Alan Christoffersen's diary

I woke early the next morning, packed up, then went over to Dustin's house and knocked on the door. His truck was still there, so I a.s.sumed he was too. After my third time knocking, I decided that he was probably still asleep or hungover from the moonshine he'd ingested the night before. I tore a page from my journal and left him a note thanking him for his hospitality, then set off for the day.

Physically, I felt much better than I had the day before, which made me believe my difficulty walking had been, at least in part, psychosomatic. It was an easy, brisk walk down the dirt road back to the highway, then only eleven miles south to the town of Folkston. I could have easily walked farther, but I didn't. My planned route into Florida went from Waycross to Folkston over the Florida border to Callahan, then southeast into Jacksonville. I wanted the crossing of my last state border to be more than an afternoon side note.

Four miles before Folkston, I pa.s.sed a billboard that read:

Florida Lotto Tickets,

9 miles ahead.

Gas n' Go Boulogne

Florida. If you had asked me as I left Seattle if I would make it here, I would have shrugged. But I had. I was on my last lap, so to speak.

Like Waycross, Folkston also calls itself the "Gateway to the Okefenokee." I ate a buffet dinner at the Okefenokee Restaurant, with pork chops and popcorn shrimp, then found a room at a bed and breakfast called the Inn at Folkston, a quaint, restored 1920s heart-pine bungalow. McKale would have loved it.

The only room they had available was the English Garden Room-which is also their bridal suite-themed after an English country inn, with a large sitting area and a gas fireplace. The room was beautiful and reportedly inhabited by a ghost, but the only thing that haunted me that night was my thoughts.

Long into the night I lay there thinking. The next day I would cross into Florida. I was nearing the end of my walk. Then what? Where was I going next? What would I do with the rest of my life? In response, what kept playing through my mind was the last thing McKale said to me as she lay dying: "Live."

At that time, when I had no desire to go on, I had only considered that she had meant not taking my life. Now I realized that she had meant more than that. To truly live is more than taking the next breath-it's to hope and dream and love. That's what she really meant. She, who was my hope and dream and love, was telling me to go on without her.

Here, on the final stretch of my walk, I realized that what I wanted most was love. After all I had been through, I couldn't bear the idea of reaching Key West only to walk across the border without a single person to share it with. And that was true of the rest of my life. Why hadn't I understood this sooner?

Perhaps it was, like my father had said, as simple as a matter of faith. Faith that life could be worth living again after my love's death. Faith in life itself. Faith in love itself. I hadn't been willing to risk loving again, because I wasn't willing to risk losing again. I had feared the future so much that I was killing it.

I was not so different from Dustin, the man in the swamp. Fearing the future, he had isolated himself with fences and barbwire and guns, just as I had done emotionally. And the result was the same-we had both run love out of our lives.

Somewhere in the internal dialogue of that night, I confronted the truth about myself and, in so doing, found the courage to obey McKale's final request. I was ready to take a chance. I was ready to live again.

CHAPTER Thirty-seven

A good read should introduce new drama in each chapter. But that's just in books. What may be enjoyable in literature is not so in real life.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

The weather the next morning was as balmy as one expects of Florida. The weather in my heart was equally serene. I knew what I wanted. I wanted love in my life. I wanted Falene.

When I had read her letter on the plane, I was not just surprised by her feelings but by my own. I cared more deeply for her than I had ever allowed myself to admit. Now, in this new day, I was ready to face those feelings. I was going to see this through. I wasn't going to Key West without her. I was going to find Falene if I had to park a month in Jacksonville to do it, or visit every modeling agency in New York. As I thought about this, I felt something I hadn't felt in a very long time. I felt alive.Breakfasts at B&Bs are always good and the Inn at Folkston was no exception. I ate breakfast outside on the wood-planked patio. I had a stack of blueberry pancakes, honeydew melon, baked ham and "Chicken George's" fresh eggs.

The clear, warm air smelled of the sweet fragrance of tea olive and honeysuckle.

After breakfast I went back to my room to check my cell phone. It had been a while since I'd turned it on and I wondered if Carroll had called.

I discovered that my phone was dead. I found the charger and plugged it into the wall. After about thirty seconds the phone turned on and immediately vibrated. I looked at its screen. I had eight missed calls and two voicemail messages. All of the calls were from the same two numbers. I didn't recognize either, but both had Pasadena area codes.

I played the first message.

"Alan, this is Carroll. Sorry it took so long but I found your friend. Her phone number is area code 212, 5555374. Good luck."

My heart pounded. This was my miracle, wasn't it? An answer to my night's epiphany?

I played the message again and wrote down Falene's phone number on a piece of note paper next to the room's telephone. I nervously held the paper in one hand, my phone in the other, until I started laughing at myself. After all the time I'd known Falene, I was flat out terrified to call her. Where would I begin? What if she'd changed her mind about me? I felt as awkward as a teenager calling for a first date.

As I thought over what I would say, I looked back down at my phone. There was still the other message. I pushed play.

"Alan, this is Nicole. Please call as soon as you get this. It's an emergency."

Her voice was strained. Why was she calling from Pasadena? I dialed the number. It rang just twice before Nicole answered. "Alan?"

"Nicole? What's wrong?"

"You need to come home," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"Your father's had a heart attack."

For a moment I was speechless. "Is he still alive?"

"He's in intensive care."

"Is he going to make it?"

There was a long pause. Then she said, "You just need to come home."

EPILOGUE

Again, my world is in commotion. The only thing that hasn't changed in my life is the uncertainty of it all.

Alan Christoffersen's diary

I took a cab to the Jacksonville airport, just thirty-six miles from Folkston. Just. By foot that's two days of travel-by car it's less than an hour. By plane I'll have traveled as far as I've walked this last year before evening.

My flight to Los Angeles left Jacksonville at 5 P.M., with an hour layover in Atlanta. I never called Falene. There was already too much on my emotional plate.

I called Nicole from my layover to see if there were any changes in my father's condition, but she didn't answer. This intensified my fear. Did I regret not staying home with my father as he'd wanted me to? Of course I did. But I pushed the thought from my mind. Regret is a useless emotion: it's like brushing your teeth after you find a cavity.

As I write this, I am about twenty minutes from touchdown in Los Angeles. What am I going to find? My heart is a battleground of hope and fear, each, in turn, seizing control. I'm afraid of the news that will shortly come. I'm afraid that I may already be orphaned.

Honestly, I do not have faith that I will see my father again. But I have hope. I hope that my father is still alive and that he'll be okay. I hope that I can see him again and tell him everything that's in my heart. But most of all, if it is his time, I hope for the chance to be there for him as he always was for me. I don't know if G.o.d will grant me this. But I hope.