River House by Sarahlee Lawrence

Author:Sarahlee Lawrence
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Published: 2010-08-25T20:38:45+00:00

H O W T O S U R V I V E

O ne February evening, after a long day flailing away at

the house, I drove into town to check my e-mail at the

library. We didn’t have Internet service at the ranch, and I

loved that. I loved that I could disappear there. Even my cell

phone barely got service. While I was online, I checked the

surf forecast for the Oregon coast. A nice clean swell was

predicted to roll in. I sat back in that big cushy chair and

thought for a second. My hands in my lap looked dry and

cracked. I was stiff in all my clothes and overheating a bit.

I peeled my wool hat and scarf off and tried to smooth my

hair. I wasn’t used to being like this. I had been wearing biki-

nis and sun hats, shorts and T-shirts, and I was always clean

from the river. Now, every line in my hands was full of dirt

and oil. It was time for a break.

I drove home slowly, like I always did, just taking time to

look around, to see what my neighbors were up to. My life

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R I V E R H O U S E

had gotten so buried on the ranch, I barely raised my head

to breathe. When I rolled into the driveway, I was surprised

not to see my dad in his shop. He had gone to town for his

annual haircut, and to make a trip to the gas station, since

the farm truck was almost empty and we saved the fuel at

the ranch for tractors. But he had left ages ago. He should

have been back and the horses fed, but they just nickered

over the fence. I grew worried.

Unlike almost everyone else in the world, he didn’t have

a cell phone, so I called the lady that cut his hair. He’d missed

his appointment. I jumped into my truck and headed to town.

We lived exactly ten miles from the town of Terrebonne, at

the end of the narrow, windy Lower Bridge Road. I looked

down into the Deschutes River canyon, wondering if he’d

gotten so frustrated that he’d run himself off the road. But

he’d made it past the ravine. Instead, I found him at a bend in

the road, the old red Chevy Cheyenne pulled onto the shoul-

der with its hood up. Dad was just beyond the truck, toiling

over a long pile of basalt rocks. He was in the process of lash-

ing two sticks together with some sage bark. They formed

a cross. As I approached, he wedged the cross at the head

of the pile of rocks. I stopped and waited while he looked

down at the little grave where he’d buried himself, there on

the side of Lower Bridge Road. It was a low point.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I don’t like that question, Sar.” He shook his head. “It’s

a modern question for modern people, and I’m living in the

past. ‘How are you doing?’ is some bullshit question from

Nancy Reagan. Everyone asks it, and they don’t want to hear

the real answer. So spare me.”

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S a r a h l e e L a w r e n c e

I didn’t say anything in return.

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