdsong can startle you with its volume and a squirrel can be heard scampering up a tree as you approach.

  I’m enough of a city girl to wonder what I’m doing in this no-man’s-land.

  I find myself glancing back down the road, toward town, wishing I could hear a car. I’m just about to head back, in fact, when I turn the last corner and find myself in a large clearing, with a still, flat lake on my left and the immense forest on my right. The road becomes a driveway, lined on either side by bare-limbed fruit trees. At its end is a rustic—no, run down—log building. The roof is a carpet of moss. The wraparound porch sags tiredly to one side. To the left of the front door is a large chainsaw carving of a trumpeter swan. Beneath it is a hand-painted sign welcoming me to the Comfort Fishing Lodge. Beside this sign is another—one that reminds me of my own life.

  “For Sale.”

  Great. What do I do now?

  I’m too tired to walk back to town. Some guy is playing drums in my head.

  I will throw myself on the owner’s mercy. Surely he’ll have one room to rent. What choice do I have?

  “No wonder I only dreamed about adventures,” I mutter, following an untended stone path from the parking area to the lodge, where I find the front door ajar.

  “Hello?” I call out, stepping inside. My greeting fades into the quiet, unanswered.

  The lobby is a big room with a huge stone and timber fireplace and twin floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the lake. Shadows cling to every surface, but in the moonlight I can make out a green-and-red plaid sofa that faces the fireplace, two worn red leather chairs, and an antique trunk serving as a coffee table. Black-and-white photographs, matted in white and framed in dark wood line the walls. Even from a distance, I can tell that the prints are antique.

  To my right is a brass and wood registration desk, complete with an antique cash register. A display case in front of it is filled with brochures and flyers.

  I stand there in the shadows, trying to figure out what to do, but it’s difficult to think. My head hurts.

  Maybe I should just lie down on the sofa and go to sleep.

  But I’m desperate for a bath.

  I’ve already committed a crime—breaking and entering—so I may as well find a bathroom and a bed.

  I move forward cautiously.

  One by one, I try to open the doors. None of the knobs turn for me, so I go upstairs. A single door is open to my left. I creep cautiously forward, and step into the room. Everything is in shadows; it takes me a minute to focus.

  When I do, I see a boy, sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes and blinking at me. “Mommy?”

  “No. I’m Joy. I’m sorry to just walk in on . . .”

  “Are you real?”

  I smile at that. “Yes. I’m trying to check in to the lodge, but there’s no one at the desk.”

  “We’re closed.”

  “Oh. Is there another motel nearby?”

  Now my head is pounding

  “Nope.”

  This has certainly been my day. “Great.” This half-baked adventure of mine is going from bad to worse.

  “We got rooms, though,” he says tiredly. “And I know how to check guests in.”

  “Really? I need . . .” my voice cracks on that. There are too many things I need. It’s best to focus on just the one. “A room for the night would be great.”

  “My dad won’t like it, but this is my house, too.” He throws back the covers and gets out of
bed. Walking past me, he heads out into the hallway, and then looks back at me. “You coming?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  He leads me downstairs and shows me to the last door on the left side of the hallway. “Here.” He twists the knob and opens the door.

  Inside the room, I find a narrow dresser, a queen-sized bed, and a desk in the corner. In the shadowy darkness, everything looks shabby but clean. “Thank you,” I say. “About paying . . .”

  “People pay when they leave.”

  That’s a relief. I can get my bank to wire funds at the end of my stay if I don’t have enough cash.

  “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and then he’s off, running for the stairs.

  I close the door behind me, and there I am, caught by moonlight in the rectangular mirror above the dresser.

  I look like hell. Leaves and twigs inhabit my red hair, which has somehow puffed up to three times its usual size. My blue eyes—usually my best feature—are bloodshot, and my pale, freckled skin is blotchy with dirt.

  Something’s wrong.

  Blood.

  Where is it?

  I see scratches and scrapes but no deep wounds.

  Thank God.

  It must have been rain I tasted as I lay there. Maybe I bit my tongue . . . or maybe that metallic taste was tears.

  It doesn’t matter.

  What matters are a bath and a bed. In that order. I open the small connecting door to my bathroom.

  Shower. Not a bath. A shower. I’m disappointed but hardly surprised. This has not been a day when things went my way.

  I step into a steaming hot shower with my clothes on.

  Why not?

  Everything needs to be washed.

  The first part of my slumber is bad, I’ll admit it—a kaleidoscope of ugly memories. The crash. My sister. Thom. The crash. But what I learn is this: when you’re tired enough, you fall asleep, and nothing heals your mind like a peaceful night. When I waken, I feel remarkably good for a woman who survived a small plane crash and is currently running away from her real life.

  No.

  I’m not running away. I’m on my first adventure.

  Still, I can’t help hoping—just for a second—that Stacey is still at my house, waiting for me. Worrying. Maybe she’ll think I’ve been kidnapped and call the police. Then she’d be sorry for sleeping with my husband and breaking my heart. But even as I dive into the warm fantasy, I feel it grow cold. She won’t call the cops, won’t mount a search. A year ago, she would have. Not now. She no longer knows my life well enough to wonder at my absence. For all she knows, I’m on the beach in Jamaica with some young hottie.

  Or in a wild and primitive rainforest . . .

  I listen to the birds outside my window. I can hear the lake, too, lapping lazily against the shore. Somewhere a radio is playing.

  In the bathroom, I find a small travel set in the top drawer. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, and body lotion. It’s everything I need. So I take another long, luxurious shower and dress in yesterday’s clothes. My black pants are dry, but stiff, likewise my now clean sweater set.

  Showered and dressed, I feel ready to begin this adventure of mine.

  I grab my camera and leave the safety of my room—1A, according to the plaque on the door—and go in search of someone to check me in. If I’m lucky, the boy is right and I can pay at the end of my stay.

  The lobby is filled with pale sunlight and warmed by a crackling fire. In the light coming through the window, everything looks incredibly sharp and bright. Even the worn red-leather chairs and plaid sofa. I can see tiny diamond flecks in the fireplace’s stonework. In contrast, without the sunlight, the registration area seems dull and vaguely gray. This is a part of the world where light changes everything, obviously. I take a few photographs of the lobby for my scrapbook, then turn toward the door.

  In the distance, I hear the high pitched whine of a tool—chainsaw, maybe, or a weed eater. A few moments later, there are footsteps outside, coming up the walk, crossing the deck.

  The door opens.

  It’s the boy I met last night. He’s younger than I thought—maybe eight or nine years old—with shaggy black hair and freckled cheeks. His lashes are long enough to make him beautiful. But it is his eyes that I notice most. They’re ice blue and sad.

  When he sees me, he drops the hammer he is carrying.

  I smile. “Hello again. It’s nice to see you.”

  “Oh, boy.” He crosses his arms. I recognize the body language. It’s what I do now when I look at my ex-sister, cross my arms, as if a few more layers of muscle and bone can protect my heart. “I thought you’d be gone.”

  I hear the way his voice trembles; it’s loneliness, that sound. The sense that your boat has come untied and you’re drifting away. It’s what I’ve felt everyday for almost a year. It’s why I’m here, pretending I don’t have a sister. “I’d like to stay awhile. If that’s okay.”

  Before I can say more, the front door bangs open, and a man walks in. He is whipcord lean, with close-cropped black hair and a face that is all sharp lines and deep hollows. A dark stubble shadows his sunken cheeks; the harsh color accentuates the paleness of his skin. His eyes are strangely green, a color too bright for the rest of his hard, weather-beaten face. I can see how handsome he once was, before life wore him down. I know how he feels. Sometimes in the last year, I’ve thought that my color was washing away in the shower or fading in the sun. I wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up one morning and find myself a black-and-white woman moving through a colored world. He doesn’t even notice me. He is looking directly at the boy. “What are you doing in here, boyo? I thought we were cutting trees together?” His voice is deep and rich, softened by an Irish brogue.

  “I came in for a Coke and found her.” He points at me. “Last night I checked her in to room 1A . . . just like mom and me used to do when this place was open. Before you showed up.”

  The man looks at me for a second, maybe less. I am of no interest to him, obviously. “A guest, huh? Well, that’s grand.” The way he says the last word leaves no doubt about his reaction. He does not find it grand at all. And though his voice is full of sarcasm, a lilting Irish brogue softens it. He barely looks at me.

  “I guess my presence is a bit surprising,” I say. “I’m sorry about that. I got here late last night. I’d really like to stay a few days.”

  The man bends down for the hammer. Even with the distance between us, I can hear his sigh. “I know you don’t want me to sell this place, Bobby, but one guest isn’t gonna change things.”

  “You said you were selling cause no one stayed here.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “I love it here,” the boy—Bobby—cries out. “And I know how to check in guests. Mommy taught me.”

  The man seems to deflate at that. “Aye.”

  “I won’t be any trouble,” I say. Suddenly I’m scared. If I leave here, I’ll go home. I know me. I’ve never handled obstacles particularly well, and I don’t want to go home yet. Stacey will be waiting for me; I’ll have to deal with the wedding and the baby and my broken heart. “Just a few days. Please? I need a vacation.”

  “She’s stayin’,” Bobby says defiantly, looking at his father.

  The man looks at his son, and in the glance that goes between them, I see a pair of people who’ve lost their way together. “Tell her not to expect anything from me. I’m too busy to play host.”

  I feel a surge of gratitude. Every runaway needs a break, and this stranger has given it to me. I can stay here—hide out—for a while, just long enough to catch my breath and gather my courage for the next round of real life.

  “I really appreciate this. You . . . can’t know . . .” I don’t know how to express it, how much this means to me. If I say all that I’m feeling he’ll write me off as a wacko. “I’m Joy,” I say by way of introduction.

  “He’s Daniel. I’m Bobby.”

  Daniel looks irritated.
“Come on, Bobby, I need your help clearing trees down by the lake. Your mum let this place go.”

  Bobby moves reluctantly toward his father. When they are at the door, Bobby looks back at me. Then, wordlessly, he follows his father outside.

  FOUR

  In the quiet that follows their departure, it strikes me: I’m staying. I am on my first vacation in years, and I am in an exotic location. Although it started off rocky (okay, so that’s a mammoth understatement), as the kids at school say: it’s all good now.

  I have been given a great gift in this holiday season.

  Time.

  Time to let go of some of this baggage that has weighed me down in the past year. There’s no way for me to gauge how long this interlude will last, so I better take full advantage of the time I have.

  No whining or moping or crying. That’s the resolution I make.

  Here, for as long as my time lasts, I intend to be the old—or, perhaps the young—Joy Faith Candellaro, the woman who believes in love and marriage and fairy tales. The woman I used to be.

  But first I need to find something to eat—I’m starving.

  It takes me hardly any time to find the kitchen. The small, old-fashioned space reminds me vaguely of my mom’s kitchen in the house in which I grew up—same yellow beadboard cabinets, silver appliances, and oak plank floors. It has a lovely, homey feel, and the scent of freshly made coffee makes my mouth water.

  The coffee tastes better on my vacation than it ever did at home. Same goes for the bagel and cream cheese I find in the fridge. Opening the drawer by the stove, I look for a paper and pen. Like all junk drawers everywhere, it’s full: playing cards, paper clips, store receipts, recipes ripped out of magazines, red marking pens, and travel brochures. Tucked in the back is a brand new DVD movie, unopened. The Lost Boys. The receipt taped to its face is dated three days ago.

  It’s the same movie I bought a week ago, on sale at Target.

  So, we have the same weird taste in movies. Smiling at the unexpected connection, I find what I’m looking for: a notepad and pen. On the blue-lined page, I write: bagel, one tablespoon cream cheese, coffee. At the end of my stay, I’ll figure out a way to pay for all of it. Thank God for the computerized world. It won’t take five minutes at an ATM for me to get cash, even here, in the middle of nowhere.