Uncharted Waters - Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1: ESCAPE

I don’t know how I ended up here.  No, I do know how I got here, I just can’t believe it.  Two weeks ago, I left Tim.  Things had gone too far, yet no one around me could see it.  My family and friends talked only of white dresses and rings and when it was going to be my turn; it was too much, I had to leave.  I was desperate to get away from him. He was a gentleman and would have done anything for anyone; but that was his public façade.  I wanted out of there and I didn’t have the heart to actually break-up with him.  I was too chicken.

Tim was built like a bear.  He was more than a half-foot taller than I was and twice as wide.  He was a lineman on his high school football team and was massive but he was no longer in peak physical condition.  He had short blonde hair and no neck.  I often wondered if his neck had been pushed back into his body from taking too many hits, but I never asked.  These days he was an engineer, working his way up the ladder.
My family adored him, they felt he was stable and could take care of me for the rest of my life.  They were adamant about dropping the “W”-word when we visited.  My mom talked about the idea of marriage, but it wasn’t with me, more at me.  I didn’t know if Tim was planning on proposing, but at 24 I was not ready to become a wife or a soccer mom.

So here I stand, in the middle of October on the stern of a 96’ fishing vessel watching the Alaskan shores float away.  ‘How did my life take such a left-turn so quickly?’  Obviously, Tim was focused with a future together but he didn’t paint a picture I liked.  His one-sided conversations were about him moving up in the company to provide for us and starting a family.  I’m sure there was a girl out there that wanted to be taken care of like this, but it wasn’t me.    I didn’t say anything to contradict his plans for the future, but it was not the future I had in mind.  My idea was to work as a chef for a small company or family; something where I had the opportunity to be creative and personalize the menu.

Tim had a different idea of what I should do.  He lined up interviews with high-end restaurants and big catering companies.  He dreamed of me making big money, and then giving it all up to raise his children.  I went to the interviews; they were good practice if anything.  I thought that it was the least I could do because he had been supporting me, testing each of my food creations as I went through school.  I wasn’t interested in becoming a chef in some restaurant, doing the same thing day in and day out.  I really wanted something in the private sector; but it was a narrow market.
Each interview followed the same course:  “What made you want to be a chef?  What can you bring to my kitchen that I don’t already have?  How are your pastry skills?”  I didn’t have good answers to any of these questions.  I went to culinary school because college wasn’t working for me.  I didn’t know what special skills I had that set me apart from any other recent graduates and my pastry skills sucked – flat out.  After the seventh or eighth interview, I landed an unfulfilling job.  I didn’t like making the same thing for eight hours a day - I needed some excitement.

I started working as a line cook this past February and worked there until I left Tim two weeks ago.  I smiled at the thought of him coming home from work to an empty house.  He had bought a small three bedroom brick-ranch home in a suburb outside of Toledo last summer.  Just past the front door, was the living room with hand-me-down furniture and a brand-new, and larger than necessary, television.  The tiny kitchen connected to the dining room that led back through to the living room. To the left was a hallway that led to the bedrooms.  He had attempted to turn the basement into a game room, but he didn’t have any actual building skills.  His plans were still taped to the walls and the materials were scattered all over the floor.  I imagined that he was less than pleased when he saw the note on the table.

“Dear Tim,
         I’ve gone out of town for a while, don’t wait for me to return, I’m not coming back.  There’s a roast in the Crockpot on the counter. It’ll be ready at 6:00.”

The moment I made up my mind I packed up everything I could.  I loaded my old 1995 Ford Explorer with suitcases, duffle bags, laundry baskets and boxes.  I threw all of my sweaters and jeans in an old suitcase.  Once that was filled, I squeezed clothes into laundry baskets and boxes that were lying around the house.  I left my summer clothes; there was no need for them anywhere in October, but I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving any of my shoes.  All of them went into a box in the back of my car.  I grabbed a few pictures off of the wall and refrigerator and threw them in my backpack with my laptop and chargers.  I couldn’t fit the small television in the bedroom or my hope chest in the back my car, so they stayed.  I cringed at the thought of Tim destroying them, as I backed out of the garage.  There was no more fight left in me, I had to leave.

It was late morning as I crossed the border from Ohio into Indiana; a good hour and a half after I had fled my homeland.  I called and left a message with my parents.  It would be hours before they were home from work, and there was no need for Tim to show up and get them all worried.

“Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I’m fine.  I’ve left Tim and I need some space to think.  I’ll call and let you know where I’m at later.  Love you.  Bye.”  When I hung up, I realized that there was no reassurance in my voice that I was fine.  ‘Oh well, they’ll call as soon as they get the message.’

Three hours later I was skirting around Chicago when the texts began.  Tim and my best friend, Carrie, both sent me multiple messages.  According to the counter, Tim was at thirty and climbing.  They began as simple, desperate pleas to call him, but quickly escalated into demands to come home.  Carrie was close to twenty and hers were begging me to turn around as well. I wasn’t going to respond to any of them while I was driving.  My Mom was the first to actually call.

“Emily Mae Miller!  What do you think you are doing?” She screamed when I answered.
“I’m getting a new perspective.”

“No!  You’re turning your car around and coming home!  This is unacceptable - my daughter does not act like this!”  She was right, but I didn’t have a better plan and going home to face the music was not at the top of my list. 

My mom was the most rational person I knew.  She methodically thought out every decision.  When I was trying to decide where to go for college, she set up smash boards with pros and cons for each college I had been accepted to.  She would sit me down every few days and go over the different qualities of each place until I just gave up and picked one.  Doing anything on a whim was not in her repertoire.

“Mom, Tim is a prick.  A big one!  He’s the Cadillac of pricks.  If pricks were a civilization, he’d be their King!  You only know part of him.  There’s a whole other side and I don’t want to be part of it anymore.  Just let me be!  I want to think and driving is calming me down.”  I had never stood up to her, even in my most rebellious teenage years.  I was in uncharted territory, driving by myself through the Midwest.
“That may be so, but this is not how you handle it!”

“Bye Mom," I hung up; I had never done that, either.  I thought about her for a long time as I merged into a lane on the highway that was going to take me towards Minnesota.  I’m sure that it was mostly shock that ran through her veins and made her want me to come home.  If she had known the truth, she would have left too, or killed him and helped me to hide his bloated carcass in an abandoned well.  It’s too bad that she had started living vicariously through me.  She probably wouldn’t have been as upset about me leaving Tim if she hadn’t decided he was the one I should spend the rest of my life with.

Tim was the next to call.  “Why are you near Chicago?” he demanded without saying hello. ‘Why are people so rude, today?’

“How can you know that?” I stammered, I hadn’t told my mom that I had left the state and there wasn’t enough time between their calls for them to have talked to each other.

“It’s not important.  What the hell?  You need to get back here, now!” he roared.  I moved the phone away from my ear as he spoke.

“No,” and I hung up.  ‘Well, that was fun,’ I thought.  It wasn’t more than a couple of minutes until a barrage of messages and calls came through.  I didn’t answer my phone after that.  Tim was going through his contacts trying to find someone to convince me to turn around. 

It was just after midnight when I pulled into a motel on the outskirts of St. Cloud, Minnesota.  I stepped out of my Explorer and stretched.  I wasn’t sore, but my legs creaked and my back popped from being in the same position for so long.  Even with the occasional break for food or to pee, I thought I made good time.  Of course, I didn’t have a destination in mind.  I was just driving on highways.  When a sign came up with a major city’s name on it, I made a decision to head in that direction or not.  My hap-hazard route took me through Chicago, Madison and Minneapolis.

The hole-in-the-wall motel I choose was cheap and the amenities reflected it.  I picked a place that had doors that led to a hallway and I insisted on not being near the stairs.  I had nothing to base these requirements on, but they seemed practical enough for a single woman.  All I really wanted was a soft bed and a clean bathroom with good water pressure.  I hadn’t bothered to take a shower this morning after making my decision to jump in the car.  Yesterday I volunteered to work a double shift just to stay away from him and now I reeked of a nasty greasy-kitchen smell. 

I hulled a couple of my bags up to my second floor room and threw them on the bed.  The weight caused the bed frame to buckle and now the mattress was slanted.  I rolled my eyes and blew out a sigh as I attempted to level it by flipping over the ice bucket.  There was no way the bucket was actually going to hold ice, given the giant hole in the bottom. 

I searched through my bags and ended up going back out to my car to find my toothbrush.  I flipped on the light to the damp bathroom and a dark splotch with more legs than a spider scurried under the sink and disappeared.  I shrieked and stood on the toilet seat as my heart tried to recover. Only one of the fluorescent lights was working over the mirror and it made me looked like my grandmother in the grayish hue as I examined my worn face. 

I didn’t look bad for driving in a car all day.  I looked bad because I hit rock bottom and finally realized it.  My hair was dull and the curls were strung out down my back.  I hadn’t bothered to get a haircut in the over a year so there was a lot of bulk.  I had huge bags under my eyes that had their own carry-on luggage and I was pale.  I have always had a pale complexion, but this was almost a translucent white; like I had been violently ill and hadn’t seen the sun in years.  I sighed and turned away from the mirror to examine the shower.

The curtain seemed okay, maybe even clean.  I swept it back and immediately decided that one more day without a shower wasn’t going to kill me.  After all, I was traveling by myself, so who was I going to offend?  The tub had a rust ring around the bottom that looked like it had never been attacked by cleaning solution and the wad of hair in the drain made me throw up in my mouth.

I didn’t have a restful night’s sleep.  I didn’t toss or turn; I just kept waking up and checking the time on my phone.  I gave up the cause around seven in the morning and headed to the lobby for the continental breakfast.  I pocketed a few extra goodies, checked out, and then headed towards North Dakota.

I continued to drive north.  The highways had little scenery to hold my attention this time of year.  It was a dull and gloomy Tuesday and most of the leaves had fallen from the trees allowing the cloudy skies to be seen between the branches.  There was an occasional gust of wind that pushed my car across the dashed white line, but traffic was light as I crossed into Canada.  I welcomed the boring terrain and easy driving conditions; it gave me time to think about what I was going to do with my life.

           An idea had shimmered in the back of my mind yesterday.  It was lost among the thoughts, transparent among the images of Tim and my parents and the hostile texts and voicemail messages.  The idea would twinkle with hope and then fade into the background, pushed out of the way by other thoughts.  As I headed further north I attempted to grasp at the suggestion.  Eventually, the shimmer turned into a mist and started to take on a form of its own, turning into a reason and, at the very least, an excuse to keep driving. 

There were times that I would read a highway sign and couldn’t remember the previous twenty miles or more.  It was a good thing that traffic was light or that could have been a problem.  I tried to dismiss the idea; there was no way it could work.  It was completely unfounded and I had no credentials on which to stake my claim.  Plus, I didn’t know anyone in the business.  There was no one to help me navigate the industry, no one to grease the wheels, and then I remembered April.

April Collins was one of my oldest friends.  We had lived down the street from each other since she moved into the neighborhood during second grade.  We were about the same height, but she was always thinner.  She hated being a blonde-hair, blue-eyed girl, so she kept her hair short and it frequently changed colors when she got older.  After graduating, she enlisted in the Coast Guard.  When she was done with basic training she was stationed in Toledo for the first few years.  Two years ago, she had a permanent change of station and moved to Alaska.

I couldn’t remember exactly where she was, but I now had a destination in mind.  I hadn’t seen her in over a year; however we talked every couple of weeks and sent texts and emails more often.  Of all of my friends, she probably knew more parts to the truth about Tim and that wasn’t much.  I reached for my phone and dialed her number.
“Hey Em, what’s up?” she answered brightly.

“Not much, can I visit?”

“Sure! But you missed the best time of the year.  The weather’s going to get really crappy from here until May.  Snow.  Cold.  Sleet. Crap like that.  When were you thinking of flying out?”

“Where are you stationed?”  I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Air Station Kodiak on Kodiak Island.”

“Island?  Crap.”

“What crap? What’s going on?” she asked slowly.

I took a deep breath, “I started driving a yesterday, and now I’m somewhere in Saskatchewan.”

“Canada!?” she shrieked into the phone.  “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Yep and nope. I think I should be there in a couple more days.”  I said, trying to sound like it was completely normal for me to drive to Alaska.

“Holy Shit! When? What’s happened? Are you in trouble? Why are you by yourself? Does Tim know? Are you crazy? Did you kill someone or run over a small child? You know this is an island, right?  An ISLAND, surrounded by WATER, with NO roads!!!”

“Get a grip.”  April was on a roll and I had to cut her off.  “I left Tim and started driving.”  I said casually.  “The idea to come visit you kind of came to me in a dream and then with the time zones and whatever, I waited to spring the idea on you when I thought you’d be awake.”  There was a long pause on the other end.  I looked at the screen on my phone to make sure that I hadn’t lost her.  I also realized that I was probably paying international rates for this call and cringed.  “Where should I pick up a puddle jumper to get to your place?”

“You’re …not …serious? ...You are serious!  Um, okay…let me think.”  I could hear her typing on a keyboard as she thought.  “It will probably take you a few more days.  I can’t believe you’re coming!  There’s an airport in Anchorage, maybe Homer would be better.  But then there’s Tok.  You wouldn’t have to drive as far, but the flight would be longer.  Oh wait, you’re driving.  You can catch a ferry out of Homer, no wait that’s really expensive.  Definitely fly, it will be cheaper in the long run.  Well how long are we talking because you’ll have to put your car in long term parking?  Holy Mother of Crap, Emily!  Are you really doing this?  Call me when you get to Alaska.  No wait!  Call me every hour or so I know you’re okay.  The Al-Can highway isn’t for sissies.  Do you have a GPS? A Trip-Tix from Triple-A is not going to cut it.  Do you have an extra can of gas?  Food?  What about food? Did you bring food?  You know there isn’t a gas station on every corner.  Shit!  There aren’t even corners!  We’ll figure this out.  Are you planning on staying at my place?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm, that may be a problem.  Troy doesn’t like strangers.  I’m sure for a night or two you’ll be fine.  How long are you staying?”

“Who the hell is Troy?”  I asked, shaking off her other questions.  In all of our conversations, she had not ever mentioned a Troy.  There were a lot of guys she did bring up and I would have remembered her talking about living with someone.

“Troy’s a dog I found.  He’s kind of the mascot of our building but he stays with me for now. He was a stray wandering around so I invited him in.  He mostly lies around, I wanted him to feel at home, so I named him after where I was born” she explained.  Of course, that made sense. I rolled my eyes.  Now I was going to have to worry about spending money on another motel room once I got up there. Damn.

“Can I at least stay one night?”  I pleaded.  I knew from experience that we didn’t live together well.  She was a very tidy person and I was not.  I often spread my stuff out over every surface imaginable and it drove her crazy.

“One night shouldn’t be a problem.  As long as you don’t explode!  My place isn’t large enough for you to unpack everything onto the floor.”

“Thanks, April – you rock!  Listen, don’t post anything about me visiting you or say anything to my mom, dad or Tim.  As a matter of fact, if anyone contacts you tell them we had a falling out last year – some lesbian thing you don’t want to get into – and you wouldn’t care if you ever heard my name again as long as you live.  I really don’t want another round of angry phone messages.”

“You’re nuts.  You know that, right?”

“That may be the nicest thing anyone has called me in a while.”  I smiled, and we hung up.  I missed her.