“Mom? Are you still here?”
I climbed onto the padded stool and waited.
The makeup counter at Bloomingdale's had been renovated since my last visit. The floors and lighting were different, but the same atmosphere of luxury and spending remained. Of the many places where I felt my mother's spirit, this makeup department was where I clearly heard her voice.
Marlene held her hand to her chest.
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“Oh, my God, is that you, Joshie? Butâ”
When she finally overcame her shock, she reached across the counter for a hug. I gave her a quick recap of what had happened then made her swear not to tell a soul.
“Honey, honey, it's so good to see you.” She held up my face to the lights. “But you're so dehydrated!”
I told her I'd been doing a lot of hiking.
“Without moisturizing?” She grabbed a jar from the shelf and applied the cream to my cheeks in tiny circles. I smiled in
spite of myself. Sometimes there was nothing more comforting than the predictable, even for a hyperactive guy like me.
“I was thinking about your mother the other dayâGod rest her soul. She would've loved the new burgundy line.” Marlene adjusted her glasses then looked at me approvingly. “You want me to leave for a few minutes?”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all, honey. Holiday traffic todayâyou should get lucky.” She high-tailed it over to a woman dripping cash on the other side of the counter.
I closed my eyes and settled into the chair. Most people sat on this stool for makeovers; I suppose in some strange way, I did too. I'd been to several Bloomingdale's in my travels, sat at other makeup counters, but never heard my mother speak to me anywhere but here in Chestnut Hill.
The silence was deafening. Had I lost my ability to hear her? Had her spirit relocated in the past few years without leaving me a forwarding address?
“Come on, Mom,” I muttered. “Talk to me.”
People walked by in droves, too busy consuming to speak. Marlene circled by as she rang up the woman's purchase.
“Any luck?”
I shook my head. This is what you get, I thought. This is the price for living a disconnected life, for not sticking to your path. You can't hear her anymore. I waited a few more minutes before leaving, too upset to even say goodbye to Marlene.
As I left the department, a woman bent down next to her
toddler son who was trying to fasten his Velcro boots. “Try again, sweetie. Don't give up.”
I almost yelped with joy. A faded connection perhaps, but a beginning.
Outside, I unlocked my bike from the tree and pedaled to the day's second destination, almost giddy with anticipation.
It was the perfect day to begin a vision quest.
32
It took me the rest of the day to dig out the hole. Years of neglect had left the bottom of my old hideaway full of soggy leaves and branches. But the physical work exhilarated me. When I returned home to grab provisions and a shower, Peter asked if he could do anything to help. I told him I was in the process of working things out for myself.
Â
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Early the next morning, I took food and water for several days. I told Peter I'd see him when I returned; he wished me luck. (I needed a vision quest just to get used to the new Peter.)
Inside the hole, I wrapped my down sleeping bag tightly around me. I'd missed it here, missed the smell of the damp earth and the unpredictability of the weather. I tried to empty my mind enough to begin the task at hand. I thought about Janine, wondering if she had tried to get ahold of me in Chicago. I'd call her when I got back home; she deserved a truthful explanation.
When I got back around to the topic at hand, I knew Beth was rightâit was time for me to contribute again. I needed to add my voice to those commenting on the culture, to be connected to what was vital and meaningful in our lives. The part of me that studied and outlined information told me to pick one issue and dedicate myself to it. But the part of me that enjoyed ten projects at once wanted to multi-task my way across everything in our society that needed addressing.
The question remainedâ
how?
Was politics the answer? The local representative seat?
My mind clicked from one thought to the next. When I was traveling through the country incognito,
33
the emotion I felt most often was fearâof getting caught or being recognized. I can say firsthand that living in constant fear is one of the most unproductive, life-draining states of mind there is. What I noticed now that I had uninterrupted time to think was that the rest of the country was living in fear too. The headlines were full of one horrifying piece of news after another. War, cutbacks, terrorism, states of alert, secret government meetings, citizens' rights being violatedâthe list went on and on. How had we gone from a country of peace and prosperity to one of such deep-rooted anxiety and panic? Were these feelings warranted, or was our government bombarding us with so much horrible news that no one dared question its authority? How much of this fear was justified, and how much was being sold? When you spent as much time in nature as I did, all the
news and terror seemed manufactured, not real. The world I inhabited was amazing and bountiful. Was it possible for a handful of people to break through the clouds of fearful rhetoric to expose the beautiful and abundant? Sitting in this hole deep in the woods where the transcendentalist movement began, I felt like the national psyche had been hijacked by a wayward boogeyman.
And for someone my age, the threats were greater. I would be eighteen soon, eligible for the draft if it was ever reinstated. I didn't want to go to warâever. Spend days and nights trying to kill other guys my age? No thanks. The longer I sat in the darkness, the more I realized how necessary it was to get deeply involved in what was going on in this country.
On my second day, I was feeling punch-drunk and cold and almost didn't hear the voice calling me from the top of the hole.
“Josh?”
“Beth? What are you doing here?”
By the time she slid down into my hideout, her clothes were covered in leaves and snow.
“How long have you known about this place?” I asked.
“I used to come here to hike after you died.
34
I found this hole one day and just knew you had made it.”
“I think you should forget Brown and go into the private-eye business.”
She looked up at me, her hair full of tiny bits of bark. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, but you're probably the only person I'd let interrupt a vision quest. I'm getting a lot of good thinking done.”
“I just want you to know I'm committed to Simon.”
I didn't know what to say to such a non sequitur.
She pulled her jacket over her head. “But I think we have some unfinished business, don't you?”
Okay, I thought. You're definitely hallucinating. Two days in the cold with just water, trail mix, and gum, searching for the true meaning of life, and this is what you get. A mirage. Shake it off.
But when she pressed her body against me, the reality of the situation struck like lightning.
It took me about half a second to respond.
I back-burnered my save-the-world questions and decided to make one of my own dreams come true.
Beth told me later that what we had done didn't change anything, that we had important work to do, that she was serious about Simon ⦠blah, blah, blah.
But everything had changed.
I don't want you to think I reverted to some dopey guy following Beth around like a puppy. I was cool, gave her a boost up out of the hole after the rain stopped, waved goodbye with a smile.
You know when you finally do something you've been obsessed with for years, and somehow afterward it feels anticlimactic, not worthy of all the hype?
This wasn't one of those times.
The term “slow-motion” doesn't begin to describe the care I took in playing back my afternoon with Beth. Her kissing my chest, my muddy hands pulling her toward me, the sky opening up and pouring down on us afterward.
It was messy.
It was beautiful.
It ruined my vision quest.
I went home and ate a three-egg omelet with half a jar of salsa, then took the longest, hottest shower of my life.
I had been happy with Janineâshe was kind and gregarious and funâbut this was
Beth.
As for Simon? I didn't care what Beth said about her commitment to him. His reign was over.
I wanted to play it cool,
35
so I didn't rush over to Beth's. I grabbed a notebook and a handful of markers and headed for the basement.
In the cocoon-like safety of my swing, I outlined several ideas. I got so carried away mapping out various projects, I ran out of paper in the first fifteen minutes.
I left the swing for the larger space of the workroom. Cans of paint lined the walls, probably leftovers from Peter's jobs. I rolled out a giant drop cloth until it covered most of the basement floor. I took a brush from the tray next to the sink and began graphing my thoughts. Soon the tarp looked like an abstract expressionist painting with chunks of color representing possible avenues of action.
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When it was dark, I took a break and cleaned up. Peter had left a message saying he was in Worcester and wouldn't be home until tomorrow. So I figured enough time had passed for a non-desperate visit to Beth's.
In all the turmoil of coming home, I hadn't made Beth a Christmas present. She and I had always celebrated the holidays as non-materialistically as possibleâwe made each other presents. So I sat down and spilled my guts in a letter,
detailing how I'd felt about her for years and the new level we'd taken the relationship to. The thing was mushier than a stupid pop song, but the words just wouldn't stop. I took the Ganesh statue from its box in the closet and wrapped it carefully in one of my T-shirts. I headed over to her house.
But what I saw from the edge of her yard froze me in my steps.
She and Simon were making snow angels.
They were lying on their backs, holding hands, and naming the constellations.
Our
constellations, the ones Beth and I had named a hundred times before.
But the most painful part of watching Beth and Simon? They looked
happy.
I'd witnessed Beth with Todd, with Charlie, with Daveâbut never this relaxed and comfortable with someone else.
She was right about one thing she'd said earlier today: Nothing had changed between us. Nothing at all.
I shoved the letter in my pocket and trudged home.
I tried to hate herâfor using me, playing with my mind, cheating on himâbut I couldn't muster up the anger. Whatever she did to me from here on in was nothing compared to what I'd put her through. She had me over a barrel and she knew it.
I hurried to the basement to put my pent-up energy to use. But this time, the paint splattered and flew across the tarp at warp speed. Where my work that afternoon had been meticulous and well thought out, this was wild and raw. A Pollock of pain.
Should I go back to Boulder? Hit the road? Come out of hiding and be Larry? Work side by side with Beth and Simon? Oh, and by the wayâHappy New Year!
I picked up the phone and called Janine, but all I got was her answering machine with the
Banana Splits
theme song. I wanted to tell her that my name wasn't Mark, that I was in love with someone else, but that I still thought about her all the time. Instead, I quietly dropped the phone back into its base. Josh SwensenâKing of Calling Old Girlfriends and Hanging Up. I barely slept.
I woke up at three, full of anxiety. It took me a few minutes to realize why. Between the pre-dawn darkness and Peter's absence, it was almost exactly like the morning I'd left two years ago. I washed up quickly, grabbed Peter's bike this time, and headed into the early morning.
My body knew where I was going long before my mind acknowledged it. Hour after hour, I pedaled south, then east. Thankfully, most of the roads were clear.
Somewhere around Plymouth, I couldn't avoid facing my destination.
I was returning to the scene of the crime.
As I pedaled, the colors and lines I'd painted yesterday congealed into some kind of plan. The task this time seemed Herculeanâor was it quixotic?
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That was also what made it appealing.
Once I hit Wareham, I coastedâalmost afraid to catch a
glimpse of the bridge. I stopped at a diner to use the bathroom and down two bagels and a bottle of water. Should I go along with Simon and Beth's idea or follow my own path? I wrote down my idea on the napkin in front of me. Was I being too delusional this time, even for me? No, delusional was thinking I could ever end up with Beth.
This
idea seemed almost attainable compared to that one. I told myself to quit stalling, got back on the bike, and headed toward the Sagamore.
As I pedaled across the bridge, my body instinctively pulled over to the same spot I'd stopped at back then. It was much less windy than that previous day, but no less threatening. I leaned my bike against the stanchion and gazed over the side.
How had I even
pretended
to jump? My hands clenched the girder for support. I felt as dizzy and nauseous as I had the morning of my pseudocide. Stand here, I thought. Stand here until you realize what you've done. What you're going to do.
I looked across the bay and let the past few years flash before meâthe campsites, the hostels, the lies, the fake IDs, the paranoia, the loneliness. Yes, I had met interesting people and traveled to parts of the country I never would have seen otherwise. But I'd traveled as an interloper, a fugitive.
The wind pressed against my back, pinning me to the railing. I let myself feel the isolation of my existence. This wasn't about Beth, my mother, Peter, or even Janine; it was about me. I didn't know what the future held, where my place was in the universal plan, but I did know this.
I didn't want to be Mark anymore. Or Carl or Gil or Tom.
Whatever the future held, I would meet my fate as Josh Swensen. And that meant embracing Larry again. And being Larry meant contributing in a big way. I unfolded the napkin I'd scribbled on in the diner and read my New Year's resolution.
This year I will run for president.
I couldn't be president, of course; no one my age could. The Constitution was quite clear that you had to be thirty-five to serve. But there was nothing in that document that said I couldn't raise issues or voice my opinion.
Absurd?
You bet.
But that was what drew me to the idea.
A police car pulled alongside me, lights flashing. The cop in the passenger seat got out of the car cautiously and asked if there was a problem.
I shook my head and looked past him to the dark water below. “Don't worry, I'm not thinking about jumping.”
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I thought about turning myself in, throwing my bike in their trunk and hitching a ride toward my newly decided fate. Instead, I hopped on my bike and headed toward Boston.
I had a lot of work to do.