Her Beautiful Mind

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any reference to historical events, real people, or real places is used fictitiously.

  Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Janet Ake

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

  or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission

  of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-09833-888-6

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-09833-889-3

  This book is dedicated to all the volunteers who work so tirelessly

  to maintain America’s system of long-distance hiking trails.

  Thank you.

  “And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.”

  —John Muir

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Springer Mountain

  Chapter 2

  Terminus

  Chapter 3

  Memories

  Chapter 4

  Pain

  Chapter 5

  Pain & Memories

  Chapter 6

  Wine & Candy

  Chapter 7

  Rain

  Chapter 8

  La Bella Mente

  Chapter 9

  Tears

  Chapter 10

  New Friends

  Chapter 11

  Nice Ass

  Chapter 12

  And into the Forest I Go

  Chapter 13

  To Lose My Mind

  Chapter 14

  And Find My Soul

  Chapter 15

  Cinderella at the Ball

  Chapter 16

  No Fairy Tale Princess

  Chapter 17

  Find a Penny and Pick It Up

  Chapter 18

  And All the Day You’ll Have Good Luck

  Chapter 19

  Goodbye, Hud

  Chapter 20

  Girlfriends

  Chapter 21

  Happy Days

  Chapter 22

  Town Days

  Chapter 23

  Becoming Beautiful

  Chapter 24

  The Calm Before

  Chapter 25

  The Storm

  Chapter 26

  Time Traveler

  Chapter 27

  His Pain

  Chapter 28

  His Tears

  Chapter 29

  His Memories

  Chapter 30

  More than a Beautiful Mind

  Chapter 31

  A Really Angry Woman

  Chapter 32

  Important Enough to Follow

  Chapter 33

  The Fall

  Chapter 34

  The Rescue

  Chapter 35

  The Journey Is the Destination

  Chapter 36

  A Future of Wonderful Possibilities

  Chapter 37

  His Beautiful Mind

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter 1

  Springer Mountain

  Ariella

  Date: Tuesday, March 11

  Starting Location: Springer Mountain, Georgia

  Destination: Unknown

  Total Trip Miles: 0

  Spring comes slowly to the Appalachians. It creeps into the lower valleys, painting the trees in bright green and splashing the meadows with sunny yellow daffodils. White snowbells outline the ghosts of log cabin walls long since rotted and dissolved into the forest floor, forgotten in the graveyard of time—the delicate blooms a lonely testament to their passing.

  Redbud trees, their leafless branches lined with purple blooms, and pink dogwoods edge the rutted backwoods’ roads still rough and muddy from a winter’s season of misuse. Hidden in the forest duff beneath them are tiny purple violets, each plant a nosegay of fragile blooms and foliage, seen only by those willing to pause in their wanderings and appreciate the woods around them.

  Sometimes spring pauses there, delayed by a late snow or ice storm when winter fights to keep its frozen hold on the valleys and hollows of the ancient mountain range. Inevitably, it finally gives way, and spring slowly resumes its relentless, slow march over the foothills, over the ridges, pushing ever upward until the very tops of the mountains are crowned with the green of new life.

  It’s spring in the valleys below Springer Mountain, but winter still rules on its summit. The trees are bare, and a cold, noisy wind scatters the dead leaves at my feet. A weak winter sun refuses to share its meager warmth. The view is breathtaking, however.

  Range after range of hills and mountains march off into a misty blue distance, calling the adventurous to come explore them. Below the rocky summit, valleys are interspersed with shiny ribbons of creeks and rivers.

  Only a dozen or so people are here on top of Springer. If this were a weekend in March or April, there would be two or three times that number. There would also have been more partying last night—both here, at the terminus of the trail, and at the nearby shelter—as hikers celebrated the beginning of a long-held dream of hiking the Appalachian Trail.

  Today’s group is a more serious bunch. Most of them are probably planning a thru-hike or at least a long section hike. Several parents are dropping off their sons and daughters. There are plenty of hugs and a few tears as moms and dads drive away, leaving their offspring to begin their journey. Most of them are around my age, twenty-somethings who have finished school and want an adventure before settling down to build a career, get married, or start a family.

  A couple of guys, who appear to be in their early thirties, snap a salute to each other when they finish signing the trail register and shoulder their packs. They look fit and buff, their gear and clothing clearly suggesting ex-military. “Oorah!” they shout as they head north on the trail, confirming my suspicions that they are both Marines, perhaps newly released from their service. I wonder if this hike represents a chance for them to forget, or at least deal with, the horrors they probably saw in the Gulf War, in much the same way Earl Shaffer used his thru-hike in 1948 to manage the trauma of World War II.

  I watch a middle-aged couple take pictures of each other posing beside the famous hiker plaque embedded in one of the large flat rocks—it marks the summit and the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. They gladly accept my offer to photograph them together. After snapping a few photos with the plaque, we move around the area so I can photograph them standing at the edge of the mountain, the distant hills in view behind them.

  When I hand their camera back to them, the wife introduces herself as Janette and her husband as Jim.

  “He’s Allday, and I’m Dreamer.” She laughs before asking me if I have a trail name yet.

  “I’m Ariella!” I shout over the increasing roar of the wind. She looks confused for a moment, and I can tell she hasn’t heard me clearly.

  “Ella?” she asks, stepping closer. “As in Cinderella?”

  I stop myself before I can correct her, realizing she has christened me with a trail name. One that suddenly seems very appropriate.

  “Yes.” I nod, stepping closer so she can hear me more clearly. “Because I’m living my very own fairytale. Maybe I’ll find my Prince Charming out here and all my dreams will come true.” My attempt at humor falls flat and even I can hear the sadness behind my words.

  I haven’t fooled Dreamer. She frowns for a moment as she studies me carefully before her face relaxes into a gentle smile. “You know, Prince Char
mings are great and all,” she answers with a wink before nodding toward her husband, who is busy with their packs, “but you don’t really need them to be happy. Hiking by yourself means you’re already a strong, confident woman, and you can make your own dreams come true.” She pauses. “Hike your own hike,” she adds, hinting at a deeper meaning to the often-used hiker phrase about not letting others’ expectations control or affect how you conduct your hike.

  “I will,” I whisper back with a wan smile, letting her know I understand.

  “Good for you. You’ll be fine out here, but,” she adds, her face more serious now, “if you ever feel uncomfortable or lonely, you’re welcome to join Allday and me. We’re old and slow; better safe than sorry, though, you know.”

  I nod, understanding what she’s saying. Although my chances of being the victim of some type of crime were much higher in New York than here on the trail, there are places—especially at road-crossings and in towns—where being a single woman hiking alone can draw unwanted attention.

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  I watch them shoulder their packs and start to leave the area. Before passing from view, they turn back to me with one last wave. Dreamer shouts something, pointing to the boulder beside me. “The register,” she repeats louder. “Don’t forget to sign the trail register.” Then they’re gone, following the trail as it twists its way northward.

  The trail register is located in a compartment in a large rock beneath the painted, two-by-four-inch, white blaze marking the official route of the AT. For northbounders like me, it’s the first of some 165,000 blazes guiding hikers to the northern end of the trail on top of Mt. Katahdin in Maine. For southbounders, who start their journey in Maine, it’s the last blaze they’ll see when they complete their hike here on Springer Mountain in Georgia. The significance of this spot as both a beginning and an ending is not lost on me.

  ~***~

  Everyone has left and I’m alone on the summit. Nothing but gusty wind and creaky bare branches to mar the silence. Taking the register from its protective box, I thumb through the pages of the notebook, glancing at dates and thoughts left by the hikers who started before me. Some of the entries are short, just names and dates; others are longer … wishes, hopes, and dreams left by people I will probably never meet, yet who have left a personal part of themselves in this journal, on this mountain.

  On one page is a carefully drawn Marine Corps emblem. The eagle, globe, and anchor are rendered in detail above two comical stick figures heavily laden with huge backpacks. Underneath them are two names, Ghost and M&M, with the date and GAME—the abbreviations for Georgia and Maine—carefully lettered below. As I suspected, they are ex-military planning to travel the entire distance from Springer Mountain to Mt. Katahdin. It will take them five to six months; I wish them well.

  Farther down the page, I find a short poem left by Allday and Dreamer. I laugh when I read it.

  Two mid-lifers who found themselves free,

  Decided to hike the AT.

  Their money all spent,

  To Springer they went

  And joined the class of two thousand and three.

  They signed it with their names and good luck wishes to everyone who had gone before and to everyone who will come after. I’m still smiling as I read through the rest of the entries, looking for a blank page to share my thoughts.

  Yet, when I pick up the pen to begin writing, my mind is suddenly blank. What do I want to say? I don’t have any profound thoughts or clever sayings or funny limericks to leave behind. There’s really only one person I should be talking to right now but can’t because I’ve escaped to the woods rather than face the utter ruin of my life that his deceit has caused. I wish I could; if I were strong and fearless, I would look him in the eye and tell him. No, I would scream and yell and demand to know how, and what, and where, and finally … why?

  If I were strong and fearless, I would never have left New York. When he, Gia, and all the executives from Banca Italia Internazionale left the stage on the last day of our business presentation after the stunning announcement that he’d accepted a position with them and was bringing our new security software with him, I would have stormed into the meeting and demanded to know why.

  I would have asked him how long he’d been planning his betrayal. Was our four-year-long friendship and working relationship an elaborate scheme to get control of my theories and ideas? Did he really just conveniently forget to have me sign the papers from our lawyer, which would have sealed any loopholes in our business arrangement, preventing either of us from selling our software without both of us agreeing—papers I only learned about after he joined Italia? And why, if he’d been living with Gia for two years, did he lead me on, finally spending the night with me, telling me he loved me even as I gave him my love, my body, and all the desire I tried to deny for so long?

  I imagine standing before all of them in my righteous fury and getting answers to the questions that have plagued me since I fled the city a week ago. I imagine accusing them of deceit and betrayal and shaming them with their underhanded backstabbing, but I know I would never have been able to do it. My social anxiety would have made me stutter and stammer, and my backwoods Southern drawl—which I’ve worked so hard to lose—would have come creeping back, causing those executives to look away in discomfort and Gia to politely hide her amused smirk behind her perfectly manicured hand while he sat there tight-lipped and grim-faced, embarrassed at my fumbling, like he did during my presentation when I’d tried to explain the mathematical theories behind our new system.

  For all my daydreaming and wishing, I know that’s how it would have happened. Gia was right. Theirs is a world I don’t understand. One in which I will never fit and never feel comfortable. So here I am back in the Georgia hills, back where I belong, back where I feel comfortable. I still need closure, however. I still need to ask how and what and why.

  I look down at the notebook in my lap and the pen in my hand. Perhaps this is where I can ask my questions, vent my frustrations, and leave my thoughts. No one will know who I am; no one will know who he is. He will never read the words I leave here, but perhaps writing them down will ease the ache in my heart and the despair I carry within me. Perhaps this will be a way I can numb the sting of betrayal I feel. Adjusting my grip on the pen, I begin to write.

  Chapter 2

  Terminus

  Date: Tuesday, March 11

  Starting Location: Springer Mountain

  Destination: Campsite near Springer Mountain Shelter

  Total Trip Miles: 1

  Dear Hudson,

  As soon as I’ve written his name, I’m marking through it. Although I know he will never see this entry and I doubt anyone who reads it will have any idea who he is, he’s still the son of a very prominent East Coast family. A family who happens to vacation with the Kennedys, has a summer home in the exclusive Hamptons, and attends all the important social events and philanthropic functions in New York City and Washington, DC. A family that has always been welcoming and gracious to me, although I have to wonder now how much they were involved in Hudson’s duplicity.

  No, I won’t use his name, even if it is just his first. So, I begin to write again.

  Dear Hud,

  There, I think, chuckling to myself, I’ll use the nickname he hates so much. It will be my passive-aggressive way of using some of my anger to spite him. With that decided, I find myself once again stumped for words. The energy of my previous furious thoughts has somehow drained away, and now all I feel is sadness and defeat.

  It’s getting later, too. Most of the afternoon has slipped away as I’ve sat here thinking about Hudson and the loss of four years’ worth of work and dreams and possibilities. Colder temperatures and the melancholy of the day’s end seep into me, almost paralyzing my ability to function, to make a decision … to do anything. The notebook sits in my lap waiting, t
he blank page another mocking reminder of my failure to express myself.

  I take a deep breath, and I write.

  Words have always been my nemesis. Perhaps not the words themselves but the necessity of having to speak them aloud to interact with people. I can write them; I just can’t speak them. From the first time Dr. Albright introduced us at my eighteenth birthday party, to my disastrous performance during the sales presentation last week, you’ve always known and, at least in the past, have always been accepting and patient with my inability to communicate with words.

  Words are not like numbers. Numbers don’t lie. They don’t break your heart. They don’t accept the gift of your love only to throw it away the next day. They don’t plot and scheme and take advantage of someone’s naïveté and trust, only to cheat them of their future. Numbers can’t have two meanings. They have only one truth, and that’s why I have always loved numbers. It’s why I’ve always put my trust in them. They, and the patterns and shapes they create, are my safe haven. They never lie.

  I’ve thought about everything that happened last week, and I can’t find the patterns or the numbers to help me understand. Nothing makes sense. My mind can’t find a formula, an algorithm, or equation to explain your sudden change in character, and so I’m left floundering in this uncertainty of how, and what, and why.

  Now, I find myself on this mountaintop in a place of one name with two meanings. Terminus: both an ending and a beginning. I should hate that word for its failure to be one or the other, but I find I don’t mind that it has more than one meaning because I’ve also realized this word describes me and what is happening now. My old life in academia, in business, and with you is ending. I’ve come back to my roots, to the backwoods of Georgia, to start something new. I’ve come back for a new beginning in a place that was always my past.

  And I’m okay with that.

  So, here’s to our terminus, our ending, and a different beginning for each of us.

  Although I’m not feeling very charitable toward you right now, I will always cherish what I thought we once were.

  Your A

  The sun has almost set by the time I’ve finished writing. After placing the trail register back in its compartment, I shoulder my backpack, adjusting the straps to fit comfortably. My gear is old, well worn, and much loved, but I’m planning to replace some of it when I get to Neels Gap in three or four days.