Ghosts

On Saturday, DH and I piled into the car with the dog for a spontaneous overnight camping trip to Culp Valley, a dog-friendly primitive campsite in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park.

The drive is along a winding road, up into the mountains.  The lush Californian valley, green with foliage and dotted with oranges, slowly gives way to plateaus of grasses dotted with black cows.  Various modes of transport are whittled down to giant pick-up trucks and Harley Davidsons.  Opposite Lake Henshaw, a noise of bikers centres around The Hideout Saloon, whose mustard yellow sign announces “cold beers, hot chicks, and the best food in town”.

Winding our way up to 3,300 feet above sea level, the earth becomes dusty, home to little more than boulders, scratchy brush, and proud cholla cacti.  There is the occasional mournful howl of coyotes, the excited chatter of their yelping young.  Closer to us, a whisper of creatures that flicker, slither, and scuttle; telltale holes in the ground lead to their dens.  The air is so dry you can feel the perspiration evaporating on your face.  On the horizon, you can make out a sliver of pale blue that is the Salton Sea. Here in the desert, it is primitive and quiet, and you can feel the ghosts of people who have trodden this path over the millennia passing through you.

At dusk, I leaned against the boulders sipping my bourbon and soda from a melamine cup. I thought about all the women who have touched these rocks and been touched by pregnancy loss.  I felt connected to these ghosts.  I felt less alone.  The wind whipped around us, flattening my hair and squinting my dog’s eyes, but for a second, I imagined I could feel her hugging an airy arm around my waist.

♥

In December, I was sick.  A bad cold clung to me for three-and-a-half weeks, interfering with Christmas and TTC plans.  I didn’t mind so much, because I knew I was going to get pregnant in January.  A few days after I conceived, I smelled my dead grandfather’s Old Spice aftershave and heard his voice say quietly in my ear, It’s a boy.  Maybe it was his ghost, maybe it was my body’s way of telling me to go easy from here on in, but ten days later I saw the second pink line.  I had been expecting to see it, but it still made me weak at the knees.  It reminded me of the first time I got my period: twelve years old, flat-chested and knobbly-kneed, envious of my friends with bosoms and periods, and desperately wanting further proof of burgeoning womanhood.  And then, one Spring evening, there she was: a brown stain in my underwear.

Both times, I stared in disbelief, simultaneously delighted and strangely terrified, but mostly thankful that, finally, it had happened to me too.

♥

Later beneath a pitch blue sky, the stars and planets came out.  The moon, rising but below the horizon, cast a milky white glow to the east.  If the darkest hour is before the dawn, the second darkest hour is before the moon rises.  I gazed up and considered the ghosts.  Does it matter now that women hundreds or thousands of years ago miscarried? What would have changed if they hadn’t?  What if I hadn’t?  Does any of this matter in the long run? What does it all mean? What can I learn from it?