A Perfect Place to Feel Lonely

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Patty Somlo

__________

I didn’t intend to be alone at this point. After staying single long enough to worry that I might be alone forever, I went on a blind date. By the time my date and I said goodnight, I’d already fallen a bit in love. 

We eventually married, repeating the vow Till death do us part. While I believed what I pledged, I didn’t understand that death arrives when it wants.  

*

A land named after the end of life seems an odd place to find beauty. If you didn’t know, as I was unaware, mountains border both sides of Death Valley, the low-elevation, hot and dry expanse in the center of a vast national park. The mountains are layered with rock from different millennia, in shades of burnt umber, tan and turquoise. People who’ve never visited Death Valley know deaths occur here every year, from exposure to temperatures that soar above one hundred degrees. Some Europeans visit the park at the most scorching time, to take selfies and brag that they survived. 

I have come, after marking the two-year anniversary of my husband Richard’s passing. His death was not a surprise but the expected final chapter of that dread disease, cancer. Even after four and a half years of treatment for stage-four cancer, which I knew my husband couldn’t survive, I was unprepared for him to be gone. Two years since he left me, I am still lost, wandering a vast desert where the wind erases every path that beckons to lead me away from grief’s sorrow. 

I have traveled to Death Valley with a group of strangers. This trip is the latest I’ve gone on, each journey sparked by the hope I might find a new way to live in the world I now inhabit alone. The trips have provided some respite from the solitary hours I spend at home. But the environment here in Death Valley may be affecting my fellow travelers. Strangely enough, many of them seem to prefer being alone. 

*

What a perfect place to feel lonely. Our guides ferry us to one trailhead after the next, at the start of canyons carved by wind, water and volcanic activity over unfathomably long periods of time. When we arrive, they give us a time to return. Couples walk together, the men not in good enough shape to hike far. I attempt conversation with some solo travelers. Several walk away before I get far. 

So, I hike by myself, though I joined a group to break out of this solidary widowed life. 

*

This is not the first time I’ve learned what introverts are reminded of all the time. Sometimes in a group, I feel lonelier than when I am alone. 

*

Every morning, I leave my room, walk down the short dark hall, then exit the building, near the end of this vast resort’s property line. If I look to the right, I can catch a glimpse of the horses, their heads bowed, in a fenced pasture on the other side of the parking lot. 

The stone and brick path meanders past the swimming pool under tall palms. This time of year, the tail end of fall, mornings are crisp, which for some reason brings me joy. 

The dining room is dark and, yes, rather depressing. A buffet stretches along one-half of one wall and nearly across another, with trays and vats full of oatmeal and scrambled eggs, bagels and bread, sausages, pancakes and what appears to be baked beans. I’m not a big breakfast eater, especially at the early hour we need to start. So, I drop dollops of oatmeal into a small cup, toast half a bagel, and grab a hard-boiled egg, thinking it will give me needed protein for the hikes. 

Tray in hand, I scour the room for someone to sit with, so I don’t have to eat alone. This moment catapults me back to an eighth-grade dance class, waiting on one side of the gym for a boy to walk over to me and reach out his hand. 

*

Before my husband’s passing, I almost never traveled alone. Since his death, I’ve booked these group trips every few months. 

Gradually, I have learned that in every group, only a handful of travelers come alone. Less than a few fingerfuls of the solo travelers are men. 

One of those exceptions is on this trip. Matthew is tall and slender, probably around my age, from the lines surrounding his mouth and eyes. Unlike the other men on this trip, he hikes like someone comfortable on uphill wilderness trails, often walking by himself at the front. I, too, am happy trekking up an incline, leaving my companions behind. Because of this habit, more than once I find myself walking beside Matthew, whether he likes it or not. 

Though I don’t want to admit it, at least in the first couple of days, I can’t help but notice. Matthew gives me the impression he’s not the least bit interested in my company. 

*

After you lose a spouse, people ask questions or sometimes make suggestions. Will you sell your house? Maybe you should get a dog. Interestingly, no one wonders if you want to find a new husband, at least not out loud. 

This is a secret I mostly keep to myself. Two years have passed, and I miss Richard as much as I did the morning he died. Yet I check the ring fingers of men who pass through my life. Matthew, whose slender build reminds me of Richard’s, doesn’t wear one. I do know married men who don’t, though I’m not aware why. 

*

I’m also not aware why Matthew sits at my table nearly every morning for breakfast. Before he arrives, I join a friendly couple, Sarah and Ed, with whom I never feel uncomfortable or that they would rather be left alone.  

Times Matthew and I end up briefly walking together, I fall into my usual habit, asking questions about his life, while keeping my distance from topics too close to the personal. Halfway through the trip, I have learned that Matthew has a thirty-two-year-old son. 

*

On every one of these group trips, including this one in Death Valley, I let everyone know during the uncomfortable introductions that I’ve lost my spouse. I want to announce that I wouldn’t be here alone, enduring all the awkward moments, forced to break out of my protective shell, if I still had a partner and best pal. The past six and a half years, my life has been consumed with caregiving, death and grief. That’s a world I can’t easily leave behind, just because I’ve stepped onto a plane. 

*

Yes, I’ve wondered about the mother of Matthew’s son, since during the first half of this trip, he’s never mentioned her. At the same time, he hasn’t asked a single question about me. When I talk about myself, I keep the remarks short, assuming the details don’t interest him. I do my best to avoid his company, though in this small group, he’s difficult to avoid. 

*

Midway through the trip, Matthew and I end up sitting next to one another at dinner, with three of the five couples. For the first time, I notice that when Matthew talks to me, sitting at my left, he looks straight into my eyes.  

Several people share funny incidents from trips they’ve taken. At one point, Matthew, who usually stays quiet, joins in. For the first time, he mentions his wife. 

*

On some, but not all, of these trips, I manage to develop a tiny crush on one of the men. They are nothing like guys who would have interested me earlier in life. I can’t say I’m physically attracted to any of them, because I am not. They have simply entered my personal space, where these days men don’t generally arrive. 

I was always drawn to slender dark-haired men with dark eyes. For a time, my lovers had names like Alejandro and Mario. A close male friend who loved to joke started referring to them as the Os.  

My husband had black hair, dark brown eyes, and was thinner than he liked. Richard worked out at the gym and proudly built up the muscles in his arms. He was Asian, born in San Francisco, with a large extended family on both sides. Like many Chinese Americans, he had people in his family, known as Paper Sons, who had entered the United States illegally, while the Chinese Exclusion Act had been put in place for the purpose of keeping them out. 

*

One afternoon, we visit the remains of the Harmony Borax Works, not far from where we’re staying at The Oasis of Death Valley, a recreated Western town. Clouds provide a dramatic backdrop to the rusted machinery and wooden carts. 

I take photos, then glance at the informational placards, set here and there around the site. I stop and look more closely at one. 

Not surprisingly, in the late 1800s when borax was being mined and processed here, it wasn’t easy to find people who wanted to do this hot and hard work, in the middle of nowhere. Also not surprising, the men who worked at this site, with only tents in which to sleep, were Chinese. In the faded photograph above the written text, the workers are wearing conical-shaped coolie hats.  

*

Throughout this trip, a smart and funny professor of geology has lectured about the formation of this valley and its more recent history. By the end of my stay, I will have forgotten nearly everything he’s said. 

I am, however, a woman whose moods are deeply affected by her surroundings. Death Valley has me conflicted. 

The canyons I enter are beyond wondrous, bordered by massive rock walls in an array of textures, shapes and shades. As I walk, the pathway shifts. At times, the walls are far apart, and there is a welcoming openness. Without warning, though, the rocky trail suddenly narrows and the walls close in. 

Thinking about it now, each of these canyon hikes feels like a metaphor for my widowed life. 

*

The monotony of grief has surprised me. I told Richard more than once, during his last months when we talked about his death, that I would be sad and miss him forever, but expected I’d be all right. 

I didn’t realize until two years into widowhood that the sorrow would be unwilling to depart. My therapist offered a metaphor for grief, that it was like sea glass. Early on, the edge of the sea glass is sharp. But over time, washed by the tides, the glass becomes smoother. 

The glass of grief I carry in my heart, on my shoulders, and behind my eyes refuses to soften. If I fling it down to the hard wood floor, it refuses to even crack. 

I take these trips, hoping time in nature will heal me. Yes, there are moments, and when I return home, those are details I like to recall. But I still go back to an empty house and talk to my beloved husband, who never, ever responds. 

*

Half a century together, Sarah and Ed are obviously still very much in love. They hold hands and delight in telling stories about each other. I can feel the joy Sarah experiences in Ed’s company and he in hers. Surprisingly, though their love reminds me of what I’ve lost, being with them doesn’t make me sad. 

On our next-to-last morning, Sarah says that when they were first dating, Ed made dinner for her, a gesture that endeared her to him right off. Ed, whose humor is endearing to me, jokes that after that night, he didn’t cook dinner for Sarah a single other time. 

Moments later, Sarah and Ed leave the table to go back to their room. I am left with Matthew, who’s been silent the whole time Sarah, Ed and I talked. 

*

Now that Sarah and Ed have opened a small door into married life, I decide it’s okay to ask Matthew this question.  
“Do you cook or does your wife or do you both cook?” 

Asking the question is a trick to make sure Matthew and I don’t end up sitting here in silence. 

*

I have no idea what Matthew’s answer might be. In most marriages, including my own, women do most of the cooking. But I barely know this guy, so I can’t guess how he’ll respond. 

Interestingly, I have learned a great deal about Sarah and Ed. We have grown comfortable enough with one another that Ed made an assumption – a correct one, I might add – about my political inclinations, at this time when one’s views can place a permanent damper on any relationship. 

*

During every one of these trips, I have met other widows. After I mention having lost my husband during the uncomfortable introductions, another widow will let me know she sails in that same sad boat. There is so much comfort, finding a fellow sojourner in the world of illness and death. We can address the topic in detail, something most Americans do their best to avoid. 

As usual, I have met another widow here in Death Valley. Margaret is quiet, giving the impression that she likes to be left alone. For that reason, I’ve found conversations with her to be strained, so I avoid sitting with her in the dining room or on the bus. 

*

When I ask Matthew the cooking question, he doesn’t stop to think about meals he or his wife likes to make. Once the question is out of my mouth, he responds. 

“My wife passed away a year ago in January from ALS,” he says. “I’m in the same situation that you are.” 

The last sentence, that he’s in the same situation as me, hangs in the air between us. It’s as if he’s just slapped me with those words. I tell him I’m sorry and mumble other phrases that come naturally, because such sad news doesn’t make me uncomfortable in the least.  

This is the sixth day in a row I’ve been in Matthew’s company. Yet, it’s the first time he’s let me know that he and I are in the very same situation. 

*

For the last hike of the trip, our guide has warned us. Several difficult and potentially dangerous parts might make some people consider a different trek. Mike, who drives the bus and helps with other tasks, will take folks who don’t feel comfortable out on an easier path. 

We head downhill into what’s known as a gulch. Water and wind have carved a vast empty space, bordered by towering rock. Unlike the canyons we’ve hiked that at times are dark, the gulch is wide open, with sunlight making the colors shimmer. 

I am happy to be here, though I mostly spend the hike alone. The light is too bright at this hour for good pictures, but I snap photos anyhow. I desperately want to take all this color home. 

I reach the first spot we’ve been warned about. Rocks have piled up, blocking the way. Instead of waiting for help, I sit down, then pick my way through the narrow opening, delighting in the challenge of finding tiny rock ledges on which to balance my feet. 

*

During the day, I try to forget the moments after I asked Matthew who cooked at his house. I try to forget because for that brief time we connected in a meaningful and deeply personal way, which before I’d asked that question and he answered we could not. 

*

In a long marriage, it’s easy to take what you’ve built over the years for granted. After a spouse has died, the empty space around you is all too apparent. To break through that void and touch someone, or feel another’s touch, reminds you of what has been lost. 

*

For breakfast on our final morning in Death Valley, I sit alone. Sarah and Ed are at their usual table, to the left, but the two other seats are occupied. 

I eat at a two-person table, my back facing the wall. Small tables in front are filled with strangers, as well as members of our group.  

*

I’m looking at my phone when I hear Matthew’s voice. I raise my eyes, thinking he’s about to join me at my table. 

He has already sat down, though, across the way, with one of the other solo women travelers. I haven’t spoken to him since his confession, that we were in the very same situation. 

*

After breakfast, I return to my room, then roll my suitcase out to the bus. I grab the last empty seat in the back, and slide over, next to the window. It seems fitting now that I will ride to where the trip began in Las Vegas alone. 

For most of the ride, the highway is bordered by mountains so drenched with color, I’m tempted to pull out my phone and take more shots. At one point when I do just that, I see the scene is marred by a reflection of my face in the glass. 

*

Each of these trips ends abruptly. One minute, I am part of a group. The next minute, I am once again alone. 

The bus stops at one airport terminal and people stand up. In loud voices, they shout goodbye and that they enjoyed meeting us. 

Matthew, who’s sitting next to the window across the aisle, stands at the second terminal stop. Unlike the others, he doesn’t say a word. Not even goodbye. 

*

I stay on the bus until I’m dropped off at the hotel. Tomorrow, I will take an early morning flight. The trip back home will be short.

__________

Patty Somlo’s most recent book, Hairway to Heaven Stories (Cherry Castle Publishing), was a finalist in the American Fiction Awards and Best Book Awards. Previous books, The First to Disappear (Spuyten Duyvil) and Even When Trapped Behind Clouds: A Memoir of Quiet Grace (WiDo Publishing), were finalists in several contests. Her work has appeared in Guernica, Delmarva Review, Under the Sun, The Los Angeles Review, and over 40 anthologies. She received Honorable Mention for Fiction in the Women’s National Book Association Contest, was a finalist in the J.F. Powers Short Fiction Contest, had an essay selected as Notable for Best American Essays, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net multiple times.

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