The Wild Truth (31 page)

The once-bright accent colors were dull and faded. A drab vertical rectangle of teal green stood on the front like a well-worn badge of endurance. A half-inch strip of lightened purple ran around the base above where Chris packed his sleeping bag and strapped on his bedroll. The hip belt and shoulder harness were torn in several places, evidence that it had put in many hours of service. It still smelled of dirt and weather and adventure.

As I wiped my blurred eyes and inspected further, I noticed a manufacturer’s name imprinted on the ladder-lock buckles on either side of the upper pack straps. The raised print read
ITW NEXUS, WOOD DALE, IL 60191
. The irony of the letters caused me pause, because ITW is the acronym so often used for
Into the Wild.
I imagined Chris never noticed these tiny letters as he wrote in his many journals about his travels. An avid hiker myself, I considered how great it would be to carry my own gear in his pack on my next outing. But the foam surrounding the internal frame in the back panel was deteriorated, and considering myself to be a smart and efficient packer, I knew it had seen enough trails already and could no longer be a reliable and safe haul. Besides, I had my own trails to blaze.

I easily located and unzipped the interior lining, and there sat Chris’s wallet. It looked similar enough to the deep red fabric trifold he had carried in high school that I wondered if it could be the same one. The Velcro closure came open with a high-pitched
shwick,
and as I removed the items and spread them neatly onto my counter, I was overcome with multiple emotions. Seeing Chris’s birth certificate returned my eyes to a watery mess. It was tattered and illegible in spots but had been neatly folded and safely tucked in. The library cards he had obtained from several towns he’d passed through made me smile. There was his social security card, his voter registration card, an eyeglasses prescription, his ID from the state of Arizona, a food services health card from Las Vegas, and a small scrap of paper where he had recorded his bike lock combination in neat block letters. I had asked Mr. Forsberg for a suggestion as to where to donate the three hundred dollars, and we had agreed that Chris would want it to go to support nature conservation in Alaska.

I put my head down amongst the collection and wept.

AFTER MOM AND DAD LEARNED
I had the backpack, they developed a sudden interest in it. To avoid the blame that would come from making such demands directly, I soon received a letter from my parents’ attorney. He represented their recently formed Christopher Johnson McCandless Memorial Foundation, and the letter commanded that I immediately deliver to my parents the backpack, wallet, and all other items that at one time had belonged to Chris—including those that they had given me after my return from Alaska with his remains. The letter continued to say that I was in violation of my parents’ legal entitlement to these items, because they had automatically conveyed to them upon Chris’s death, since he did not leave behind a will. It was also made very clear that all photographs Chris had taken were the property of my parents. A personal note from my father further warned that my noncompliance would prevent me, and thus my special needs daughter, from benefiting from their considerable assets.

Aside from my anger toward such callous communication, it saddened me to see further evidence that they failed to understand their own son so terribly; to think that as he lay dying in the Alaskan wilderness, among his beloved books, torn jeans, broken glasses, kitchen utensils, backpack, camera, and unexposed film—after holding on to hope that someone might appear to rescue him while he was out collecting blueberries—that with his last remaining strength he would think it necessary to take pen to paper and scrawl a last will and testament to pass on rightful possession of such things.

It reminded me of when I had traveled up to Windward Key for the ceremonial spreading of Chris’s ashes. My parents had told me the day’s plan, which was for me, Mom and Dad, Aunt Jan, and Buck to board my parents’ new boat, sail it out far into Chesapeake Bay, and let Chris’s remains flow away with the current. As I made the drive, I wrestled with my emotions. I recognized they had the right to make this decision, but I felt it wasn’t what Chris would have wanted. Upon arrival at the town house, I took my mom aside for the debate I had rehearsed.

“Mom, I don’t understand why we’re spreading Chris’s ashes in the bay when he mentioned so often that he was afraid of being in deep water.”

I thought I had prepared myself fully for the discussion, but her reply left me speechless.

“This isn’t about Chris,” she said. “We live on the bay. We sail on it almost every day now, and this way we’ll feel closer to him.”

My pity for her in that moment outweighed my anger. I remembered how I’d felt when I’d been handed Chris’s ashes in Alaska.
This isn’t all that’s left of him,
I’d thought. I knew he had moved on, and I let it go.

AS SOON AS I FELT
Christiana was old enough to travel safely, she and I boarded a plane to South Dakota, where filming for
Into the Wild
was under way. I struggled to remain focused. My duties as a mother, my accountability as a sister, and the immense responsibility I felt toward Chris all churned inside me at once, making each day emotionally exhausting.

Soon after arrival, we met up with Shawna and Shelly. Shelly was particularly excited to hold Christiana, because she herself was only a couple of months away from giving birth to a son. That afternoon, we all caravanned with members of the cast and crew to a lake house for an impromptu gathering between filming sessions. Sean and his staff had ensured there was a peaceful spot set up for me, and after I finished nursing Christiana on schedule, we all visited for a while. Everyone wanted a turn holding the baby, and while she was in Shawna’s arms, Sean led me out to a large two-level back deck overlooking the water and called to one of the film crew. A moment later, up the wooden steps trotted the familiar gait of Wayne Westerberg. Sean knew what had happened when I’d come to South Dakota with Fish ten years prior, and his compassionate expression prepared to take in the reunion as if it were an improvisational scene.

Wayne walked slowly but straight over to me. He looked me in the eyes and then down. While staring at his shoes, he said simply, “Hi, Carine.” And then we slowly embraced, two people who shared a common loss riddled with confusion and regret.

Sean said nothing, but I’m pretty sure his subconscious shouted out,
Cut! That’s a wrap!

I didn’t get to see Gail again on that trip. But I did have occasion to meet Tracy Tatro. In December of 1991, eight months before Chris’s death, Tracy was camping with her parents in a remote location in the California desert east of the Salton Sea. Locals identified the hot, barren site as Slab City. A mature teenager, she was immediately smitten with a handsome, mysterious young man who was visiting with friends at the Slabs and who called himself Alex. From Tracy’s account, they enjoyed an innocent romance of long walks and sunset gazing, peppered with serious conversations about books and what Tracy wanted out of life. She was dealing with issues of her own rough upbringing, and she opened up to him about what she was going through. Although Chris shared nothing with her about his own past, she sensed an understanding in his eyes as he listened intently.

She tagged along as my brother held himself to a strict regimen of calisthenics in preparation for his journey to Alaska. She swooned as Chris entertained a flea market crowd with an old portable electronic organ someone was selling. After less than a week in his company, Tracy was in love. Chris hit the road again soon after, but the strong feelings she harbored for him remained.

As I sat with her in an extra cast trailer as a new day of shooting began, she stared intently at Christiana sitting on my lap. We talked quietly about a young man we both missed terribly but knew by different names. Finally, in mid sentence, she asked hastily, “Can I hold her?”

“Oh sure!” I replied. “I’m sorry, of course you can.”

The moment Tracy’s hands touched Chris’s namesake, tears filled her eyes and overflowed into quiet streams running down her face. I don’t think she registered any further words that came from my mouth. She appeared to be completely engulfed with grief from the loss of someone she had known for only a short period. But I understood her silent keening. I had already been witness to unspoken connections that lead certain people to find each other in life, and to how the passage of time seemed to be an insignificant factor in what caused Chris’s gripping effect on people.

And as I also now understood, Chris’s story had the power to influence people he had never met. In nothing was this clearer to me than the film’s soundtrack, for which Sean had commissioned Eddie Vedder, an accomplished musician and vocalist and front man of the mega band Pearl Jam. The rough edges of Ed’s supple baritone merged beautifully with the spirit of the film. Whenever I had the opportunity to observe Ed amongst others, he consistently proved to be humble despite his celebrity, with a kindhearted and genuine character. After hearing the lyrics he had composed, I was blown away by how he had seemed to channel Chris so acutely, and I told him so. His reaction was not exactly what I’d expected. Knowing that he was an outspoken atheist, I was unsure how open he would be to borderline religious conversation. Yet he took me aside and shared how easily the words had come to him, and allowed that it was a beautiful and rare experience that he could not quite explain. It seemed we had found a mutual space somewhere within what I would call spirituality.

THROUGHOUT FILMING,
Sean shared completed edits of footage with me. His film was cinematically stunning and I was overwhelmingly pleased with most of the content. But my enthusiasm came to a halt when I reviewed the final scene.

In the cut Sean shared with me, as Chris was dying he pictured himself running into our parents’ arms at the house in Annandale. While I appreciated Sean’s pure intent and his artistic and poetic explanations for why parents must have a presence at both the giving of life and the coming of death, I felt it was incredibly disrespectful to Chris. I wanted him to change it before the movie was finalized. Sean felt it signified forgiveness, and his own experiences led him to believe that the desire of the human spirit to forgive is never stronger than at the end of life.

“Carine, you weren’t with him when he died,” Sean reasoned. “You don’t know what was going through his mind.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But Sean, you didn’t know him. I did. And I understood his reasons for leaving better than anyone else, because he shared that with me alone.” I continued in tears, “I am telling you with my whole heart, I just know that at the end of his life—with his last few breaths on this earth, he would not have gone back to a place where he had felt so much pain after working so hard to get away from it.”

We reached a compromise a few days later. Sean called me in Virginia Beach. I could tell he was driving, and I heard papers rustling in the background.

“Hey! Good, I caught you! Um, hold on . . . hold on just a sec. Let me pull over.”

I imagined him driving with a cell phone pinned between his ear and shoulder, pen and paper in one hand and a cigarette in the other, knees most likely in charge of the wheel, and his hair in the crazed Don King—like stance I had come to recognize meant Sean was really concentrating on something.

“Okay, how about this? What if—when you see Chris running into their arms, eyes up to the heavens—you hear Chris’s voice-over say, ‘What if I were smiling and running into your arms . . . would you see then, what I see now?’”

It was the perfect concession, and I was so appreciative that he cared enough to make the change. “Thank you, Sean. That says everything it needs to say.”

WORKING ON THE MOVIE
was cathartic, and I was proud of my contributions to what I knew would be a beautiful film. But my obsession to ensure Chris’s voice and legacy were fairly honored sometimes brought with it a strong mix of emotions. One night while working on narrative edits, I sat alone on my living room floor, script pages strewn all around me. It had been an exceptionally difficult day, and feeling overwhelmed, I broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. I had been dealing with the latest in the long line of my parents’ manipulations, and as I drafted words onto paper that my character would soon divulge to audiences in theaters around the world, I struggled to find a comfortable space between truth and necessity—two words that I honestly believed should rarely be apart. Feeling astoundingly desperate, I called out to my brother in a rare plea for help. I felt a bit silly doing it, but the words still came out loud and clear:

“Chris, please! I just can’t do this alone! Please, I need to know that you are here with me!”

I continued to cry until I ran out of tears, then staggered to the kitchen for a drink of water and went to bed before Robert and the girls had returned from a dinner outing.

The next morning I was in my bedroom folding laundry when the phone rang. I heard Robert answer, then call down the hall for me to pick up the line. “Hey, Carine. It’s for you. It’s . . . Tracy Moore Raborg?”

I shared the surprise in his voice, because she was an old friend from my auto repair shop days and we had not seen each other nor had we spoken for years. Tracy was a true southern beauty who resembled supermodel Kathy Ireland, with dark blond hair and striking eyes that seemed to morph from blue to green depending on her outfit. We used to have fun roving around town with a mutual group of girlfriends, at a time when our weekends consisted of going out to bars and dance clubs, flirting with and teasing men, collecting only smiles and phone numbers before always leaving together. The welcome lifestyle changes that came with marriage and children had long ago put an end to those escapades.

“Carine?” Her usually buoyant voice sounded heavy. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” I asked, perplexed. “What’s wrong? Oh my God, who died?”