Synopsis

Carolina never asked to be the survivor. But after her husband, Sonny, and their child, Birdie are killed in a car accident she is the only one left. Trapped in grief, all Carolina can think about is escaping. Her husband had recently inherited, Wildwind, a rambling old house on the Oregon coast. Perhaps there she could figure out how to reconstruct her broken life.

Carolina spends long days in seclusion amidst the ancient spruce forest and slowly begins writing through her pain. As a poet, teacher, and author she’d always relied on words for understanding life. But Carolina’s healing time with nature is at risk when she discovers the forest is under threat of development.

Joining the community resistance, led by the town librarian, a biologist documenting the plant and animal life, a mechanic who was a former logger, and a local historian, Carolina works to defend the acres of pristine nature. Long-lost photographs from her attic and a rediscovered herbarium may offer critical clues about the origin of the waterfall, the creek, and the endangered plants at the center of the controversy.

Carolina’s voice reemerges as she is called to write and speak once again. How far is she willing to re-engage with the public to protect the forest? As Carolina explores the definition of family, she vows to do whatever it takes to protect her new home.

Chapter 1

I had so many questions. But when you’re in the clinic office with your physician husband sitting across from his oncologist, and they’re discussing treatment plans and implications, it can feel like they’re the experts and your intuition is a nagging fishwife. Now, all I’m left with is the aching conviction if only I’d asked the right questions, my daughter and husband might be alive today.

“Are you sure you feel up to driving?” I asked Sonny one more time as we made breakfast. “Sarah can pick up Birdie from preschool and give you a ride to your session.”

“Yes, I’m sure, Miss Worrier. I want to see Birdie before my last appointment. She’ll be my inspiration to get through it.”

“Of course,” I said, pushing away misgivings and a troublesome fear in my belly.

“I’ve confirmed the U-Haul for next week.” Sonny changed the subject as he divided eggs and pancakes onto three breakfast plates. The Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes with scrambled egg hair and a maple syrup halo were Birdie’s.

“I got the van hitch installed yesterday,” I said. One more thing checked off the moving list. It was the end of November, and we were packing for a cross-country move from Ann Arbor, Michigan to Tillamook on the central coast of Oregon. We were heading to Wildwind, Sonny’s family home that he’d recently inherited.

“Birdie, come and eat, you can finish your drawing after school.” Our four-year-old daughter filled every free moment with creating “gifts”. She’d sprinkled our home with brightly colored rainbows, golden suns, whiskered cats, and stick people hugging each other since she’d been old enough to hold a crayon. But this was the first year she understood the power of giving and she seemed determined to share her hand-drawn magic with everyone she met.

“I called Helena and told her we’d be there by Christmas Eve. Birdie will wake up in our new home on Christmas morning,” Sonny said. “Helena’s so excited. It’s been too long since there was a child for Santa to visit.” Helena, the local librarian, was the caretaker of Wildwind and his late Aunt Edith. It seemed we inherited her along with the house.

All the pieces were falling into place. Today was Sonny’s final chemo. Then one more week for his bloodwork review. Piled in the garage were boxes of essential things for the U- Haul, with open containers waiting for last minute additions. The rest of our belongings were heading for storage.

We’d spend the winter in Oregon. We hadn’t made plans after that. For now, it was enough to take time off to make memories with Birdie. To let Sonny heal. To allow the stress to flow out of my body. My hand went to my belly. Two embryos were waiting at the fertility clinic. Maybe by summer, we’d try again. I smiled at the thought of twins. Birdie would love that.

“Okay,” Birdie agreed, “but don’t look at my picture, it’s a surprise.”

“I’d never peek,” I said. “Put it in your special box, and we won’t open it until Christmas. We’ll be at Wildwind by then.”

“Have a great lecture today,” Sonny said, kissing me goodbye as Birdie and I pulled on our coats. I was dropping Birdie off at preschool, then driving to Detroit to speak to the League of Women Voters, my last book tour engagement before the move.

“Birdie, come on, climb in your seat,” I said. It took a few extra minutes, but we built in time to honor her attempts at autonomy. She looked like a pink balloon creature bundled up against the cold. Winter storms had arrived, and icy snow blew in the open door.

“I’ll be happy to leave this weather behind,” I said as I snapped the car seat buckle.

“Drive safe,” Sonny said. “Hopefully the roads are salted. Watch that lead foot.”

“Ha, lead foot indeed. I think you’re confusing our love of speed. Love you. We’ll celebrate your chemo graduation tonight. Then onward to Oregon.”

“Onward,” Birdie’s lilting voice echoed as she threw her little fist in the air and a wide smile spread across all our faces. Sonny leaned in and kissed her cheek. Her arms went around his neck. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you, too, Little Bird.”

Despite falling snow and slick roads, the drive to and from Detroit was quicker than I’d expected. I hummed with the radio as I thought about the after-lecture comments. I’d written a book, ‘Women’s Voices,’ that tapped into the zeitgeist of the moment. I’d also written two books of poetry, but only the most poetry-obsessed had read those. Slim volumes of poetry don’t make a big splash. But ‘Voices’ targeted a larger market. It reflected who I was, had been, and was becoming. I’d written it for the women in my life, my grandmother, my mother, my daughter, for my students and other creatives. “Use your insights. Make a difference,” Sonny always said.

Women’s Studies departments and book clubs had adopted my book. It had triggered conversations awakening on the edges of our culture. Sonny had been right. My experiences needed to serve a purpose.

The elevator took me to the fourth floor of the clinic. I was early for Sonny’s session, which was unusual for me. I was usually the one running behind schedule. Won’t Sonny be surprised when he gets here?

I hadn’t taught this semester; I’d used it for speaking engagements and researching my next book. Sonny hadn’t taken the semester off. He’d continued with his medical school administrative role, ignoring the toll of chemotherapy. But then he always was an optimist,convinced he could do anything.

“Hi, Janet,” I said, checking in with the Oncology Unit admin. “I’m early, but I’ll get settled before Sonny arrives.” I dropped my bag near our usual chairs. Patient chair, partner chair. When did a cancer regimen become ‘usual’ Like it was normal to sit with your beloved while poison drips through the port in his chest?

“Sounds good,” she replied. “Snacks in the fridge. Tea and coffee are hot. Happy holidays.” I greeted the women sitting next to our chairs. Both taught at the School of Nursing. They were part of our bi-weekly Wednesday afternoon gang. Judy had breast cancer, her second round; this time, it had spread to her lymph nodes. Sarah had shaved her head in solidarity. Today they wore neon chartreuse hand-stitched ‘F**k Cancer’ shirts.

I waved at Ken, a retired doc, and his daughter. He’d been the beloved doctor to the other doctors, and here he was. Physician heal thyself. If only it were that simple.

And across from us was Aria, an artist. She had a rotating crew of ex-boyfriends who sat with her. Maybe someday we’d meet for coffee, and I’d have the nerve to ask for a flow chart of how they all fit together.

This was Ann Arbor, throw a stone, and you’d hit an academic/medical professional/artist. And here we were, lined up like Chaucer’s archetypes, representing a cross- section of our town. Tinker/tailor/soldier/spy. Butcher/baker/candlestick maker.

I called our merry band of Wednesday chemo warriors the Good Luck Club. Because as long as we were walking this road, we were lucky to have each other. I’d learned that perspective from my husband.

Before I’d met Sonny, and during the stress of college and graduate school, I admit, I could get blue. Okay, I guess that isn’t accurate. Deep black depression was more like it. It came and went, casting an unpredictable shadow, coloring the words I sought to express. But then I met Sonny. He was the lion-tamer when it came to chasing away pessimism. Our love transformed my vocabulary and filled the world with possibilities.

“No darkness allowed,” he always said. Not even with this cancer thing. Maybe especially with this cancer thing.

“Your name is perfect,” I said to him in those early days when we were getting to know each other. “Except…”

“What do you mean, except?” he asked as we lay on the couch, reading sections of the newspaper, passing them back and forth like an old married couple.

“It’s misspelled. It should be Sunny.”

Time had proven the accuracy of the early assessment. Despite what life threw his way, Sonny accepted it and moved forward with undying optimism. No matter our infertility. He knew our perfect baby was only waiting to time her entrance. No matter the exposure to chemical warfare that poisoned his body. Epidemiologists studying cancer rates in returning vets could use the data. Sonny always found the silver lining. 

When Birdie arrived, I had to agree with his optimism. She was the child we were waiting to meet. Like Sonny, she had blue eyes and a smile that never stopped. She was dark- haired and petite, like me, with a natural grace that took our breath away.

“My cancer is just a thing, a hurdle to get over,” Sonny said as we watched her sleep. “At least it isn’t her.”

“At least it isn’t her,” I whispered back, tucking in her flannel blanket.

Where is he? Everyone seemed to be early today, as if the sooner they hooked up to the drip, the faster they’d be done. But not Sonny. That’s odd. If ever there was a man who liked to be prompt, it was my husband.

I looked around at the other patients and fellow caretakers. Each person had created their reality, cocooning themselves to traverse the unthinkable. Cancer taught me that creativity wasn’t only arts and crafts and making and performing. It was also in the rituals that smoothed the road of life, that eased the bumps. Fuck cancer. I loved those neon shirts, I needed to get one.

Where is he? Sonny’s years as a triathlete, a soldier, and a doctor gave him unique insights into his body and what it could do. He lived life as if chemo was an assignment. Accept the side effects, ignore the threat to his mortality. Push on, put in the time, anticipate the coming joys.

Where is he? The peripheral hospital sounds grew louder as I waited. Sirens seemed to scream right around the corner. Emergencies were a way of life in this medical complex. Where is he? The hands on the wall clock had kept their constant movement, and now Sonny was officially late. I called his cell, but it went to voice mail. That’s odd. I called my friend, Sarah, where Sonny was going for Birdie’s play date, but no answer.

Where is he? I know, I’ll find his location on my phone. There he is. He’s right around the corner, still close to the preschool. He must be running late. Okay, I could walk over and see if he was having trouble.

“Janet, I’m going to check on Sonny. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

“Okay, stay warm.”

I stepped through the sliding double doors. The wind slapped my face and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I tucked my head into the neck of my coat as my leather boots slipped on hard ridges of snow. They needed to salt the sidewalk, this wasn’t safe. Taking careful steps, I turned the corner. Flashing lights and sirens. It felt like a dream to see a familiar sedan, crumpled and entwined with an oversized SUV. I ran, sliding on the ice. I fell to my knees, scrambled forward; bare hands claws in the snow.

I saw Sonny’s distorted, misshapen face splayed against the shattered window, glass fragments in his hair. I raced forward, climbing over snowbanks as first responders pulled the car seat from the back. Mommy’s coming! 

But I’m too late as the body of a broken doll was unbuckled from the seat that had once held my daughter.

Chapter 2

Funerals create a sense of purpose, of focus. Finish the photo display boards. Select the right outfit. As if completing those tasks would keep the world from coming to an end. False. It was all false. The world had already come to an end. It was the end. The lives of my sunny Sonny and my girl Birdie were over. 

Usually, I was a fan of celebrating rites of passage. But not this. My body was stiff, as if it could resist the burying of my family. My body flinched with every detail, as if by assisting in the ritual I was somehow complicit. As if I agreed to the ceremony. My body shrank, as if my very organs had been ripped out, and only a husk was left.

Normal. Gone. In absentia.

Birdie. Gone. She was everywhere. She was nowhere.

Sonny. Gone. He was everywhere. He was nowhere.

“Sarah?” I asked as I sat with my best friend on the couch in her family room in front of the fireplace. We were both wrapped in blankets, her long, lanky frame in contrast to my short, withered one. Ghostly smoke wafted up the chimney, interrupted by the staccato sparks from the dry oak logs. It had been six hours since I’d had a family. 

“Yes?”

“Please just do it. Do it all.”

“All you have to do is show up,” she said in a gentle voice.

“Plan the visitation and funeral on the same day. I don’t think I can hold it together if it takes two days. And do it quickly. I want it over.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks,” I whispered. I reached for another blanket. Despite the red-hot flames, I was chilled to the bone. I couldn’t stop shivering.

“You're moving in with us,” Sarah declared, staring at me with raised eyebrows of expectation.

“Okay,” I said as I sank beneath the weight of the blankets.

Sarah, stepped in with efficiency and love, offering the comfort of care through her actions. Sarah organized the service and made the necessary calls. Sarah read the paperwork and told me where to sign. A former accountant is useful at times like these.

I was a sleepwalker as I moved down the hallway to Sarah’s guest room. The only feeling that penetrated was a deep, dull, unremitting ache.  No, that wasn’t true. I felt something else with every toy on the floor, every bit of laughter floating through the house. A sharp twisting cutting pain. 

Sarah’s twin girls had been Birdie’s best friends. I loved her girls. I hated her girls. No, no, of course, never hate. Not jealousy, either. Deep pain, twisting pain, dull pain, sharp pain. Does it matter how I deconstruct the nightmare of emotions trapped in my body? It’s all pain. I am consumed by pain. There is a fire in my gut fueled by memories and unfettered joy in the next room. And fed by the guilt I instantly felt.

I should have driven, I should have known better, I shouldn’t have gone to the talk, I should have insisted… I should have… I should have… I should have…

How could the universe be so cruel? An accident, the police report said, caused by the iciness of the roads. No fault was assigned. But would I ever quit wondering? 

The same friends who organized the cancer treatment meal train signed up for a new task. The ‘keep an eye on Carolina’ duty. There was a secret handing off to the next member of the relay team for each part of the day. 

I lost my voice. Not literally. I could still speak if necessary. But I had nothing to say. I was without words. I had always used them to create meaning in my world. To articulate my deepest emotions. But there was a void where my words used to live. 

Flowers? Casket? Music? Caskets? Readings?

I could care less. No. Wait. I couldn’t care less. Whichever. Whatever. Laws of grammar? No parent should bury their child. Let’s start with that basic rule. If a person says, “I couldn't care less” about something, it means that the amount of care and concern they have about something could not be any less, any lower. Therefore, when someone says I could care less, it should mean the opposite, that they are concerned. So, yes, I couldn’t care less.

Sonny’s parents, older and frailer than they’d been at Thanksgiving, came as soon as they heard. But why? There was nothing they could do. They were burying their only child, their only grandchild. They stared at me with hollow eyes sunken into their faces like Halloween ghouls. I stared back at them with my own blank look. 

They checked into a hotel around the corner from the house. There were no extra beds at our home. They had been packed up, put away, and gone. No one lived there anymore. 

“What can we do? What can I do?” Sonny’s father asked, over and over again. 

“Can you call Helena at Wildwind? She’s expecting us. Can you let her know?”

Let her know. That was the mandate. One less person for me to tell. One less heart I had to break.

My mother flew up from Florida, from the retirement community she had moved to when my dad died. We’d visited her there, Birdie digging in the white sands, surfing with her water wings in the ocean waves. My mother had lost her husband and survived. What lessons could I learn from her? 

How do I get out of there? The stages of mourning. What are they? I would know soon enough. Later. When I cared. 

Sonny’s parents, and I stood in a line at the funeral home before the service. Letting the mourners murmur their condolences. Accepting their sad comments. I angled my body so I didn’t have to see the full-sized bronze casket and its child-sized twin. 

I went through the motions as the long line of mourners stretched out the door into the hallway. Sarah watched at my elbow, bringing me tissues and water. Sonny was a well-respected administrator in the medical school. I taught in the creative writing program. The university community was burying one of its own.

When will this be over? Hot pokers of grief stabbed at me with each well-intentioned comment.

“Oh my God, I could never handle what you are going through.” I’m not.

“I know exactly how you feel.” I doubt it.

“Let me know if you need anything.” All that I need is gone.

“At least they didn’t suffer.” I’m doing enough for all of us.

“God never gives you more than you can handle.” I can’t even respond to this one.

“Stay strong.” Stay is the operative word. What is my world without them?

Former students came through the line. With each face, I remembered their poetry. 

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Collingsworth,” Christine whispered. “I wrote this for you.” She pressed a piece of folded paper into my hand. I opened it. It was a perfect gift of three lines, seventeen syllables. “I wish it were more. You taught me how to channel my grief.”

“I wrote this for you,” James said, as he touched my arm for a brief moment. I looked at the paper. Seventeen syllables of loss. And hope.

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

A haiku. Lines of observation and longing. I slipped the papers into my pocket. 

Poetry had brought Sonny and me together. I’d always loved that fact. Unbeknownst to me, he’d observed the first seminar I’d taught for third-year medical students. I believed in the power of words to help future doctors connect with their patients beyond their diagnoses.

“We’re going to write a haiku to honor your first patient,” I said to the class that Friday afternoon. “That’s right. A haiku. How many of you remember the poetic form from your high school English class?” There were a few raised hands. But mainly, I got skeptical expressions. 

“No? Then, let me introduce you to this art. My grandmother was Japanese, and with this, I am sharing my heritage and tradition.” I looked like my grandmother, black hair, and petite, with cheekbones and eyes from another land.

“A haiku is a specific type of unrhymed Japanese poem which has seventeen syllables divided into three lines of five, seven, and five syllables. Haikus are typically written about nature. One of the best-known haiku’s was written by the poet Basho in the seventeenth century. It is called, “Old Pond.”

An old silent pond

A frog jumps into the pond—

Splash! Silence again.

“Now, I’d like you to write…” 

Two hours later, after composing and sharing their poems, reflecting, and writing a second one, the students filed out of the room. I waited for them at the door, acknowledging each of them, looking in their eyes, saying ‘thank you.’ It was like an exit from church. Poetry could have that effect.

“Nicely done,” a male voice spoke from behind me. I whirled around. 

“Hi, I’m Emerson Erickson, assistant dean of the School of Medicine. Call me Sonny.”

I looked up into the blue eyes of a tall, rugged man. He carried himself like he belonged more on the battlefield than in the halls of academia. Then I noticed the empty sleeve of his button-down blue oxford shirt. 

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Carolina Collingsworth from the English Department.”

“I know who you are. I was the one who championed your grant request. And, after watching your session today, I’m more impressed than ever.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Where have you been? My 34-year-old mind wanted to know. I’ve been waiting for you.

But all I said was, “yes.”

At the funeral, I was the vision of Jackie Kennedy from the history books, minus the adorable children and the black mantilla. I had a role to play. I had to be the vessel for the grief of others. I needed to receive their voices, to hold their memories of Sonny and Birdie. It’s too much. I didn’t have the emotional space to carry anything for anyone, mine was filled with grief, regret, anger, and sorrow. And yet I made room. 

One week later, it was all over. The hospital, the funeral home, the funeral. Family members had come and gone. End of semester challenges and holiday commitments were crowding out the sad reality in the people around me. Life went on. I wasn’t sure I even wanted that anymore.

My fitful sleep was full of dreams. At first, it was the movie reel of my life with Sonny and Birdie. Then images of our unborn children flooded my mind. And my unborn book, and our unclaimed house in Oregon. My unfinished life wouldn't let me rest.

I took more sleeping pills. But still, the unwanted messages came. If you die, then we die. Is that what I want? 

I couldn’t remain holed up at Sarah’s house forever. She had her own kids and husband and their Christmas to create. They were a constant reminder of happiness, and I was suffocating in their normal.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sarah assured me for the umpteenth time. We sat together on her couch in front of the fireplace, listening to the hiss of the crackling logs. 

“You haven’t even put up your tree yet. I heard the twins asking about it today. You’re trying to be kind, and I love you for it, but staying with you forever is no solution,” I said, my legs tucked under me with an afghan pulled up to my neck.

“It isn’t time to even start thinking about solutions,” Sarah said as if it was the truth. No arguing. I recognized the tone behind her comforting mother words.

“You’re probably right, but as wonderful as you are, I'm going to Oregon. It’s time,” I said, my unused voice raspy. “It’s what Sonny wanted. It’s where I need to start.”

I paused, focusing on the flames, and imagined traveling up in that smoke through the chimney out into the night air. No, all my lightness was gone. Will it be better any place else? I didn’t know, but I had to try. I was the fox caught in a trap of misery, and I would chew off my leg if I had to. 

“I’m packed and prepped for the move, thanks to Sonny’s organization.”

With the funeral complete, each hour I stayed here, in this place where my family had once been whole, made me frantic to get away. After all Sonny had survived, he died blocks from the hospital. After all we had done to conceive Birdie, her life was gone before it began. When will the razor blades in my lungs stop cutting with every breath?

“If I leave tomorrow, I can be at Wildwind before Christmas,” I said to Sarah in my broken voice. “Just like we’d planned. I can’t bear being here one more day.”