On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren Page A

words?”
    “I asked him if I got accidentally pregnant would he still expect me to live in a tipi, and whether he thought a tipi was adequate shelter for a baby. That’s when he said the tipi issue was irrelevant and what was or wasn’t adequate for the baby wouldn’t really be his problem. The real issue for him would be whether he’d want to spend the rest of his life with someone he obviously couldn’t trust.”
    “Olive, remember when we were little, how obsessed we were with what we’d do if we ever saw a rattlesnake? And I showed you how I’d walk slowly away from it? Well, the first time I saw a rattler, pow! I was out of there! I didn’t think at all. I just jumped. I didn’t know I was capable of jumping so far. I just wonder . . . maybe it’s just wishful thinking . . . but I just wonder if for Matt this might be one of those cases where you think you’d do one thing when it’s just hypothetical, but when it’s real, something else takes over and you discover strength you didn’t know you had.”
    “What happens if I tell him and he decides to claim his custody rights? I’m then supposed to leave this baby in the hands of a guy who thinks adequate shelter’s not an issue? No way! ”
    “If you tell him and I’m right, maybe you two can work things out where you raise this child together. That would be best for the child.” Shit. Wrong thing to say.
    I wait for her to explode, but she doesn’t. “It’s a long shot, Jade. I can’t afford to gamble and lose. By telling him, I’d be handing this baby over to a really messed-up legal system.”
    As I take in everything she’s saying, I see Grace appear. Finally. Grace is smiling and nodding her head as she says, “Oh, yeah, she’s gettin’ her mama bear mojo workin’!”
    Olive’s eyes are red and tired; this conversation has worn her out. “Trust me, Jade, no one wants a storybook ending more than me. It’s just not going to happen.”
    I nod as I stand up and choose which box to carry out.
    “Look at the bright side,” she says. “At least I won’t end up like Mom, sleeping on a lawn chair when I’m in my fifties in order to get away from a loveless marriage.”
    “She’s sleeping on a lawn chair?” I ask.
    “Yeah. That’s how much she can’t stand Dad,” Olive says.
    I pick up the box and carry it to my truck. She picks up another and follows me out.
    “Did you pick a light one?” I ask. “Let me get the heavy ones.”
    “Blankets and towels,” she replies.
    “Good.”

Forrest on the Walk Home
(June 9)
    I make my way east up and down ridges and draws I have named. I climb “First Hill,” then walk across “The Ridge with the Warm Wind.” I continue up “The Hill Where I Fall” (I usually slip on the return trip down), and wind through “The Place Where the Spirits Live.” I think I see them from time to time out of the corner of my eye, never directly, and always in this eighth-of-a-mile stretch. I’m not sure what they are. When I spy them, I feel neither welcome nor unwelcome. Mostly I just feel them watching. After that, I climb up “The Wall,” the steep hill where I usually begin to feel tired, until I reach “The Place with the Tree Where I Rest.” Usually, I rest there on hot days, enjoying some shade offered by the ancient ponderosa, but not today. Today I start right up “The Hill That Never Ends.”
    I decide to walk into the night to finish the journey early. The moon is full, the wind is down, the rattlers are asleep in the ground, and the temperature is bearable. My mind is full of clutter, and walking often clears it.
    Part of the reason I chose to check out of society is because it lacks humanity. How exactly am I contributing to the solution? Given, just not being part of the problem is a huge accomplishment. Somehow, though, I’m left with the sense that I’m wasting my life. I don’t know what to do about it, though; I’ve burned so many bridges.
    These thoughts overwhelm me, so