Beyond The Hills

We arrived at the hotel about three hours later than anticipated. We could have made it before nightfall, but Natasha wanted to stop and look at the scenery. Reluctantly, I pulled over a couple of times so that she could take some snapshots. We were up in the hills and the hazy mist that rose from the trees in the valley sparkled like sizzling embers underneath the late evening sun. The view was broad, panoramic and breathtaking, but the two lane rural roads were narrow and treacherous, snaking in a series of winding curves, riddled with blind spots for oncoming vehicles. Each time we stopped, I had nightmarish visions of Kenworth eighteen wheelers sliding out of control, sending us to our screaming deaths several hundred feet below.

But Natasha wanted to stop, and there was no point in arguing about it. I knew that it was going to be a difficult time, even before we packed our bags. She was in one of those phases where the worst of her demons had surfaced and would not be chased away with medicine or therapy. I had hoped it would be a relaxing vacation, like the ones we used to have, but the look on her face told me otherwise.

The "hotel" we ended up in wasn't a hotel at all. It was an aging three story motel with crumbling balconies that circled the entire building like the ring of Saturn. It reminded me of the place where Martin Luther King was assassinated. The surrounding area was dark and grim, even in the daytime, like old black and white Nazi war footage. Below us was a barren concrete courtyard with barbed wire security gates and a row of green trash dumpsters underneath a pair of surveillance cameras concealed in frosted red domes. To the East, I could see the off-ramp of the interstate cutting through a dense green swath of countryside. The closest points of interest were about thirty-two miles away. It wouldn't have been a bad place to spend some time alone, but being there with Natasha in her current mental state was like being stuck between the uppermost floors of a skyscraper in a dark elevator that refused to move.

There was a bar with tinted windows just inside the main entrance, and a small restaurant off to the left of the registration desk. The barroom clientèle consisted mainly of transient truckers, patriotic bikers, and wannabe roughnecks; lots of dusty cowboy boots and flannel shirts with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulders. In the parking lot, a few right wing bumper stickers with snide political commentary imposed on top of the American flag served notice to interlopers. "America: Love It Or Leave It, But First Learn English!"

Outside of a lone convenience store next to the gas station across the road, the bar and the restaurant were the only signs of life within miles, and even though Natasha's travel book indicated that this particular place provided easy access to the local points of interest, in truth we were literally in the middle of nowhere.

The third morning that we were there, as I was sitting on the balcony reading the local paper, Natasha came out wearing one of my shirts that she used as a house dress. She stood in the doorway looking dejected, eyes staring at chipped polish on her toenails. She had insisted on picking the hotel and making the arrangements. According to her, I was always doing everything for us, which somehow reinforced all of her insecurities. According to her therapist, making the arrangements for our vacation would allow her to feel more worthwhile, more significant and in control. I thought her therapist was an asshole and a quack who was simply bleeding her for money, but I didn't object. By this time, I knew better. And now that her arrangements had turned into a disaster, her sense of personal failure and worthlessness was confirmed. At some point, I would be told that it was all my fault.

"Good morning," I said.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"What's up, babe?"

"I guess I really messed this up for you, huh?" She walked past me and leaned on the railing, looking down at the empty courtyard. Her back was the shape of a V, narrow at the waist, wide up top. Her curly brown hair fell loosely on her shoulders.

"It's not a bad place," I said. "Not as bad as it looks. It's peaceful."

She didn't say anything.

"Look, we go on vacation to relax, right?"

"I don't understand," she said, suddenly. "Why do you even like me?"

"Natasha...."

"You'd be so much better off without me."

I took a deep breath, put the paper down, stared at her with an expression that was meant to make her quiver, yet barely got her attention.

"What is it?" she continued. "Is it sex? It has to be. I can't do much of anything else right."

"Natasha, look. Cut this shit out, right now, all right. I'm not going to listen to it anymore. You're beautiful and you're smart and that's why I like you, and when you're not busy feeling sorry for yourself you even have the ability to be funny. Now, stop it already."

"Yes, dad."

I kept staring, trying to make eye contact. She turned back to the railing and looked down, the morning sun pitching a hot yellow glow across the top of her head. I walked over, moving in behind her, locking both arms around her waist, holding her there so that I could feel the heat of her body against me. Her skin smelled like sweet bread. I buried my face in her shoulder, inhaling the warm sour aroma of her hair. I felt her downshift slightly, her body relaxing as I held her and kissed her neck.

"Since you think it's all about sex, let's go back inside and soften up the mattress," I said, grinning.

"I don't feel like it."

"Now who feels unloved?" I shuffled back to the chair and picked up the paper. In spite of the luminous sun, the air was dense and damp, as if a storm was on the way. I said, "Are you ready to go down for breakfast?"

She ignored me again, didn't say anything. She was beginning to piss me off with the silent treatment, and I was getting tired of it. I heard a dog barking in the distance. A pair of motorcycles gunned it as they raced to the highway ramp off to our left.

"Do you think it would hurt?" she said, looking over the railing, three stories down into the courtyard.

I looked at her but didn't say anything.

"If I jumped from here? Do you think it would hurt?"

If it were anyone else my response would have been, "Go ahead, do it and see." But the previous year, about two weeks before Thanksgiving, Natasha swallowed half a month's worth of her anti-depression medication and ended up in the psychiatric unit. Regardless of how I felt about her, it was clear to me that she wasn't well, and I wasn't physically or mentally able to deal with it on a full time basis. She worked as a data cataloger for the city, a job that afforded her an enormous amount of time alone, and the ability to hide in plain sight. It was the worst job in the world for her, but probably the only one she was capable of holding onto for any length of time. I believe she was functional in her work so long as no one got in her face or told her what to do, but every now and then something would snap and she'd end up on report for attendance, punctuality, or insubordination. She kept the windows of her apartment shut, blinds down, all year round, and the scent of Tropical Fruit room freshener combined with the stale air and musty food aromas made the place smell like a giant cat litter box. One day, as I approached her apartment door, I caught a faint whiff of gas in the hallway. I rang the bell several times and got no response. I was ready to go get the super to drill the lock when she finally opened up looking confused and groggy, as the apartment released a gush of noxious fumes that instantly made me nauseous. She claimed that she had fallen asleep while watching television and forgot that the oven was on.

I never really bought into her sloppy attempts at hurting herself because most times there were warnings beforehand. Part of me wanted to believe that her instability was just another brick in this wall of chaos that she had erected around herself, this buffer zone to fend off those who didn't accept her craziness, people who refused to give her the kind of attention she felt she needed, because it wasn't always like that. When we first began seeing each other she was just awesome, the kind of woman that you couldn't stop thinking about when you weren't with her. These days the only time she seemed genuinely happy was right after we made love. She'd lay there with me, her face pressed into my shoulder, arms holding me so tight that our combined body heat would produce a puddle of sweat between us. One night she looked at me in the dark and said, "Please don't leave me. Whatever happens, no matter how sick I get, please don't leave me. No matter what I do, just try to remember that I love you." An hour later she was back into the black dog funk where it seemed as if to merely exist was a chore.

Sometimes I thought it was all an act, that this was some warped effort to chase me away. And I would have been justified in splitting too. Most other guys I know wouldn't have put up with half of the shit that I took from her, all in the name of not upsetting her, not being the one who would ultimately push her over the edge. But I could never leave her, even if I wanted to, and I was certain that she knew it.

I sat there watching her, thinking, as if that could make the memories a reality once again. Without looking at me, she repeated herself, asking if I thought it would hurt if she jumped from the third floor balcony. According to the fire department, most falls from heights above twenty feet are fatal. We were up thirty or more, easily. I got back up and walked over behind her again.

"It would hurt me very much," I said, and I stared at her. Dead serious.

She turned to me slowly, draped her arms across my shoulders, then leaned in against me and began to cry without restraint.


***


After breakfast, we went through the motions of doing some sightseeing around the countryside. We drove up into the hills and walked a wilderness trail that led to a lake where a couple of campers were trying to catch fish while swatting bugs the size of 757 jumbo jets. Natasha's hair flopped on her shoulders as we walked, contrasting beautifully with her burnt orange sun dress and straw hat, which she had bought just for this trip. I kept my arm around her as we walked, like always, like she was some skittish five-year-old who might suddenly bolt out into traffic if I ever let go. As usual, men stared at her wherever we went, partly because she was beautiful, and partly because of that vacant, enigmatic expression on her face, that lights on but no one home look.

At one point, as we climbed a slight incline, she stopped suddenly to take a photo of a Monarch butterfly. I walked up ahead a few yards just to give her some space, then came back to her when she was finished. Suddenly she turned and stared at me, stunned, as if she had just heard something beyond the clearance.

"What's wrong?" I said, looking around, expecting to see a bear or something equally as frightening rushing at us from the trees.

"I can hear your knees crackling."

"That's what happens when you get old."

"But mine don't do that."

"You didn't play catcher on your high school baseball team," I said, grinning, hoping that she would do the same.

"Isn't there anything you can do about it. It's very disturbing."

I looked at her. "I can get you some ear plugs."

"You can get me some earplugs? Everything's a big joke to you, isn't it."

I stopped and pulled her around so that we were facing each other.

"What do you want, Natasha? Huh? You want me to go? Is that it? If you want out, just say so, but this Twilight Zone stuff really freaks me out, you know? For a while there I thought we were having a good time, and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere my knees become an issue?"

"You're right. They're your knees. I'm sorry I brought it up." And she turned and started walking.

I caught up with her, grabbed her roughly by the arm, and swung her in against me. She stared at me, her bottom lip quivering, her beautifully sad face framed in a mop of tight brown curls. She looked down at her shoes and sniffled. As usual, I felt like a grade A prick, and I folded. I leaned in and kissed her warm forehead and I hugged her, and then I looked into her eyes and saw that familiar dark vacuity that told me I was a stranger to her, and I realized that I was standing there alone in the trees with a woman who's bizarre behavior was no longer an ephemeral phase, or mercurial in origin, but rather completely out of her control.

"I'm sorry I raised my voice at you," I said. "I love you, Natasha." And it's killing me that you can't be normal all the time.

"Can we go back to the room now?" she said, her eyes beginning to glisten. "I really don't like it here."


***


There were several hours to kill before dinner time, so I suggested we go see a movie or something. According to Natasha's travel book, there was a multiplex theater in the mall about an hour away. I could feel the silence pushing down upon us like a pair of strong hands. Being alone in the room with her was like watching someone smoke cigarettes while pumping gas. Speaking openly with her at this point, trying to establish any kind of real communication would be useless. And so, I figured the best thing would be to get her back outside again. At least that way we would see other people and know that there was life outside of this coffin of a room.

But Natasha wasn't interested in going anywhere or doing anything.

"No, it'll just be a waste of money," she said. "There are plenty of movies on television. Besides, I'm tired, I think I'll just take a nap."

She must have noticed the disappointment on my face because she sighed heavily, tried to force a smile, then came over to where I was sitting on the bed and kissed my cheek.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know that I've ruined this trip for you."

"The trip was for both of us, Natasha."

"Still, it's my fault."

"It's not your fault. Don't say that."

"But it is. You know it is."

"It's all right."

"No, it's not. And I'm going to make it up to you. I promise."

Then she walked around to the other side of the bed, got in and pulled the covers up over her head. I thought about climbing in with her, but by the time I made my decision she was already facing the other way, breathing heavy. I clicked on the television and got under, curling myself in behind her. She didn't move. I reached over and tapped her back.

"Is the TV going to bother you?"

"No," she said, speaking into the pillow.

Within minutes she was snoring. Not long afterwards, I dozed off too.


***


I only slept for a half hour, but during that time I had one of those vivid, life-like dreams that stays with you long after you're awake. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes long, but it seemed like hours. Two kids were playing catch with a rubber ball in the front of a tenement building. The ball got away from them, so I chased it out into the street where it rolled under a parked car. As I reached in for the ball, something grabbed my arm and began pulling me under the wheel well. I never saw the source, nor did the grip feel like anything human. It felt like talons sinking into my skin attempting to tear my flesh as it dragged me down with it. I woke up breathing hard. I checked my arm to make sure there were no scars because the dream seemed that real. When I looked over to Natasha's side of the bed, she was gone.

A mild panic set in.

It wouldn't have surprised me to find that she had left and gone back home. Her behavior had become that erratic and unpredictable. I checked around the room. Her bag was still there, her clothes still in the closet. I checked inside of her bag. Her medicine was zipped in the side flap where she usually kept it. This was a good sign because even if she was in one of those phases where she didn't feel like taking her medications, she still carried them with her wherever she went. She wouldn't have left that stuff behind. Maybe she just went down to the soda machine to get some ice. I put my shoes on, ran some water on my face, swizzled a cheek full of mouthwash and headed out to find her.

I checked the area at the end of the hall where they kept the soda and ice machines, but she wasn't there. I took the rear staircase down to street level, coming out in the parking lot. The car was exactly where I had left it. Another good sign. She wouldn't have gone too far on foot. Unless she got the insane idea of hitching a ride with a total stranger. I didn't believe she would do that. Actually, I did believe it. I just didn't want to believe it at the moment. I waited for the light then went across the highway to the convenience store next to the gas station. No Natasha.

I thought about getting in the car, driving around the local roads in the hope of finding her, but I had no idea where to begin. The sun had already begun its descent, hot and gold, falling in slow motion behind the distant black hills. I returned to the motel and peeked into the restaurant, hoping to see her standing at the register with a take-out bag in her hand, a smile on her face, telling me that everything was all right, but all I saw were a couple of truck drivers sitting on shiny revolving stools drinking coffee at the counter. Across the hall, I could hear the sound of men's voices roaring under the twangy wail of honky tonk music, blue lights flickering against the dark windows, the boozy fumes wafting out into the corridor.

I stopped at the reception desk and beckoned the clerk who reminded me of something out of a Dickens novel, frumpy, scraggly haired, stooped posture like a vulture, aged far beyond his years.

"I'm looking for my friend. Did you see her go by here?"

He didn't say anything, just nodded toward the bar. The rush of panic in my gut kicked up a notch. Natasha knew that she wasn't supposed to drink. What the hell was she trying to do? I walked over to the bar and went inside. It was much larger than it looked from the outside. A crowd of men were standing around up at the front, hooting and hollering, clapping their hands to the beat of the song. I could see Natasha standing on the bar, dancing in slow motion, running one hand through her hair while she massaged her belly with the other, a huge grin on her face as the guys went nuts, calling for her to "Take it off!"

I edged my way through until I was directly in front of her. I reached up, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down. The crowd was small, maybe ten to fifteen guys, all beards and beer bellies, and they didn't like it. Lots of grumbles and complaints. One of them hollered, "Hey! Leave her alone!" I ignored him and the others, pulling Natasha along with me as I cleared a path to the door, the look on my face all business, no bullshit. As we were leaving, the same big mouth slob who had shouted for me to "leave her alone," called out to Natasha, "See you around honey!" I felt my heart fall into my stomach when she turned back and smiled.

I waited until we were up in our room before going ballistic on her.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" And then realizing the absurdity of that remark, I just stood there shaking my head, staring at her with disappointment.

"I was having fun," she said. "You know? That word that you know nothing about?"

"I can't do this anymore, Natasha. I'm sorry, I just can't. You need more help than I can give you, and it's not fair to either of us that we go on pretending that someday everything will be all right again."

She picked up the television remote, hit the power button and began running the channels as though I wasn't there. She cranked the volume up so loud that I felt a ringing sensation in my ears. I took the remote from her and turned it down. I went to the closet and began packing the bags.

"Does this mean you're leaving?" she asked flatly, without concern.

"It means we're going home."

"You can go, I'm staying."

"Oh no, you're not."

She waited for a moment before speaking, as if I had just presented her with some complicated mathematical equation which had to be solved within a time limit.

"Then what's the point," she said, and it wasn't a question.

She got up and went out onto the balcony. I didn't follow her, as she was, no doubt, expecting me to. That's how things had gone up until then, me chasing her, me apologizing for things I didn't do, me constantly setting fire to the delicate fibers that held her life together. I loved her, I really did, and I longed for the day when she would be well again, but there was a reality here, and it was time to face up to it. The woman was fighting a Grizzly with toothpicks and the best I could do was help her remove a few splinters every now and then. I wouldn't leave her, I think she knew that, but there were going to be some changes. Starting right now. Starting with that damn therapist who wasn't helping her worth a squat.

I closed my bag, tossed it on the floor with a resonant thud and began working on hers. I didn't bother folding, just threw things into the bag as they were. She could give me a hard time if she liked, but she wasn't going to stay here. Not after that barroom stunt.

From out on the balcony, in a faint voice that sounded like the muffled chirp of a wounded bird, I heard her say, "Goodbye." As I turned to toward the sliding glass doors, I saw her hook one leg over the railing, then the other. I rose quickly and went through the doorway as fast as I could move. I yelled, "Natasha! No!"

She looked back one last time as I screamed her name again. Then she pushed herself out into the diminishing sunset, its orange glow fading gently into the darkness far beyond the hills.