From Valleys to Mountains: A Young Woman’s Tale of Transition

by Sassafras, for Advanced Composition, East TN State U, Dec 2011

The life left behind

I hate math, especially statistics; probably because I never wanted to be one, counted then sorted according to studies and standards. I am a statistic, though, residing in the fiftieth percentile as a divorcée. I left my husband, who is also a statistic. He is an addict. But this story isn’t about what led up to my leaving. It is about what followed. I will not speak of who I was before, but rather the person I became, and why.

Summer 2008 had tapered off. Fall had captured the leaves and winter was beginning to bleed them of their color. I felt as drained as the leaves; after four years, a failing marriage had sucked the life out of me. Observing the familiar view of civilization’s grubby imprint from my apartment’s tiny kitchen window, I imagined the wind carrying and consigning me to a novel place. At twenty-two, I had married, thinking I knew everything. Only after, did I realize I knew nothing. Today, in recognition of my ignorance, my inner-restlessness stirred to a roar. I decided to stop waiting for Zephyr to deliver me. Instead, I would walk out and free myself.

I scrambled around the apartment packing what came to mind and into sight. I shoved some clothes, a frazzled toothbrush, my camera, and a little bit of money into a tote embroidered with my name; it had been a gift from my mother, whom I missed and needed. The little girl inside me wanted to run and cry to her, implore her to make it better, to make it all go away. However, my shame would not allow me to do so. I didn’t want to look her in the face. After all, I was raised in the southern Bible-Belt where vows taken under God are expected to be kept and “for better or for worse” is a mantra.

I slung the bag into the cab of my truck and settled myself behind the wheel. Habit and reflex set me off on the pavement in seconds. A methadone clinic and tacky car dealership blurred in the periphery as I drove out of the concrete valley I had called my home. A quick glance at the rearview mirror exposed the asphalt narrowly stringing behind. My eyes returned to the anterior section of road. From now on, I would only look ahead.

I was en route to nowhere. Leaving had been a priority but poorly planned. My destination had not been planned at all. Driving out of West Virginia, wondering where to go, I remembered my good friend Liz. We had met through a mutual friend three years prior. Sharing similar interests and senses of humor, we had become instant friends. We talked on the phone occasionally and often exchanged e-mails because we both were better writers than speakers. She was well aware of my situation and had offered me a couch to crash on if ever the need came about.

Hoping the offer was still good, I continued south to Letcher County, Kentucky until I hit a familiar dirt hollow called Copperhead Road; no sign marked the drag and hadn’t since Steve Earle’s anthem landed on the masses and stretched across the generations. I pulled into the rugged driveway of gravel and grass and drew breaths to compose myself. On the drive down, I had sobbed to the tune of the engine. I looked a mess. My eyelids had fattened in the fashion of stys. Tear-fed streams had carved salty paths through my cosmetic landscape and deposited mascara all along the banks. My rosy nose could have passed for Saint Nick’s.

I tapped on the door. Liz answered with a touch of surprise in her bright blues eyes.

“Do you have any vacancies,” I asked.

She smiled and embraced me. It was comforting to hug someone. We released one another and walked toward the living room. I took a seat on the green, stiff sofa, anticipating a slew of questions. But there were none. Instead, she put on a pot of coffee and asked if I was hungry. I lacked appetite. I felt sick. My head throbbed and as the acids churned my empty stomach, I thought at any moment I would retch.

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

She poured me a cup of coffee, “cream, sugar, both, or neither?”

Even though I wasn’t a coffee drinker, I didn’t refuse.

“Cream and sugar,” I said.

The coffee singed my unseasoned tongue. It wasn’t as acrid as I had remembered (Maybe I had grown bitter?).

Liz took a seat beside me, “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m not even sure about what I’ve just done. It came on like a firestorm. I’m notoriously indecisive, and yet I made this decision with precision, surprised myself.”

“Have you talked to anyone?”

“No. I didn’t tell a soul. I just left.”

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

“I do and I don’t. Mom’s in Grassy Creek….dad’s on the coast…” the waterworks drowned my words.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” Liz offered while trying to console me. “My father has a place. It isn’t much, but it would be a roof over your head. If you want, I’ll take you to meet him in the morning. If he likes you, he might let you stay.”

It seemed odd, but I accepted because I didn’t have anything to lose. Curling up on the couch under a hand-stitched blanket, I cried myself to sleep. That night I dreamt of fire and being smothered by smoke. I couldn’t breathe.

The next morning, I awakened to my face buried in the pillow. After coffee and showers, Liz and I piled into my truck. We drove a short distance and began to ascend a tall mountain. The curvy asphalt appeared to lead to the sky. The steepness of it hindered my truck and fixed it at second gear; my truck, laden with miles and void of any real power, was stubborn about elevations of the sort. It’s like an old mare that doesn’t want to go up hill: it reluctantly will, but at its own pace. The road seemed to go on forever, winding up and down like a rollercoaster.

Finally, we reached a narrow valley sprinkled with houses and trailers. We turned onto a gravel driveway that ended at a small white house nestled in some walnut and chestnut trees. A lofty man, with the face of a grouchy Muppet, was waiting on the porch. My eyes registered him as a stoic. I walked toward him with an extended hand and countered him with a firm shake.

“Sassafras,” I said.

“Arnold,” he stated gruffly and directed me inside his home.

In the kitchen, we drank coffee while Liz explained my situation. He listened and nodded, never speaking a word. I studied the lines in his face and the roughness of his hands. He was a coalminer, had been one since his teens. The job had taken its toll and it showed on every inch of his exposed skin. Without notice, he exited the room, returned with a photo album, and began thumbing through the pages. Breaking his silence, he began to tell me about a cabin.

“I built it by hand, took me three years. I went there after divorcin’ Liz’s mom, didn’t come out for months.”

His honesty startled me, revealed a chink in his armor. We continued our conversation. It drifted from the topic of the cabin and fell onto fast cars and rock music. He took another drink of his Yuban coffee and eyed me.

“You seem alright to me. I’ll let you stay, but you have to respect the place. It’ll need some cleanin’ up. I haven’t stayed there in years.”

“No problem,” I replied. “I’ll treat it as if it were my own.”

I wanted to hug him, but he didn’t strike me as a man of affection so I refrained and shook his hand instead.

“Thanks,” I said.

Arnold walked me to the cabin, not too near or far from his home. Between two mountains rested a tiny wooden abode with a tin roof. Leaves covered the path and porch. A heavy door of rough lumber served as an entryway. As he opened the door, a faint smell brushed my nose. The place was clammy, dim, and soundless save the birds. Arnold took a few steps toward a table and switched on a lamp. All the silhouettes materialized as full-bodied objects. There was a full-size bed. Beside it, were a dinky side-table and an old vertical wardrobe. Attached to the wall was a set of cubed shelves; upon one set a dated Sansui radio. Opposite the shelves, rooted to the floor, was a dusty tufted chair; it looked as though it had been grand at one time. Next to the chair was another door, a twin to the first. Around the bend, in the adjoining room, was a cast-iron stove.

“This’ll keep you warm. There’s some coal slate under the porch to get you started, but you’ll have to get some wood.”

Nothing in the room, except a dining set and a basin, pointed to it being a kitchen. There wasn’t a faucet nor were there appliances of any kind. He turned, exited the kitchen, and retraced his steps out the door and onto the porch. I followed. I was wandering about the bathroom when his voice interrupted my thoughts.

“There’s no indoor plumbin’. You’ll have to use the outhouse up on the bank.”

I raised my eyes and spotted the gray atrocity. My mouth must have subconsciously dropped because he butted in.

“Throwin’ some moth balls in and around it should keep the snakes away.”

He grinned with amusement. I didn’t.

We hoofed it out of the valley back down to the house and rejoined Liz. Arnold gave me the key to the cabin and we said our farewells. She and I loaded up in the truck again and started toward her house. On the way, we made small-talk.

“What will you do for money?”

“I don’t know. I have a little bit, enough for some staples. I’ll figure it out. God knows I’ve got the time.”

“Well, when you’re ready, I might be able to set you up with a job.”

“Thanks.”

I didn’t know where tomorrow would take me and so I would live day to day. For the moment, I didn’t have to worry about the divorce and its repercussions. The woman, who had only ever merely existed, would finally get to live.