Wildfire

Chapter 45: Together

Friday, November 26th

Numb air on a sunny day, the best weather ever existed.

I sat cross-legged on the soil, my reflection dancing on the ripples in our backyard lake, inhaling the chilly winds of early December through my nostrils and down my throat. The sky was picturesque: Blue and grey paint strokes with white clouds, like cotton floating above the snowy, Portland mountains. My smelling sense has improved. Or maybe I missed the smell of the Oregon pines, and now I am breathing deep to keep the scent inside.

These trees that once intimidated me are now my sanctum. Now everywhere I look, there they were. Tall. Proud. Lush. 

The lake extended to neighboring cabins, occupied by mostly lone novelists or fishers. Most of my days, I was outside collecting wood for dinner, fishing, watching the water, and observing nature. It is a habit that stuck with me, that small television that came with the cabin doesn't entertain me anymore.

It's easy to forget how it felt like to slack around among these serene woods.

The cabin had only one room, which was the bathroom. Everything else was the dining room and living room to the right, bedroom and reading nook on the left, and the kitchen next to the balcony overlooking the lake.

The sun was descending in the middle of the snowy mounds when I heard someone yelling. "This is Trask Peak! How may I help you?" Mark showed up from behind wearing an oversize coat and boots. He looked perfect, as always.

"Dork, are you mimicking me?" I stood and gave him a smooch. "You're early!"

"I'm done for the week. Now about that salmon."

I swatted his shoulder playfully. "First, we have to heat the stove, babe."

He grinned. His eyes gleamed with the last rays of the sun as we kissed again.

Inside, Mark grabbed a nanogram, bored with the television as well. "You think we should sell the TV?" I yelled from the kitchen.

Mark looked dutifully from a puzzle, still wearing his winter coat. "Who'd buy that old thing? Besides, I watch the news sometimes."

"Yeah, like once."

After the cooking, we sat on the in-built dining table we purchased in IKEA with some rustic-looking chairs as we enjoyed our feast: Fish and beer. We were eating quietly over the crackling of the fireplace sending waves of warmth across the room.

"You still have those Polaroids?" Mark asked, puncturing a fork-full of salmon in his mouth.

"I like them," I replied softly.

Mark nodded. "Do you sometimes think about California?"

Since our ten-hour drive from California to Portland, neither of us talked about what happened. About Dad. Of Mark living with the fact that he is OK with leaving Erika's grave behind. At the moment, it didn't felt necessary to discuss those things. 

Both of us were too engross in settling here to even talk about it. In reality, we both wanted to avoid it. "Sometimes." I shrugged over a bottle of Light. "Why? Do you miss your parents?"

"I do, actually," Mark said glumly.

"Have you called them?" The only thing this cabin faulted was the phone cable. We were, again, excommunicated.

"Yes, in the morning, before I left for work, I called. Mom was happy to hear from me. She was in the kitchen dismissing Dad with a sandwich she accidentally burned." We both chuckled, relaxed from the alcohol and the salmon. "They're both fine."

"That's good! I need to call Jennifer and Jeffrey, at least. They must be worried."

"And your Mom?"

I looked at him dutifully. A big part of me didn't care if Dad picked up the phone first and started cussing me out. Another piece of my consciousness was eager to know what happened to Mom. Was she OK? I need to know. I must know.

I dropped my fork, the salmon now tasting ashy in my mouth. Mark shifted his gaze at my abrupt noise.

After a while, I spoke. "Would you please drive me? I need to call her."

The nearest payphone was ten minutes away in a downcast, snowy road. Very dangerous in a night like this. After depositing my quarters, I waited. Ring. Mark stood like a hawk on the hood, staring at the empty streets. Ring. I twisted the cord anxiously. Ring. A coyote showed among the trees. Mark spooked it. Ring.

Lastly, a voice. "Hello?" It was Mom. Before choosing to make the call, my mind was bleak, with no clue how to even start the conversation. Now, I feel like I could be here for hours, letting Mark spook away all the approaching coyotes.

"Mom, it's me, Heath!"

After Mom, I would call Jennifer. Jeffrey. Diana. Only to hear— remember their voices again.

Sunday, November 28th

There has been a person that's been around my mind lately. Part of me thought it was slightly unfair that I was here, while others had to go through the same ordeal as I. Timmy. The kid who got dazed. The one Pastor Reynolds sent to that dreaded reparative therapy. He was someone who didn't have any fault in who he is.

This idea might be pointless in some way, but if I can change something, then so be it.

I decided to write a letter.

Friday, December 3rd

My first drafts went piled on the side table. Just when Mark wrote a note to Erika, I had no clue what to say or how to begin. My life feels like a movie. Me, the protagonist, takes most of the script and— No, that's not it!

One goal. One destiny. The only person who can seek your worth is yourself. Where am I going with this?

It's OK to doubt who you are.

In the end, those papers served one purpose. Kerosene.

It took days before I could come up with one paragraph. Not essay material, but simple enough for a little kid to understand. I knew Timmy's school, and Monique counsels over there. Yeah, I knew what I had to do.

When Mark returned from his forest ranger shift, we sat on the futon next to the window, entangled in our pajamas and a quilt, drinking hot cocoa with store-bought marshmallows. The marshmallows tasted like plastic, but I wouldn't change this for anything.

I held the note upfront. "What do you think?"

Mark, already knowing who the letter was intended to (After seeing me pick out my dandruff, trying to come out with the right words to say.) grabbed the paper and read it carefully, taking casual sips and nodding his head in approval. 

"It's beautiful!" He extended the paper with a grin on his face. "What you said in there, it's true. We are all the same. Being gay does not define our entire persona. I know that statement is different from what you wrote, but still, it makes sense, right?"

I took the paper and set it aside, nodding and taking a long, warm sip of chocolate. "Should I add it? What you said."

Mark gave me a thoughtful glance as he set his mug next to the end table. "Nah, I think it's perfect."

"Like you?" I placed my mug down and smiled nonchalantly. 

Mark had that look on his face. Lifted eyebrows, teeth showing, a slight head tilt, I knew his body language all too well. I foresaw his next choice of words: "Cliché land." And then we ended up making out on the couch. Here we were, two guys madly in love with each other, just how it should be.

Just how we intended to be, forever.