At the top, he waved goodbye again as he had the last time Muni drove
away. "So," Oliver said. He shivered and shook himself like a dog.
"So." He didn't know what was ahead, but he knew that he wasn't going
to kill himself. He was his father's son; he had the same tenacity; he
was going to go the distance. The knowledge came from a deeper place
than the pain. It gave him secure footing, a place where he could stand
and bear the hurt. His father had given him life twice. He stared out
at the sea and sky, wondering at the cold dark beauty of it all and
feeling deeply sorry for all those who had put guns to their heads or
swallowed too many pills or jumped from bridges.
It began to rain. Oliver drove back toward Portland and stopped at the
first motel. The woman on duty looked at him suspiciously. He
remembered that he hadn't shaved and that he'd slept in his clothes. It
seemed a long time ago. "I'm all right," he said. "It's been a long
trip, that's all."
When Oliver awoke the next morning, he was sober and hungry. The
intense pain was gone. Only a residual ache reminded him of the storm
that had almost gotten him. He took a long hot shower and dressed.
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