“I get it. We’re here for my dad. He’s going blind.” I followed Grace as she started up on the trail again, thinking about all the life and living my parents had forfeited.
“I heard.”
“You did?”
Grace stopped. Turning to face me, her eyes scanned mine. I didn’t know what she was searching for, but she said, “You mentioned it earlier.”
“I did?” I said, dismayed. I hated sharing our private business, having seen too much pity in people’s eyes over the years when they learned how cash-strapped my family sometimes was.
“You know, our Wednesday walks gave us midweek exercise, but it was so much more than that. It was being there when breast cancer took Olivia. And Kat lost her baby, and then her husband turned to the bottle. And…” Grace waved her hand in the air as though conceding to an entire lifetime’s heartache, then blew her breath out. “When terrible things happen to us, it’s so easy to think that our lives are nothing but rubble.”
“I know.”
She gestured to the ruins in the far-off distance. “But here we are, looking at broken rocks! We’re admiring these ruins like they’re artwork.”
“It’s a little weird when you put it that way.”
“And you know what the biggest shame is? All the people who are alive but aren’t really living because they’re still trapped in their own ancient rubble! Me included! Right before Kat died, back in ’ninety-six, Bertie and I promised that at least one of us would make it here. But then there was this excuse, and that reason…” Unconsciously, Grace pressed her hand to her husband’s wedding ring. “So after Bertie’s funeral, I said to myself, ‘Enough, Grace. This is the year.’ And then Stesha called.”
“She did?”
“On our last trek together, Camino de Santiago, she told me the exact same thing.” She straightened her backpack on her shoulders. “‘This is the year, Grace Hiyashi. You aren’t getting any younger.’”
“It’s Wednesday,” I told her.
“It is.”
As we continued walking, I couldn’t help but think about Reb and Ginny. I said, “I have my own Wednesday Walkers, but we’re called the Bookster Babes, for our mother-daughter book club.”
“That’s great, honey! And I bet you girls know each other’s secrets.”
“Pretty much.” But that wasn’t the whole truth. Instead of pretending that I had it all together, I should have told my friends the truth: I had a secret boyfriend who had dumped me, the girl everyone thought did all the dumping. The girl who adopted a Boy Moratorium to stop all the boyfriend drama when really, she was just afraid to be hurt again. The next best thing was to tell Grace now. So I confessed, “Well, they knew everything except a guy I was dating. He asked me not to tell anyone about us.”
“Why on earth would he do that?” Then Grace guessed before I had a chance to answer. “How much older was he?”
I gaped at her. “How’d you know?”
“Why else would he need to keep you a secret?”
“He didn’t know that I was only fifteen until the very end. Well, I was almost sixteen, not that it really matters. He was twenty-two.”
“Trust me, Shana,” said Grace, her eyes unwavering as she stood her ground. “He knew. You don’t get to be twenty-two and not be able to tell when someone doesn’t have much life experience. I mean, really!”
This time when we started walking, I was the one dragging behind. It was as if the stone-enforced fortress that I’d erected around myself since Dom was crumbling with my every step. Dom knew? There it was, the nagging memory of him sidestepping the waiter who asked to see my ID on our second date, a dinner at a romantic seafood restaurant at the edge of the lake. “No wine for her tonight,” Dom had said smoothly. “She’s training for a marathon.” I had felt so special because Dom had tracked our conversation from the first date in a way that virtually none of my high school boyfriends ever had, never mind that I had said I was thinking about running the Seattle Marathon. He had actually listened and remembered—and was proactive!
Our conversation must have energized Grace, because she picked up the pace. For the first time since the last rest break, we were within view of Stesha and Mom, though they were still pinpricks in the distance.
“How about if I take your pack for a little bit?” I asked Grace.
She turned to me then, placed one wrinkled hand firmly on my arm. “Shana, you are a dear. If I need your help, I’ll ask. But I’d rather have your company than your concern. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said, nodding. I could respect her independence. “Tell me more about the Wednesday Walkers.”
Peanut butter slathered on bread or handfuls of trail mix would have been called a gourmet lunch on one of my family’s hikes. But here, our amazing porters had prepared hot quinoa soup by the time Grace and I caught up to everyone. I saw Hank shake his head impatiently: “Finally.” Embarrassed, I cast a quick glance at Grace, who looked chastened until Ruben threw his arm around her shoulders.
“Good job,” he boomed loudly, then gestured to me. “Shana, can you take our picture? My mom needs to see what she’s missing.”
I could have hugged Ruben right then, and was only too happy to take a series of other shots: Ruben helping Grace with her backpack, Ruben leading her to a chair-shaped boulder, Ruben calling it a throne. Perfect timing, too. Grace’s body drooped in desperate need of a rest. She gratefully accepted a cup of soup from me and absently rubbed her knee.
Mom was sitting alone, tense, her usual expression these days. When I settled next to her, she cast an annoyed glance at my father, who sat by himself at a distance. Neither of them had spoken more than a few words to each other this morning, and neither appeared grateful that we were on this once-in-a-lifetime family trip now—the word “family” felt like a joke. Grace looked happier than they did, hands wrapped around her cup for warmth.
“He’s going to kill himself on this trail,” Mom said, her words sharp.
“Mom, he can still see.” Sort of.
“It’s not even that. He’s intent on proving to Hank that he can keep up the pace. No, not even keep up. Set the pace. I just don’t understand him.”
I averted my gaze from Mom’s tight frown and focused on my soup. But then I heard a snippet of Spanish, the voice familiar. My head shot up to find Quattro crouching down to chat with the porters. Our porters. How had I missed him, wearing that unfortunate orange Polarfleece jacket? Another few phrases of Spanish wound their way to me, and even though I couldn’t understand Quattro’s words, I knew the tone: teasing. The porters burst into laughter.
“What’s Quattro doing here?” I hissed at Mom, nodding over at him. The last thing I wanted was another encounter with him. First, the guy sprinted from me. Then, there was the parental factor. Who knew what Dad might do or say within Quattro’s earshot? And you could never be too sure whether Mom might spring some kind of sine qua non lecture on him.
“Oh, he’s still here?” She winked at me. “Take a guess.”
“Mom.”
“His group was already here when we arrived. Hank wasn’t kidding. All the guys on that Andean Trek looked like Navy SEALs.” She fanned herself. “Oh, boy, I think I’m giving myself a hot flash.”
“Mom, I know this is going to be a shock for you, but there are some things mothers should never share with their kids.”
“What? All I’m saying is that if I were a romance novelist, I would be on that trek.”
“Mom.”
“For research purposes. Anyway, looks like they pushed on ahead.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” I told her as I spooned another mouthful of quinoa soup.
“Well, I better go see about your dad,” Mom said, straightening like she was venturing into the lion’s den.
As I cleaned off my cup, I caught Grace sneaking onto the trail, as if to get a head start or make a break for freedom. Either way, I grabbed my backpack and started after her, telling myself that my le
aving had nothing to do with dodging Quattro. Nope, this had everything to do with my job. What I hadn’t counted on was Grace asking for privacy when I caught up to her.
“But—” I started to protest.
She raised a finger. “Remember what we talked about?”
So I fell back, giving her enough space for alone time but still remaining in view in case anything happened. One by one, the rest of the Dreamwalkers passed me, Dad nodding at me with a “Great job, kiddo,” and Mom grinning at me. Even more humbling, our porters sprinted around first me, then Grace, on the steps despite being weighed down with so many bundles that only their legs were visible from behind.
“Talk about in shape,” a familiar voice called up to me. “Those guys are humbling, huh?”
I spun around, my eyes focusing on Quattro as he ambled up the steps toward me, acting like he had never done his ninja disappearing trick into the elevator early this morning. Way back in Seattle and again in Sacsayhuamán, he had told me that he was on a Girl Moratorium, but a small part of me had dismissed that as a throwaway line you tell people for one and only one purpose: to win them over. It was no different from Ginny to her Chef Boy: Whoa! You’re into blowtorching food, too?
“Where’s your dad?” I asked now, more gruffly than I intended.
“Probably trying to find cell phone service up ahead,” said Quattro.
“How come you aren’t with your group?”
“I want to walk with you.”
That single statement burrowed into me further than I liked, secreting into the soft places in my heart that I thought I had barricaded successfully. No more boy drama; no more boyfriend trauma, I reminded myself. But I could lash myself with a thousand memories of breakups past, remind myself that I’d instituted a Boy Moratorium for good reason, and still, my pulse sped in response to Quattro’s answer.
“I’m not sure you could keep up,” I told him now, lifting my eyebrow. As I’ve coached Ginny, a little challenge every now and again is good for a guy.
Just as I knew they would, his eyes glinted. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. My job’s to walk with Grace, and I bet you couldn’t go this slow without going crazy.”
“I don’t think speed is the point of the Inca Trail.”
He was right, and that was the whole problem. Just one more confirmation that where this guy was concerned, it was much better to draw a distinct boundary line, clear and stark: You on this side, me on the other.
Even so, I found myself telling him, “I wish my dad got that. I’m worried about him.”
“I bet,” Quattro said sympathetically.
That understanding unleashed a flood of pent-up confessions. I couldn’t stop myself if I tried: “He’s going blind, but he needs to be Mr. He-Man, I Own This Trail! It’s like his whole entire personality has changed. I don’t even recognize him. Or my mom. My mom! I still can’t believe that she cashed out their retirement account to make this trip happen. I mean, who are these people?”
Instead of changing the subject, Quattro said, “I think it’s cool that your family would actually do something like this—pick up and go. Your parents are just getting adjusted.”
I mounted the steps faster. “But what if this is the new normal? Dad’s perpetual grouchiness?”
“Well, he’s going blind.… That’s huge. Who wouldn’t be angry about that?”
What Quattro was telling me was all true, but that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t supposed to empathize with me. He was supposed to say one or two perfunctory words, clear his throat uncomfortably, change the subject, and then flee at the first chance from high-maintenance, mentally unhinged me.
“But what if my mom can’t stand it anymore?” I found myself wailing. “You know, she’s totally used to Dad doing almost everything manly man around the house. If it requires the toolbox, it’s Dad’s job. If it needs a ladder, it’s Dad’s job.”
“They’ll figure it out.”
“And then what if their relationship totally falls apart and they get divorced? My best friend Reb—”
“The one waiting to rescue you at Oddfellows?”
I shot a look over my shoulder, then blushed. “Yeah, about that…”
“I get it, but you can trust me.”
I wanted to! That unexpected thought almost made me lose my footing as I continued up the steps without looking where I was going.
“Careful!” he called just as I righted myself. Then he prompted, “So Reb? Is she the one who’s coming to Machu Picchu, too?”
I stopped and frowned at him. How the heck did he know about Reb’s travel plans? But then I had a vague recollection of mentioning her Machu Picchu trip to him just to keep one of our first conversations flowing.
“My memory can scare people,” Quattro admitted with a self-conscious shrug.
“I like it,” I told him, then flushed, feeling vulnerable, as if I’d just admitted that I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Quickly, I began walking again and commented over my shoulder, “So Reb was supposed to be on this trip. Stesha is her grandmother.”
“No kidding.”
“Yeah, but she insisted that I take her spot. Anyhow, Reb thought she had the perfect happy-happy, all-American family, too. And then, boom! Her dad’s splitting because he’s having an affair. And I like my family! I like my family exactly the way it is. Was. The way it was.”
I hadn’t realized that I had stopped again, that my hands were on my hips, that Quattro was watching me with sympathy as he closed the gap between us. I should have ended my rant then, but it was as if my fears had their first taste of freedom and refused to be imprisoned for a moment longer. Why—why?—did I find myself babbling about how my parents had done everything they could so I could live the life I want?
“And Dad totally gave up his dream to be a photographer. He should have been one! For National Geographic.” I would have shaken my camera at high heaven, but I was trembling too much to retrieve it from my pocket. “So how fair would it be for me to be a photographer? I mean, wouldn’t that be rubbing it into my dad’s face that, hello, you’ll never get a chance to live your dream. But look at me: I’m going for it, thanks to your support?”
“It’s what your dad would want. Plus, Beethoven was deaf, and he composed music.”
“But a photographer needs to see.”
“Monet painted his most famous pictures when he had cataracts.”
“Yeah, but photographers need to see.” I was panting, wild eyed. A sight to behold, I’m sure. “You should see the pictures he used to make, not take, but make. I never got it until this trip. All the hours waiting for the right moment to tell a story.”
What was I doing? This wasn’t emotional flooding but a thirty-foot, crushing tsunami. No one—and I mean no one—wants to experience the ruins of anyone’s family this up close and in person.
“Shana,” Quattro said softly. I could tell he was going to reach for me, touch me. I backed up, my heels hitting the next step. I stared down at my scuffed hiking boots, embarrassed about losing control. And then he wrapped his arms around me, which was awkward given my backpack, but I didn’t care. I tipped into his chest, resting my head on his shoulder. How long had it been since I had felt safe?
“Why do you always have to wear orange?” I sniffled.
Quattro laughed, then after a moment pulled away to open his water bottle and urged, “Drink.”
As I tipped my head back, I wondered whether Dad was taking care of Mom now. Or were they walking alone?
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Without looking at him, I whispered, “It’s just not fair.”
“I don’t think life’s about being fair.” After a moment, Quattro added, “If it was, my mom would still be here.”
I jerked my head up to study Quattro, really study him. There was a hollowing in his face, which made him look vulnerable. But instead of meeting my eye, he stared hard at the wispy trees. “She was killed in a car accident.”
I cleared my thro
at. “I’m so sorry, Quattro.”
“It happened.”
“When?”
“A couple of years ago. Two. You’d never know it from the way Dad acts like this shadow of himself. He wasn’t ever like your dad, rock climbing, skiing in the backcountry, and all that. But Dad… he used to be pretty adventurous. He’d get out there.” But now, as if he was the one who had revealed too much, Quattro changed the subject when the overhead clouds released a light drizzle. He held his hand out to feel the raindrops. “Hopefully, it won’t pour.”
“Otherwise Ruben’s going to break out the ark.”
“Remember what the Flood was supposed to do, though?”
“Kill everyone?” I said.
“Be a fresh start.”
Chapter Ten
Considering how tired I was from trekking at altitude, I should have fallen asleep instantly, but snippets of my conversation with Quattro kept replaying in my head that night. Grace wasn’t the only mourner on the Inca Trail; if Quattro looked haunted by his mother’s death, then his father had one foot planted squarely in the otherworld. The next morning, I woke groggily to a conversation I didn’t understand and raucous laughter that I did. Our porters.
Did they think it was odd that tourists from around the world paid good money to look for ruins hidden deep in the jungle? I was wondering that myself after unzipping the tent to find grim skies and mud from last night’s deluge. There was nothing to do but retrieve the ugly paramilitary rain gear from my backpack. I sighed as I yanked the rain pants on and half-hoped that I wouldn’t bump into Quattro on the trail today. My hair already felt lank from a day of sweating without bathing. Why hadn’t I packed even one measly tube of lip gloss? And had I really dumped all my messy emotions on him yesterday? I groaned.
“You don’t look that bad,” Dad said. When he gazed at me as affectionately as he had the year Mom dressed me as a bedbug for Halloween, I knew the rain gear was worse than I imagined. “Here,” he said, “I’ll take your picture.”