Days Forgotten but Not Lost Ch. 07

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I woke up a bundle of nervous energy. At first I was disappointed – such a good release during the night, surely I would still be feeling the effects of that! I had coffee by the lake and watched the sun crest over the hills. I cried about Scott and the fucked-up version of life I had landed in. I silently thanked whatever deity I might believe in that I had flushed those pills the night before instead of giving in to some self-destructive craving.

But still, I thought about Scott the most. I knew I loved him – the Scott whom I had come to know in the past few months. I also was certain that I had loved him before. Not only had I loved him, but we were so happy and so good together. What bothered me was that something happened in between, something so serious that it wrecked my life and drove a wedge between us. It had to do with Vicky, I knew, but was that all?

If I could ever be with Scott again, I had to know what had happened. But I was afraid that, once I knew, I wouldn't want to be with him anymore.

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Later that morning, I was thinking again of my dream/fantasy/memory from the night before, and I realized I was feeling drawn to, of all things, the typewriter. At first, I thought it was because on most Monday mornings I would be at work, typing. But the urge grew, and it wasn't just the compulsion to type that was pulling me there. The images and pictures of my dream were growing, fighting for expression. Words and phrases, whole scenes were coming to mind.

"Enough!" I shouted into the cabin. I pulled open a drawer where I had seen some paper the day before. Putting a few sheets next to the old machine, I slipped one page in. The ink was dry, but I figured out how to roll the tape to a section that still worked. I sighed, placed my fingers on the keys, and began.

It was fluff; it was a Ginny Bowers knock-off. I had the couple meet on the airplane, cross paths in the night market, go out for drinks, and ultimately end up in bed. But then trouble started: he was mistaken for a drug runner, some tough guys chased them around, they slipped away on a boat to a private island, sex on the beach, and so on. She's never sure who he really is, despite his protestations of innocence, but the bad-boy image makes him all the more alluring. But then... Oh wow, what if she was setting him up the whole time? What if she's the drug runner? Wouldn't that be a fun twist?

A few pages became a stack of pages. An impulsive whim became a three-day stretch of writing, walking, cooking, and sleeping. How much of the story was sheer invention? Probably most of it. But a lot of the sex and some of the experiences were drawn from a different well, one that felt more familiar. I didn't think it would be any good. I was completely making up the geography and cultural details. There were continuity errors and other problems, I knew. But it was fun to write, and it gave my mind some much-needed focus. I was at least half-way through the book by the end of the third day.

I had found my hobby.

*******

Late Thursday afternoon, I was sitting on the dock, throwing crumbs to the ducks and fish. It was the first day of summer. I heard a car pull up and figured that it must be Irwin, coming to check on things. But Irwin usually honks to warn me, I thought, smiling at how naturally that memory had come back to me. Standing, I tossed the remaining handful of crumbs into the water and laughed at the clumsy feeding frenzy that ensued. Turning around I looked up the embankment and squinted. There was no one in sight. The cars were on the other side of the house. As I started to walk, I saw the front door open and a figure stepped down off the porch.

Scott.

He stopped and leaned against the porch, looking in my direction. His hands were in the pockets of his jeans and he seemed to be waiting for my reaction. I walked evenly up the slope, trying to keep my emotions in check. Yes, part of me wanted to run to him, to kiss him, to tell him of all the happiness I could remember of our life together. And part of me wanted to start picking up rocks to throw at him, to scold him, to yell at and berate him.

By the time we were a few steps apart, I was a quivering mess, sniffing back tears and still not sure what to say.

"So," he began, looking down at his feet, "how much do you know?"

"Huh-uh," I said, wagging my finger in the air. "I'm not playing that game anymore. That's just a way to see how much you can still hide. Vicky did it, you did it... I'm done falling for that. You explain."

"You're right," he said, looking guilty. Then nodding off to the woods he said, "Wanna go to our rock?" I cocked my head and gave him a look of confusion. "OK, so you don't remember everything yet," he commented. "Follow me."

We walked down the path to the lake and followed it as it went to the left, but after a hundred yards or so, we left the path and walked straight into the woods. A few minutes later, we reached a clearing. In the clearing was a large rock jutting about four feet above the ground. The top of it was flat but slightly sloped. We clambered up onto it, and I saw many sets of initials and dates carved or drawn onto it.

"I'm glad you found your way here," he said. "Did the pictures remind you?"

"No... Sort of..." I said softly. "I needed to get away, so I just drove. I ended up here."

"Well, ever since I first brought you here, it was always your sanctuary," he explained.

"So this is your place?"

"My grandfather's," he said. "On my mom's side. My mom's allergies are so bad she never wanted to come here, so it became mine."

"Have you come here a lot since... since whatever?"

"No," he answered solemnly. "In fact, I about gave the woman at the store..."

"Cheryl?" I interrupted.

He smiled warmly, "Cheryl looked like she'd seen a ghost when I walked in. Almost didn't let me come up here."

"Then I suppose Irwin'll be by soon to check on me," I sighed.

"You should probably be the one to do the explaining when he gets here," he said with a serious look. "But no, I haven't been back since the last time we were here together, the time those photos were taken – December '97. After... after the divorce I told you that you could still use it without worrying about me showing up. Like I said, it was your sanctuary. You used to come here to write."

"I used to write?" I said, still surprised, despite the way I'd spent the past few days.

Scott leaned back and laughed. "You really don't remember, do you? I saw the pages on the desk and thought... Well, never mind. Yes. Yes, you used to write a lot. This is Bower Mountain, in West Virginia... That's why you wrote under the name Ginny Bowers."

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