Another nightmare?” Remy asks through the darkness of our room.
I nod my head, wet with sweat, as he bundles me into his arms. Wrapped in Remy, I wait for his breathing to slow before disentangling. My neck and head drenched even though our room couldn’t be more than sixty-degrees, I know there is no sleep to be had here.
Walking through our dark house to the bathroom, my robe clutched around my neck, I turn on the space heater and sit on the side of the cold, porcelain tub until the steaming water, the perfect elixir, fills the space with the promise of renewal. Flashbacks of nightmares merge with the headlines, and the latest horrifying, terrorist attacks.
Lowering myself into the lavender mélange, my subconscious reorganizes as I turn off the water with my left foot, my right foot blocking the top drain with a washcloth as my head falls back in a moment of relief. The wash cloth over my face and chest releases my tension, emptying the contents of my mind for what seems like an eternity.
But visions writhe back in. Gripping the edge of the tub, I know there’s no rest for me here either. Now, a little after dawn, I gather myself out, and walk through the house steam rising from my body. Remy’s manning the coffee station in the kitchen already, bleary eyed, the kettle gurgling, he doesn’t hear me walk through. I take my time to change into my walking clothes, attempting to pull myself together. Grabbing a banana from the kitchen, I sit down in the living room. The early morning light slowly sprawling across the Galisteo River Basin in the window is a clip from a memory of another life . . . a simple life.
Completely unphased by last night’s party, Remy’s now keenly keeping tabs on me with one eye, his legs crossed yogi style on our 1950s blue velvet couch while devouring his morning regimen of green-goo covered granola. I blurt out, “What the hell happened last night? Who was that guy? What did you say to him?”
“I didn’t say anything.” He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful. “He’s just some local vet. Like Terry said, an asshole with a chip on his shoulder.”
“What made him put a gun to your head?”
“I don’t know,” he responds carefully. “Maybe he just didn’t like me?”
I stare.
“Steph, he was so drunk, he couldn’t stand up straight.”
“So, what happens when he sobers up?”
“He probably won’t remember. We’re in the west, anything goes here.” Impatience flashes across his face. “Besides, booze and boredom breeds Bohemianism.” He waves me off.
I stand up. “Are you dismissing me?” The tension between us is tangible. “Bohemianism?” I continue, “What are you talking about? He was going to kill you.” Almost afraid of my next sentence, I wonder out loud, “You don’t think he has anything to do with H.S.?”
“No,” Remy moves quickly to the arm of the chair I’m sitting in. “He’s just a drunk, Steph. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Dismantled, I ask the most important question, “Rem, are you OK?” Desperate for a response, I add, “I know you’re angry.”
Grinding his teeth, he removes himself from the arm of the chair and changes the subject, “What’s the plan for today?” He smiles, recalibrating, “I’ve got a couple of calls, and then I want to run my presentation for the next conference by you. What’s on your plate?” Placing his empty bowl down on our glass, kidney-shaped cocktail table, he stretches his back.
“Galax and I are being interviewed by the local paper today.”
His jaw re-tightens. “That should be interesting.”
“She’s just lonely, Rem. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live through an ordeal like the park and have no one to process it with.” My own words feel foreign and distant to me, as I stutter bringing up our abductions, “We, we’re all still healing.” I wait for a response that never comes before I get up and walk into the kitchen. “I’m going for a hike. I have a budget meeting with Laure this morning, and we have a conference call at three with Marcela,” I state over my shoulder.
Remy nods, lost in thought.
“We need to be focused on this call,” I prod from the doorway, knowing Marcela is a potential licensee for our cannabis company in New York and New Jersey, two big game changers.
“Yeah. Well, let’s just hope she’s not wasting our time,” he broadcasts indignantly. “These freshly born cannabis CEOs don’t have a fucking clue!” His voice rises, “They’re like squirrels at a bird feeder, stuffing themselves while everyone else goes hungry.” Our eyes lock as he continues, “They don’t . . .”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Hey, I got you something.” He changes the subject again, pulling a small package about the size of a deck of cards from his jeans pocket. Ripping it open playfully, he draws me in. “This thing is so cool. Check it out.” Handing me a black disk the size of a half-dollar with a pin on the back he proceeds with delight, “This, clips onto your hat. It has a sensor built in. If anyone or thing larger than a squirrel comes within twenty feet of you, it interrupts your playlist in your earbuds as a warning, and a GPS-location text is sent to me via satellite.”
My eyebrows raise, again.
“What? Sweetie, there are mountain lions out there. You have to be careful.”
“Mountain lions?” I shift my weight. Really? OK, true, our house is surrounded by over three thousand acres of state park, and my morning walks can take me three to four miles into the wilderness. And I admit the New Mexico landscape is still a stranger to me. But, “I’m already armed with the mace and sonic whistle you gave me for Christmas! Plus, the only animals I’ve seen are a rare deer and a couple of rogue coyotes,” I state flipping the device in my hand like a gangster. “I have yet to even see another human being on the trail. You know I head out before most people even finish their coffee.”
He stares.
Seriously, who is he kidding? He’s not worried about four-legged creatures.
The stare continues.
“OK,” I acquiesce, choosing my battles.
After syncing my new stranger-danger device to both of our phones, he pins the gadget onto my baseball cap. I head out of the door, my mouth below the line of my jacket collar, as it’s a mere twenty degrees with a slight wind. This cold front will not get the better of me, I know the sun rising over the hills will warm me in about ten minutes. A strange sound from above, lifts my head as two blackbirds flying over me draw my attention, their susurration an indecipherable message, makes me smile as I pinch my earbuds in.
Passing the three neighboring houses that encompass the mile stretch to the trailhead, I’ve got a good rhythm. Ramping up my pace bits and pieces of unfinished projects, hopeful comebacks, financial concerns, and now the gun incident are gnawing at me; it’s hard to shake. I don’t know what he said to Daryl, but this has got to stop!
Breathing hard, I hit the three-mile mark and focus on the open space before me, Lana Del Rey confessing in my ear, an angel with human lust, but her song only adds to my sense of isolation. The spent buffalo grass that usually carpets the open landscape, now weighted by the early snowfall and the Wyeth-esque terrain surrounding me is now a perfect backdrop for the sweetest petite blue-birds. Their confluence seems to lead me on some unknown adventure I’m eager to follow.
Thankfully, the only signs of humans on this trail are the caged-over mineshafts, remnants from a forgotten past that are now home to bats. Unable to imagine anyone crazy enough to settle out here in this unforgiving land, digging the rock-filled soil with shovels, and picks in the hopes of riches is mind boggling. But then again, I’m in the cannabis industry.
The sun’s rays burst as if on command, casting deep set shadows on the west-facing crevices and ravines. The contrast is a spectacle of nature most people don’t take the time to enjoy. I am never disappointed. Carefully, scanning the ground in front of me, I avoid a narrowly trenched horse path at all costs. Patches of snow make it tricky before I pause for a moment at the top of a steep incline. The neighboring village in my view is nestled about four miles away sitting at the base of the Ortiz Mountains. Their steep, rocky tops dusted with snow is both beautiful and untamable, reinforcing the severity of this high desert landscape.
A couple of neck and shoulder rolls later, I move on, the sweat of my morning endeavors a welcome prize. I sing along, “Fuck yeah, give it to me. This is heaven, what I truly want. Its innocence lost.” Then the music stops.
“Great.” Taking off my gloves, I unzip my coat pocket and pull out my phone. The screen’s too dark to read. It must be dead. Maybe the cord wasn’t plugged in all the way before I went to bed last night. Jamming it back in my pocket, working my glove back on under my jacket sleeve, I pick up my pace. The time it took to unsuccessfully diagnose the issue has turned my sweaty clothes into ice, sending a chill down my spine, before I stop short. Shit! Maybe it’s my stranger-danger device!
Stepping into the branches of a juniper tree, scanning the immediate area for movement. There’s nothing. Even the bluebirds have gone. Unlocking my fist mace, I push myself forward, resisting the urge to look back every couple of seconds, knowing this path loops around to the entrance of an old gravel pit that’s been shut down for years. There are no other houses, and the road is a dead end. What’s more unnerving is that the last mile is a descent into a tight ravine. I’ll have no vantage point.
Forcing myself down the winding, narrow path, I carefully scan for movement in the landscape as I go. On my left, the cliff is a thirty foot drop that creates a unique oasis of cottonwoods, that are normally a respite for me. Today, it’s desolate. To my right, the hillside is at least twenty feet above me as I walk into the shadow of the low sun behind the cliff face. My bones frozen, I focus all of my energy on the steep, frozen ground below my feet so I don’t slip.
My aspiration starts to overwhelm me. I feel like I’ve been here before! Fighting panic has become a god damn, muscle memory! For a check-in, I remind myself how the ancients believed that Pan, the ultimate deviant, would hide in his forest and scare passers-by into fight or flight response just for kicks. I then remind myself, that I have survived more than most and that this is my backyard, and I will not be victimized.
Winding down the slope to the flat of the narrow path that is the end of the trail, the last steps are lined with bare, cottonwoods and twisted Russian olive trees, their branches extending like gnarled fingers questioning the sky.
When I reach the opening to the dirt road ahead, I look back to the hillside I just conquered full of confidence. “In the land of Gods and monsters, I was an angel,” the music starts again.