Page 99 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“There are no empowering memoirs about women finding contentment after tragedy.”

“I would argue most are about that.”

The brown leather armchair groans as I shift my weight. “No. It’s like, something awful happens and—rather than sitting in the debilitating sadness and fear—you fly around the world or hike the Pacific Crest Trail or sail around the Caribbean. Through the journey, you become self-actualized and a person worthy of happiness and success.”

“And contentment?”

“No. It’s…” I trail off.

“What happens to the sadness and fear? Do they dissolve into the ocean?” She smiles kindly. “Before your mastectomy, we talked a lot about sadness and fear. You were fearful of the surgery. You were scared they would find cancerous tissue. You were sad about the loss of your breasts. Where did those feelings go?”

“They didn’t find cancer, and the surgery went well, so the whole thing was moot. My mom was still getting regular scans, and suddenly, I never had to think about it. I shouldn’t have wasted time worrying about myself.”

“So you felt guilty you no longer had to have that fear anymore?”

I shrug. “Maybe. And I was still sad too, about losing my breasts, but I was so lucky. Being sad felt ungrateful.”

“And you didn’t want to ‘sit in the debilitating sadness,’ as you put it?”

“No. I didn’t want to feel that. I wanted to do something. It felt…easier.” I squirm, picking at my sweater. “But this trip isn’t about guilt. Maybe I haven’t clicked with the outdoors because of how solitary it is. Being surrounded by a group of avid adventurers could make all the difference.”

“Could you test that out?” she says, challenging me, because Denise is the kind of therapist who gives homework. “Go on a hike with friends who love the outdoors and see if that feels joyful to you? It might be worth a shot, before flying to South America.”

—

“But it wasn’t opening the relationship that broke us. It was the lies,” Russell laments, twigs snapping underfoot on this uncharacteristically warm December day, two days before I’m set to fly home for Christmas. Out on the trail that Russell chose for our Patagonia trial run, we’ve hardly escaped the parking lot and he’s already baring his soul to Chelsea.

“Nonmonogamy requires the deepest levels of trust,” Chelsea assures him. “But, Russell, a boundary you don’t reinforce isn’t a boundary at all.” Russell blinks like this conversation has unlocked a new level of personal growth.

The dawn light spills over the Mississippi River like flickering embers, and we climb the steep bluffs in search of the breathtaking views I was promised when I drove two hours south before daybreak. The devil on my shoulder argues we had the perfect view when we parked the car and everything we’ve seen since then has been more of the same, except now my right knee hurts, my cheeks are lightly windburned, and I can’t feel my pinky toe. Still, I am determined to see the positive.

“Oh! A goldfinch.” Chelsea points enthusiastically at a bird that looks like every other bird we’ve seen today. Since part of Denise’s requirement for this trial run was eager participants, I immediately ruled out Mara, but Chelsea and Russell have proven to be happy hiking partners.

“This is where I filmed my audition tape for Survivor. And Naked and Afraid. And Dating Naked. No, wait, Dating Naked I filmed over…there.” Russell pivots to point out a nondescript cluster of rocks. “Speaking of hot dates, how are you and my guy Adam doing? I added him to the Patagonia group chain, but he immediately left the chat. New record for him.”

The pot of coffee I chugged this morning sloshes in my stomach. “I wouldn’t know. We haven’t really talked for a couple weeks.”

“No! You guys? It would’ve been epic.”

“Russell, tell me about your current dietary restrictions,” Chelsea buffers, because we’ve never met a bulky, chiseled man who could resist fetishizing what he was depriving his body of to stay so bulky and chiseled. Between the small talk and bird spotting, she’s been running interference at every turn.

After exhaustively detailing his specific brand of keto—a rotation of boiled chicken, coconut oil, and starvation that would violate the Geneva Conventions—Russell disappears behind a curtain of trees.

“Can you believe this exists here?” Chelsea leans against amber-colored rock. “This was left behind by glacial melt from the last ice age. It’s been here for thousands of years and will be here for thousands more. This scenery is literally stepping back in time and into the future. It’s incredible.” Chelsea’s excitement echoes off the surrounding bluffs. Jealousy that she’s able to so easily enjoy herself out here twinges in my belly.

I uncap the water bottle clipped to my pack and offer it to her before taking a swig for myself. “Why don’t you want me to do this?” I ask, feeling the cold water travel down my throat. “You seem to love it out here.”

“I do. You don’t, and it’s not fun to watch you torture yourself. The worst part is, if you weren’t determined to make adventure your personality, I think you’d like it in small doses—a way to drift out of your comfort zone. Instead, you’re so angry that you’re uncomfortable. This could be a nice day with one of your best friends and the hottest man I’ve ever seen—like, he’s currently holding a branch, defecating, behind us, and I still haven’t ruled him out as a sexual option—and you’re not even enjoying it. You’re glued to everything you don’t like and criticizing yourself for noticing those things. Stop trying to have a life-altering epiphany in the woods and just have a pretty okay time with me.” She nudges me with her shoulder.

I smile, imagining what it could be like to feel things without judging my every thought. Then her earlier comment catches up to me. “Wait, he’s pooping?”

Russell jogs up from behind us, adjusting his outer layer. He accepts Chelsea’s proffered hand sanitizer with a wink before we’re back on the trail. We walk for an hour or so up steep paths of snow-covered rocks. Our ice cleats crunch with every step. The farther we walk, the more patches of limestone peek out from blankets of snow like a mouth packed with too many teeth. As we begin to descend, a droplet plops onto my nose. It’s slow at first, but soon the skies open up, and icy December rain is biting my cheeks.

“Should we wait it out?” I ask. The above-freezing temps felt like a godsend this morning, but I’d kill for snow right now.

Russell shakes his head. “We’re not far from the car. We should keep moving.” We keep walking, but the slippery, sloped terrain slows our pace. My foot slips in a flooded crevice and water seeps into my socks.

Coffee rebels in my intestines. “Can we take a shortcut straight down?” I ask with more urgency than I intend.

---