Beth Ciotta: Into the Wild

“Would it make you feel better if I went home now, chugged a bottle of wine and sobbed into my pillow?” River asked “No. But you’d feel better.”

Wrong. It was, however, a way out of this conversation. I’ll keep that in mind.” Still smiling, River pushed to her wedge-sandaled feet. “We’re caught up on business. What do you say we knock off for the day? I have personal errands and you’ve never been one to pass up extra time at the gym.” Whereas River maintained a rigid schedule that centered on jogging and moderate weight training, Ella kept fit via trendy workouts. Flavor of this month: Zumba.

“Sure, but—”

“Great.” But before River could get out the door, Ben burst in. The uniformed mailman planted a quick kiss on Ella’s slick lips then turned to River. “This is unorthodox,” he said, looking harried, “seeing it was addressed to your home, but I couldn’t imagine leaving it in your mailbox, considering its origin.”

River tensed. Ben was a company man. A straight-arrow, by-the-books government employee. What would cause him to deviate from his normal route, delaying service to his regulars?

Ella rushed to River’s side. “Is it bad news?”

“Maybe it’s good news or promising news,” said Ben. “Whatever it is, it’s marked Important.”

River hefted her red satchel higher on her shoulder to busy her hands. Wringing them wouldn’t do. “What is it?”

Ben produced a worn eleven-by-fourteen padded envelope. “No return addressee,” he pointed out, “but it’s postmarked Baños, Ecuador.”

River held tight to her satchel’s strap, tight to her control.

“David’s in South America,” Ella said, excitedly pumping her gloss. “Isn’t Ecuador in South America?”

“Yepper,” Ben said, still holding the envelope. “That’s why I rushed it right over.”

Reapplying the gloss Ben had kissed off, Ella leaned in for a closer look. “Except that doesn’t look like David’s handwriting.”

No, it didn’t. But the all-capitals print was familiar. Although River hadn’t seen it in a long, long time.

“David’s on an extreme tour,” Ben said, “floating down the Amazon or zip-lining across the jungle canopy. Maybe he asked someone else to send whatever it is.”

Ella snatched the package from Ben and felt up the contents. “It feels like a book.”

River snatched the package from Ella and slipped it into her satchel. “I’ll let you know.”

“You mean you’re not going to open it here? Now?”

“I’d rather not.” Sensitive to the couple’s disappointment, River itched to make a graceful exit. “I appreciate the special delivery, Ben, but I feel a meltdown coming on and I promised Ella I’d do that in private. She’ll explain.” That was as graceful as it could get. River blew out of her office, through the reception area and out the front door of Forever Photography.

She anticipated dark clouds, rumbling thunder, something ominous to match her mood, but the weather was sunny and mild. A beautiful late June day. If things had gone according to her well-laid plan, she would’ve been a June bride. Instead she was a June reject. She shelved the thought and focused on the package. “What do you want?” she grumbled as she slid into her minivan.

It had been five years since River had last heard from her father. And that had been a lame greeting card, condolences on the passing of her maternal grandpa. As if the selfish bastard really cared.

She nosed the van toward home.

Important.

What could it be? In addition to the surprise package, she was reeling from the possibility that her estranged father and fiancé were in the same foreign region. David was actually in Peru. Wasn’t that just south or east of Ecuador? The coincidence was just too weird.

Taking her usual route, River zipped through town and pulled into her designated driveway. She eyed the two-bedroom rancher she’d inherited from her grandparents, much smaller than the one she’d planned to buy with David. For a moment she marveled that she’d been willing to part with it. Though lacking in warm, fuzzy memories, it was the only place she’d ever been able to truly call home. Her grandparents, though reluctant guardians, had taken her in when she was thirteen. The same year her mom had died. The same year she’d cursed her father to hell, thereafter referring to him as Henry.

Months later, in a fit of remorse, she’d tried to mend that bridge, but her efforts had failed, driving a bigger wedge between father and daughter. River had many regrets, but mostly she was bitter. If her parents had loved her more, if they’d been less weird, she wouldn’t have developed the eccentricities that had driven David away.

Suddenly, the tears she’d been holding at bay for two long weeks threatened to flow. River steeled her body, her mind. She would not, could not, lose control. Gulping fresh air, she plopped on the front stoop and opened the package.

Nerves jangling, she clutched the contents, seeing but not believing.

Not a book. A journal. Embossed brown leather, bulging and bound by a green elastic band. River smoothed her fingers over the worn cover. She had few memories of Henry, but she remembered him scribbling in a small, fat book that he carried in his pocket. No, not a book. A journal. This journal. Or at least a predecessor.

Her heart raced as the past stared her in the face. She’d wondered back then what he was writing, but when she’d asked, he’d blown her off. “Data,” he’d said, as if that explained it all. Later, her mom had described data as documented observations and revelations about his studies. She’d likened his journal to a diary. “For his eyes only,” she’d said.

Never in a million years had River dreamed she’d get a peek inside Henry’s journal, let alone an invitation to peruse at will. Was this his way of reaching out, of reconnecting? Was she supposed to feel honored? Relieved? Giddy with anticipation?

The soft leather didn’t comfort her as she slid off the band, carefully, as though the journal might be ticking.

She found yellowed, stained and smudged pages. Scribbles and tiny crammed handwriting in margins—handwriting she had seen so few times—and diagrams that held no immediate meaning.

But she also found photographs. Ones she’d never seen. Photos of her. Of her mom. Of them as a family. She’d never figured Henry as sentimental. She was trying to process the notion when a trifold paper slid free and fell to the ground. Hands trembling, she unfolded the weighty stationery and found an object wrapped in tissue. It was small, but heavy. An amulet? It resembled a cross, except it had several corners and a hole in the middle. All she could tell for sure was that it was gold. And old.

Setting it aside, she read the handwriting on the stationery—the same tight, cramped writing as in the journal.

Dear River,

To prove my love—which I know you doubt—I am trusting you with a monumental secret.

I have discovered something men would kill to possess. If you receive this package, it means I am sacrificing my life to protect a precious treasure. I’m gifting you with my journal and sweat of the sun so that you’ll understand the choices I’ve made. Share it with no one except Professor Bovedine and beware of the hunters.

I love you,

Daddy

What the…?

Anger burned away her nerves.

Was he kidding? I love you? “I’m sacrificing my life”? What did that mean?

Frustrated, River read the note again…and again. Even when he told her he loved her he couldn’t get it right. The tender declaration was overshadowed by his cryptic dramatics.

I am sacrificing my life.

Beware of the hunters.

Was he in mortal danger, already dead or just nuts? How like Henry to talk in riddles. He was a brilliant but odd bird who’d grown more eccentric with age. An archaeologist who’d found it increasingly difficult to secure grants to fund his expeditions due to his bullheaded, hot-dog nature. He’d refused to curb his obsession with discovering legendary treasures even when it would have meant security for his family.