Rustic Holidays

A Camino Child Holidays Story

(NOTE: The timeline of this tale takes place between the stories of Camino Child and River of Love.)

Olympic Peninsula, Washington

Late 2019

Haven’t seen my parents in three years. Couldn’t tell them I was coming.

A lot can change in that amount of time, the years between being thirteen years old and now. I hitched a ride from Forks. The old couple, in their droopy pickup, let me off at the side of the road, miles from anywhere, but somewhere. A where with few fond memories.

It’s cold, blustery, sleet falling in soft splats on the asphalt road. I’m wearing every piece of clothing in my backpack, already shivering.

From the highway, power walking down the rutted gravel road, I come to the faded green gate to Paul’s property. The pipe gate sags a bit more but eases off its latch and swings open. Paul is my father’s friend, and leader of this grubby collective of lost souls. They grow pot together, Paul and my father.

When I was a kid, the Pacific Northwest was my home, the last few in the circle of shabby wooden cabins farther down this road, well beyond where the gravel ends and the mud begins. The place where my parents, Laura and Adam, live. The people of this commune call it The Camp. It’s a place I could never call home. I’ll spend the holidays with them. Not that they know the holidays. Life in this camp is one long party, they say.

My opinion of a home is a place where you feel safe. Before Grandma Pat saved me from this place, Paul gave me the creeps. Had since he first saw bumps on my chest. Adam was a good father. But he couldn’t always be my guard. So I learned to stand tall, fend for myself, speak my mind.

Trees on the Olympic Peninsula stand tall, too. Taller than those in the northwest of Spain, where I’d recently traveled. An area known as Galicia, where people make the long trek to a cathedral in the city of Santiago de Compostela, the end of an ancient pilgrimage known as El Camino de Santiago. A realm, an experience, the people I wish to return to as soon as possible.

The pleasing scent of wood smoke drags me onward, into the thickening forest. It feels close, the forest, like walking into a cave. The ruts in this narrow path are deeper than I remember. These surroundings feel foreign to me, even more unwelcoming than during my childhood. At sixteen, to some, I am still a child.

A stiff, determined wind bends the treetops. The circle of cabins is quiet. Melting sleet and snow slips from the trees, patting on buckled tin rooftops and blue tarps. Wisps of gray smoke curl from a dozen chimney stacks. Even the dogs are still asleep.

At my parent’s cabin, hoping they’re up, I knock on the door. I could just walk in; this was my home too. But I know better.

Footsteps and a grumbling voice come toward the door. I lift and shape a smile from my chill bones. The door bursts open as the words “frickin’ cold” fill my ears. My smile disappears. Adam is naked. This is nothing new to me, should have expected it of him. Or my mother.

“Jesus, Summer,” he says as his bare ass plods back across the small room. He slips through the hung blankets that cordon their bed from the rest of the single room.

There are giggles and mumblings, then Laura blasts from their bed. “Summer!” she shouts as she drags a terrycloth robe over her bare, pale skin and darts across the warped wooden floor. She pays no attention to the slivers spearing into her feet. “Get in here. Jesus, it’s cold.”

I close the door. My smile returns. She wraps herself around me.

Adam now has on jeans and is buttoning up a thick plaid shirt. “What time is it?”

“Close to noon, I imagine,” I say.

He gathers an armload of split logs and opens the potbellied stove, stirs a few ambers. They start to glow. He stacks the wood in a crisscross pattern. Letting it breathe, he leaves the stove’s door open.

“It’s so good to see you. You’ve grown even taller,” Laura says as she straightens her arms. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”

“And your mother,” I say as the memory of Grandma Pat’s pushes me onto the sofa. The sofa where I used to sleep. Laura plops down beside me.

Adam sits on the other side. Together, they hug me, like filling in a pie. “Coffee?” he asks.

“Tea,” my mother and I say.

Laura grasps my hands in her warm palms. “You are freezing.” I bob my head a little. Knowing my need for warmth, the wood in the stove erupts into flames. The radiant heat touches my nose comes no further. Laura wraps herself around me.

“Spain was never this cold,” I say through chattering teeth.

Adam stands near the simple sink in the plywood counter. The one he hung with gingham drapes, hiding their few kitchen wares on shelves below. He looks just as I remember, his strong, round Slavic build, pale skin and perfect nose. My nose.

“When did you get back?” Adam asks over his task.

“Early morning. I slept a few hours in the airport, then caught the bus to Forks.”

“Have you eaten? Laura asks.

“Not much.”

“Your father will make pancakes for you. And eggs. You feel as skinny as a fencepost under all those layers. Though I’ve no room to talk.”

Adam nods, agreeing with his new task. As the coffee brews, HE starts making a late breakfast.

No longer acclimated to the Olympic Forest during its lengthy winter months, I’m either as frozen as a popsicle or as soggy as a washrag. I’ve been miserable for days, wrapped in what little clothing I have with me and a threadbare blanket. Cozying up to my parent’s potbellied stove provides little relief.

Paul has stayed away. When Laura and I walk together, we see him on his porch, a girl—the latest, Laura says—clamped under one arm. I remember the first morning after we moved here. He had walked right into our cabin; said he wanted my mother. After Adam—with zero hesitation or fear—set him straight on the matter, they became friends. That’s how it is with bullies of any kind: “Call them on their BS,” Adam taught me when I was little.

As he did during my childhood, Adam spends most of his time in the grow sheds, tending his plants or toying with their genetics. At one time, I had an interest in his pursuits, following him around, trying to learn from him. But Paul was always there, lurking.

Today, it’s dry out. Slivers of sunlight peek through the thousands of evergreen branches. Laura and I decide to take a walk.

“Do you ever hike down to the stream?” I ask. “Down to that beautiful swimming hole?”

“Not since I found you there the day Pat came for you.”

“Shame. It’s still one of my favorite places.”

“With all the places you’ve seen?” she asks.

“Yeah. It has a certain vibe, a fondness in my heart, I guess.”

“Tell me about your other special places.”

“I like Julian, Grandma Pat’s house. I like the hills where she took me hiking while we trained for our Camino.” Laura glances up, wanting more. “I liked much of Spain. Especially along the north coast. And Astorga, where our cousin lives. And Santiago. Though, to me, it’s a big city. I like the mountains of Galicia as much as the wide-open plains, their infinite wheat fields, and red poppies. There, in that vastness, I feel the freest, like there’s no effort in the effort of walking, to life.”

“Sounds lovely. I’m so happy for you, for your seeing those things. People too, yes?”

“Oh, sure. I met some nice people, made many friends. More there than at home,” I say as those words sink in. I should try harder when I get home.

It’s getting close to Christmas. Most days, Laura and I walk in the rain or snow, or talk on their tiny porch during the few dry moments, smoke from woodstoves circling and mingling among the cabins like spirits on the prowl.

We often haul wood to their insatiable firebox. Though the work warms me for a while, my entire body wishes to be back on the Camino, strolling across the meseta—the plains of Spain—bathed in the warmth of brilliant sunlight.

“Not to rush you off, but you are all set, now you have your flight arranged?” she asks.

“Yes. Thanks.” One day, while he and his partner were away, Laura and I sneaked into Paul’s cabin to use the only computer and internet connection in miles of camp.

“Off to your bright future, my baby girl,” she says with a smile so wide it erases many of the creases on her face, those caused by a lifetime of anxiety and the hardness of camp life. She wraps an arm around my shoulders. I feel her warmth, literally and figuratively.

“I wish you could’ve come with me, Laura.”

She lowers her gaze.

“But I understand.”

Her eyes continue to search the ground. “We’ve had a good time, ‘a proper visit,’ your grandmother would have said.” She looks up. “You’ve grown so much since she took you home with her. You told us some about Aunt Tilly. Do you think she will leave you be? Will she let you live on your own in Pat’s house?”

“At least I talked her into opening the will and trust,” I say. “That was a start. I’m still not sure why she wanted me there for its revelations. Now we know I will receive all but the money in one account, one not in Grandma Pat’s living trust. She said it’s enough to pay off her credit cards. I know little more than that. Hopefully, there’s enough money for me to last until I finish high school and college.”

“Pat wanted you to go to college. You know that much,” Laura says.

“I plan to. For now, though, Aunt Tilly says she’s now my legal guardian, as far as the State of California is concerned. I imagine she made that up. Thing is, she can barely manage her own life. Lou does most things around their house, keeps it up, does the shopping and cooking.”

“You and your cousin Louise seem close.”

“Yeah, we’re close friends. I don’t have many others in Julian. José and Katy from the café, a few others. I’ve met some of Lou’s besties from school.”

“Aunt Tilly will let you stay in Mom’s house, though, right?” she asks again.

“I’m not living with her,” I scoff. “We’d kill each other.”

Laura laughs at this, but I see worry in her eyes.

And I worry about her. And Adam. “Laura, are you sure you and Adam couldn’t use some money? I could send you some, you know.”

“No, Summer, that’s yours. Mom wanted you to have it. Adam says we’re good. I trust your father. The price of cannabis has fallen in recent years, but he and Paul grow the best around. Everybody wants their latest strain of this or that. I can never remember the silly names they come up with for their creations.” She pauses, something more on her mind. “Well, not everyone likes what they grow.”

I smile and nod. “No, not everyone.”

“You said Tilly didn’t sound too pleased with Mom’s will.”

“I think she thought she deserved more,” I say. “Maybe she does . . . deserve more. She only gave me the highlights. She’ll have no debts. With that and alimony and child support from Dale, her ex, she and Lou should be fine.”

My mother shakes her head.

“The hardest thing to settle will be Grandma Pat’s café. What should we do with it?”

Laura shrugs, not having an answer for me, then says, “College first, yes?”

“Yes. College first.”

Or soon after, I think, as the fascination of the Camino gives me a pull.

“Then travels, I suppose?” my mother says as she smiles at me.

“Yeah. I can’t wait to return to the Camino, to Europe. I want to visit other places too, of course. And I want to spend more time with our cousin in Spain.”

“Yeah, that was a shocker,” Laura says. “It’s just . . . it’s Tilly I’m concerned with. I don’t remember her much, but from what you’ve said, she could make things difficult for you.”

I nod in agreement.

“I know, I know,” she says. “You can handle your Aunt Tilly. And you and Louise have each other. You’ll be fine, you keep telling me. But you are only sixteen years old, Summer, and your great aunt may use that against you.”

“Lou and I are BFFs!” I cry out as I mock the shrieks my cousin so often uses. This gives my mother a cheerful grin and a little chuckle, which warms me a fraction to the cold.

“Did mother know Louise? Were they close?” she asks.

“Yes. Some, I guess. Lou helped at the café sometimes. They knew each other, of course. I never really thought about it. We were family, who lived across the street from each other.”

My mind wonders, pondering what Laura has asked about. Were they close?

“Summer?”

“I miss her every day.”

“When I was young, we were close, mother and I,” Laura says. “Not as close as the two of you, but close.”

I turn to her. Were close? written on my face.

“Father.”

I lean in.

“For another time,” she says.

I leave it. “You and Adam are close,” I say, as a grin takes shape on my face.

She grins. “Yes, we are very good, so in love, always. I have so little, but so much. Families aren’t an easy thing. Love is everything.”

“You two still hold hands when walking together and cuddle close when together. I love that.” Will I know such love?

Though it has no cell coverage, my phone’s calendar says today is Christmas. There are a few green wreaths with red berries on gray, sagging cabin doors, and one tiny, sparingly decorated tree on my parent’s closest neighbor’s slanting porch.

While in town a few days ago, Laura and Adam bought me a gift. Wouldn’t say what it was, of course. She wrapped it with precision in paper from a grocery bag.

As I unwrap my gift, Adam makes coffee, watching my movements. Laura sits beside me, one knee bouncing. It’s a hardbound book, with blank, unlined, and cream-colored pages. On the cover, above the imprinted word JOURNAL, Adam has inscribed my name. As I leaf through its empty pages, I picture the words, the adventures, that I will one day pen there. I knuckle tears from my eyes, wipe my cheeks, and smile.

“It’s the perfect gift,” I say, as I reach for my pack. “I didn’t get you anything so nice.”

I dig to the bottom of the pack’s top pouch. There, I have several things, all the same. I pinch two with my fingers and pull them out.

I hand one to Laura, then stand and walk one to Adam. He lifts it by one end, tilts his head to one side, and reads the words. Done, he straightens, a questioning look on his face. Laura is beside us now, her gift dangling too. I take Adam’s from him and hold it by both ends. “They’re wristbands, Camino bracelets.”

“What do they say?” Laura asks.

“The Way is the goal, in Spanish,” I reply, as I tie Adam’s on his wrist. “El Camino es la meta.” I turn to my mother and tie hers on. “They were the lightest gifts I could find, sorry.”

“No way, daughter of mine,” Adam says. “They are cool, super cool.”

“I love it,” Laura says.

It’s early January, my last morning in camp. While my parents sleep, I write my first journal entry, begin the diary I’d promised myself. Our time together has ended. My California life waits for my return.

Adam drives us to Forks in his latest hooptie, a faded red sedan.

A steady rain, heavy with sleet, carried by a stiff wind, crosses Tillicum Park, and makes its way in waves along North Forks Avenue toward the bus stop.

Instead of staying in the car a block away, Adam, Laura, and I endure the weather inside a glass-walled shelter. The cold never daunts my parents. My teeth want to clatter apart.

Adam gives me a concerned look. “I’m going for coffee. You girls want something hot?”

“Tea,” we both reply. “Earl Grey.”

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” he says as he pivots on a boot heel. “Talk, talk, talk,” he says as he strolls down the street, still oblivious to the cruel weather.

Like a rushing bull, a gust of wind comes at Laura and me. I huddle deep into one corner of the shelter. Laura follows me. I lean back, pressing my backpack against the transparent wall. She looks into my eyes for a long moment, a calm smile on her pretty but lined face.

“You take care of yourself, Summer. Don’t let Aunt Tilly get away with anything she has no right to.”

I nod and glance her way. I think that’s the most motherly thing she has ever said to me. I wrap her in my arms. She’s the thin one. She’s always been. We could both put on a few pounds.

Through the foggy glass, I can see Adam returning with our drinks. The rain and the wind have eased. I step forward and poke my head out of the shelter, looking for the bus, hoping it will be a few more minutes. I’ve been cold this long.

Adam holds a cupholder out in front of him as if he’s delivering champagne glasses at a glamorous party. As he strolls our way, vapor spouts from the small drink holes like three little steam engines.

Laura steps out, scowls at him.

“Don’t worry, babes. Everything is compostable, even the lids,” he says.

He steps under cover. Laura rises on her toes and kisses him. He takes his coffee from the holder and extends his hand. The lemony scent of bergamot fills my senses, warming them with anticipation. Laura and I take our cups of tea. As I sip from the spout, the warmth of the fluid barely registers against the chill in my insides. But I know the bus will come soon, know I’ll feel warmth again, just not right now.

We stand there quietly. From a block away, another pair of perspective passengers ramble up the street, chatting to one another.

“When Grandma Pat died in Spain,” I begin, realizing that heartbreaking moment had occurred only three months before, “I could never have imagined how things would turn out.”

Laura leans into Adam, sets her head on his broad chest, keeps her eyes on me.

“Then, I thought the world had ended. You had lost your mother. I was alone.”

“But you are so strong,” Laura says as she straightens.

“It worked out,” I say. “Aunt Tilly came for Grandma Pat. I—though I’m sure Tilly’s still pissed about me abandoning her so I could finish the Camino for my grandmother—I met people, made friends, eventually found our Spanish family.”

Adam steps out of the glass shelter to greet the people coming our way.

The winds gust again. Adam and his acquaintances bunch into the shelter with us. One of them says something about the bus always being late.

Adam steps close again. Laura sidles under his arm, smiles.

We fall into silence for a few moments. In this quiet, the winds hold their gusty breath, waiting for our next words.

My mind goes to the near future. I can’t imagine baking pies in Grandma Pat’s café for the rest of my life. I enjoyed helping her when she was alive. But full time? Not for me. I enjoy studying human anatomy, want to attend college—if for no other reason than for my grandmother—and I want to travel. So many places here and around the world. I want the freedom to roam through wide-open spaces again. Places where I can see forever, destinations in the distance, arrival in the future, unscripted. And sunlit, warm.

In response to my mental meanderings, rain and sleet pelt the earth, leaving icy grit on the sidewalk.

Our shelter now feels crowded, sounds as if ten thousand woodpeckers hammer at its lid. My arms cross over a sour gut, my leg muscles twitching.

Our bus motors up and stops. A pop and a hiss fill the air, and the long vehicle lowers to the ground. Diesel fumes swirling into our grotto—grumbles of disgust rising from the group.

A few people clamber off the bus, grab their bags, and scurry into the storm.

The others in our shelter toss their bags in the hold and dash for the bus’s door.

I stow my backpack, then reach out to hug my parents. Though the warmth of their bodies against mine is welcome, a new chill seeps into my awareness.

I should visit with them more often than every three years—just somewhere else next time.

Camino Child stories, chronologically

Georgia & Patricia, a novella

The Camp, a novella

Camino Child, a novel

Rustic Reunion: A Camino Child Holidays Story

River of Love, a novel