If We Make It Home Read online

  “Christina Suzann Nelson offers readers a compelling and well-written story in If We Make It Home. The characters are clearly distinct in personality and life circumstances, but bonded by a friendship that survives the toll of years and the battering of their crises. Nelson skillfully draws readers into character emotions in a way that sets us up for what lies ahead. No neat and tidy bows at the end, but hope-filled and courageous conclusions. Nelson’s storytelling is a gift to her readers.”

  — CYNTHIA RUCHTI, author of twenty-two books, including A Fragile Hope

  “If you love discovering new authors with a lyrical, literary voice, then you’re in for a treat. If you like those voices to also deliver a powerful, engaging story with true emotional depth, then you’re in for a feast. Highly recommended.”

  —JAMES L. RUBART, best-selling author of The Five Times I Met Myself and The Long Journey to Jake Palmer

  “I turned the final page of If We Make It Home with a sigh of satisfaction. Christina Suzann Nelson is a writer to watch! The adventure these three friends found themselves on had me wide-eyed and holding my breath, but their inner journeys were even more breathtaking. High stakes for each of the characters, yes, but a payoff that is so worthwhile.”

  — DEBORAH RANEY, author of Christy Award finalist Home to Chicory Lane and the Hanover Falls series

  “If We Make It Home is a powerfully well-written novel layered with complex characters, witty dialogue, and superbly plotted collision courses of divine destiny. Three estranged friends, reunited decades after college, make an unusual wilderness journey so life-changing that readers can’t help but be changed alongside them. Christina writes with an unpretentious poetry and finesse that charmed me from the first page to the last. A life-and-death drama brimming with tension and wry humor, If We Make It Home moved me with its gut-wrenching honesty and profound wisdom. It’s beautifully raw. Elegantly real. Simply stunning. Christina Nelson has created an absolute must-read masterpiece.”

  — CAMILLE EIDE, award-winning author of The Memoir of Johnny Devine

  If We Make It Home: A Novel of Faith and Survival in the Oregon Wilderness

  © 2017 by Christina Suzann Nelson

  Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel, Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the Internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-8254-4495-1

  Printed in the United States of America

  17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 / 5 4 3 2 1

  To my grandpa and my dad,

  the men who raised me to love stories.

  Chapter 1

  IRELAND JAYNE

  The scents of wood, essential oils, and accomplishment float over me as I enter my office. I take a moment to savor the view from my third-story vantage point. Old-growth fir trees shade my window from the harsh sun and give me a glimpse of the private college campus. They stand like guardians, keeping me safe in my oasis, protected from the hurt and chaos of people.

  I ease down onto the ball that serves as my desk chair as it strengthens my core. My woven-hemp bag is packed for my trip, and I only have a couple hours today to work on the article I’m writing about the changes in the environmental movement. The picture at the corner of my desk defines so many of these shifts in my own lifetime. The image of me in my twenties, my hair hanging in dreads, my face decorated with piercings. In those days, saving the planet was more than my passion; it consumed me, surrounded me, insulated me.

  For many of my students, this is still the truth of their existence, but I’ve grown older. My finger glides over the small bump below my lip where a metal hoop used to hang. It’s been years since I chopped off the dreads, replacing them with short curls that tumble over my head.

  Today’s movement is no less valuable. It’s intellectual. It’s in my writings, my academic talks, and my teachings.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I lay my palms over my diaphragm, feeling the expansion of my lungs. The air whistles out of my pursed lips as my shoulders drop and the tension in my neck begins to rest, my body and mind sinking into tranquility.

  The calm is extinguished with a hard knock at the door. It opens without my invitation, and Dr. Doogan steps into my space. I jump to my feet, the ball crashing into a potted aloe behind me. He’s about the last person I would have expected to come to my office. Any meetings we’ve had in the past have taken place in his domain.

  I pull the gauzy scarf from my head and run my fingers through my curls.

  His wiry eyebrows press together, and he grips his elbows.

  “Professor, I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you. Please, have a seat.” I step around my desk and offer him the only real chair in the office, a secondhand recliner that barely fits in the corner.

  He eyes the chair, then shakes his head. “This won’t take long. I know you have a train to catch, but it is important.”

  Something in his tone pushes me back until my legs bump into my desk and I sit on its smooth, cold surface. “Is there a problem?”

  He nods. “Unfortunately, there is. McCormick Wilson came to see me yesterday.”

  A muscle above my right eye twitches. Mac, as the other students call him, has been a waste of this institution’s time from the first class he attended. His heart has never been in the cause. When he completed his graduation requirements, I was glad to see him go. Even if it meant sending him into the world to make money off people who legitimately cared about the future of the planet. “What did he want?”

  “He claims his entrance to the master’s program was denied for unsavory reasons.”

  “The boy is a fraud. I call that unsavory, don’t you?”

  “Those aren’t the reasons he’s claiming.” Dr. Doogan sucks his lower lip into his mouth, chewing it, then turns to my sacred window. “He says he was denied based on his refusal to have a physical relationship with you.”

  I lean forward as I absorb the punch. “No.” There are no other words. I feel Mac’s attack as if he were in the room with me now. As if he’s actually reached out and assaulted me. The pain and shock leap from the shadows and pull me down.

  “Don’t say anything else. I’m not here to get your statement. In fact, I’d rather you keep your side of the story to yourself for the time being. If we play our cards right, maybe this will blow over. Mr. Wilson could see the error of his ways and let it go. The last thing we need to do is antagonize him.”

  Tingles run down the length of my arms. I shake out my hands, trying to restore control. “Okay. But what is he even doing here? He graduated.”

  “He’s talking about filing a lawsuit to force us into admitting him to the program.” Dr. Doogan huffs out a breath. “And he’ll want restitution for … suffering.”

  Fire spreads over my skin. His suffering? What a joke. A very unfunny joke.

  “We can’t let him do this. What if other students get the idea that they can bully the university into whatever they want? Grades, classes—anything? How am I supposed to teach when Mac is trying to destroy my reputatio
n?”

  “That’s the thing. You won’t be. At least not for the time being. Ireland, I’ve talked to the university’s attorneys. They strongly suggested putting you on leave. Call it sabbatical if it feels better.”

  “Where exactly am I supposed to go?”

  “You have your speaking engagement at the University of Northwest Oregon. You can still do that. Maybe enjoy some time at your alma mater.”

  My heart sinks further. If only it were that easy. Going back. It’s not the same. There’s hurt in the loss. Why that loss should hurt any more than the other hundreds, I don’t know.

  “Just don’t mention this situation to anyone. I mean it. Anyone. We don’t want the media getting hold of this any sooner than necessary.” He laces his fingers, tucking them beneath his chin as his narrowed eyes drill into me. “Your job is on the line here.”

  “My job?” I step back, building an invisible wall between us. “What do I care about this place anyway? This may be just the catalyst I need to go somewhere else and start over. There’s nothing here for me.” I can’t calm the waver in my voice.

  He scoops his fingers through thin gray hair. “Ireland, you know better than that. You’re getting too old to run when life doesn’t go your way. Remember, I’ve seen your résumé. This is the longest you’ve stayed in one spot. Don’t throw away all you’ve built because you’re scared.”

  His words hang in the air like cloying humidity. I fight the urge to brush at my arm in an attempt to escape their grip.

  I yank my duffle bag from the floor and fling the strap over my shoulder. Grabbing my phone, computer, and charger, I take off. I don’t even bother to wait for Dr. Doogan to go. I don’t lock my door, set my voice-mail to “out of the office,” or turn off the salt lamp.

  I just leave.

  A kid screams in the seat in front of me. Great. I take the train for the peace. The clack, clack, clack of the rails. To see the scenery outside the window, from waterfalls to open fields. I am not here to listen to someone’s child screech about a spilled snack.

  Some kind of artificial neon gummy thing falls between the seats and lands on the top of my hemp bag. Seriously? No wonder he’s having a meltdown. What do people expect when they fill their kids with chemicals? He’s probably a walking GMO billboard. That’s right. The next generation of Americans, built with food “grown” in laboratories.

  With the back of my hand I brush the junk away, then reach in and find my phone. Tucking the earbuds in tight, I pump up the volume of the Eagles and lie back, my head swaying with the rhythm of the music and the train.

  Outside, we pass fields dotted with sagebrush. As we approach the Cascades, the memory of the sweet, pure Northwest air expands my chest. On the other side of these mountains is a life I walked away from twenty-five years ago.

  What a child I was. Oh yes. Back then I thought all our problems could be solved with recycling. And faith in God. What a joke. The Earth is ready to crumble. That beauty outside the window could almost make me forget the problems we’re really facing.

  Almost.

  McCormick Wilson has chosen to destroy my life. Well, the joke is on him. My life exploded a long time ago. I killed my own happiness. All that’s left is the burnt and broken pieces. He can’t ruin something that’s already obliterated.

  I rip the headphones out of my ears. They may block the noise, but they let my thoughts loose.

  Scrolling through email on my smartphone, I notice another from Professor Jensen. I’m due to arrive in six hours, and she’s supposed to meet me at the train station. That will give me an hour to get ready for the first class of the day.

  Professor Jayne,

  Thank you again for coming to UNWO to speak with my environmental change classes. I noticed your name on the Emery House invitations list. You didn’t tell me you were an Emery girl. I lived there from 1998–2001. I assume you’ll be at the reunion on Saturday. It’s such a shame about the closure.

  Sincerely,

  Sequoia Jensen

  Professor of Global Environmental Change – Ecology

  Emery House … closing? My stomach sours. I may have been foolish back then, but it was a good time, probably the happiest time I’ll have in this life. Closing my eyes, I see Hope, Vicky, and Jenna. My eyes snap open. I can’t go there. Not now. It’s futile. I can’t bring the past back any more than I can restore the ozone layer.

  Using my phone, I open an email account reserved for junk and type Emery into the search. Ten emails come up. The first five are pleas for alum to write the university. Then comes the final news.

  My skin burns. Just like the money-hungry university to wipe out a house that doesn’t give them the financial rewards of their sky-high hunk of metal dorms.

  I open the last email. It’s the invitation. It’s such a coincidence. I have to consider it. I’m already on my way home, or whatever you want to call Carrington, Oregon. There’s no way I would have made the trip for the reunion. And in all reality, I don’t have the time to make it now. My train leaves again on Saturday afternoon.

  But I have nowhere else to go. No family to visit. Dr. Doogan made it clear he’d prefer I didn’t come back any time soon. This Mac kid could destroy the only good thing left in my life. He could crush my career.

  The train jerks, sending my cell to the floor and my chia water pouring onto my lap. I grab the bottle and mop up the mess as we come to a stop.

  In the middle of nowhere.

  For two hours I sit in my assigned seat while the temperature climbs, transforming the train car into an oven. That GMO kid started wailing within minutes, but finally wore himself out and went to sleep. I think we’re about to die a global-warming kind of death when they finally give the okay, letting us go outside into the fresh air.

  Like a herd of enslaved sheep, we follow the line of people down the aisle and out the door. The air here is dry and hot, but it’s not toxic like inside. Large rocks roll under my feet as I make my way as far as I can from the train while still ensuring that I won’t miss the call to reboard.

  My nerves remain unsettled since the Emery email. I have to get away for a moment. Take time to refocus. To find center. Balance.

  Breathing clean air into my lungs through my nose, I count. One … Two … Three … Four. Then slowly blow out through my rounded lips. The muscles in my neck and shoulders yawn as I roll my head in circles. My tension eases a fraction under the fingers of the penetrating sun.

  If the universe is on my side, Mac will back down, and I’ll soon return to my own little college, teaching a few young and enthusiastic students how to do what I hoped to do. Change the world. And I’ll be comfortable again. Safe in the nest of the life I’ve built for myself.

  Alone.

  Shaking my hands out, I try to push those negative thoughts away. They have no place in my world. Neither does that girl I used to think I was. Emery House. It’s Emery’s fault.

  Up ahead of me, a man and woman walk hand in hand. Her multicolored skirt brushes the ground, and she seems unaware that she’s picking up twigs and fallen leaves with her hem. They stop. He turns her toward him, revealing the child bound to her chest, curly blond ringlets spilling over his eyes, his fist slurped into his mouth. The man takes her face in his hands, scooping his fingers into her dreadlocked hair. And I look away.

  We must have looked so much like that family.

  Why can’t the past stay in the past?

  Yesterday, I was fine. Now my peace is cracked and memories are flowing in through the holes.

  Pain starts to claw at the left side of my head. Another migraine. I reach into my bag and pull out the brown dropper bottle. Unscrewing the cap, I inhale the scents of peppermint, eucalyptus, and valerian root from my self-made mixture. I release drops onto my finger tip. Rubbing the oils into my temples, I feel myself returning.

  A fall chill rides on the gentle breeze. I turn toward the train. Back to my cave. It may be restrictive, but it’s also safe.

&nbs
p; Back at my seat, I pull my copy of Silent Spring from my bag. Without the squawking kid to distract me, I’m able to go deep into the words, making scribbles in my notebook. My issue becomes clear: I need to get free from the clutter of society. Maybe a retreat of some sort. A true sabbatical. I need to be in nature, and let it become a part of me.

  When the train finally rumbles into the station, I’m worn from traveling and my skin is sticky with dried perspiration. I need a long shower and a bed. The day is gone, and the classes I was to speak to, they’re over. It fits. I’m sure my career is over too. And my job is all I had left.

  To my surprise, Dr. Jensen is standing on the sidewalk outside my window. She’s alone, the only figure in the dim light of a flickering safety lamp.

  I heft my bag onto my shoulder and stand. Age cries from my joints, especially my hips. It tells me I’m too old to start over again. Too tired to form another new life in another new place with all new people.

  Cold air floats over my skin as I step onto the platform. The sensation is both shocking and luxurious.

  Jensen approaches me. She looks like her picture—young, her skin still taut and unblemished. Brown spiky hair is tipped with bleached ends and her deep blue eyes shine bright behind round glasses. The expression on her face, the way she bites at her bottom lip, gives away her anxiety.

  Something’s coming.

  “Dr. Jayne. I’m glad you finally made it.”

  “I’m so sorry I missed the classes. It seems my trip has been all for naught.” I brush at my wrinkled linen pants. At one time I chained myself to an old-growth tree not too far from here. I stayed there along with a dwindling crowd until the tear gas showed up. I don’t think I felt as filthy then as I do at this moment.

  She tugs at a hanging crystal earring. “I was wondering if you’d consider staying on through Monday.” This woman gets right to business. “The university will pay for your hotel and travel. My students were so disappointed today. It’s not often we have someone of your experience and expertise come to visit. And an alum even. What do you think?”