There are fifteen of us on tour today, a larger number than most of the tours I’ve taken, likely due to the fall foliage. Nobody in the group seems to recognize me, maybe because of my sunglasses and baseball cap. Or maybe my story has already been forgotten.
The air is cool, so I’ve dressed accordingly in a fleece jacket and hiking boots. Bright orange leaves quiver from the branches of cherry and maple trees. As the sun strikes down, the leaves appear to glow, lighting up like shimmering ornaments. One time, back in elementary school, my dad took me here for a hike around the frog pond. The woods had seemed so enchanting then with their towering oaks and winding trails. I couldn’t hate them more now.
This is my sixth guided tour since my release from the hospital three months ago. When I made the mistake of talking in group about wanting to come back here, the group leader—Winnie was her name—said it wasn’t a good idea.
“I’ll be fine,” I told her.
“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “When something traumatic happens, the brain has a way of storing details from the event—details you may not even consciously remember, like certain sounds, smells, textures, tastes … When exposed to those same details, sometime later, the individual can become overwhelmed and stressed. It can trigger a fight-or-flight response.”
Post-traumatic stress. I knew all about it. I’d already had my fair share of practice with it. “Didn’t you read my chart?” I asked her. “It says that I’m delusional, that I make things up, that you’re not supposed to believe a single word I say.”
Her mouth parted open, perhaps at a loss of words. I almost felt bad for her. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old (just a few years older than I was) and completely unprepared for an attitude like mine.
“Please, just be safe,” she said quickly, quietly. “None of you should go anywhere that might prove upsetting—or worse, triggering—unless it’s under the guidance and supervision of a licensed therapist.”
I’ve been coming to this park under the guidance and supervision of no one other than the park ranger assigned to give the tour.
Is it upsetting?
Yes.
Does it trigger me?
Most definitely.
But I want to be triggered. I need to be upset. How else will I know I’m not delusional like everyone says?
“Hello?” calls a voice.
I look up. Dave’s waving at me. He and the group have moved away; there’s at least thirty yards’ distance between us now.
A woman with a fuzzy brown coat whispers something to her partner. It’s only then I realize … The stick in my hand; I’m rubbing it against my cheek. The cool, coarse sensation flashes me back to the cocoon I made in the woods—of brush and burrs—and trying my hardest to curl up tighter and get myself smaller; just a little bit more and he won’t see me.
Rub, rub, rub.
Tuck, tuck.
Sniff, sniff. The musty scent of dirt.
Is someone whistling? The tune to “Mary Had a Little Lamb”?
“Is she going to be okay?” A voice asks. “Shall we take a water break?”
Dave asks, “Can you confirm that you’re still with us?”
I drop the stick, forcing myself back, plugging myself in. The cocoon cracks open. Who was just whistling?
“Hello…” Dave says. Is he talking to me?
I search the faces of the group. But no one’s whistling. Only one girl is smirking. Dave starts talking again, holding a pine cone, staring in my direction. Finally, after a few moments, he turns away, leading the group over a footbridge.
I follow along, curious to know where the bridge came from. The maps don’t show it anywhere, plus it seems misplaced; it doesn’t stand over a stream of water.
I grab my phone to check the online map, but I have no cell reception. We’re in too deep. I search my pockets for the paper map. I have my knife and my mini can of wasp spray, but my map is missing. Did I leave it at home? Or inside my car?
Did I even take my car?
No, I took the bus.
Right.
The thought of driving here makes my insides race. My nerves twitch. I swivel from the bridge, trying to get a new perspective. Have I been here before—to this part of the park, that is? Is there anything distinguishable?
Dave continues chattering away, something about tree bark now … about which bark one could eat if ever caught out in the wild, apparently pine, red spruce, and balsam fir. “Does anyone have any questions before we move on?” he asks.
I raise my hand. “Why doesn’t the online map show this footbridge?”
“A good question.” He grins. “I see someone’s done her homework. Does anyone want to take a stab at the answer?”
Most of the faces in the group remain blank. But then a woman at the front raises her hand to offer a guess: “Because the map was made before the bridge was placed here?”
“Excellent theory,” Dave says, “but not quite right. Anyone else? No? Okay, so the bridge was built by a local homeschool group as part of a hands-on math project. The group often likes to take hikes in this park, and so when they were finished building the bridge, they donated it, requesting that it be placed by this clearing—what they refer to as their outdoor classroom. If you look closer, you can see the bridge’s dedication plaque just under the first step. When our cartographer was making our most current map guides—about two years ago now—he knew about the bridge, but wasn’t sure its placement would be a permanent fixture.”
I move closer to get a good look. The bridge appears to be about twenty feet long by six feet wide. I take a snapshot, including of the dedication plaque, mentally noting the homeschool group as a possible resource.
“Are there any other questions before we wrap up our tour?” Dave asks.
Wrap up?
Already?
I check my phone for the time. How is it
