Only The Lonely

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. And, despite all that I had endured, it was that night and that candle that changed me - forever.

Charlie was the love of my life. His gentle patience and curiosity were a constant source of awe and wonder to me. I had long since shut off any creative thinking. My world was one of abject cynicism, science and a mantra that went something like this: feelings aren’t facts. A life of loss, combined with a career as a public defender had taken a toll on me. I became an expert at stuffing away my feelings. Why Charlie loved me back was a mystery, but he did.

When I took sick and was forced into an early retirement, Charlie sold his profitable consulting business, handled all the details related to selling our Portland condo and then moved us, full time, to the mountains of Western Maine.

“Time together is all we have. Let’s go where time slows down and grow old together” he said. So, I released myself to his plans and his devotion and we left everything behind to live in our remote Maine cabin.

Our shared obsession with the outdoors was matched only by our passion for fly fishing. We loved pushing our rusty old jeep along the abandoned tote roads in search of remote fishing spots. Once there, we would balance our float tubes, waders and related gear on to our backs and hike even further until water, sun and nature had completely engulfed us.

I loved floating off alone, knowing Charlie was never far away. We would connect at lunch to share a sandwich and thermos of coffee. He would brag about his strikes and catches, and I would tease him about his form and his choice of fly. “Charlie’s Party Streamer” is what he called it. It was massive compared to my tiny, scientifically accurate flies and it was decked out in flashy silver threading and gaudy white feathers. The red head gave the appearance of lipstick on a showgirl.

“No such fly in the natural world," is what I chose to say to him, ignoring all the loving words at my disposal.

“Go ahead and judge," he would say, “but my father and his father before him used this lucky fly and it works.” My moods were powerless against the bright light of his enthusiasm, and it gave my life meaning. I could have told him so.

I remember rolling my eyes as he would go on to out-fish me every time. Secretly, I would have liked to try this fly, but I never dared. My fear of losing something precious to Charlie outweighed any desire to test the luck of his streamer.

Charlie’s death was devastating.

His fall from the ladder left him alive but broken and the story would have had a happy ending but for the fact that I was away on a guided four-day fishing trip. That left Charlie cold and alone on the October ground, unable to move his broken arms and leg, unable to fight off the half-starved bear that had smelled his wounds and vulnerability from across the lake. A stray boot, his clothing shredded beyond recognition, his once blue eyes frozen gray with fear -the images played in my mind like a horrible slide show. My sadness and despondence turned to bitterness and depression. Each unreturned phone call to a caring friend effectively sealed my fate. For years I lived like a shadow, hiding from life and all of its pain.

But my story really begins on a morning in late September. The warmth of Indian Summer and the softness of a bird's song had worn a small opening through my sad stupor, and I watched from my spot on the porch as the shadows to the storage shed rolled back like a blanket. As though possessed, I left my chair and shuffled along the path toward it.

Inside, still undisturbed, hung my float tube, my waders and my fly rod. My vest had fallen off its hook and I held it in my hand, briefly, before returning it to its spot across from Charlie’s gear. As I moved to leave the shed, I caught a glimpse of “Charlie’s Party Streamer” hanging on his vest. I froze- for how long, I could not say. And then, like a mad woman awoken from a dream, I was grabbing my gear and tossing it into a pile. Just before leaving, I reached for Charlie’s vest and put it on. It hung on my body like a tablecloth, but I didn’t care. It was Charlie’s and I found comfort in wearing it.

Our old jeep, still rusty and still without a ragtop, was more of a four-wheeler than a legitimate road vehicle. We loved riding in the open air and always managed to time our trips to avoid bad weather. I used it now only in the warmer months to go to town for supplies. My access to the village grocery store and town office was by way of the 25-mile gravel road that led to our cabin. If I was careful with supplies, measuring out everything that I used, then my hermit life was interrupted only monthly. Like I did with my feelings toward Charlie, I rationed everything.

I threw my gear into the back of the jeep, grabbed my warm flannel jacket off the porch chair and left the cabin with the fever of someone who was about to miss her bus. Within a short while, I was off the gravel road and headed northwest on a rough and rocky logging road. This route, once second nature to me, felt hauntingly strange. The natural landmarks had been erased, slathered with the inevitable bramble of time.

Over the grind of the jeep’s motor, I was surprised to hear my own voice, “Charlie, stay with me today, and guide me to our favorite spot.” I smiled to imagine Charlie’s reaction to this, and then the smiling stopped as the dreadful images came rushing back.

It’s too quiet. Why isn’t Charlie here to greet me? I see a single work boot...it looks as though it was flung over onto the porch steps...I turn the corner and see only his favorite flannel shirt ripped and stained with blood. At first, I don't recognize that it is clinging to a body…. Charlie's body…

The end of the abandoned road eventually came, revealing my access point. I loaded my gear onto my back and started the long hike through the woods toward my destination. There are no mangled shirts and stray boots here, so pull yourself together. I scolded myself into moving forward, something I did often.

At the water’s edge, I assembled my rod and carefully stepped into my float tube. My own movements broke the silence as I dropped down onto the pond and floated off. The blue of the sky and the autumn foliage were magnificent. The minutes melted into hours as I lost myself in the rhythmic flow of casting and reeling in.

There, nestled deep in the sheep’s wool on my left shoulder, was Charlie's fly. Impulsively, I tied it to my line and cast out. This one is for you, my sweet Charlie.

Strike after strike, fish after fish, my heavy heart lightened. Several hours passed before I noticed the angry line of storm clouds that had collected over the mountains. The winds were shifting my position on the water. Time to head back.

As I reeled in Charlie’s fly, I felt a strike. The fish was large, and I pulled back. The line snapped. Charlie’s fly! GONE! I flushed with shame and cried out. My cries mixed with the rain that had started to fall. My cries mixed with the wind that slowed my return to shore. I sobbed my way out of my gear and labored against the storm with my monstrous float tube. The more I struggled, the harder I cried. All of my suppressed emotion poured out of me until I felt weak. Finally, with only a few more rocks between me and the soft grass of the pond’s edge, I slipped.

I recall nothing of the fall- only that when I came to, it was very dark. The rain was washing the blood from my head wound down into my eyes. I could see almost nothing.

Is this how Charlie felt? Cold and afraid? I should stay here. It would be so easy to...just...stay...here…

But I got up. Instinctively, I got up. I wiped my eyes clear with my shirt sleeve and felt around for my gear. I pushed the float tube, waders and fins into the woods. I used the butt end of my rod to steady myself. As soon as I stood up the vertigo and vomiting began.

A concussion, I must have a concussion.

I padded Charlie’s fly vest for his pen light and turned it on. It gave me what it could and, with just enough light to see my feet, I made my way back up through the woods to the jeep. Everything inside was soaked but the engine turned, and the headlights came on. I found a rag to wipe my wound, turned on the heat and carefully worked my way back down over the rocks and rain filled ruts.

The relief that I felt when the tires touched gravel was more than welcomed. My body relaxed and I even chuckled at my situation: a convertible jeep in a rainstorm, no food, a now dead flashlight, a large gash on my head and nobody around for miles. Perfect. Then I remembered that I had lost Charlie’s fly. Please forgive me, Charlie. Please forgive me. As if in response, I began to feel some warming heat from the floor vents.

Lulled into focus by the steady drumming of the windshield wipers and the hum of the engine, I continued to drive.

Then, just ahead - maybe 200 yards- I saw something. A moose? The dark form did not move. A bear? Oh god, no, please, not a bear. Wet leaves fell like pieces of newspaper onto the road and the wind roared around me like a freight train. Still, the form did not move. My headlights strained to outline the shape for me: a person? Standing in the middle of nowhere, facing me...Yes!! It’s a person!!

I brought the jeep to a stop and idled. What do I do? What do I do??! The wipers flailed. My body shivered from the wet and the cold and I worked to fight back another wave of vomiting.

“Are you okay!?” I hollered above the storm. The figure stood stock still. “Are you okaaaay??!!” I repeated.

What do I do?? What do I do??

“Dammit!” I muttered and grabbed the door handle. I kept one hand on the jeep for balance and pushed through the heavy branches that flanked the road as I made my way to the figure. Her appearance told me everything I needed to know; she was in trouble. She was soaking wet and what little clothing she wore was ripped and caked with mud. And, she was young, barely 20.

“Let me help you!” I commanded. The situation was desperate.

I guided her to the passenger seat and opened the door. I quickly wiped the seat with my own soaked shirt sleeve before she sat. She said nothing as I handed her the seat belt. When she ignored the gesture, I leaned over to belt her in. She smelled of earth, sweet and pungent with decay, and it overpowered me.

“It’s okay now, You’re in shock. We’re going to be okay, you and me. We’re going to be okay. Everything is okay," I chanted as I returned to the driver's seat.

I slammed the jeep into first gear, and we crawled forward. Nothing seemed familiar anymore. How far down the road had I already traveled? I have to get to town hall- to the payphone. Then, I can call for an ambulance...

“What happened? Did you have an accident?” There was no response.

I wiped more rain and blood from my eyes and looked down at my passenger’s hands. Her skin was bluish gray and I worried about hypothermia. What is she doing out here alone? I thought, forgetting my own predicament.

I tried again, “Was anyone else with you?”

Why won’t she answer me?!!

Without warning, she turned her head and looked over her right shoulder. It was then that she released a scream so deep and so mournful that I slammed on the breaks. I was terrified. The woman raised her hand like a specter and pointed a blue finger toward what looked like a path along the roadside. In that moment, I saw it - the fragile light of a single candle. Why had I never noticed a cabin here before?

I pulled the jeep up to the tiny trail head and stopped. As I worked to release my own seat belt, my strange rider left me. She left me and never looked back. I glimpsed the last pieces of her body moving into the forest, toward the glow of this meager beam of light.

I drove on.

The next day I awoke to find that it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I recalled some warnings about sleeping with a concussion and cursed my luck. I wailed, “I don’t want to be alive, Charlie! I have no need for this loneliness. Why did you leave me?? Why???!!!” And, when nobody answered back, I stared at the ceiling, quietly settling myself.

Wait a minute. Last night. Did I imagine it?? A woman? Yes! There was a woman, and she was hurt! I rubbed my wound.

Soon, I found myself driving back and forth along the road looking for the spot where my rider had entered the woods. Just as the afternoon light began to fade, I found the head of a small and overgrown footpath. It was barely visible from the road. I must’ve driven by this a thousand times.

I left the safety of my vehicle and followed the tiny trail to a dark and dilapidated cabin. The stairs were rotted, and the screen door strained to hold on with just one remaining hinge. I’m coming unhinged too.

I knocked on the cabin door. Nothing. I knocked again, calling out, "Hello?????”

A new sound startled me - it was the slow creek of the front door. A first, it appeared to be opening by itself until I met the eyes of an ancient woman. She was concave, her body encased in shadow.

“I know why you are here,” she whispered.

“Yes! I was here last night! I drove somebody here. Your light came on. Is she okay? I drove a woman here!!” My speech and my thoughts could not connect. I was frantic.

The woman’s eyes locked with mine and she said nothing for what seemed an eternity. It was only when my breathing steadied that she began to speak, “I know why you are here. She is safe now but there was a time when we did not know. Many years ago, she was raped and murdered. My daughter, brutally murdered and left to die in the words. The boys who did this put her in a shallow grave just north of here. She was alive when they buried her. You know loss, too, don’t you stranger?”

My head was spinning again, and I felt sick. My grandmother’s death caused by a faulty kerosene heater, the car crash that took my parents and sister, Charlie’s death – LOSS. SO. MUCH. LOSS.

“YES!” I gurgled through fresh tears. “I am ALWAYS ALONE!”

“Every year, on the day of her murder, she walks the woods. You brought her home to me.” The gnarled hands of the woman moved to close the door. She was fading now, her grief pulling her back into the darkness.

Don’t leave me! Please don't leave me. I wanted to be with her. I wanted her to wrap her arms around me, to fuse her pain with mine. And I wanted to die.

Instead, I said nothing. Obediently, I moved away from the door, from the gloom of this ghostly cabin, and the woman. Suddenly, the door wrenched open again and I spun around to see the old woman’s outstretched arm. She spoke to me one last time, “This. She wanted me to give you this.”

Dizzy. Exhausted. I made my way back toward her and reached out to take the silver and white streamer fly from her hand, and I pressed in into mine.