Her Beautiful Mind Read online

  My mind won’t let go of the conundrum that is Rosemary Buckman. On one hand, I see a tall, very attractive, well-educated, fiercely intelligent attorney, but on the other is the vulnerable woman who is afraid to show her scars and falls apart at a seemingly innocent trail sign. Something about the Chunky Gal name reminded her of some hurt in her past, but looking at her now, it’s hard to imagine how or why. Yellow is what Granny would have called “statuesque.” Tall, curvy, with long blonde hair and startling, cornflower blue eyes, she’s the perfect reincarnation of a 1950s pin-up girl. She’s the beauty standard I longed for as a young teenager.

  Wonderland is pretty, too. Shorter and thinner than Yellow, her brown hair is just long enough to pull into a short ponytail that’s perfect for long-distance hiking. Her eyes are brown, too, and her skin is already tan from days in the sun.

  As I study them, I can already see the effects of two weeks of hiking on their bodies. Men and women react differently to daily long-distance hiking. Men usually lose weight, particularly upper-body muscle and fat, much more quickly than women. They develop huge calves and strong legs, but all the rest seems to shrink, as if their body doesn’t want to carry big biceps, shoulders, or six-packs up and down mountains for six months. Staying clean-shaven is usually too much trouble, so beards and long hair become normal.

  Sometimes, women don’t lose any weight at all, at least according to the scales. But their bodies do change. Fat layers thin, waists become more defined. Testosterone levels rise, and muscles are more pronounced. Thighs, calves, butts—all the muscle groups involved in walking, hiking, and climbing—become harder, stronger, and bigger. I can already see some of those changes in Wonderland and Yellow. By the time they finish their hike on Katahdin, they’ll look like Amazonian warriors, superheroes, or Wonder Woman. Still curvy but with a strong aura of power about them.

  When we finally reach the shelter on top of Standing Indian, it’s full to overflowing. Tents fill the meager meadow around the building. Wonderland points to a nearby sign marking a side path to the actual summit. “Let’s camp up there,” she suggests.

  We find a flat, grassy area on the top, perfect for gazing at the stars, which are beginning to become visible. The night is clear and cooling rapidly, but we decide to sleep under the stars instead of erecting our tents. I laugh when Yellow calls it “cowboy camping.” Using our flat tents as ground cover, we lay out our pads and sleeping bags, then quickly change into woolen sleeping tights and pullovers, socks, and knitted hats.

  Dinner is a hurried affair of shared snacks and plenty of water; we promise ourselves to cook at least one good meal tomorrow. By the time we’ve repacked our food supplies, cleaned ourselves, and brushed our teeth, then taken a quick trip to the bushes, it’s fully dark and getting much colder.

  Lying on our backs, we watch the stars appear, oohing and ahhing at the occasional falling star. Neither Yellow nor Wonderland know much about the constellations, so I point them out. When they ask if I know any star stories, I share the Cherokee legend of how a spirit dog made the Milky Way by spilling cornmeal he tried to steal from an old couple.

  “The old man and woman worked hard to dry the corn and grind it into meal to support themselves, so they were dismayed to find some of their cornmeal missing one morning. Knowing Cherokees do not steal from each other, they decided to lay a trap for the thief. They put on their turtle shell rattles, got their drums, and hid by the full baskets. Late that night, they heard a great whooshing noise and looked up to see a giant spirit dog gulping down mouthfuls of their cornmeal. They jumped up, shaking their rattles, pounding on their drums, and screaming. The loud noise scared the spirit dog, and he ran across the night sky. The cornmeal that spilled from his mouth turned into the stars of the Milky Way.”

  “I like that story,” Wonderland says when I finish. “Thank you for sharing it.” After a moment, she adds, laughing, “You know it does kinda look like someone spilled shiny cornmeal across the sky.”

  Something about the way she says it strikes me as funny, and I start to giggle. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the physical, emotional, or mental stress of the day, maybe we just need some relief from the tension, but before long, all three of us are laughing and giggling.

  Yellow makes it worse when she says she always thought it was Tinker Bell’s fairy dust. Wonderland responds with another crazy theory, and soon we’re trying to one-up each other with the silliest ideas for what the Milky Way is made of. It’s Wonderland, however, who finally wins the contest when she announces the Milky Way is most definitely made from unicorn piss. The mental image of a unicorn flying across the sky leaving behind a sparkling, golden shower sends us all into another fit of laughter. There’s no topping her theory.

  The long, hard day finally takes its toll, and sooner than we’d like, we’re yawning and telling each other goodnight. I hear Wonderland mumble something, and then giggle softly. “She talks in her sleep,” whispers Yellow, who is lying next to me.

  “Does she ever say anything incriminating?”

  Yellow chuckles. “Sometimes, she’ll say Travis’s name, but most of the time nothing makes any sense. He’s my brother, by the way.”

  “She told me they were engaged, and he was supposed to be here to hike with her, but his discharge papers were delayed. She said you volunteered to come with her. That’s a pretty nice thing to do.”

  “Well, I owe her big time, and, to be honest, I had some other reasons to get away from Texas.”

  An owl hoots nearby, and we’re both quiet for a while. Just when I think she might have drifted off to sleep, Yellow whispers to me again. “Are you close to your family, Ella?”

  “I don’t really have a lot of family left. Some cousins and an uncle or two. I never knew my father, and my mother died when I was very young. My grandmother raised me, but she passed away eight years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. You must be a strong, determined young woman to be living on your own for so long.”

  Not sure how to respond to her compliment, I change the subject. “My granny was an amazing woman. She taught me a lot about hard work and surviving.”

  “I have a wonderful nana. Sometimes, I’m not sure I would be here now without her love and support.”

  For a while, neither of us says anything. I consider her words, wondering if they really mean what I think they do. Perhaps it’s my turn to offer support. Before I can speak, she continues.

  “I hate my father.”

  Her simple statement startles me, and I turn to look at her in the darkness. There’s enough starlight to see the shimmer of liquid in her eyes as she stares at the sky.

  “He’s an asshole, a bully, an emotional, physical, and sexual abuser.” She turns her head to look at me now, and there’s no mistaking the meaning of her words. “I was thirteen, scared to death, afraid to tell anyone. Food became my solace, that and cutting. He used to call me his chunky gal. ‘How’s my little chunky gal?’ he’d say when he climbed into my bed at night. My God, how I hated him!”

  “Yellow?”

  “It’s okay. Most of the time, I don’t think about him. I refuse to let him affect my life anymore, but today, when I saw the sign … Well, it just brought it all back.” She wipes away the tear trickling down her cheek, then looks up at the stars again.

  “Travis was the one who figured out something was going on. He caught me binge eating in my closet one day after I cut myself several times. There was blood all over my arm and chocolate cake all over my face. Then he saw our father coming out of my room late one night. Mother was an alcoholic who was too drunk to be of any help, so he went to our nana. She got the authorities involved, but I was too afraid to testify against him. They worked out a deal for me to live with her. I have no doubt she saved my life.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what happened then?”

  “No,” she answers, rolling over to face me once mor
e. She shifts onto her side, sliding her hands under her head. “I grew up, but it wasn’t easy. Nana made sure I got professional help, and she loved me, unconditionally, even when I couldn’t love myself. There were some drugs, lots of alcohol, and more than a few random men, but she never gave up on me. And then I became a lawyer.”

  Rosemary chuckles, a smirking grin on her face. “I became a lawyer, and I took the bastard to court and put him away for a long time. And, you know, Texas prisons aren’t the nicest places to be when you’re guilty of incest and rape.”

  This time she laughs out loud, and I can’t help but join her. We both stood up to the bullies of our past, and it feels good—freeing and wonderful.

  “Yellow?”

  “Uhm?”

  “I think you’re a strong and determined young woman, too.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers back.

  Above us the stars continue their dance across the sky, and the spirit dog continues to form the Milky Way from his stolen cornmeal, just as they have for eons upon eons. Asleep in our warm layers of wool and down, neither of us notices.

  Chapter 21

  Happy Days

  Date: Thursday-Friday, March 20 & 21

  Starting Location: Campsite on Standing Indian Mountain

  Destination: Franklin, North Carolina

  Total Trip Miles: 106.8

  The next two days are some of the happiest of my life. Everything—from the weather, to the trail, to the company, to the food—everything is wonderful. It’s as if all the variables in the universe came together at one time to form the perfect equation for happiness.

  The weather stays unseasonably warm. Sunny days, cool nights, and low humidity make the best hiking conditions. We take advantage of them by deciding to cover the twenty-two miles from Standing Indian Mountain to Winding Stair Gap in the next two days. From the gap, we can hitchhike into Franklin, North Carolina, for a town break.

  The abundant sunshine brings new life back to the forest. Bright green leaves seem to burst from each stem and branch. The gentle breeze is redolent with the perfume of wildflowers. More than once, Wonderland surprises us by stopping in the middle of the trail to breathe in great gulps of air. The delighted glee on her face almost makes us think she’s getting high from the scent.

  We see more animals, too. The meadows, full of wildflowers, are also covered in bees, butterflies, and other flying insects. Squirrels chitter at us as we pass, birds serenade us, and once, we round a bend to see a red fox standing in the middle of the trail. Three humans and one fox freeze in place as we carefully study each other. It’s beautiful. The flaming ginger of its coat seems to glow in the sunlight, and the snowy white of its chest is matched by the tip of its tail. Satisfied we mean it no harm, it finally trots off into the woods, leaving the three humans to grin happily at each other.

  Snakes make their appearance, too. Grass snakes, gopher snakes, and once, a baby rattlesnake, all slither away at our approach. The sighting of each one elicits a scream and a curse or two from Yellow. She hates snakes.

  Winter is gone, and we walk north with spring.

  From our campsite on top of Standing Indian Mountain, we watch the sun come up. The summit gifts us with magnificent views in all directions. I sit, along with Yellow and Wonderland, as the new day begins in a glow of apricot and peach, scarlet and vermilion. When the sun tips the horizon, the sky blazes canary, amber, and gold.

  It’s a new day, a new beginning, a new chance to rewrite the equations of my life. At Plumorchard, I said goodbye to Hudson. At Standing Indian, I say hello to a new me. I chuckle to myself at the implications of the mountain’s name.

  Six miles later, we stop for lunch at Carter Gap Shelter. After eating snacks and cold food yesterday, we had promised ourselves a leisurely, hot lunch today. When I dump out the contents of my food bag, I realize how well my cousin has taken care of me.

  Liam told me he received samples from companies making packaged lightweight trail food for climbers, hikers, and outdoor enthusiasts. As owner of Mountain Crossings, his opinion mattered. A recommendation, a favorable review, and a spot on his shelves could mean success, especially for a small company trying to get started in the business.

  He’s included several dinners from companies I’ve never heard of. None of them require actual cooking. All I have to do is pour boiling water into their heatproof bags, wait a few minutes, and enjoy. The only cleanup is washing my spoon and disposing of the trash at the next road crossing.

  When I offer Yellow and Wonderland a choice, they jump at the chance to try something new. We’re famished, so we quickly pick out three selections. Fifteen minutes later, we’re sharing the meals, tasting each one, and comparing the flavors. The unanimous decision is they are all delicious. Dessert is gourmet chocolate from Yellow’s stash and a thirty-minute nap.

  Four more miles and we cross Betty Creek. Yellow already warned me to expect to stop at every stream big enough to swim in, so I’m not surprised when Wonderland starts stripping off again. Into the water she goes, submerging herself completely in the icy water before emerging with a gasping grin.

  My entrance is a bit slower and much more hesitant. I turn at a noise behind me, to find Yellow shrugging out of her clothes, too. Perhaps it was the emotional release of sharing her story with me last night, or the physical release of hours of constant hiking, but she’s calmer, happier today.

  Although I try not to look, it’s impossible not to notice her scars. Tiny, almost invisible white lines crisscross the inside of both arms and thighs. When she moves through a patch of sunlight, they become even more noticeable. She has other scars, too. Besides the jagged one along her outer left calf, there’s another along her left ribcage and left shoulder. Two smaller round scars mar the skin on her chest above her sports bra. I try to quickly look away, but she knows I’ve seen them.

  “Ella?”

  “Sorry, Yellow. I didn’t mean … You just caught me by surprise,” I manage to say.

  “It’s okay. I know they can be pretty shocking when you’re not expecting them. I told you about the little ones, the ones from cutting myself, but I didn’t tell you about the others.”

  “You don’t have—”

  “Hey,” she interrupts. “It’s all right. Really, I don’t mind. These are from a car wreck,” she explains, pointing to the bigger scars on her left side. “I took some kids away from their asshole, meth-dealing parents who decided to try to get them back by T-boning my car. As if that would help their case—stupid dipshits. The police were there before they could even try to drive away. The judge took one look at the traffic camera footage and gave custody to a grandmother who desperately wanted them. Last time I checked, the idiots were still in prison.”

  “And you went back to your job, even after they tried to kill you?”

  “Well, it took me awhile to get out of the hospital, but yeah, I finally did.” Walking past me, she gives me a wink before entering the water. “Haven’t you ever heard of ‘don’t mess with Texas’?” Laughing, she jumps into the stream, splashing Wonderland, who retaliates by trying to dunk her.

  Big Spring Shelter is our destination for the night, but first we have to climb Albert Mountain. Two hours after leaving the creek, we’re standing at the base of the mountain, looking at the short but extremely steep, extremely rocky, climb in front of us. Less than a quarter of a mile separates us from the summit, which is topped by a fire tower, typical of many that once dotted the Southern forests but now manned only during very dry years.

  Some stairs are built into the almost straight up path, but most of the way is just a scramble from one rock to the next. Coming at the end of a long day, it seems to take forever to finally reach the flat summit. When we do, we’re rewarded with amazing views in every direction.

  We decide to climb the stairs leading to the building at the top of the tower. The small
residence is locked, but we walk around the surrounding viewing platform, marveling at the seemingly unending forest stretching out across the hills and valleys in every direction. Sitting on the edge, we dangle our feet over the long drop to the ground while we eat a snack.

  I tell them the Cherokee legend of the Thunder Boys who made so much noise the people made them live in the high mountains away from the villages in the valleys. Then, I embellish it a bit by claiming the forestry service can no longer get people to stay in the tower because the Thunder Boys won’t let them sleep at night. We share a laugh before we climb down.

  Half a mile later, we arrive at the shelter. It’s full with spring breakers, gear and bags hanging everywhere. While Wonderland and I discuss our camping options, Yellow takes out her water filter and begins walking to the spring. A startled shriek has us running around the corner of the building to check on her.

  A large black snake, easily four or five feet in length, is crawling up the side of the shelter. The warm weather has brought it from its winter den, and now it’s hunting the mice swarming the shelter.

  “I’m not staying in that shelter or anywhere close to it,” she declares when she sees us. “So you need to find somewhere else to camp.” Turning, she stomps off toward the water source, muttering about damned snakes. “I hate snakes!” she shouts one last time.

  I find a secluded clearing some distance from the shelter where Wonderland and I set up camp. We take some time to clean up trash left behind by previous campers and clear the area of large stones and sticks we’ll put back in place before we leave in the morning.

  Yellow and Wonderland share a tent. It’s bigger than mine and has two side doors, which allow them to enter and exit without crawling over each other to do so. The door overhangs also provide a protected space for their gear.