Yosemite Hike-u
Led by Ranger Carl
WORKSHEET
Is the plural of Haiku really haiku, Rog? I doubt it somehow.
—A.E.C.
Like mice, like moose, like Aircraft, plural is the same. And “Rog”? Stretching, “Ame.”
—R.H.S.
Ranger Carl is mad His face turns red when he yells, “Don’t hold up the group!”
—A.E.C.
Ranger Carl needs to Allow some slow people more Time to count meter.
—R.H.S.
Yosemite Hike-u
Led by Ranger Carl
WORKSHEET
Was that referring To me? I take some offense I just don’t like Carl.
—A.E.C.
Poor, poor Ranger Carl Yelling, red-faced, and sunburned And fly is open.
—R.H.S.
Wait, is it really? I had not yet noticed that—Oh my God. Hee hee.
—A.E.C.
“That’s okay,” I said, but I had a feeling this statement was belied by the fact that I had to squint to look up at him.
“Really?”
“Well,” I said, trying not to squint, but finding it physically impossible, “I don’t actually have any right now.”
“They had some in the gift shop,” Roger said. I’d seen them—they were mostly the sporty mirrored wraparound kind that people who were actually going to be climbing mountains bought. But I didn’t want any sunglasses.
“I’m okay,” I said firmly. Roger looked at me for another moment, then shrugged, heading to the car.
I closed my eyes and tipped my head back. It felt nice, like it had been awhile since I’d felt the sun on my face.
“Amy?”
I opened my eyes and saw an older woman standing in front of me, looking at me intently. She was standing right in front of the sun, and I could barely make her out. I stood up to see her more clearly. She was wearing hiking gear with a windbreaker tied around her waist, and she had close-cropped, curly gray hair. I took in all these details before something clicked into place in my memory. This was Cathy … Something. By coincidence, she and her husband had followed the same schedule as us for years. We’d always run into them when we were here, and we’d usually all end up sitting together in the dining hall. I think they’d even sent us a Christmas card once. Happy Holidays from the Somethings.
“Hi,” I said, trying to look like I hadn’t been just trying to place her. “Cathy,” I said, hoping that I’d remembered her name right, and dropping my voice a little on the last syllable in case I hadn’t.
“It is you,” she said, reaching out and hugging me quickly before I realized what was happening. “I’d recognize you anywhere, though my goodness, you’ve grown up! You’re such a beautiful young lady!”
Why were older people always saying things like this? Even after they were always telling us not to lie. I just nodded, because what was I supposed to say to that?
“So where are the rest of you?” Cathy asked, looking around. “Your brother and father? Are they inside?”
I could feel my heart begin to hammer, and I was starting to get the panicky feeling that I always got whenever I thought I might have to Tell Someone. I hadn’t had to say the words out loud yet, and I honestly didn’t think that I could. Even the thought of saying them made me feel panicky.
“Oh,” I said, hearing how my voice was already strained, feeling like my throat was closing around the words even as I tried to force them out, and hating myself and the fact that I couldn’t even form a simple sentence. “They’re not here this trip.” I was blinking very quickly, looking down at the scratched wooden deck, hoping against hope that Cathy Something would leave it at that and go away. In my peripheral vision, I saw Roger, sunglasses on, heading toward me from the car, slowing slightly when he saw me talking to someone.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said. “Your dad was always such fun to have at dinner! How’s he doing? He’s well?”
“Um,” I said, feeling my breath come shallowly and furiously blinking back tears. I wanted nothing else than to just disappear, go back home where I was alone and there was nobody to make me feel these things. I could feel myself very close to losing it, breaking down right on the spot, in front of Cathy. But it wasn’t like I could escape—I had to stand there and let it happen. And knowing that was only making it worse. I could feel my pulse beating in my throat, and it was getting harder to breathe. The underwater feeling was creeping in. “Um,” I said again, my voice breaking. Cathy seemed to notice that something was wrong—her eyebrows went up, and she frowned slightly. “He’s actually … he’s …” A strangled sob escaped my throat, and I looked away, knowing I wasn’t going to be able to continue.
“Hi,” I heard Roger say, as he approached Cathy’s other side. He stuck his hand out, turning her away from me. I noticed, even though my vision was blurred, that he was watching me over her shoulder. “Roger Sullivan. I’m a friend of the family.”
“Cathy Summers,” said Cathy, and I registered the last name dully in my head, crossing my arms and pressing my lips together as hard as I could. Despite this, I could still feel how they were shaking, how my chin was trembling uncontrollably. “I was just asking about the other Currys,” Cathy said, her voice rising on the last word, making it a question.
Roger looked over at me, and I looked straight ahead, blinking fast, trying to force this back into retreat, trying to find the edge of okay and hang on to it. Roger took a step closer to Cathy and lowered his voice a little. “It’s actually …,” he said, then paused and cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, Mr. Curry passed away recently.”
It was all I could stand to hear. I walked toward the lodge, keeping my head down, and yanked the door open, but not before I heard Cathy’s shocked gasp and the sympathetic sounds that followed. I walked as fast as I could toward the bathroom, not needing to be there to know what would follow. How shocked she was. How it was such a tragedy. And then, of course, the Question: How had it happened? Roger, at least, didn’t know the answer to that one.
I pushed open the door to the bathroom, which was thankfully empty, and locked myself in the nearest stall. Then I leaned back against the cold metal door and let the crying take over. I cried into my hands, big, horrible sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside. I’d never cried like this until it happened, and I hated it. This crying was huge and uncontrollable, and it also never made me feel any better. It only reminded me that I hadn’t cried much yet, and so of course when I did, it was wrenching and violent. The crying attacks just seemed to point out that as much as I might want to pretend otherwise, there was a big, gaping hole in my chest, one I’d tried to cover over with leaves and a few branches. The pathetic camouflage that wasn’t even fooling myself.
When the worst of it seemed to be over—when my breath was coming more regularly, with only an occasional hiccup in the rhythm—I wiped my hands over my face. Then I unlocked the door and stepped out, wincing when I saw my reflection. My eyes were bloodshot and puffy, my nose red, and my skin blotchy. I ran my hands under the water, as cold as I could get it, and splashed some on my face. Then I patted it dry with the scratchy brown paper towels, which actually seemed to make things worse.