What We Find (Sullivan's Crossing, #1)(41)

Cal always knew there was something wrong with his father but he had no idea what. Eccentric, they called him. When Cal was about thirteen he thought he had it figured out—he blamed it on the pot. Jed smoked daily. But it was another few years before he’d learn the truth—his father heard voices. They were back on the farm because Marissa’s father had fallen ill and she was an only child. It was a lucky break—they were stable for a while. Jed, who knew a lot about everything and had experience in farming from their days as migrant workers, had something to do and they were all warm and fed. And one night Marissa asked, “Where’s your father?”

Cal said, “I saw him by the barn, talking to himself again. I guess he’s running ideas.”

And out of the blue Marissa said, “He’s not talking to himself.”

Cal was seventeen and suddenly it was all so clear. Jed had secret friends. Their mother was completely devoted because she was busy trying to conceal his illness. His delusions conversed with him and gave him advice, not always good advice. He smoked a lot of dope to keep them quiet and Marissa watched over him like the keeper she was and made sure the drug use didn’t get out of hand. She supported him in not seeking medical intervention because the drugs doctors used would slow down his beautiful mind and he couldn’t bear it. He’d tried a couple of times, she said, and it was brutal. He became a zombie. But worse, he became depressed because he couldn’t think.

Things had been quiet in those quarters the past ten years or so. Cal’s grandfather had died a long time ago and then his grandmother, as old as the ages, had needed Jed and Marissa on the farm, so they stayed. Then Grandma passed. Cal and his siblings were raised and gone. Jed and Marissa had no other means of support. Sometimes Cal held his breath, ready for some harebrained idea that would have them off on an adventure, but so far so good. Cal, being the father to his father, could usually talk Jed out of things. I think if we burn the fields instead of plow them, the ash will give essential nutrients to the soil and make next year’s crop richer.

No, Cal said, that only works on rice fields. It has the opposite effect on corn and wheat. Besides, you lease those fields to farmers.

But God, they were exhausting. So, unable to really help and refusing to be as codependent as Marissa was, Cal limited his contact with them. He visited about once a year and talked to them every two to four weeks. He’d like to just talk to his mother but she was attached to his father and there was no way to isolate her and pull her out of that mess, not even for a conversation. They were like conjoined twins.

Interestingly, Cal, his younger sister Sedona and younger brother, Dakota, all broke out of that craziness. With a vengeance! Sedona was a psychologist, married to a businessman, mother of two children, living a very stable, happy life. Dakota was an Army major, decorated for valor. He was so rigid and conservative it almost made Cal’s teeth ache to be around him.

But Sierra, the baby, was lost. She might be schizophrenic like her father but it was impossible to tell because of her drug use. She’d seemed all right into her twenties and was an excellent student, then it fell apart. Cal and Lynne had staged an intervention, explaining the situation with her father, and mother for that matter, and tried to get her help. But rather than finding the source of her pain in Jed Jones, Sierra found an ally. Apparently she understood about the wild notions and mysterious voices. Sierra was now on the farm with Mom and Dad, probably weaving, reading bizarre shit and toking it up with Dad in the afternoons. “Whatever works,” Marissa was known to say.

Living with, perhaps understanding how to function in such a family, had made careers for Cal and Sedona. They were the opposite of freewheeling, new-age, whack-a-doodle hippies. Maybe Dakota, too. It was almost counterintuitive—if the parents are hippies and revolutionaries, the kids end up moderate and conventional.

Cal kept hiking. Every third or fourth night he found a campground or little bit of a town where he could wash, eat a protein-heavy meal, drink a couple of beers, talk to people, resupply.

It was when his trail also became counterintuitive, when he had to hike south to hike north, that he realized how much he missed Maggie. They were a little bit alike. They were both struggling to move on from their dynamic but abandoned careers, both getting over difficult childhoods, both floundering a little as they reached for a lifestyle that brought peace and comfort. And they could both go back to where they’d been tomorrow, pick up the threads of their previous lives, and succeed in many ways. She could go back to Denver and step into the operating room and resume her role as a talented young neurosurgeon. He could go back to Grosse Pointe and his old firm would welcome him with open arms. But he didn’t think either of them would do that.

He’d been on the trail for fourteen days. He’d done what he came to do. He’d left Lynne in the wind on a beautiful mountain pass. He turned right then, in the middle of the trail, and began walking south.

*



Maggie’s muscles ached, and for good reason. She’d thrown herself into physical labor. She’d far rather enjoy the calisthenics of sex, but her lover had taken to the trail. He’d been gone two weeks and she was trying to accept the idea that her fling was over and she wouldn’t see him again.

Maggie ran the store, organizing, learning, stocking, ordering, even balancing the books, which was mostly accomplished by computer program, thankfully.

“Know how to make a small fortune?” Sully asked Frank. “Take a large fortune and put it into educating a neurosurgeon who decides to quit and sell picnic supplies.” Then, turning toward Maggie he said, “You’re going to ruin your hands in the garden and shelving. For the love of God, go home!”