The direction Mom pointed took us over a roughed-in trail with low hanging branches. Walking another five minutes at a sketchy pace I hesitated to actually call a walk, we stopped in a clearing about ten feet wide – just enough to let the starlight in.
We set up our sleeping rolls at the base of a tree whose shadow suggested it was gnarled and twisted, entwined with another trunk. Soft deadfall from the previous autumn and winter muffled our movements as we shuffled around our temporary site.
Spring in the northwest is notorious for warm days and chilly nights. The temperature had dropped with the setting of the sun hours before and I shivered in my multiple layers.
Mom reached into my backpack’s extra side pocket – the thing had a ton of those – and pulled out a balaclava which she tossed at me. “Pull this on. You’ll be warmer sleeping in it.”
I pulled the full-headed hat over my tight bun. The mask part covered my mouth and nose. Fleece always gave an illusion of instant warmth. I didn’t want to focus on the warm memories of Braden and I laughing at the name the first time we’d heard it. Balaclava sounded like baklava the amazing Turkish pastry Dad loved so much. Braden had tried licking my head the entire day I’d had that stupid hat on, he kept saying how yummy my head looked.
Little Braden. Loved that kid.
Missed that kid.
Tears pricked at my eyes and my mouth dried up. Braden would be twelve, if he were still alive. Five years younger than me. He would nudge me as we ate something Mom gave us and giggling. Braden always giggled.
Dad would turn to us and lift his eyebrow, while holding Mom’s hand. He always touched her, hand-holding or twirling a piece of her hair, or brushing his fingers over her shoulder. Dad had loved Mom even without telling her.
Breaking through my reverie, Mom’s abrupt movements didn’t rough up the silence of the hour. “Don’t unpack too much. We’re only sleeping here, and not for long. Not even the full night, okay?” Her voice barely carried to me as she hunkered down on the ground in a half-squat with her sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders and back.
She dug into one of her bag’s pockets, tossing me a dense protein bar, a banana, and another sandwich. “Eat that. They’ll stick with you a while longer than a normal candy bar.”
I didn’t question her logic as I tore open the plastic wrapper and bit off a chunk. The rustling of the cellophane startled me with its loudness, but didn’t stop me. Mom could have given me a plate of weeds and rocks and I could have eaten it without argument. “Thanks, Mom.” I mumbled around the thick grainy snack.
Braden had hated those stupid bars.
She folded her hands and closed her eyes, bowing her head.
Lately, I ignored prayers at dinner and at bedtime. My mom, she never forgot. I shifted uncomfortably on the leaves beneath my butt and chewed slower until she lifted her head and took her first bite. Like, if I paused or something it would be enough reverence for whomever she spoke to.
She swallowed, the movement barely recognizable in the dark. “Don’t drink too much water, you don’t want to need to use the bathroom out here this late at night.” I know survival was the name of the game, but she could’ve relaxed a bit, at least try not to sound like a demanding drill sergeant all the time.
We finished eating in silence. She held out her hand and I passed her my garbage before sipping – only sipping – from my water bottle. Pushing our backpacks against the tree, she motioned for me to turn around. I spun on my rear and we lay down, back to back.
Security from having my mom so close to me stabilized my nerves. My breathing deepened. With a soft breeze tickling the leaves and needles overhead, I drifted easily into a solid sleep.