My Abandonment(42)

"I believe in you," I say. "In the city I had to say those things since I was afraid. I love you and I know you are doing everything for us and that I can't always understand why."

"She is watching us," he says. "What did you tell her?"

"Nothing," I say. "She's asleep. I'm sorry."

My face is close to Father's. He smells the same as he always does. He jerks his face away and scrubs at the cloudy window and looks out.

"I'm your girl," I say. "You came back to teach me so we'd never have to be apart again."

"Stand up, Caroline," he says lower than a whisper. "Follow me and don't say anything. Be sure to get your things."

His red frame pack is stuck in the shelf above and finally he gets it loose. I follow him toward the front of the bus and when I get my pack the lady still looks asleep. My picture on the window is fogging back over but still there.

Father stands at the yellow line by the driver you're not supposed to cross.

"Excuse me, sir," Father says. "Would you let us out up here?"

"Where?" the driver says.

"Anywhere here's fine," Father says. "Our cabin is just up over that ridge there."

The bus slows but does not stop. Outside the black pines fill the windows.

"Any special stops are supposed to be cleared at the station," the driver says.

"I spoke to them about it in Vancouver," Father says. "We transferred buses, you see. Please, sir. If we go all the way to Bend, we can't get home until tomorrow, and my wife will worry about the girl."

"Please don't tell me you have luggage underneath," the driver finally says.

"No, we don't," Father says. "None at all."

***

The windows of the bus are dark. I can't see any faces looking out. The red taillights don't last long and then we're alone and it's darker all at once.

"Feels a lot colder," I say.

"It's the altitude," Father says.

"Are we close to a town?" I say.

"Not really," he says, "but look, the number on this road here looks familiar to me."

It's not a paved road, and not really gravel, just worn down dirt. It looks like a fire lane in the forest park but more overgrown.

"I have some friends who live around here," Father says. "Who have a cabin up here, somewhere."

"Where's the moon?" I say. "I thought it was out before."

"That nosy woman," he says. "She was asking you questions, wasn't she?"

"I didn't say anything," I say.

"She could have had the police waiting for us in Bend, or even in Sisters, waiting to take us back to Portland and all that. Would that have made you happy?"

"She was just a lady," I say. "She didn't care about anything but that lake. She was just a boring lady."

The road slants upward. Enough light comes down through the trees that the edges stick out. The potholes and ruts are easy to follow.

"So what are you saying?" Father says. "That I made us get off into this forest in the middle of the night for nothing?"

"No," I say. "I don't know."

"Better safe than sorry, Caroline," he says.

"I know that," I say. "You're right. So you really know where we're going?"

"It seems familiar," Father says. "That's all I said. Are you tired?"

"Not exactly," I say.

"Good," he says. "Good girl. If we slow down too much we could really get cold."

"I'm already cold," I say.

"No you're not," he says. "You just feel cold."

The road levels and the trees open up and thicken again. We pass through a stretch where we have to climb over trees fallen across the road. Some are blackened and burnt. Some of the standing trees are just sharp black spikes against the gray sky. Father is explaining about the forest fires when it begins to snow.

"Better than rain," he says.

The flakes drift slow and heavy at first. Father takes off his pack and takes out two white plastic shopping bags. He puts them over my feet with rubber bands around my ankles to hold them on. He has his boots but I have only my sneakers. I don't know when he took off his empty black eyeglasses.

Pretty soon the snow is sticking to the ground and we're walking on top of it.

"I read about igloos before," I say. "It's warm inside there even if the ice is cold somehow."

"Sleeping in the snow is a lot more fun to read about than to do," Father says. "I promise you that. Here."

He straps the headlamp across my forehead but the light only pulls snowflakes into my eyes and makes it more impossible to see. I switch off the switch without seeing anything. The wind is stronger now and the air is colder and the snow is sideways. I have my head turned a little to be able to see at all and in that moment along the edge of the road she comes running, dark against the white. It's Lala with her mouth open and there are no other dogs with her, her thin brown shape and her tail slipping past and then gone behind us.