“I know, you’re pissed at me,” I said as I looked at their golden eyes that I swear said Mom, what were you doing? It’s not safe out there on your own. “But I didn’t feel like putting your booties on,” I told them.
They hated their booties. But it was a long trek in the cold, and I didn’t know what was on the ground in the woods. I constantly felt my own boot crunching into old, discarded glass or aluminum beer bottles and cans.
I kept telling myself I would get out there, clean it all up, let the girls run free like they never really got to do at home. But it never failed. I was always too preoccupied with getting back to work, with figuring out whatever issue had been plaguing me for weeks or months or even years.
Always tinkering, was what my father had said when I was a girl, sitting with him in his repair shop, fiddling with his tools and scrap metal.
My father had been an avid collector of crap. Anytime he saw a pile of discarded junk on the side of the road, he was picking it up and bringing it back to the little two-car garage that served as his work and his hobby spot.
He tinkered too.
With the cars, sure.
That was mostly because that brought us money home.
But he liked to just make stuff out of the old junk. A giant windmill out of scrap metal. A table from old beer bottle tops. A hammerhead shark made out of actual hammerheads. A dollhouse for me from little scraps of wood, even though we both knew I’d never been a dollhouse kind of kid.
That childhood tinkering had made a pretty good career for me.
I had my father to thank for that.
But he’d passed before I’d gotten my shit together.
“Geez, it’s still cold in here, huh?” I asked, pulling off my gloves, then making my way over toward the wood-burning stove.
It was a fat little thing with a flat top that served as the only actual cooking surface in the cabin. I’d gotten good at tossing random crap into the pot and making something somewhat edible.
I tossed some more logs onto the fire, standing there for a minute to warm my hands, then turning back to the cabin as a whole.
When I’d moved in, it was all bare walls. Nothing on the windows to help fight off the chill. And maybe to the previous owner, the idea of the forest all around and a complete lack of privacy felt sort of liberating. To me, it felt like a tactical nightmare. If someone was out there, they could see exactly where I was in the small space.
So the first thing I’d done was put up shades, then some heavy drapes that I could pull in the winter to keep the heat, and in the summer to try to keep it out, since this place didn’t have enough solar energy to power any sort of air conditioning.
Then I’d put some rugs down on the floor. Again, as a source of insulation. And because the dogs sometimes got frustrated trying to get enough room on the bed with me, and would choose to spread out down there instead.
The bed itself was only a full, and I had it wedged somewhat awkwardly on the shortest wall next to the back door. For a quick exit, should I need one. It was currently covered with about eight different quilts. I always ended up bringing a couple more each time I visited, remembering that first frigid winter, shivering under the only blanket I’d brought, then having to make a makeshift second one using my towels and all the clothes I’d brought with me.
“You guys can go in the back run if you want,” I told my girls—Miranda and Samantha—as they kept giving me the look.
I took them on several long, leashed walks a day, but they were high-energy dogs who liked to run around and rough-house with each other, so I’d once brought up some rolls of five-foot metal fencing and stakes, and made them their own little playground out there.
To that, Samantha let out a sneeze that wasn’t a sneeze, but rather just her showing me her frustration.
We wanted to go with you, Mom.
“I’ll bring you next time,” I told them, rummaging into their box of treats, and tossing them each one.
Miranda was easily placated with food of any sort. Samantha, not so much. So Miranda ate her treat, then snuck the one out from in front of her sister who just kept giving me a hard look.
“I was just trying to get a couple of bars of service!” I told her, waving my phone as proof.
Now, this is probably the part where people would start to question if my time tucked away in the cabin with no other human beings to talk to was getting to me.
Nope.
I always had full on conversations and even arguments with my dogs.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I told her, walking over to rub her ears until I got her leg tapping the floor.
It had been a pointless trip anyway. I’d only gotten one bar, and it kept going in and out.
Being out of cell and internet service areas was both the blessing and the curse of the cabin. Because, yeah, being out of range of anything meant that no one could trace your signals. But it also meant that you couldn’t get help if you needed it, or reach out if you needed to send an email.
Like several I was late for now.
And, well, you could say that the kind of people I worked with… you didn’t want to fuck with them and the deals you made with them.
There was just nothing I could do in this situation, though.
I was going to need to travel further tomorrow, park my ass where I found some bars, and draft up some emails for the three clients I was overdue to deliver to.
No, there was no guarantee any of them were going to be understanding. These were the types of men—and women—who were accustomed to getting what they wanted, when they wanted it.
“At least they can’t find us, right?” I said. To the dogs. Because talking to myself was probably not a good sign about my mental health right about then.
Walking over to the pantry, I pulled down one of the several giant oatmeal canisters I’d picked up at the bulk store on the way in.
Staple items were key when you were hiding out and trying not to head to a grocery store. Dried oats, rice, peanut butter, beans, lentils, pasta, and canned fruit and veg. I even had some canned meats that I had, so far, not been brave enough to venture into. They were a last-resort food for me.
The dogs had their own supply, and I was thankful for the fact that most dog foods were shelf-stable. Bags and cases of cans were lined up by the door.
I was sure they were missing their fresh meal delivery that I used for toppers back at home, but I’d been supplementing with freeze-dried toppers and broths.
Not great, but we were making do.
I just had to figure what my next move would be, then we could go back to our normal lives.
Likely not to my old home. I was accepting this somber thought more and more as the long days dragged on.
Did that thought make my heart feel like it was deflating in my chest? Sure. I’d been there for a long time. I’d worked on getting it exactly how I liked it. The dogs practically had the beach as their backyard, winding neighborhoods to take walks down and smell all the things. It was close to all my creature comforts. Namely the little independent dog store around the corner for the girls and all the take-out options for me.
I hated cooking.
And all these homemade meals of only the essentials was really just reinforcing that hatred. I was dying for pizza and Chinese. And tacos. Oh, God, it had been way too long since I’d had tacos.
Miranda nudged my leg gently, and I swear it was her way of saying It’s okay, Mom. Of the two of them, she was the one a bit more attuned to my moods, and also more likely to try to snap me out of a bad one.