More Than Words: Stories of Courage Read online

  They made a stop at a grocery store, where they bought a week’s worth of provisions, including things for the barbecue and for s’mores, since they were planning to build a campfire by the lake. Driving through the beautiful small town, they made one final stop at a family-owned place called the Sky River Bakery, where they treated themselves to jam kolaches, homemade bread and freshly squeezed cider from a local farm. With Miranda reading from the printed directions they’d been sent, they drove along the river road, resplendent now with fall color. A few miles outside town, they were plunged into wilderness along a narrow road that followed the curve of the Schuyler River.

  The colors of the turning leaves ranged from pale buttery yellow to deep fiery pink, so vivid that, coupled with the blue of the sky, they hurt the eyes. Miranda found herself blinking back tears. I’m so glad I’m getting to see this, she thought.

  She reached over and switched on the radio. The tail end of “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by the Proclaimers was playing and she glanced across at Jacob. She could tell by the funny little smile on his face that he remembered the song the way she did. He used to belt it out to her, complete with phony Scottish accent, in the mornings when they were younger. Much, much younger. Young enough to risk being late for work because they needed to stay in bed just a little longer.

  She hadn’t thought about those days in quite a while. She hadn’t thought about much of anything in quite a while. She’d been too consumed by her illness—first, learning all she could about it, then choosing a course of treatment, then following that course even if it killed her.

  That was chemo, she recalled. It was designed to kill things off. In destroying the cancer cells, it tended to take other things with it—hair, eyelashes, energy, appetite. Dignity. You couldn’t very well hold on to your dignity when you had nine different doctors feeling you up.

  “We’re supposed to be watching for a wooden sign on a tree,” she said. “That’s where we turn.”

  “Spotted it,” Andrew said. Wonder of wonders, he even sounded slightly excited. “There, on the left.”

  The rustic sign pointed out an even narrower gravel road that led them uphill. They passed a No Trespassing—Private Property sign, and the last of civilization fell away. Here, it was hard to believe they were not all that far from town. It felt as if they were the first pioneers, blazing a trail into unknown territory.

  “Looks like we’ve found it,” Jacob announced.

  Miranda sat forward, peering out the window at the rustic timber archway with Camp Kioga Established 1932 spelled out in wrought-iron twigs. Past the gateway, the camp opened up before them, a breathtaking compound with rustic buildings, broad meadows and sports courts. Cabins and bungalows bordered a placid, pristine lake—Willow Lake, glittering like a sapphire and crowned by a tiny island with a gazebo.

  Jacob parked in front of the main pavilion, a huge timber structure marked by flags flying from three poles in front. There was a railed deck projecting out over Willow Lake. According to Sophie, the pavilion, with its huge dining hall, used to be the main social center back when the camp was in operation.

  They got out of the car, and everyone was quiet for a few minutes, trying to take it all in. Miranda pictured the camp in its heyday, when families from the city flocked to the mountains. The air smelled impossibly sweet, of fresh wind and water and the dry, crisp aroma of turning leaves. The reflection of the colorful trees in the water gleamed. Miranda nearly flinched at all the beauty.

  All but one of the buildings had been closed and shuttered for the season. Jacob pointed out a large, well-kept cottage set off by itself at the edge of the lake. There were fresh flowers on the front porch and a Welcome banner hanging under the eaves. “I guess that’s where we’re staying,” Jacob said.

  The digital photos Sophie had sent them didn’t do the place justice. It was a beautiful timbered lodge, solid with the passage of years. The porch had a swing, two rocking chairs and a hanging bed suspended from chains. A pier jutted out over the lake; tied to it were a kayak and a catboat with its colorful sail furled like a barber’s pole.

  Inside, the cottage was intimate, with cozy reading nooks, an upstairs loft under slanting ceilings and dormer windows, a river-stone fireplace. The main bedroom featured a bed with a birch-twig headboard and a bathroom with a deep, claw-foot tub. Everywhere, Miranda found small touches that helped her understand why it was so hard for Sophie to say goodbye to the Bellamy family—a collection of postcards dating back fifty years and more, framed photos from the era when Camp Kioga was a bungalow colony, pictures in handcrafted frames, vintage posters of the Adirondack Great Camps. Each bed was covered in a handmade quilt, and there was a cedar chest filled with colorful striped Hudson’s Bay blankets.

  The cottage had been readied for them with thoughtful care. Kindling and firewood were stacked by the fireplace and wood-stove. There was a crockery vase of dried flowers on the table and jars of colored leaves on the windowsills. They found a collection of art supplies and a guest book on the coffee table, opened to a blank page. On the scrubbed pine dining table, they found a handwritten note of welcome, signed by Jane and Charles Bellamy. There was also a collection of literature about the camp, an area nature guide and trail map.

  “Wow,” said Miranda, taking it all in. “This is paradise.”

  “Can I go look around outside?” Andrew asked.

  “Sure. Don’t get lost in the woods.”

  “Mo-om.” Andrew ran out of the house and pounded up and down the dock, then raced into the woods behind the lodge. His small, compact body expressed exuberance with every move he made and it was a joy watching him. For the first time since this ordeal had started, Miranda looked at her son and had the sense that everything was going to be all right.

  She felt both gratitude and nervousness as they brought in their things. She was grateful for the opportunity they had been given but suddenly and unexpectedly anxious about the unbroken string of days stretching out before them.

  “Well?” asked Jacob. “Is this what you had in mind?”

  She smiled at him, still nervous, then looked at Valerie. “Even nicer. And you know what’s crazy?”

  Valerie nodded. “No TV. No phone. No computer. That’s crazy.”

  Miranda tried to shrug off her daughter’s glum sentiment. “To me, what’s crazy is that I’m having trouble remembering who I used to be…what I used to be like before I got sick. I got so used to running from one appointment to the next, and waiting around for tests and monitoring myself that I lost myself. I lost who I really am. So this week, my job is to find that person again.”

  Valerie raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you quit the anxiety medication, Mom?”

  “Very funny.” Miranda had stopped taking it, and a part of her missed the way the prescription pill softened the harsh edges of her worry. Another part of her felt triumphant. That bit by bit she was reclaiming control of her life. Relearning how to manage her emotions on her own was a huge part of that.

  They spent the day settling in and exploring the camp. Miranda took pictures of everything, capturing a loon in flight, the sun filtering through the forest, her children’s faces, her husband turning to grin at her while leaves fell all around him. Dinner that night was a simple affair—spaghetti, salad and bread, ice cream for dessert. Afterward, she and Jacob took their glasses of wine outside to sit on the porch and watch the sun go down across the lake. In the yard in front of the cottage, the kids played badminton, their voices echoing brightly off the water. They played until it was too dark to see the birdie and the first stars of twilight appeared. A chorus of peepers rose from the reeds down by the lakeshore.

  Swaying slightly on the porch swing, Miranda felt a rare sense of contentment as she looked around at each of their faces. “Just let me savor this for a minute. I have all my favorites right here with me, right in this moment.”

  “Not Gretel.” Andrew swatted the ground with his badminton racket.

 
; “Nice,” Valerie muttered. “Way to go, moron.”

  “Well, it’s true,” he grumbled.

  “I miss Gretel, too,” Miranda said, wishing the mood could have lasted a few more minutes. “Come on. We’d better go inside before the mosquitoes find us.”

  Jacob did a surprisingly good job making a fire in the wood-burning stove. Once that chore was over, though, everyone seemed to be at a loss.

  “So what, exactly, are we supposed to do?” Valerie asked.

  Andrew rummaged through his backpack. “Good question,” he said.

  “We sit around and talk, or draw and paint, play cards and board games, or read, or…just be together as a family,” Miranda said. “Listen, this is not going to work at all if we don’t make it work.” She looked at Jacob for support, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He was standing at the big picture window, staring out at the darkening lake. Tension seemed to hover around him.

  The kids decided on their own to get going on the assignments they’d brought from home. It was amazing, Miranda thought, how interesting they found schoolwork now that they didn’t have a TV or computer.

  Jacob found a flashlight by the front door. “I think I’ll hike over to the main lodge and check messages,” he said, heading outside again. Camp Kioga had one phone, they’d been told, and there wasn’t a cell-phone signal in a five-mile radius.

  “Jacob,” said Miranda, following him out. She bit her tongue to keep from saying more.

  He clearly knew what she was thinking. “It’s our livelihood, Miranda. It would be irresponsible of me to lose an account because I was playing Last of the Mohicans.”

  “Is that what you think this is?” she asked. “Some drama we’re playing? God, Jacob. We haven’t done anything as a family in over a year. This has nothing to do with drama or role-playing or fulfilling some kind of fantasy.”

  He held up both hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender.

  “Okay, sorry. You’re right. We need to be here, and from here on out, I’ll try to park my worries at the door.”

  She knew he was sincere as he spoke the words, but she also knew he’d continue to worry about work. He would just do so quietly, not sharing his concerns with her. She sighed. “Is this what the whole week is going to be like?” She picked up an embroidered pillow and tossed it at him. “I miss the way we used to fight.”

  “Come again?”

  “You heard me. Before I got sick, we’d fight like equals instead of you backing down as soon as you see me getting upset.”

  “I don’t—”

  “And then we’d get furious with each other, and then the fight would end and we would forgive each other and then we would make love and—”

  “Could we maybe just skip the fighting part?” He slipped his arms around her from behind. “Maybe just cut to the chase?”

  She laughed and turned to face him. “You can chase me anytime.”

  He switched off the flashlight and kissed her, and finally, she had the sense that they were making progress.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I’m bored,” said Andrew the next day, coming down from the sleeping loft. Miranda was sitting in a window seat, idly drawing in a sketchbook. She looked over at her son and smiled. “Good morning to you, too. Is your sister still sleeping?”

  “Of course. She’ll probably sleep the whole time we’re here.”

  “You and I are the early birds of the family,” Miranda said. “We always have been.” To her surprise, Jacob, too, was still sound asleep. Back home, he was up before the sun every day. In fact, when she’d awakened this morning and seen him lying next to her, she’d been startled. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d awakened to a warm, sleeping husband.

  “So we’ve got art supplies, blank journals, board games, decks of cards, sports equipment,” she pointed out. “Not to mention that.” Her gesture indicated Willow Lake, which looked mystical and gorgeous, with a light mist swirling across the surface and the sun breaking through the trees. “I don’t think being bored is an option.”

  “I can’t help it,” he said. “I don’t feel like doing anything.”

  “Draw something,” she suggested. She turned the sketchbook so he could see. Using colored pencils, she had done a passable sketch of the view from the window. It was no work of art, but when she’d looked out the window at the misty lake and the fall color, she’d been possessed by a desire to draw it.

  “That’s really good,” Andrew said.

  “It’s really not, but you’re nice to say so. I took a lot of art classes when I was in college.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I loved it.” The words were out before Miranda had a chance to think about what she was saying. Her degree was in marketing, which she didn’t love. She’d chosen that because it was practical. Something that would help her get a job after college. All her adult life, she had made choices based on expedience rather than passion.

  She tore the drawing out of the sketchbook and wrote her name with a flourish in the bottom right-hand corner of the page. “I’m going to take this home. It’ll remind me of this trip every time I look at it. Here, your turn.”

  Andrew looked dubious as he took the sketchbook from her. “I don’t know what to draw.”

  “Draw something from your imagination.”

  “Like what?”

  Her son, she reminded herself, was the most concrete thinker she knew. “Draw the first thing you thought of when you woke up this morning.”

  “Taking a leak?”

  “Okay, the second thing.”

  He looked out the window, his face solemn. “That would be the same thing I think of every time I wake up.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Gretel.”

  Her heart lurched. “Maybe you should draw her, then.”

  He picked out a brown pencil and stared at the blank page. “That’ll just make me sad.”

  “You look kind of sad now,” Miranda pointed out. “Do you think it’ll make you sadder?”

  He thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think I could get any sadder than I already am.”

  Miranda nodded. “I’m sad about Gretel, too. I miss her so much.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. I adored Gretel. It was sad to see her get old and sick, but when I think about her, I think about what a happy dog she was, and how happy she made us while she was here, and all the happy memories I have of her time with us. Tell you what. You sit here and draw a picture of anything you want, and I’ll fix breakfast for us. Sound good?”

  He nodded, and she moved to the kitchen to fix his favorite—cornflakes with a banana, and honey drizzled on top. She glanced at Andrew, who had quickly become absorbed in his drawing. Good, she thought. Creative expression was beneficial in ways that couldn’t be measured. She just knew it was true. When she drew or arranged flowers or even hummed a song out of tune, just the act of doing it was soothing.

  She took her time making breakfast, wanting to give him plenty of space for drawing. After a while, she brought two bowls of cereal to the table with a bottle of milk.

  “Hungry now?” she asked.

  “Starving,” he said without looking up. He added a few more flourishes to his drawing, then angled the sketchbook to show her. “This,” he said with a chuckle, “was kind of fun to draw, but it’s really bad.”

  “How can it be bad if you had fun drawing it?” Miranda looked at the picture. “And how can it be bad if it’s Gretel?”

  “It doesn’t even look like her,” he complained.

  “Sure it does. It looks like a smiling, cartoon Gretel. Now, come and get your breakfast.”

  He wrote his name in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture, just as Miranda had. Then he came to the table. “You’re having the same thing I am.”

  “Yep.”

  “I didn’t know you liked cornflakes with banana and honey.”

  “I didn’t used to. I’ve deci
ded I need to try something new every day, even if it’s just something minor, like cereal.”

  “Why?”

  She took a bite of cereal and chewed it thoughtfully before answering. “Trying new things is good. It means you’re moving forward.”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  They finished their cereal and put the dishes in the sink. Glancing at Andrew, she could see the “I’m bored” cloud creeping across his face. “Tell you what,” she suggested. “How about we go for a hike?”

  “A hike to where?”

  Miranda paused. Not too long ago, she got tired just going up the Harbor Steps in Seattle. How would she manage this?

  Steeling her will, she indicated the array of trail maps the Bellamys had left for them. “We can just pick something. There’s a mountain we could climb—Saddle Mountain. On the way down, we’ll pass a waterfall called Meerskill Falls. Sound okay?”

  Another shrug. “I guess.”

  “Don’t wet yourself with enthusiasm, kiddo.”

  They left a note—illustrated with Andrew’s silly drawings—and put some bottles of water and PowerBars into a day pack. The trail up Saddle Mountain was well marked, winding through the breathtakingly beautiful forest. Miranda took it all in, the crisp scent of the air, the rustle of fallen leaves on the forest floor, the fecund aroma of plant life. It didn’t take long to climb the mountain. The Catskills were old, gentle rises in the earth, and the trail curving up its side an easy walk. Even so, she had to stop and catch her breath; Andrew was heartbreakingly patient.

  “I love this,” she said as they reached the summit and headed down the other side. “I love being out in the woods. I love it even more because you’re with me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Andrew looked pleased. “I guess it’s okay.”

  “Okay.” She imitated his tone. “Here you are, playing hooky from school for a week to come to this incredible place, and it’s just okay?”

  He didn’t seem to be listening. He was looking past her at something on the trail. “Whoa,” he said.