Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [42]
That night, I stayed up several hours past my trail bedtime, sitting in the kitchen and talking with Heather. At one point, she even ordered me to take off my shoes so she could massage my sore and swollen feet.
“So what do you think you’ll do when your daughter graduates high school and you have an empty nest?” I asked.
“A lot,” she laughed. “I never really got to put my master’s in architecture to use after we had our first child. I think that maybe I’d like to get back to design. If I could combine that with my love of photography, it would make me happy.”
“I never knew you had an architecture degree,” I said with surprise.
“Ahh, yes,” she smiled. “That’s because by the time you came around, my kids had become my job. I’ve been driving carpools, going to after-school sports, and hosting sleepovers for so long that it’s strange to think about it coming to an end.”
I started to think about my own mother and the years she gave over to me and my brothers. I honestly had never thought that she might prefer to be doing something else.
“So, um . . . well, do you regret not working?” Part of me felt like the question was too personal and that I shouldn’t have asked, but I really wanted to know the answer.
“No, no, not at all. Some women want to work or have to work, and I appreciate that, but I consider myself very fortunate to have been able to spend all those years with my children.”
I give my mom a lot of grief, a lot of the time, but talking with Heather made me see my own mother in a new light. I loved my mom, I had always loved my mom, but now I was starting to appreciate her too.
Being on the trail had given me time to reflect on the people closest to me, and even though I was geographically separated from all of them, I had started to feel closer to them and more thankful for their presence in my life.
The trail had also taught me that everyone has a story. Before my visit in Banner Elk, I had viewed Heather simply as a loving mom, but now I also saw her as an avid photographer, a supportive wife, an architect, an outdoors enthusiast, and a terrific hostess.
After my visit with the Smiths, I returned to the trail—the current trail—feeling strong and rested. I had missed the woods and was happy to return. It was a beautiful spring day, with mild temperatures and a blue sky, the kind of day that draws everyone outdoors.
I wished that some of those people had stayed inside.
I could have done without the man in the white tank-top and cutoff jean shorts driving his ATV madly down the trail and running me off the path. ATV—I didn’t even know what that stood for. I just knew that the loud, noisy four-wheelers tore up the path and were prohibited on the trail. Maybe the skinny man with the mullet was unaware of the restriction. Perhaps he thought that ATV stood for Appalachian Trail Vehicle, but my new interpretation was Asshole Traveling Violently!
A moment after he recklessly sped by, hollering and spraying mud on my legs, his two dogs—two familiar-looking pit bulls—cornered me at the base of a poplar tree. They barked, growled, frothed at the mouth, and fed off my fear until their owner called and they raced down the trail after him.
A few miles later, the trail came out of the woods at a rural cemetery and then crossed a paved road in front of a small brick church. Forty yards down the road, by the edge of a field, a pack of eighteen- and nineteen-year-old boys stood next to a pickup truck. Several were smoking cigarettes (I think they were cigarettes), and one was drinking from a flask.
Walk fast, I told myself.
But it was too late. They had seen me, and the catcalls ensued: “Hey, sweetheart,