I still look at her skeptical, not sure I believe a word she’s saying. I was too nice in handling her. My own guilt and people-pleasing personality got in the way of thinking about Ember. I shouldn’t have had a drink with Marissa in LA, no matter how innocent—in my mind—it was.
And really, that is exactly why I’m here right now, wondering where the fuck my wife is.
I didn’t put Ember first.
Her feelings, her healing, her coping with a new way of life should have been my number-one priority, and it simply wasn’t. And now I’m facing the consequences of that.
“I mean it,” she says. “I didn’t like Ember. I wanted her gone. But not really gone. Not like this.”
It really doesn’t matter if I believe her or not at this point. I need to leave. I need to go hunt down my wife. And I need to walk away from this toxic life for my own well-being. I just hope to God I can find Ember and, when I do, that she won’t send me away.
I focus my attention on folding a T-shirt to pack. “I wish you luck in the future.”
“So, you’re really going? Do you actually think you can find them? If the police can’t, what makes you think you can?”
“I’m going to try,” I say. “I owe Ember that, and I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t. She deserves someone to fight for her, which is something I should have been doing all along.”
5
Ember
The hike to an unknown destination from where the plane left us was brutal. The brush was thick, the trails nonexistent, and the incline so steep I had to use my hands at times to climb. For the first time since wearing shoes, I was really happy I had them on during the trek.
I had no idea where Papa Rich and Scarecrow were taking me, but I wasn’t going to ask. I knew we were back in Nevada or maybe California, simply because I recognized the terrain—the trees, the plants—and based on how long the flight was. It made sense that we would return to Papa Rich and Scarecrow’s stomping ground, but this time, it wasn’t the desert. We were in the mountains, and based on the ridges and cliffs around, the elevation was high.
The plane ride had been quiet. Neither one of them spoke to me but kept their conversation to themselves. I could tell Papa Rich was disappointed in me by how he avoided eye contact, and Scarecrow was smug, as if he knew he’d been right all along, and now he was helping clean up the mess.
The silence was far greater a punishment than if he would have just yelled. I burned down his town, and for that, I feel guilty. I know why Christopher and I did it, but that doesn’t take away the fact that it was our home. And now, because of me, Papa Rich is homeless.
“I have to hand it to you,” Papa Rich says, winded. “You picked a location that is secure. No sane man would make this climb to find us.”
Scarecrow huffs, somehow seeming to make his way up the mountain easier than both Papa Rich and me, and considering he only has one leg and crutches, the feat is definitely impressive.
As we reach the top of the mountain, Scarecrow uses his crutch to point at a dilapidated—but still standing—church on the edge of a cliff. “There it is, Ember,” he says. “Your new home.”
I brush off my hands and pick out the thorns that are embedded in my palms. “It’s so high up here,” I say more to myself than anyone else. The lower clouds surround us, filling my taxed lungs with moisture.
“They were smart back in the day. The folks built this church on this here ridge to keep a look out for Indians. You can look below and see for miles, and as you just saw from our hike, it’s not easy getting here. Gave them the upper hand against invaders, just like it will do the same for us.”
“People lived here?” I see an old church, an outhouse, and there do seem to be signs of houses from a long time ago, though the structures are not standing and are nothing but a pile of debris.
It reminds me of Hallelujah Junction simply in the fact that there are signs of the past, of a civilization once here, and whispers of the ghosts of settlers. But unlike Hallelujah Junction, there is not a full town remaining. If there ever was one, Mother Nature destroyed it.
“They built a mighty fine church,” Scarecrow says, wiping the sweat off his brow. “And it makes a good homestead for me and my wives.”
Wives? Scarecrow wasn’t married when I lived in Hallelujah Junction. And he said wives, as in plural. I still remember how he wanted to marry me. He wanted Papa Rich to find him a wife as well. Had he actually found two?