Forever & Always by Jasinda Wilder

  "Dad, stop. Please. It's fine."

  "It's not. You lost your mom, and all I can think of is my own--"

  I jerked away. "Stop! Fuck! Just stop! I don't want to have this conversation with you. She's gone, and we both just have to deal with that as best we can. I'm not holding anything against you. I promise. Just...don't you go and die on me too, okay?" I tried to make it sound like a joke, but it wasn't.

  He laughed, but it was mostly devoid of humor. "I'm doing my best, kiddo." I don't think he was exaggerating any more than I was.

  Another tense silence rose up, and the moment became too much. I stuck the envelope in my back pocket and left the kitchen, holding up the cell phone box in a gesture of thanks or farewell or both. "I'll probably leave first thing tomorrow, so...'bye."

  "'Bye, Cade. Drive safe. Call if you need to."

  I nodded, but I wouldn't call him unless it was an emergency.

  He left. I sat at my desk in my room, trying not to think as I put some of the cash into my wallet and the rest into my backpack, which held my sketchbooks and pencil cases, toiletries, maps, directions, and some snacks. I fell asleep wondering what it meant that Dad so easily let a sixteen-year-old kid--his only child--drive by himself to Wyoming. Nothing good was the only conclusion that I could come to.

  I was halfway to Chicago before I realized I'd never talked to Gramps about the fact that I was coming to spend the summer with him. The problem was, I knew Gramps would lose his shit if he knew I was driving there alone. I had to tell him, though. Gramps hated nothing more than surprises.

  I pulled off onto the shoulder of I-94 and scrolled through my short list of contacts until I found the entry for Gramps's cell phone. Taking a deep breath, I hit the "CALL" button.

  It rang four times, and then Gramps's deep, gruff, solid voice answered. "Hello? Who is this?"

  "Hi, Gramps. It's Caden."

  "Caden? Your Pops finally give you a cell phone, did he?"

  I laughed nervously. "Yeah. Good grades this year, you know." I cleared my throat. "So, I'm coming to the ranch this summer."

  "Oh, yeah? Had enough of that artsy-fartsy camper bullshit, did you?"

  "Gramps. It was an exclusive program for the most talented kids my age in the country. It was an honor to go last year."

  "But you ain't goin' back, though." I could almost see his eyes narrowing as he said this.

  "Yeah, you're right. I had enough artsy-fartsy bullshit. I'm still an artist, though. So don't get your hopes up." He liked to joke that someday I'd come to my senses and decide to move to Wyoming and let him groom me to take over the ranch.

  "Well, shit. Got me all excited there for a minute, grandson."

  "Sorry, Gramps."

  He cleared his throat, a signal that jokes were over. "So, when's your flight get into Cheyenne?"

  I hesitated. "Well, that's the thing, Gramps. I--I'm driving myself this year."

  For once, Gramps was speechless. It took several moments for him to respond. "Bullshit," he grunted. "You're barely sixteen. Ain't no way your Pops will allow that."

  "I left already. I'm halfway to Chicago."

  "The fuck is your dad thinking?" Gramps tried not to curse around me too much when I was younger, but like Dad, the older I got, the less he censored himself.

  I wasn't sure what to say, since I didn't know what Dad was thinking. "He's...he's been working a lot."

  "You didn't run away, did you?"

  "No!" I winced as a semi roared past, rocking the car as it went. "Dad knows."

  Gramps was silent for a long time, but I knew him well enough to know he was thinking it over. "Guess I can't do much from here. I want you to call me every four hours, Caden. You got it? Every four hours, precise. Means you have to stop and pull over to call me, you got it? No texting or talking while you drive. Keep the music down. Watch your blind spots. You hear me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "This is the dumbest goddamn thing I've ever heard of. Sixteen years old and driving damn near thirty hours by your own damn self. I should call Aidan and have a word with him is what I should do."

  "Don't, Gramps. He's...just don't call him. I'll be fine. I swear."

  "He ain't dealin' well with losin' your mom, is he?"

  "No sir, he ain't." I felt a pang of loss hit me. I always came back from the ranch talking like Gramps, with a twang and saying "ain't." Mom would have a fit every year, whacking my shoulder whenever I said "ain't" or "don't got" or anything like that. There'd be no one to care this year.

  "It's a damn shame, Caden. She was a good woman, too good for him, I always said. I know losin' her is the hardest thing that could happen, but it ain't no excuse for lettin' a kid your age go off on a road trip alone."

  "I know, Gramps. But I'm not a kid anymore. Okay? I've been taking care of myself for a long time now."

  "You're a good kid, Cade. You'll be one hell of a man, too. But you're still a kid. You need your Pops to be a father to you." He grunted. "Four hours. I better hear from you on the dot. You stop anytime you're tired, you hear? There ain't no rush. Just get here safe."

  "I will."

  "'Kay, then. Love you, boy."

  "Love you too, Gramps." I hung up and set the phone in the cup holder, wiping my face with both hands.

  For a moment I was struck by disorientation, doubt, fear. What was I doing? I couldn't do this. I wasn't ready. Another semi rushed past, buffeting the Jeep. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Another. I pushed away the emotions, the doubts. I recited the route to Wyoming instead.

  I-94 west, then take I-294/I-80 west toward Iowa. I-80 all the way to Cheyenne. I-25 north toward Casper. Take the 220 past the fairgrounds, then SW Wyoming Boulevard toward Casper Mountain. The M-Line Ranch would be about twenty miles down an unnamed dirt road off Wyoming Boulevard, deep in the wilderness south of Casper, Wyoming.

  I could do this. I could do this. I pictured the ranch, hundreds of square miles, thousands of acres of rolling hills and knee-high grass and foothills spiking the sky in the distance, waiting to be crossed and begging to be climbed.

  I put the Jeep in drive and checked my mirrors, waited for traffic to clear, and then accelerated down the shoulder until I was at speed and pulled into the right-most lane. I waited a few minutes before I turned the radio on, settling into a comfortable seventy-five miles per hour. Mom's Jeep--now my Jeep--had satellite radio, which was probably the most awesome thing I could ever imagine. I scanned the stations until I caught something with a good groove to it. Chugging guitars and distinctive vocals met me; the information readout told me it was Volbeat playing "The Sinner Is You," a song I'd never heard before. The lyrics swept me away from the very beginning: "What's life without a little pain..."

  It was a philosophy I wanted to hold on to. But I'd take life without so much pain, if I could. I'd heard all the bullshit, of course: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and how the hard times make you appreciate the good times more. I didn't buy it. Hard times were hard, and no amount of thinking about the good times supposedly to come would make them suck any less. What good could come from losing my mom to breast cancer? What was I supposed to appreciate about that? I'd survive it, and be stronger for it? Well...I wasn't going to curl up and die, so yeah, I'd survive it. But I also knew I'd never be the same. I felt the scars on my heart and in my mind. I'd been cut deep, and the wounds would never really heal. You didn't watch your mother die and your father simply give up without being changed for the worse.

  I'd been painted by pain. Several coats of it, a deep, thick varnish that wouldn't ever fade.

  Miles passed, hours passed. I slipped south of Chicago, cutting around the metropolis through the industrial forest of smokestacks and gouting pyres of flame. I was somewhere between Joliet and Davenport, Illinois, when I stopped for Burger King and to call Gramps. Another four hours saw me between Des Moines, Iowa, and Omaha, Nebraska. There were hours that passed slower than a lecture on economics, and others that zipped by so f
ast I couldn't believe how far I'd gone. Iowa and Nebraska were endless and flat, and only the constant blare of music kept me from going insane from boredom. I would feel myself getting drowsy, and I'd roll all the windows down, turn the music up so loud it hurt my ears, and sing along at the top of my lungs.

  The road never ended. It was always unfurling just beyond my hood, always another mile to go, another hour more. Just another hour. Another hour. I talked to myself. I talked to Ever. I talked to Mom.

  I didn't talk to Dad.

  Sunset found me parked underneath a light in a rest stop outside of Lincoln, the doors locked as I slept fitfully. I'd driven twelve hours straight, stopping only for food, gas, and to call Gramps every four hours. When I woke up, I was hit by fear. It was pitch black beyond the pale orange circle of light underneath which I was parked. There were semis idling at the far edge of the rest stop, and a faint white glow of fluorescent lights from the rest stop building itself. I exited my car, locked it behind me, and used the restroom. Graffiti stained the walls and the dividers, gouged and scribbled swear words, names, and other randomness.

  I bought a Coke from the vending machine, checked in with Gramps, and hit the road again, driving through the drowsing, heavy darkness. Nothing lay beyond the span of my headlights except blackness and the high silver moon, nothing existed but music and the yellow center line and the blacktop and the white road-edge borderline and the occasional pair of headlights whipping past.

  I wondered often who that was in the car approaching, what their life was like, what problems they'd lived through, faced down, and survived. Did they have friends, or were they lonely like me? Maybe next year I'd do better. Hang out with someone at school, a guy who shared interests with me. Or maybe even a girl. A girlfriend.

  Yeah, right.

  I passed Kearney, Lexington, and North Platte. Empty fields lit by gray. Cows in scattered clumps, horses browsing and nosing and shaking manes. Sidney. I stopped at McDonald's, ate, and called Gramps. Those calls became my goals on the trip. Make it four hours, call Gramps. It meant a break, a chance to breathe, to stop and realize how far I'd driven.

  It was well past midnight on the second day of travel when I passed under the sign announcing that I'd arrived at M-Line Ranch. My tires crunched over the half-mile-long, ruler-straight driveway leading up to the sprawling, three-story log home. The house--the log exterior, at least--was older than some of the states, Gramps liked to say, having been built in 1843. The interior had been remodeled extensively over the last few decades, so that it was open-plan and modern, with a huge two-story living room with massive windows, a kitchen with miles of granite counters and gleaming stainless steel appliances. I loved Gram's and Gramps's house. It was huge and luxurious and fun. As a kid, they'd let me run in the hallways and skid in my socks on the hardwood floors, and Uncle Gerry could often be persuaded to toss me the football from across the living room, lobbing it up to the top of the twenty-five-foot-high ceiling.

  I shoved the shifter into park, shut off the engine, and just sat in silence. There was only one light on in the main house and no other light for miles. I slid out of the car and closed the door quietly, then leaned against the vehicle and craned my neck back to stare up at the sky. The stars were infinite, numberless and beyond counting, sparkling and twinkling and scattered and spattered across the inky black, a universe of silver light. The moon stood at the center of it all, a thin crescent amid the wash of stars. A falling star streaked across the horizon, slanting down in a slash toward the ground before vanishing.

  I didn't make a wish.

  I heard the side door off the kitchen squeak slightly and click closed, and then Gramps's slow and steady tread clomped in my direction. I kept my gaze starward; I picked a tiny square of stars near the moon and tried to count them as Gramps approached. He stopped a couple feet away from me, body angled partly toward me. I heard the rustle of cardboard, and then a metallic grinding accompanied by a sparking flame. Gramps lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke skyward. He smoked four cigarettes a day, no more, no less. It was his one vice, carefully chosen. He didn't drink, didn't take days off, didn't sleep in. He drank a pot of coffee every day, and smoked his four cigarettes. One in the morning with his first cup of coffee, one after lunch, one after dinner, and one late at night right before bed. The smell was nostalgic, for me. It made me think of Gramps, of late night conversations and early mornings on the range with a thermos of coffee and the smell of smoke trailing from Gramps as we brought the herd of green-broke quarterhorses out to the north pasture.

  "Long drive, huh?" Gramps asked around a long exhale.

  I nodded. "Yeah. I stopped to sleep just past Omaha, but only for about two or three hours. I'm beat."

  "Those miles from Iowa into Wyoming are the worst, if you ask me. Nothing but nothing for as far as you can see."

  I laughed. "Iowa to Wyoming is most of the trip."

  "Exactly. I'm proud of you for doin' it, even if I don't rightly approve of you tryin' it so young."

  "Didn't have much choice, Gramps. I was losin' my fucking mind in Michigan."

  "Watch your fuckin' mouth, boy," Gramps growled, but chuckled as he said it. "When'd you start talkin' that way?"

  "No one to make me stop cursing anymore, I guess," I said, and heard my voice catch. There was a sudden lump in my throat, hot and hard and rising.

  "You're here now, and you know Grams'll wash your mouth out if she hears you talk like that."

  I nodded, but the gravel at my feet was blurry. I'd driven one thousand four hundred and fifty-eight miles in twenty-six hours. I was just tired from the drive, that's all.

  Except the burning in my eyes was getting worse, and then something dripped onto the top of my shoe.

  I was gathered into a rough embrace. Gramps smelled like cigarettes and cologne and wood smoke and something else indefinable, something uniquely Gramps. My shoulders heaved, and I tried to push away, tried to push it down. Gramps held me in place.

  "No shame in it, boy. Let it out." He held me tight against his thin cotton T-shirt. Even at seventy-eight years old, Gramps was still hard as iron. "You're allowed to feel it, son. Ain't no one gonna think less of you. Least of all me."

  I shuddered, shivered, and then felt it overwhelm me in a hot flood. It all came out, sobs wracking me, shaking me. Gramps just held me and kept silent, comforting simply with his presence and his thick hard arms holding me upright.

  "I miss her, Gramps. I miss her so damn bad it doesn't seem possible. And I miss Dad." My fingers clawed at his shirt as I forced myself upright. "He's gone, even though he's still alive, still living in that house. He's there, but he's not. And I needed him, but he...he just quit. I'm lonely. I'm so alone. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of myself. And I'm so tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of missing her."

  "I know, Cade. I know. I got nothin' to say will make it better. Just keep on through, 's all you can do. Saw men die, you know that. I never talked about it much, but.... Good men, friends, guys I trained, fought beside, and loved like brothers. Never hurts less. You just get up every day and do what you gotta do and eventually...well...the hurt is replaced by other things. Other hurt. Good things, too. Met your Gram when I finally left the Army, after my third tour in Vietnam. Served for ten years, most of that in combat zones. Saw some shit you can't never imagine, and I hope to God you don't see it yourself. I was fucked up, is what I'm tryin' to say. Met your Gram, and that was the good what replaced all the bad I seen." He paused to suck on his cigarette and exhale the smoke away. "If I was to lose my Beth, well...I can't honestly say I'd be in any better shape than it seems Aiden is in. Until you know that kind of love, Caden, you can't imagine how it gets--I don't even know how to put it. I ain't no good with words. It gets all hooked up inside'a who you are. Like vines wrapped around a sapling, growing together until you cain't tell the tree from the vine. If you lose that, it'd tear you up but good. Tear you up forever. Wouldn't be nothin' left'a me, were I to lose
Beth. That's what I'm tryin' to say. So don't be too hard on your ol' Pops."

  "I'm trying, Gramps. I get all that, at least as good as I can. But I'm...I'm just a kid. I'm trying not to be. I know I've gotta grow up. But...I don't want to, sometimes."

  "No harm in that, son. I was barely a kid myself when I joined up for Korea. Barely a week over eighteen. I had to go, I knew I did. All the guys I grew up with, we was all acting gung-ho and eager and excited, but inside, deep down where you keep all those secret feelings you don't know how to deal with, we was scared. Plumb terrified. Most of us had never left Wyoming. I hadn't. My best buddy Hank hadn't neither. We joined up together, got our draft notices the same day. Went through basic and got assigned to the same unit. Some luck, we thought."

  Gramps lifted his boot to rest on his knee, brushed the cherry off his cigarette and stuck the butt in the breast pocket of his T-shirt. "Hank.... Goddamn. That boy was a fuckin' lunatic. Absolutely fearless. Heroic. Problem was...heroic and fearless is what gets a man killed, and that's what happened to Hank. Our whole unit was pinned down on this hillside. A machine gun emplacement had us dialed in to the inch. If any of us moved a single inch, we got popped. Dozens of guys bought it that way. Fuck, that was nasty. Well, Hank, he gets it into his head that he can get us out of it. Says, 'Cover me,' like we could do jack-diddly shit to cover him. We tried, though. Tossed some grenades, laid down some lead as cover. Crazy-ass Hank jumps up and starts running hell for leather, dodging like nuts. Bullets was whizzing past 'im, missing by a gnat's whisker. He gets up to within a fuckin' inch of that emplacement, tosses some 'nades, one in each hand, slings his rifle down and starts blasting. And goddamn if he didn't take the entire emplacement out his own self.

  "But...he caught one in the gut. Didn't stop him none, not till every last fucker in that emplacement was dead. Then Hank just falls over. I watched 'im fall. Bullet to the belly is an ugly thing, Cade. Ugly fuckin' way to die. Took him days. We was out in the field, days out from HQ. No one but Kyle the medic for miles. And Kyle couldn't do shit to save him. He died screaming. Took...days. Fuck--fuckin' days for him to finally go.