“Red flags started popping up.”
“We all have them,” Abbie said. “Some people might think my erratic employment situation is a red flag.”
“It’s not,” Sommer said.
“Perception, right?” Abbie licked her lips and sighed. “Green flag to one is a red flag to another. What about you, Marna? What flag might you be waving that would have the physical therapist worried?”
“I bring home horror stories from the Emergency Department. They can be—”
“Awful,” Abbie interjected. “Three months later, and I’m still traumatized from your banana story.”
Freshly out of a relationship. Embracing her “I need to figure out who I am” era, Sommer was eschewing relationships and focusing on DIYing her little cottage.
“Sommer, you haven’t told us about any of your dates. Is there someone?” Abbie asked, sliding down until she sat on a log and unbuckled her pack, letting it drop.
They must be taking a break, though; they’d had one only about thirty minutes before.
“I realized I’d set my bar too low. So I moved it up a few notches to a place where I was comfortable. My base is now common respect, equal effort, dependability, and an ability to have honest conversations.”
“I hear you. My tank doesn’t hold what it used to. I’m too damned worn out and tired to just be giving my emotions and energy away willy-nilly like I used to,” Abbie said. “It’s not like I was banking good deeds and kindness; I usually act on instinct, but, in the back of my mind, there was always an expectation of reciprocity. I make you soup when you’re sick, and you do the same for me.”
“Are you thinking of your husband in that scene?” Marna asked.
“Ex, and you’ve heard the story before. It was a bout of some virus that brought me to my senses. He got sick from work, I took care of him, and he was disgusting—maybe not by nursing standards, I’m not used to all that code brown business—but he got the whole nine yards, the clean sheets, the puke bucket with a glow-stick under the plastic bag so he could find it in the middle of the night. Chicken soup. I had to work, of course, but when I was home, I was caring for him and helping him to be comfortable—making sure he had what he needed before I left. He got better, but as one would predict, I got super sick. It was on the weekend, mind you, when he was home. He went outside, sat on the deck, and read. I took care of myself.”
“And he’s the one who brought the virus home,” Marna said, painting her words with indignation.
“That virus he brought home was my ticket to a more relaxed and comfortable life. I realized how much energy I put into resentment and longing. Take that out of the equation, and there’s more space for dancing naked under the full moon.”
“You do that?” Sommer laughed.
“Now I do,” Abbie said. “I’m going to the top of the mountain. If we’re the only people there, might as well.”
“Yup. A crackling fire, naked dancing. Fun, right?” Marna had no energy behind her words.
Abbie stopped and dropped her head. “Speaking of sick, I’m really not feeling great.”
“What’s going on?” Sommer asked.
“Right now my stomach is queasy, and I feel bloated and sorry about it, especially for you, Sommer, since you’re walking behind us. I’m passing a lot of gas,” Abbie said. “I’ve heard of something called altitude sickness. Could it be that?”
“High-altitude flatus expulsion. It’s a thing,” Sommer said.
“What kind of thing?” Abbie asked, dropping her butt to the ground with her knees propped up.
“Not a thing here,” Marna stopped and held tightly to both of the walking sticks she’d picked up on the way. “You have to be over 11,000 feet, which is past the tree line, in order to lower the atmospheric pressure enough that the gas in your intestines can expand.” Marna lifted her head enough that she could catch Sommer’s gaze. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. My shoulders are sore, but the summit isn’t that far away.” Sommer paused. “Your sweat is looking oily, and your complexion isn’t good, my friend.”
“Yeah, my stomach isn’t good either.” Marna licked her finger and stuck it in the wind.
“West to east,” Sommer said. “We’re walking northwest. You aren’t getting kooties from me.”
“I’m more worried about you getting kooties from us. Stay six feet away and upwind,” Marna swayed on her sticks. “Son of a bitch.”
“Sit down, Marna.” Sommer took two steps to the other side of the trail so nothing would blow her way. Marna wouldn’t joke about something like that. Not under these circumstances anyway. “Tell me what’s going on. Is it something you ate? Did you and Abbie get gas station sushi on the way up?”
“I feel like shit,” Marna said. “And it’s very quickly getting out of hand.”
