The Wild Child

by Kaitlyn Rose

Seven years today she’s been gone, and I still see her in my dreams each night. My Millie.

*

I sit at my desk, responding to concerned emails from my supervisor. I click my pen incessantly, a nervous habit I’ve picked up since I started working from my all too quiet home.

I step away from the stress to pour another cup of coffee. My phone is lit up on the marble countertop. It’s Dan.

We haven’t spoken in years. We used to have the occasional lunch, an awkward phone call here and there. But we both realized there was nothing left. Not even mutual grief could bond us after all these years.

Call me when you get this.

He used to call every year to check in, say a prayer for Millie. I asked him to stop. I do everything in my power to avoid thinking about that day. But I’m there again.

Millie was almost fifteen, in that terrible phase of puberty where she hated being around her embarrassing parents. But on this day, she didn’t hate us. Because we were going to the Grand Canyon. We’d been once before when she was small. Little Millie would inch herself toward the cliff’s edge before Dan would pull her back by our sides. I could see that spark of childhood in her eyes as we pulled into the park.

Millie was an enigma. One minute stuck in her phone, knees curled up to her chin, a scowl on her face, and the next, she’d be leaping to her feet and spinning circles so her frizzy blonde locks would ripple in the air. I loved the moments that Millie showed her face.

“C’mon!” She yelped. “Trail’s over there!” Dan and I grumbled when Millie made us promise to hike with her that day. Neither of us was particularly athletic, but for Millie, we’d hike the world over.

We chased our daughter the whole way down. She practically galloped, leaving us wheezing in the dry heat. We never knew where Millie got this sense of adventure, but it was rare. She never lost the wild in her as she passed from child to young woman.

She dragged us forward, promising a view of the Colorado River if we went a bit further. Dan shrugged at me. He was always pushing me to do more than I thought I could, or wanted to. That, matched with my stubbornness, ended up being our downfall. I wanted to hold onto my grief and my daughter for as long as possible when Dan would rather plunge forward and come out the other side.

We made it to the plateau that overlooked the Colorado River; wide-winged condors dipped and dived in the canyon. The wind swept Millie’s fly-away curls from her sweaty forehead. Her flushed face radiated pure joy. It was the first time in a long time the three of us were together and no one worried about a project deadline or what was for supper or how they’d rather be FaceTiming with their friends. I wish I could bottle that feeling. The feeling before everything went wrong.

“You know what they say,” Millie squinted at us through the blaring sun. “Coming down is optional, going up is mandatory.” She held out a hand for me. I looked up at the rust-colored rocks we’d descended, preparing myself for the thigh-destroying pain I’d have in my near future. Then Millie did something very uncharacteristic. She wrapped her arms around mine and her father’s waists and said, “you guys are the coolest for doing this with me.” Somehow that meant more than any “I love you” she’d ever uttered.

We huffed our way to the surface. Even Millie took frequent water breaks. With a mile and a half to go, back in the shade of the canyon, Mille got a second wind and burst forward. She turned around and called back to us, “C’mon slow pokes!” Her heel slipped on a loose rock. She flung backward, knocking her head on a boulder.

Suddenly I was by her side pleading for her to make a sound, a whimper, anything. I heard a woman wailing my daughter’s name. I realized in retrospect; it was me.

Millie moaned softly after what felt like an eternity. She peaked her eyes open and whispered “Ow.”

Grateful tears sprung to my eyes. Dan’s arms were around me and my arms around Millie. “I’ll find help,” Dan said softly.

“I’m okay, Dad. I’m alright. Just give me a minute.” She balanced on her forearms, taking deep breaths. She smirked. “Just trying to give you time to catch up.”

I laughed with relief, cupping Millie’s head in my hand. “Remind me to get you a helmet for your next hike.”

“Now, we eat like kings!” Dan bellowed as we reached the car.

I turned back and Millie had doubled over vomiting. “Some-sings wron,” she mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut.

The rest of it comes in flashes. Millie is in a golf cart. Millie is loaded into an ambulance. Millie is dying in front of me.

Millie is dead before we exit the park grounds.

*

I pick up my phone from the counter and tap on Dan’s contact, letting it ring. I prepare myself for the somber tone, the attempted comfort. “Hey Tess,” he sounds causal. “Thanks for calling me back.”

“Right. What’s going on?”

“It’s a long shot, but is there any chance you have a copy of my birth certificate?”

“What?” This is what he’s calling about? Today?

“I’m trying to renew my passport and I can’t find my copy. I’d really prefer not to

drive out to Austin for a new one.”

“I’ll have to check. Maybe, in the attic.” Was he really not even going to mention it?

“Thanks, Tess.” He breathes into the phone. “How are you?”

“Well, I mean, it’s the twelfth, so…”

“Right. I wasn’t gonna call today. I know you asked me not to. I just have this trip coming and I need to get this done.”

“Where are you going?” I dance around the topic of Millie. Like we are just old friends, catching up. Like we hadn’t lost our whole world and subsequently each other.

“Got some work in Italy for a few weeks.”

“Lucky you.”

“Ha, thanks. Listen, just give me a call if you find it. Don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“Right, I will.”

“Bye Tess.”

I hang up without saying goodbye, the sting of a broken marriage lingering in my chest.

I pull the dangling string from the ceiling and release the stairs to the attic. I am met with a waft of mothballs and musk. I begin to sort through files when I spot Millie’s birthday present on the floor. It’s a new hiking backpack filled with dehydrated meals, a first aid kit, a flashlight, a sleeping bag. We promised she could do an overnight with a friend’s family, the outdoorsy type of folks Dan and I would never be.

I kneel down and clutch the pack to my chest. How did I get here?

All my life, I wanted to be a wife and mother. It sounds archaic, but that was my calling. I will always be a mother, even if I have no one to care for.

I pull the backpack on, clicking the straps closed around my waistline. I am Millie all grown up. I spin in circles, imagining her frizzy blonde curls. I carefully descend the stairs. I stuff clothes from the basket on my bed into the bag. I tuck snacks from the pantry into the pockets. I don’t know what I’m doing. I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m finding Millie.

I take my cell phone and wallet from the counter. I put one foot in front of the other.

I’m across town. I cross an overpass and turn south. I know it’s the right way. I keep going like this for hours. My mind is numb and I’m not thinking about my abandoned work or Dan waiting on me. I think only of her.

I think of the first time I held her, bloody and wailing. Love at first sight. I think of sending her to pre-school. She skipped through the classroom door. My little independent, ready to take on the world.

The Arizona sun bears down on me, and I bask in its warmth. My blouse clings with sweat. It’s been three hours since I’ve left home.

I’m slowing down, but I dare not take a break. I’m not where I need to be yet. Whether it’s stubbornness or grief that keeps me going, I’m not sure, but I’m still walking, periodically sucking water from the bladder in my bag.

Some hours later, my feet drag inch by inch. My stomach aches with hunger. I think of the first time Millie told me she hated me. She was twelve. I kept her home from a sleepover that everyone in the sixth grade was attending because she hadn’t finished her chores. “I hate you! You never want me to be happy!”

Millie is yelling in my ear. She hates me for letting her die.

I collapse; my knees meet crumbs of stone. I’m waiting for Millie to wake up, to make a sound. To get up and beat Dan and me to the top of the Grand Canyon. A chill passes through me.

“You okay?” She’s standing over me. Wild curls, face smudged with dirt from hours of outdoor play. I dry my face with scabbed palms. It’s not her. Of course, it’s not. The girl registers my face turn from confusion, to hope, to devastation. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She takes my hand and helps me up. I look down and my hands are dirty and the knees of my pants torn. Her hand is calloused, but it’s warm. I haven’t held someone’s hand in years. I wrap my fingers tighter then let go. It’s not her.

“So, what brings you here? I haven’t seen any folks in a few days. Been too hot for hiking, I suppose.” She’s leading me deeper down the path. We’re beneath a canopy of aspens and conifers.

“My daughter. She loved these woods. Went hiking here every chance she got.”

“Your daughter sounds like good people.” She points off the trail. I can hear water running. I sit beside her on a log, and she takes a bandana from her pocket, soaks it in the stream, and passes it to me. “Were you planning on coming out this way today?” I can see she’s studying my odd choice of outfit. A silk blouse clinging to my skin and a pair of flannel pajama pants. The work-from-home chic I donned each morning seems a ridiculous choice.

“Not exactly. I just was sort of, drawn here.” I roll up my pant leg and begin dabbing at the pods of blood springing from my kneecap.

“I know the feeling.” She gazes at the tree line, and I finally look at her. She has an air of Millie about her, but there’s something else there too. The suburban shelter that kept Millie well fed and connected was missing. She has a backpack like mine, though hers was worn in and well-stocked, by the looks of it.

I brave a question. “Pardon me, but do you live out here?”

She nods toward the tessellations of light between the trees.

“How? I mean, how do you eat?”

She shrugs. “I make it work.”

I pull out a banana from my bag. The girl nearly growls with hunger. “You want one?”

She nods ferociously. We eat and she leads me back to her campsite. A makeshift fire ring sits at the center next to a small tent. “I don’t have much, but you can rest here if you’d like.”

I think about going home for a hot shower and a glass of wine. “That would be nice, thank you.” The sun is dimming, and I fall onto a squashy sleeping bag. My body ached in places I didn’t know existed, but even still, a wave of peace came over me. Millie is showing me something.

I expect the girl to come inside, but she never does. A campfire glow arises during the night, and I settled in deeper. I awake to the smell of something crisping on the fire. And to my shock, it’s a squirrel. Or, it was.

The girl smirks. “Told you, I make it work. You don’t want any?” She offers me the stick that punctures the critter’s middle.

I’m hungry, not that hungry. “I should get on my way.”

“Which way is that?” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

I take a deep breath and look around. “Onward.”

“Can I join you?” Having a bit of Millie with me, even if it isn’t her, could help me along.

“I’d like that.” I crawl from the tent and prep myself for the journey, now changed into more appropriate attire. “I’m Tess, by the way.”

“Carrie,” she wipes the squirrel grease on her pants and extends a hand. I shake it lightly.

She packs her site in a well-practiced manner and nods for me to lead her. We speak little on our journey. It’s too quiet. I break the silence. “How long have you been out here?”

“About a year. I left New Mexico after I turned 14.” She said it matter-of-factly. “My family was…not so nice to me. Well, just Mom, really. Never met Dad. Tried to get my brother Billy to come out, but he already had a job in town, getting ready to move out and all.”

“Have you kept in touch at all? With your brother?”

“I’ve written him a letter. Told him I was safe.” She speeds up her pace as we come to a hill. She’s done sharing.

I chased Millie through these woods. We’d rented a cabin the summer before she started kindergarten. She saw a lizard slither by and ran after it. I caught up with her and she looked confused. “I lost it.” She shrugged and headed back. “Can I have another s’more?”

We’ve emerged from the woods under midday sun. I can hear a highway nearby. “Lunch break?” I nod toward civilization. I take us to a Denny’s and Carrie eats one of everything. I think of the squirrel. “You must be starving.”

“There’s a kitchen in Sedona I go to sometimes. People are friendly. Food’s hot. But when I’m on the move, I stick to what I can find.”

My heart hurts for her. An unloved child left to fend for herself. “Well, have as much as you like. It’s on me.”

“I assumed.” She smiles through a mouthful of fries. “Thank you.”

We trek back into the woods and walk a few miles more. Carrie sets up camp as dusk falls and I build a small fire. We sleep head to toe in her pup tent. I sleep through the night for the first time in seven years.

The next day there’s a pep in my step, still unaware of my destination, and quite thrilled by it. So much of my life in the last half-decade has been structured. Work nine to five. Consume a pre-portioned dinner with five ounces of red wine. Online therapy and virtual yoga on the weekends. Before yesterday, I can barely remember the last time I left my house.

Yes, I can. It was the last lunch I shared with Dan. We’d been divorced three years and he invited me to the bistro downtown that makes my favorite panini. Dan sat me down and told me he was seeing someone. A woman from his office. She had a daughter and the three of them were moving in. He’d done it—plunged through the pain and came out the other side. He’d found life after Millie. I couldn’t bear it and cocooned myself even further.

And now I’ve emerged from my casing and am halfway across Arizona with a nomadic child. Completely un-Tess-like in the best way. I’m seeing the light that Millie always wanted me to see.

“C’mon, I have an idea.” Carrie leads us and shortly we’re at Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. “Horseshoe Bend is one of my favorite spots I’ve found so far. Great view of the river without the hassle of a day-long hike in the Grand Canyon.”

I shudder.

“It’s just down there. Not far.” She points at a family making their way down a sandy path.

I gaze out over the curves, a hazy blue under cloud-covered skies. Condors dive over the Colorado River and a cool breeze grazes my face. I’m crying. I feel a hand on the small of my back. Millie is hugging me. We’re six miles from the moment I lose her.

“Pretty magnificent, huh?” It’s Carrie.

“It’s wonderful.” I squat and hang my head. “Carrie, I think I’m ready to go home.”

“Oh, okay.” She’s disappointed.

“Come with me? I know we just met, but I have a spare bedroom.”

She sighs. “Nah…I don’t think I’d fare well indoors. I’m a wanderer.”

“I guess I can understand that. I think.” A twinge of worry strikes me. And one of loss. “Can I at least give you some money? And my phone number? I’m not far away. Well, relatively. We have been walking for a day.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” I pull the rest of the cash from my wallet. She begins to walk away.

“Wait.” I pull her in for a hug. She doesn’t hug me back, but she doesn’t pull away either. “Thank you.”

She nods and saunters off. A weight is lifted.

*

Eight years today she’s been gone, and I take her with me wherever I go. My Millie.

I quit my job the night I got home from Horseshoe Bend. The next morning, I started packing my home. The home that was mine and Dan and Millie’s. I moved into a one-bedroom apartment above a community center.

A sign hangs above the awning “Millie’s House of Adventure”. I established it as a non-profit for troubled youth. I feed them and listen to their stories, and every weekend we hike.

Today we’re going to the Grand Canyon. Hiking the Bright Angel Trail.

I take the first step and feel my breath shaking. Millie’s arm is around me. “Mom, you’re the coolest for doing this.” And on I walk with my wild child by my side.