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Trying to Make the 2.5-Hour Drive to the Trailhead Before Rain

Mary Ardery

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I drive a group of women into the wet woods of the Pisgah Forest to dry out from booze, pills, and syringes. On the 20-mile stretch before we reach the interstate, one client says gas stations trigger her so can we please stop driving by them? All of them.

The more seasoned clients argue about the radio like sisters—voices climbing, no holding back—so I punch the music off. We’ll lose signal soon enough to the mountains. In the 15-passenger van’s rearview mirror, I see the newest client sitting silent, heavy eyelids but not asleep.

We merge onto I-40, and darkening clouds set the pace. I press the gas pedal with the weight of a dromedary filled for full day’s hike. There’s peace for an hour—the group lulled to sleep by highway motion—until someone raises her voice above the van’s worn-down tires: she has to pee real bad.

Next exit, I cross my fingers for a church. The only rest stop is miles behind us, and my boss said there are too many tempting cigarettes at gas stations, generous old folks at McDonald’s. Praise Jesus for rural North Carolina because there it is—a crucifix, empty parking lot, and leafy trees for coverage.

She clambers from the van in her dried-mud boots. Humid air floods in still warm, the storm not yet ripe. She ignores the tree-cover and pisses right there on the pavement—her trail pants down around her ankles and her heart-tattooed ass cheeks on display through the windshield.

Boundaries, I say, when she re-buckles between clients who giggle their approval.

When we reach the Forest Service Road, it’s day but dark as we descend the gravel switchbacks, shrouded by rhododendron leaves. Appalachia’s afternoon clouds serenade us with the low-pitched threat of hydration.

We’re almost to the trailhead when someone prods my ribs, two fingers, gentle but insistent. I turn to see the newest client clutching her mouth, eyes wet and bulging. Someone shouts, She’s gonna blow!

Gravel churns. The door flings open before we’re stopped. Neon bile hits dark soil as her underweight body heaves again and again, viscous glowworms dangling from her mouth.

Someone gets out to rub her back. Someone else offers her a stick of Spearmint gum that no one’s supposed to have, but I don’t say anything. The ass-tattooed client leans out the open door, seatbelt cutting into her neck, and warns, If you keep puking, they’ll put you on a Level Watch.

The back-rubber tells her to shut up: She’s fucking detoxing, you idiot.

The loamy mountain air is chillier than at the church. When the first lone raindrop splats against the windshield, there’s a chorus of groans, and the week has officially begun. We were almost to the trail, but not quite.

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Mary Ardery is from Bloomington, IN. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Kettle Blue Review, Gravel, RHINO, and other journals. She is currently pursuing an MFA at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Visit her at maryardery.com.

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