Wildflowers

The young couple walked along the gentle, winding road that followed the lake. He had brought her to the lake where his family came every summer. The road was usually busy with other families, but today it was empty. They had it to themselves and knew no one would bother them.

They stepped around the gnarled roots that poked up through the sandy road surface. Off to one side, the water was visible through the trees, distant and sparkling in the afternoon light. A gentle breeze moved over the surface, and the waves caught the sun, but here among the scrub and pines, it was calm under the blue sky.

She stopped to gather wildflowers from the roadside—purple vetch, Indian paintbrush, and Queen Anne’s lace—collecting them as they walked. He watched how she bent to gather them. Her hair was short, and when she smiled, her cheeks grew round and full. How easily she moved. How perfect the flowers looked in her hands.

The road curved around a stand of birch trees, and they came to a place where another road branched off toward the old landfill. Through the trees, they could see something that almost looked like a building, though it was lopsided and wrong.

“What is that?” she asked.

They left the main road and walked down the narrow track to the nuisance grounds. Closer, they found a cabin, heaved upside down atop the pile, its roof pressed into the ground and its foundation jutting at the sky.

“Should we go inside?” she asked.

He liked that she wanted to explore.

“Yes,” he said.

They climbed up the refuse pile toward a window frame, treading carefully over broken glass and the shattered remains of a white picket fence. He went first, then helped her inside, his hands on her waist.

The house felt strange beneath their feet—they were walking on the ceiling, looking up at what should have been the floor. She moved through it like a game, stepping easily from room to room through doorframes that hung sideways in the air. She handed him the flowers and brought out her camera, taking pictures of him posing in the tilted openings, laughing at how wrong everything looked. She delighted in its absurdity, in making something impossible feel like play. He liked that he had shared this moment with her.

When they were done, they climbed back outside, the sun warm on his skin. He gave back the flowers and took her hand as they walked away from the house. He could hear her breathing beside him, steady and calm. The afternoon light made everything feel bright and close.

“Should we keep going along the path?” she said. “Where does it take us?”

“To the main road. But there’s a way through the trees,” he said. “It would be faster.”

She let go of his hand and turned to look where he pointed, toward the line of spruce and poplar that stretched between them and the lake. “You’re sure?”

“I know these woods,” he said. “We’ll be back at the cabin in no time.”

She shifted the wildflowers to her other hand and looked at the trees again. “All right. Let’s try it.”

They left the landfill road and walked into the trees. The sandy ground gave way to soft peat that cushioned their steps. The air was cooler here, heavy with the smell of moss and decay, and shafts of light filtered through the canopy overhead. They could hear the gentle creak of branches moving in the breeze above them, and somewhere deeper in the woods, a squirrel chattered and scrambled through dry leaves.

The path led to a creek, where an old log stretched across the water, slick with moss and beaded with moisture. He crossed first, feeling the log give slightly under his weight, then helped her over, the wildflowers still clutched in one hand.

On the other side, the path was harder to follow. Fallen trees blocked the way, and the undergrowth had grown thick across what used to be the trail. The humid air under the trees felt close and warm. They pushed through together, he holding branches back for her, her ducking under low limbs, the wildflowers now slightly bedraggled.

“You okay?” he asked after they climbed over a huge fallen trunk.

“I’m fine,” she said, brushing leaves from her hair.

He liked how she kept going without complaint.

Their walk slowed where tree roots twisted up through the soft ground. Both stumbled occasionally, catching themselves on tree trunks.

She was breathing harder now from the effort, and she stopped and leaned against a birch tree, one hand pressed to her chest. Her breath came in short, tight gasps. “I can’t,” she said.

He watched her struggle for air, gripping the wildflowers tightly. “Do you have your inhaler?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He considered running back to the cabin to get it, but worried about what might happen in his absence. He didn’t want to leave her alone in the woods. So he simply stood there, watching her fight for each breath. After what felt like a long time, her breathing began to slow. She pushed herself away from the tree.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Let’s keep going.”

They continued through the woods, walking slowly and stopping more often now. He watched her breathing, making sure it stayed steady and regular. The walking was still slow and difficult, but she pushed through the undergrowth without complaint. He noticed how fragile she looked when she had to catch her breath. When she caught him watching her, she didn't look away.

By the time they reached the cabin, clouds had moved over the lake. Light rain began to fall, the smell drifting through the screen door.

She pulled him inside, out of their damp clothes and under the warm sheets.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Absolutely," she said.

He felt her body against his, the line of her curves, being inside her. He’d wanted this for so long, and all he could remember was the patter of the rain on the roof.

Afterward, she fell asleep beside him, her breathing slow and deep. Her cheeks were still flushed, her lips slightly swollen from kissing.

He lay there, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to each breath, watching how her ribs moved under her skin. He could see the pulse in her neck, so quick, so close to the surface. It could just stop at any moment, he realized, and there was nothing he could do. It scared him.

He got up quietly and went to the kitchen for water. On the table were the wildflowers she had gathered, already beginning to wilt. He thought about putting them in a glass of water, but decided to leave them. He’d wait until tomorrow to throw them away.