The Other Side of Lost Page 4

  I’m ashamed she thinks I do. She has no idea who I’ve become, and how small and empty my life is in comparison to what Bri’s was. To what her life should still be. She was the one actually living. Finding herself and the world, while all this time, I’ve been losing those same things. And now it’s too late. She’s lost to me too.

  I’m certain I don’t deserve whatever is in this box. Her things. But my aunt sent them here, to me, and I can’t just put them away like all of the other birthday gifts. I take a deep breath, then reach into the corner of the box and peel back the layer of bubble wrap. Sitting there, taking up all of the space in the box, is a moss-green backpack. But it’s not like any backpack I’ve ever had. It’s huge, and covered in zippers and compartments, clips and straps that look like they all serve a purpose. And pins and patches that don’t. Attached to the topmost zipper is something I recognize.

  It’s her dreamcatcher keychain.

  Her Boots

  I STARE AT the small dreamcatcher with the sunflower at its center for a long moment, remembering how Bri had always had it on her daypack when we went adventuring, and how I’d watch it swing from side to side whenever I walked behind her. She’d gotten it from some gift shop somewhere near Yosemite, and I’d loved it so much when I saw it, she made Aunt Erin drive her all the way back to get me a matching one for my birthday. I haven’t seen or thought about mine for years.

  But Bri’s is here, sitting right in front of me, on a backpack that is almost the size we were last time we saw each other.

  I try to lift it out, but it’s packed full and is so heavy that I have to stand and use both my arms and the strength of my legs to get it out of the box. I drop it on the floor and it lands with a thud, sitting upright on its own. I walk a slow, cautious circle around it, like it’s a living, breathing thing.

  Bri was going to carry this? For how many miles?

  She was always strong, but still. I can’t imagine. I kneel down in front of the pack, thinking that I should probably leave it as is—zipped up and ready to go. But curiosity gets the best of me, and I reach for the straps that hug it tight, wanting to know what my cousin put inside. One by one, I pinch the plastic clips that release the straps, and then I reach for the zipper of the top pocket.

  Inside there are Ziploc bags, so many, and I pull them out one by one, examining their contents. There is a compass and Swiss Army knife. A small, thin book called The John Muir Trail. A lighter and matches that say they’re waterproof. Two tiny bottles of something called Aquamira. A small headlamp and what looks like a homemade first aid kit with bandages, Neosporin, alcohol wipes. There are chargers, batteries, wires. A bag of protein bars and energy gels. A poncho. A Ziploc filled entirely with Advil. Another lighter.

  And that’s just the beginning. Everything is compact and meticulously packed.

  I lay it all out on the carpet, and then I move on to the next compartment. Here, I find a large plastic canister containing more plastic bags of what looks like food and maybe toiletries, two water bottles and a clear vinyl bag with a spout, a mug with a spork that folds up attached to it. A contraption with a bottle and a tube that looks like some kind of filter. Something I’m not sure of—a tiny stove? Beneath all of that, there are utilitarian-looking clothes, a tightly rolled sleeping bag, and what must be a tent.

  I keep going, taking each item out of the pack and examining it like the foreign object it is to me, impressed that Bri knew about all of these things and how to use them. By the time I lay it all out on the floor, it’s hard to believe that it’s everything she would’ve needed—and that somehow it all fit in that pack. Instantly, I wish I’d paid more attention to how it fit, because I can tell right now, I will never be able to get it back in.

  I go grab the box to put it all in, and my breath catches.

  In the bottom corner, a bit flattened from the weight of the backpack, sits a gray pair of hiking boots. I lift them gingerly and hold them with both hands in front of me. They’re broken in, with dirt visible in the mesh over the toes, the turquoise of the laces dulled by a thin layer of dust. They’re lighter than I expect, but the weight of them in my hands grounds me in the reality of what I’m holding.

  These are her boots.

  Who knows how many miles they’ve traveled, or places they’ve been? Who knows if they were the ones she was wearing when—I can’t think about it.

  When I bend to put them back in the box, I see there is one more thing inside of it. A manila envelope that lies flat on the very bottom. I pick it up then pinch the two wings of the clasp together so I can lift the flap. What I pull out is a leather-bound journal like the one my aunt once sent me. I open it. On the first page, my cousin wrote:

  I run my fingertips over the curves of the letters that form these words, then down to the tiny mountain range she’d drawn at the bottom of the page.

  I don’t know how she ever doubted her strength, or her courage. When we were kids, and I spent summers there in the Sierras with her, she was always the one to be brave. She was comfortable and in her element out in nature, whereas, being from the safety of suburban Orange County, I worried constantly about what might happen to us as I followed her up mountains with no trails and watched her climb trees so high she’d disappear into their branches. It was exciting and scary at the same time, but I always trusted that with her I’d be okay, and that she was sure of where we were going.

  I turn the pages, and there are more entries. Some that look like notes about hikes, others that seem to be thoughts or quotes or maybe both. I flip past them, knowing I’ll come back to read each and every one. And I hit a page titled Day 1, and a list that I realize is an itinerary:

  That’s it for the first day. But every page beyond that is filled with a similar itinerary and a few notes. It’s overwhelming to think about how much planning she had put into this trip, let alone what it would actually take to follow through with it.

  But somehow she believed she could.

  I flip back to the first day, and a shiver rolls through me when I see the date. It’s two days after our birthday.

  Tomorrow.

  I look around at the equipment spread over the living room floor, her things that were supposed to travel the miles of that trail with her. Things she was going to carry, things that would help carry her.

  And in the same way that she knew she would do it, I know I never could.

  I wish I was the kind of person she was. Someone who would just go for it, no matter how crazy it seemed. And I am having a hard time ignoring the timing of her things arriving on my doorstep the day before she was supposed to start. But I have absolutely no business even entertaining the idea of doing something like what she was planning.

  Just the thought of it scares the hell out of me.

  I drop to my knees and frantically scoop the contents of the pack up in my arms, trying to stuff it all back inside. I shove Ziploc bags haphazardly into pockets, push the big things back into the main compartment, fight with the zippers and straps to close it all inside, where it belongs, but it’s no use. It doesn’t fit, no matter how many different ways I try. I step back to take a breather. The pack sits off-kilter for a brief moment, then falls over, spilling its contents back onto the living room floor.

  I kick it. And then I sit down beside it and give up. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask the silence that follows.

  There is no answer, no whisper of advice, no sudden clarity.

  There is only me, and I feel ridiculous.

  I leave it all there on the floor and walk away. Upstairs, to the quiet of my room, with her journal. When I sit down on my bed, Bri’s page flashes back on to the screen where I left off.

  I read the next post back:

  I decided a little while back to hitchhike from CA up to Canada to pay a visit to some friends (and make some new ones). The journey is almost done now, tomorrow will be my last day on the road! And I have a message to everyone who told me I was crazy—you were right
, but hey, I still made it.

  I shake my head, thinking of how when she did that, even my mom had wondered why my aunt had let her. And I remember thinking that the answer was easy. Even when we were little, there was no letting Bri do something. She did what she wanted. And I could only imagine that as she got older, and the world spread out wide and full of possibilities in front of her, that continued to be the case.

  I look down at her journal in my hands, and open it to the second entry:

  I look around at the room I wake up in every morning, with its drawn curtains and blank walls. The computer I’ve been living my life through. The emptiness that hangs over all of it. And then I reread the list of those things she wanted, things she was in the process of doing and being, and I wonder, for a moment, what that would feel like.

  In Motion

  I PACK QUICKLY so I can get on the road before I change my mind. It’s tempting to stop and dismiss the idea because it seems so big and crazy. It would be easier to stay home and think it through longer. Plan. But I don’t have time for that now. A quick Google search has informed me that Bri’s permit needs to be picked up in person tomorrow morning in order to be valid, which means I need to leave this afternoon if I want to be there to do it.

  I throw a pile of workout clothes into my overnight bag, along with a few basic toiletries, phone, charger, and earbuds. Then I stand in the middle of my room, looking around and trying to figure out what else I might need in order to do the first day of Bri’s hike. I know how ridiculous it would be for me to even say I’m going to try anything more than that, which is why I haven’t.

  But I also know that my life can’t remain as it is for even one more day. That I can’t remain as I am. I knew it last night, and that’s why I made that video. And today, I’ve been given a way to change it. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have a chance to do something meaningful. Or at the very least, that I have a direction to move in.

  I cross the room to my desk and pick up the program from Bri’s memorial, with its picture of her standing on the top of Clouds Rest, arms wide open, like she wants to share it with anyone willing to go with her, and I tell her I’ll go—at least that far.

  Because it was my name she put on the permit. My doorstep her things landed on, after I asked for my life to change. It doesn’t seem crazy when I think about it this way. When we were kids, she always knew right where she was going, and I followed wherever she went. And somehow, after so many years, and so much distance between us, maybe she knew that I would need to go. Maybe that’s why she wanted me with her for this. So I have to go, even if she can’t.

  Especially because she can’t.

  I give the program one more look, then tear the picture off and slip it into my back pocket. Next, I grab her journal off my desk, and go downstairs to write my mom a note for when she gets home and finds that I am gone.

  I know she’ll freak out. And that she’ll be upset with me for leaving like this. But I also hope that she’ll understand that right now, this is something I need to do.

  Mom,

  By the time you get home today, I’ll be on my way to Yosemite. I need to get away—you’ll see why as soon as you’re back on the Wi-Fi. But please, don’t worry about me. I am okay.

  Actually, I’m much better today than I have been for a long time. You probably know this already, but Aunt Erin sent me a birthday gift. It got here today and it’s the backpack Bri was going to use to hike the John Muir Trail this summer—like we used to talk about doing together. She was supposed to start tomorrow, so I’m going to the trailhead—to pick up her permit, and pay my respects, and hike to the first place on her list.

  I’ll call when I get there. Please don’t worry. I love you.

  Heading north on the dusky highway at a steady seventy, I already feel like things are changing. I’ve never driven alone like this, far and fast, and there’s a freedom in it that is quietly exhilarating. In the past, I’ve spent car rides with my head down, eyes on my phone, alternately scrolling and refreshing to pass the time without having to talk. A passive passenger. Now I’m the one driving. I’m the one deciding where I go. And I take it all in as I slice through the evening with the music turned up loud enough that I can’t think too much about what I’m going to do when I get there.

  For now, my destination is Yosemite Valley, where the John Muir Trail begins, and that’s enough. I can’t try to wrap my head around anything beyond getting away, like I’d told my mom. As I make my way through the central valley, I don’t think about hiking. I just move forward. Far from my life and the mess I’ve made. I zip past fields and orchards of crops I can’t name. Stinky farms with endless cattle. Signs about water rights everywhere. Billboards advertising Jesus as the one and only savior. I drive without stopping through towns with names like Pixley and McFarland, and farms dotting land so vast and flat that it’s hard to believe that it’ll ever give way to any mountains, let alone the peaks and domes of Yosemite.

  I’ve seen photos of Yosemite all over Bri’s pages, but never in real life. By the time she’d graduated to adventuring there, I’d graduated to amassing followers and perfecting lifestyle shots. But tonight, out on the road like this, away from everything, and beyond my comfort zone, I already feel distant from all of that. I glance down at my phone, and the red dot that is me making its way up the middle of California, and I feel the tiniest bit proud. I’m doing something. And to be in motion feels good.

  Soon, the landscape begins to shift and change, and that feels good too. The valley gives way to rolling foothills, and the highway curves gently, weaving a wandering path between them. Every so often, another car will pass by, reminding me that I am not alone, but mostly, it’s me and the road, and the black night outside.

  After a while, the road begins to climb. The curves sharpen, and I take one a little too fast and have to fight to keep the car in the lane. I slow down after that. A sign warns to watch for deer, so I turn my brights on, hoping I don’t see any shining eyes from the sides of the road. It grows steeper still, and now trees creep in from both sides, forming a tunnel that blocks out the sky. I don’t know if I’ve ever been anywhere so dark.

  The map on my phone says I’m not far from the entrance to Yosemite National Park, but that I’m still an hour and a half away from the valley floor, where the trail begins. I change my playlist to something upbeat and continue to push on at this new, slower pace, but it’s not long before the reality of the previous sleepless night and the hours of being in the car alone start to catch up with me.

  The initial adrenaline and excitement of taking off have faded, and I can feel weariness sneaking in. I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and roll down the windows all the way. Crisp, cool air rushes in, surprising for August. It carries with it the long-forgotten scents of pine and soil, of living things growing wild and green. I don’t think I’ve smelled these smells in years, but immediately they bring back a rush of memories—a montage of summers spent with Bri at my aunt’s cabin in the meadow. Sunrises watched from our sleeping bags on the trampoline, the freedom of days spent adventuring with a backpack and the sack lunches we’d pack ourselves, pretending like we were heading off on great treks into the wilderness. Nights spent dreaming up new adventures beneath a blanket made of stars. It feels like ages ago and like yesterday at the same time. My heart aches when I think about all of the lost time between then and now. Time we could’ve spent together, if things had been different.

  I think of Aunt Erin’s letter, and how she said she wished she could turn back the clock. God, I do too. I would change so many choices I’ve made and things I’ve done. Pulling away from Bri would be the first. For a second I let myself picture how different my life might have been if we’d stayed close. We would’ve celebrated yesterday together, I know that for sure. Maybe we’d even be in Yosemite already, sitting around a campfire, giddy with excitement about tomorrow. Over and over I’d be saying that I couldn’t believe we were really going to do
it, this thing we’d talked about years ago, when turning eighteen seemed like decades away and we had all the time in the world. She’d look at me in the warm glow of the fire and she’d smile that happy, radiant smile, and tell me she always knew we would.

  In the distance ahead, I spot lights and the wide arc of a sign. As I get closer, the road widens into four lanes, each with its own kiosk beneath the sign that I can now read: Welcome to Yosemite National Park. For a moment, I almost can’t believe I’m here. I slow the car and pull out my phone to take a picture, but then realize I have no one to share it with. Even the kiosk is empty when I pull up.

  There are instructions on the window to continue in and pay on the way out if the kiosk is unstaffed. I sit beneath the entrance a moment longer. If I still had my account, and I posted a picture like this, the likes and comments would start rolling in immediately, even this late at night. Now is the time when people who can’t sleep are still awake, scrolling away, envying other people’s lives from a distance. That’s what I did anyway, and I know I wasn’t alone.

  For a moment, I wonder what I’m missing, what all the other people whose lives I’m usually privy to are doing and posting. I wonder if any of them are still talking about me, or if I’ve already disappeared from their feeds and minds, like I wanted to. I don’t know if I like that idea either, that it could be that easy to stop mattering.

  After a long moment, I take a deep breath, put the car in drive, and try to just be here, where I am, doing my own thing. I realize as I pull forward that this is going to take some practice. Especially alone.

  I roll down the road into the park, drained and all of a sudden unsure about being here. In the dark, it’s not the majestic arrival I was picturing. There is nothing and no one to welcome or congratulate me for making it. There’s just me and the night, and the exhaustion that grows heavier by the minute. I blink and widen my eyes to try to keep them focused on the road as it rounds curve after curve for miles.