Her Beautiful Mind Page 4
“The Marines?”
“You met them?” he asks.
“Not really. They were on Springer the day I started. They signed the register as Ghost and M&M.”
“Well,” he continues, “the big guy’s name is Markham Mitchell Manning.”
“Whew, that’s a lot of M’s,” I interrupt.
“Apparently, a lot of his fellow soldiers thought so too.” Liam laughs. “So they just started calling him ‘M.’ Guess what his favorite candy is.”
“M&Ms,” we both say at the same time, laughing.
“But three pounds of them?”
“Yeah.” Liam chuckles. “Apparently, he started with something like five pounds, but he’s been handing them out to everyone he meets.”
“So where are they now?”
“Staying in one of the cabins down by the creek for a few days until the big guy heals up.”
“Uh-oh, what happened?”
“Well, you know how steep the trail is coming down off Blood Mountain just before you hit the road?”
“Yes?”
“Seems he tripped and took a tumble … bounced all the way down.”
“Ouch.” I can’t help but flinch, remembering how I’d carefully picked my way down to the road. That part of the trail is rocks and roots, all the soil has been worn away from erosion and constant use over the years. “Couldn’t he see how dangerous it was?”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t paying attention because he was too busy stuffing his mouth with …”
“M&Ms.” We all shout together, finishing Liam’s sentence. Maybe it’s the late hour, maybe it’s the camaraderie, or maybe it’s the wine, but we double over in laughter imagining the big, tough Marine taking a tumble all because of a small, insignificant piece of candy.
Feeling guilty over laughing at a fellow hiker’s misfortune, I ask Liam if M&M is going to be okay, and he assures me nothing was broken, just some bruises and a twisted ankle.
“I’m letting them stay in one of the cabins free of charge for the next four days. He should be fine by then. Besides, I got the impression he’s had worse and seen worse while in service.”
“Kuwait?”
“Yeah. Afghanistan, too.”
We’re silent then, each of us lost in our thoughts about the young men and women who are fighting in the never-ending, non-war our country is mired in. When I turn back to my cousin, I find him gazing at his wife. The love and appreciation I see reflected there has them wrapped in their own bubble of affection and admiration. For a fleeting moment, I’m both happy for them and envious of them. This is what I thought I would have with Hudson. Even though it didn’t work out for me, I’m glad my cousin has found his life partner.
Leaving the two of them alone under the star-filled sky, I slip quietly away to the guest room. Sleep comes quickly and deeply, and for once, I don’t dream of him.
I blame it on the wine.
Chapter 7
Rain
Date: Saturday, March 15
Starting Location: Neels Gap
Destination: Whitley Gap Shelter
Total Trip Miles: 38.4
Although Liam and Emma encourage me to stay with them, at least for another day, I hike out after lunch the following afternoon. I’m sporting a new internal frame backpack, having left my old external frame pack—which once belonged to Granny Dobbs and which Liam claims is an antique—hanging among the other dated and well-used gear on display along one wall of Mountain Crossings.
Allday and Dreamer arrive as I’m leaving. I must have managed to pass them somewhere on my seventeen-mile day. They look good, a little dirty and obviously in need of a shower, but otherwise happy and healthy as they enter Liam’s store. She greets me with a cheerful smile, asking how I’ve been and if I’m doing all right. I can hear Allday inquiring about an overnight stay in a cabin and a shuttle to town for dinner. After a brief conversation and a goodbye hug, I leave them to their negotiations and start the steep climb out of the gap.
My new pack sits comfortably on the top of my hips—hips which, even in my skinny, awkward, and gawky adolescence, I hated for their unfashionable wide flair. Now that the rest of me has filled out and I don’t look quite so bottom heavy, I’ve learned to accept their generous curve. Granny called them “child-bearin’ hips” and told me I’d be grateful for their width when it came time to give birth. I’m not sure being a mother is something that will ever happen for me, but I’m currently grateful for the way they carry the weight of my pack. I’ve accepted that I’ll never be like the tall, thin, elegant women who exist in Hudson’s world. Out here in the woods, it doesn’t seem as important as it once did.
Inside this pack is a new down sleeping bag with a water-resistant cover, a new blow-up air sleeping pad, and a small, very lightweight, one-person tent. Liam replaced my old canister stove with a fold-up stove the size of a deck of cards, which burns little squares of solid fuel. I have new rain gear, a new pair of synthetic shorts and T-shirt, a down-filled pullover sweater that weighs mere ounces, and an in-line water filter attached to the drinking tube of my water bladder. With four days’ worth of meals and snacks and enough water to get me to the next shelter, my pack weighs around twenty-seven pounds. Almost ten pounds less than it did before Liam worked his magic.
I may have thrown a little hissy fit when he refused to charge me for the new gear. I know how expensive everything is. When I reminded him he was running a business and deserved to make a profit, he offered to let me work off the price of the equipment. He laughed when I rolled my eyes at his pathetic attempt to get me to stay, but then finally agreed to let me pay the wholesale cost of my new gear.
I’m not exactly destitute. Between life insurance policies and her savings, Granny left me a sizable inheritance. Hudson structured our business finances so we both, along with our two programmers, Oliver and David, were paid a decent wage. I own the intellectual property rights to the math theories our software is based on. Those alone have the potential to make me a wealthy woman … someday.
Selling our systems would have been a much more lucrative deal, but now, I’m not sure I’ll ever see any income from what was once our business. The legal papers I never had a chance to sign also contained provisions to give Oliver and David shares in the company. Eventually, they, too, would have been financially secure.
There is a fundamental truth every hiker learns very soon after starting the trail: for every easy descent into a gap, road crossing, or shelter site, there is an equally brutal uphill climb out of that location. The climb out of Neels Gap is cruel, never-ending, and just plain hard. I huff and puff, sweat and swear, and lean heavily on my hiking poles as I trudge up the endless switchbacks. To make matters worse, it begins to rain.
Some hikers love walking in the rain; others hate it with a passion. I have mixed feelings. A light, misting rain can be a welcome relief on a hot, humid Southern afternoon; in those instances, the best thing to do is cover your pack and let Mother Nature give you and your clothing a nice refreshing shower. It’s a completely different scenario if it’s cold and wet.
The air temperature doesn’t have to be below freezing for the symptoms of hypothermia to occur. All you need is cold air, a brisk breeze, and exposed wet skin to start the shivering and mental confusion characteristic of mild hypothermia. The physical exertion of hiking helps generate heat and protects the body’s core, but dressing in the appropriate rain clothing is even more important.
As I continue to climb, the temperature drops and the light rain turns into a heavy deluge. This is obviously a major low front moving through, and there’s no sign of the rain tapering off as I hike into the thickening fog. Before long, my teeth are chattering, and I know I should stop, refuel with some high-calorie food, and change into drier, warmer protective clothing.
Off to the right of the trail, I spot a cedar tree with lo
w-lying limbs. Stepping under its sheltering branches gives me a break from the worst of the storm. Soon, I’m stripping off my wet clothes and pulling on the dry shorts and T-shirt, the down sweater, and the new rain pants and jacket Liam insisted I take.
I’m immediately glad I listened to him when I step back onto the trail. The rain still beats down on me, but I’m warm, dry, and my pack is protected as I shuffle along on the rain-slick pathway.
Time seems to drag as I continue doggedly forward in the rain and fog. My mind wanders, recalling scenes from my childhood—some clear, some muddled, some confusing glimpses of unknown faces I suspect might be my mother or perhaps my father. I have only a few distinct memories from my life before I began living with Gran.
I think about my college and post-graduate years, the fear and excitement of moving to Cambridge, and the acceptance I found there—from both the students and the faculty. Suddenly, it was okay to be different, to be smart, and to like math, science, and computers. Even though I was still a teenager, I felt like I belonged and relished the sense of being part of a bigger whole, of being with people who were like me. Living with Dr. Albright and his wife eased the transition from rural Georgia to urban Massachusetts, from the Deep South to New England. They welcomed me into their home, treating me like another daughter. I realize I haven’t called them. They’re sure to be worried about my sudden disappearance.
I should call Susan, too. Although she’s our company lawyer, she’s also my friend, and I haven’t spoken to her since that last night in New York when I went to Hudson’s condo to confront him about what happened during the day, only to find Gia living there. The things Gia had told me undermined all my false bravado, sending me back to my apartment in a frenzy to escape the city and my humiliation.
I called her then, explaining what I had learned from Gia and asking her not to fight Hudson’s leaving. She begged me to stay, telling me I must have misunderstood when Gia informed me Hudson had stripped his trust fund to keep our business afloat and so, in effect, owned the company. We needed to speak to him directly, she argued, but I took the coward’s way, leaving as soon as I could arrange a flight out of New York. I’m sure she must be worried, too.
I resolve to call Dr. Albright and Susan when I stop for supplies in a few days and have access to a phone.
So lost am I in my thoughts, I don’t even realize I’ve crested the last ridge and I’m heading down into the valley where Whitley Gap Shelter is located. I’ve only taken a few steps downhill when I fall.
Everyone falls when they’re hiking. It must be some unwritten, unspoken, universal rule—you are going to fall, especially when you aren’t paying attention. Falling with a backpack on is a completely different experience than a normal trip and tumble. If you fall face first, the weight of your pack feels like a giant hand slamming you to the ground. It’s almost impossible to stop yourself from getting a face full of dirt. If you fall on your back, you end up looking like an upended turtle, unable to right yourself until you can roll over and get your legs beneath you. Hiking poles can make things worse as you flail your arms trying to keep your balance and they end up whipping around through the air. If you’re lucky, you just sit down … very, very hard, no broken bones, or sprained ankles.
This time I’m lucky.
Stepping over a pile of exposed rocks in the trail, I plant my foot, heel first, on a patch of soggy leaves covering the ground. The leaves have lost all adhesion to the wet clay under them, and before my conscious mind can register what is happening, I’m slipping and sliding, feet going in opposite directions as I struggle to find my balance on hiking poles trying their hardest to wrap themselves around my ankles. I sit with a thump, not hard enough to be seriously hurt but certainly enough to remind me to start paying better attention to my wet, slippery surroundings.
Getting up is tricky. My hiking poles, still attached to my wrists with their webbing loops, are somewhere behind me, and I wave them around, trying to position them in front of me before placing my feet on what I hope is firmer ground. With a grunt, I haul myself up, the pack on my back feeling like an anchor tethering me to the ground.
My once new, once clean, rain pants are streaked with mud, and my hand comes away covered in wet leaves when I brush off my seat. It could have been much worse, and I’m thankful it wasn’t.
I’m very careful as I continue down the mountain.
It’s evening before I reach the side trail leading to the shelter. The rain and the low-lying clouds have made it much darker than normal, and I almost miss the blue blaze that marks the turn-off. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t consider staying at this shelter. The turn-off is less than a quarter mile from the nearest highway, although the shelter itself is over a mile from the trail. Apparently, it’s not far enough to discourage the locals because, when I reach the shelter in the deepening chill, it’s evident it’s used as a secluded party destination.
Piles of trash litter the ground around the outside, and graffiti decorates the inside walls. The fire pit is full of burned beer cans. This isn’t a safe place for a lone female hiker. Yet, I decide to stay. The cold temperatures and the heavy rain almost guarantee none of the locals will want to brave the walk to get here and only determined hikers would be trying to reach a shelter this late.
To give myself a little more privacy and a little more protection from the blowing rain, I erect my tent inside the three-sided building. It’s not considered proper hiker etiquette to put a tent up inside a shelter, but with no one else here, I’m free to do what I think will help protect me. Anyone arriving after dark won’t know there’s a woman inside the tent.
While my dinner simmers in my new titanium pot, I peruse the shelter register, reading the entries left by previous hikers. I find Yellow and Wonderland’s names and the date. Apparently, they ate lunch here two days before. I leave my trail name and the date, adding a note about the slippery trail conditions.
Finished with dinner, I sit on the edge of the raised sleeping platform listening to the rain beat a steady pattern on the tin roof, the plink-plink of drops on the beer cans in the fire pit a counterpoint to its constant rhythm.
Fog has settled into a solid blanket, wrapping the lean-to in a sound-muffling shroud of murky white. A fitful wind blows wisps of more opaque bits of cloud across the meadow in front of the shelter. Like ghosts, they twist and writhe, fighting to join me in my seclusion before a stronger gust sweeps them away. They’re like the memories I’ve hiked with all afternoon, scattered fragments of people and places, painful events I’ve tried to bury in the deepest recesses of my mind. In this quiet, lonely setting, they demand to be set free … examined … acknowledged. Insisting I face the experiences that molded me.
The shelter register rests beside me on the wooden floor, a blank page calling to me. I situate it on my lap, pick up the attached pen, and begin to write.
Chapter 8
La Bella Mente
Date: Saturday, March 15
Starting Location: Neels Gap
Destination: Whitley Gap Shelter
Total Trip Miles: 38.4
Dear Hud,
You once told me I had a beautiful mind. Do you remember?
We were discussing the algorithms for the software, and I started explaining how patterns within patterns gave rise to more patterns, how chaos can interrupt and then change them into other patterns that can be predicted and manipulated. I remember being very excited to share the basis of my theories with someone other than my colleagues. I think I must have been quite animated and maybe a little loud—unusual behavior for me.
You, however, were very quiet. Realizing you hadn’t said anything in some time, I looked up at you, only to find you staring at me in wonder. I remember blushing, mortified at my rambling, and then apologizing profusely for boring you. But you shook your head and smiled before telling me I had the most beautiful mind you’d ever kno
wn.
“La bella mente,” you whispered.
Beautiful, Hud, you called my mind … beautiful. Not unusual, or weird, or messed-up. Not strange, bizarre, or different—all words I’d been labeled with at one time or another—but beautiful. You called me beautiful.
To my grandmother, I was Ariella, to my cousin and colleagues, I was Ari, but to you, I was la bella mente … a beautiful mind.
And in that moment, I did feel beautiful. Not just my mind … but every part of me. You gave me a new name and each time you said it, I felt special. I still do. Nothing about me was ever considered beautiful before.
I knew I was different. I knew my mind worked differently than other peoples’ minds. No one seemed to see the patterns I saw. I’m not even sure when I first began to see the world around me as a series of patterns. I do know it was well before I had the verbal skills to articulate what I saw and felt.
My first clear memory is of a small room. One corner contained a soft pallet of blankets for napping. Beside the pallet are several bottles, topped with nipples and full of milk I drink when I’m thirsty or hungry. There’s solid food, too. Soft, white bread, small squares of yellow cheese, and round slices of some type of meat. I don’t know the words to describe their shapes or colors, but I recognize their differences.
When I’m not sleeping, I lie and watch the light coming in through the windows high on the walls above me. I watch it move across the tiles of the floor, brightening the colors I don’t have words to name and bringing out the sparkles in the squares. I like the way they look in the sunshine.
The sunshine also creates patterns of dark and light as it creeps into the room, dividing the tiles into other shapes, which shift and change as it crosses the floor. I’m fascinated by the changes. I know it’s important to watch the light because, when it reaches the far corner of the room, someone will come into the room.