“Two miles up the road, you need to watch carefully for the access road. Which trail you doing?”
“The California Coastal.”
He seems impressed. “Yeah?”
“From Del Norte to Mexico.”
“That’s a long way.”
“Twelve hundred miles.”
“By yourself?”
“Sure, why not?” I say.
“Most people start from south to north.”
I shrug and he looks at me and I feel stupid because this guy isn’t anything like Matthew at all.
*
The bathroom’s outside and I punch in the 0000 code, duck inside, and take off the backpack. The toilet seat’s cold but I’m not complaining because it’s leaves for toilet paper from here on out. After I’m done, I face the sink and wash my hands, slathering pink goo between my fingers, washing and rinsing like a surgeon. Goodbye, running water. Goodbye, soap. Goodbye, last vestiges of my civilized life.
Nerves bubble in my chest. I’m not sure if it’s fear or exhilaration or a mix of both. I laugh out loud. What the hell am I doing? I must be insane. Four months of camping outdoors, walking miles every day, fending for myself.
I look at the spotted mirror above the sink and reach for the pearl pendant around my neck, the pearl more purple than black, bought by Matthew for me on a trip to Hawaii. He said it looked good with my dark brown hair and olive skin. I roll it between my fingers then loop the chain over my head and hook it across the mirror. Maybe some other wilderness warrior will find it and make it her own.
I stare at my makeup free face, my clear eyes and skin, my cheeks blooming with roses. I smile. Let’s get this show on the road.
2
When I cross the forecourt, I see the car again, an old time, pale green Ford Capri. Car buffs would call it a classic. The man is still rummaging through the trunk. There’s a jack on the ground next to the rear left-hand tire. A pair of crutches leans upright against the bumper.
“God darn it!” The man lifts his head from the trunk. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had company.”
He’s in his late forties with sun-kissed skin, broad-shouldered and tall, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. Bordering on cowboy or salt of the earth. He has friendly eyes.
“No offense,” I say.
“I got myself a flat and this—” He hops a few steps back and points to a moonboot on his right foot. “The universe hates me.”
“Bummer.”
He nods to my backpack. “You off on vacation?”
I stand a little straighter. “More journey than vacation. The California Coastal.”
“Yeah? You doing the whole thing by yourself?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” I joke.
He shrugs. “I think it’s neat.”
“I’m stronger than I look. I once fought off an addict who tried to snatch my purse.”
“I bet.” He frowns. “Let me guess—New York?”
“That obvious?”
“You’d be surprised at how many East Coasters we get here.” He winces and clutches his thigh. “For the love of Christ, I’m having no end of problems with this thing.”
“What happened?”
“You’ll laugh,” he says, crow’s-feet fanning.
“I won’t.”
“My boy and I were working on a tree house in our yard, and good old Pops here fell right off the ladder and landed on his fanny.”
That’s sweet, I think, a tree house. I always wanted one of those. I try to ignore the flash of my own substandard childhood.
“Did I say something?” he says, looking concerned.
I plant a smile on my lips. “Not at all.”
I look up at the blue sky and realize I’m employing delaying tactics again.
“I should go.”
“Foolish really,” he says, “falling like that. It wasn’t even that high up.”
I glance at the road. “It was nice talking to you.”
He nods. “Sure. Take care.”
“You too, sir.”
He disappears back into the trunk and I turn for the road.
“Mother of Christ!”
I pivot around. He’s dropped the jack and is stretching for it.
“What the heck was I thinking?” I say. “Let me help you.”
He points to the flat near his feet. “Would you give me a hand to put this in the trunk? I keep losing my balance.”
“Of course.”
So I pick up the flat and place it in the trunk and just like that, it’s over. He’s so quick, lassoing his arm around my shoulders, pressing the rag to my face, so quick that I barely register what’s happening before my limbs go hot then numb, and I watch, in a rapidly descending fog, as the wooden crutches clatter to the ground and he hauls me inside the trunk, pushing me in there, pushing me on to my side so I and my backpack will fit, pushing down hard on my back with both hands, the way you might stuff too many clothes in a suitcase. I feel the sharp edge of a plastic tarp on my cheek, the grit on the back of my head, an unidentifiable object jabbing my thigh, then before I get a chance to scream the steely underside of the trunk lid hurtles toward me and the lights go out with a thump.
3
Matthew was supposed to come with me on the Coastal. On our third date, I told him about my plans. It had been reckless of me, but we’d been walking through Central Park and dogs were chasing Frisbees and the sun was streaming through the maples and a girl with purple dreadlocks was playing a banjo. When Matthew took a bite of his pretzel, wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and asked me if I wanted any, I said—
“I’m going off grid.”
“Yeah?”
“Just for a while.”
“That’s brave,” he said, picking a sesame seed from his teeth.
“You could come.”
He’d traveled a bit before. Europe. South America. Now he was trying to make a name for himself in mergers and acquisitions. But he was disillusioned, too. The grind, the way they used you up and spat you out. He finished his pretzel and said he would give it some thought.
I had planned my escape from Winters, Coles and Partners for nearly two years. I spent hours on the Internet, researching. Bought guidebooks. Read blogs. Watched National Geographic. All I knew was I wanted to be someplace else. I wanted to move my body like it was meant to move, and not be cooped up in some office cubicle day after day.
I imagined myself as a great explorer, criss-crossing continents, taking in the sights and sounds of the Australian outback, Peru, Great Wall of China, or something closer to home, like the Rockies or the Californian Costal trail.
I began to collect things. Stake out camping stores on the weekend. I bought a flashlight that worked by kinetic energy so you didn’t need batteries, a compass, wet wipes, water purification tablets, a whistle, earplugs, a heavy-duty Swiss army knife, a polyester super quick-dry towel, insect repellent, carabiners, a top of the line Condor backpack.
The nights when I couldn’t sleep because of the stressful, coffee-fueled days in the boardroom, I would take the backpack from its place on the top of the wardrobe and lay out everything on my bed, filling every square inch of it until it looked like an army surplus store. I would gaze at those shiny, useful objects and tell myself you can do this, you need only make the call, write that letter of resignation. But by morning, when the sun rose over the city, I would put the things away and return to the big office in the sky and push any thought of leaving to the back of my mind. Then I met Matthew and Matthew called me brave.