Page 18 of Every Step She Takes

Sadie

I’m terrified to look. Right now, my feet are like the proverbial cat in the box, and as soon as I peel back my wool socks, I will know if once and for all they are dead. I will have to face the reality of what I’ve done to my poor appendages.

My feet are stretched out in front of me on the cool laminate floor of our private albergue, the shower humming behind me as Mal rinses off. For the moment, I can pretend that nothing is bleeding.

Thirteen miles is brutal when carrying the world’s heaviest pack.

I thought the boardwalk was the worst thing I could imagine, but then I had the pleasure of walking on cobblestones for the last stretch into Vila do Conde, and they were an absolute bitch.

For a while, my feet went blissfully numb and felt like they were no longer attached to my body physically or spiritually, but then the cobblestones brought fresh hell.

I truly thought I might collapse and never be able to stand up again.

There are probably a thousand blisters lurking beneath my socks, and I am quite certain the pinky toe on my right foot has detached itself and has been rolling around in my shoe since lunch.

And if I am missing a toe, I should probably do something about it.

Deep breath . I pull one foot closer to me and start to unfurl the sock from my mangled foot. The sock resists, as if the wool fibers have fused to my sweaty skin. With a sharp tug, it comes free.

The first thing I notice is that my baby toe is still blissfully attached to the rest of me, though the toenail wasn’t quite so lucky. The puckered skin beneath looks angry but isn’t bleeding. The second thing I notice is the smell.

Gagging, the rest of my foot comes into focus.

It looks like raw ground beef. The skin is red and wrinkled.

There’s a giant blister on my big toe, another one on the side of my foot.

There is a third blister on my heel that looks like a malignant tumor.

Across the top of my foot and around my ankle bone, huge bruises are forming where my hiking boots have crushed my will to live.

I let out a strangled cry as I reveal the left foot, which is just as bruised and busted. Somehow, seeing the physical evidence of my injuries makes them hurt more, and I bite down on my lip. Nothing is bleeding. At least nothing is bleeding .

I chant this in my head over and over again, trying to reassure my anxious brain that it’s all going to be okay, but the pain is too much, and I let the miserable tears fall.

I am not Diane Lane or Cheryl Strayed. This isn’t my Wild , and I’m not sure why I thought it could be.

I sit on the hard floor and weep for my deceased feet.

And then I weep because I somehow tricked myself into believing this trip was my perfect escape.

I wanted to believe I could somehow outrun myself .

I weep for the girl who never let herself question or wonder or explore; the girl who kept busy, kept repressing, kept forcing herself to date men because that’s what she thought she had to do.

I weep for the woman who is thirty-five and too far behind to ever catch up. I weep for all that lost time.

The bathroom door opens with a creak. Mal emerges in her loose tank top and sleep shorts. With all my sobbing, I didn’t hear the shower stop.

Rubbing my hands under my puffy eyes, I try to hide the evidence of my tears. Unfortunately, it’s impossible, on account of the snot oozing down my face. I’m so tired of crying in front of this woman.

Mal pauses just outside the bathroom, studying me with her sepia-tone eyes.

“Don’t look at me!” I yell, though the words get distorted, again because of snot.

Mal crouches in front of me so we’re at eye level, and she releases a heavy sigh. “Will you please let me help you, friend?” Her raspy voice is surprisingly gentle.

I don’t want her help. I don’t want to give her more reasons to see me as ridiculous and useless.

“Sadie,” Mal says, tone firmer. “Let me help you.”

I’m not sure if it’s the stern way she says my name, or if it’s because I am in no position to refuse assistance, but I slowly allow my legs to extend in her direction. “Okay,” I whisper.

Mal shifts so she’s sitting crisscross in front of me, and then she reaches for my right foot. “Good lord, don’t touch my feet!” I recoil. “They’re repugnant!”

“I’ve seen worse,” Mal says, and she touches my foot anyway, both of her hands carefully caressing my right foot, and I didn’t expect the contact to feel so intimate.

It’s only the two of us, sitting close together on the floor of our shared hotel room, and she’s massaging my foot, and her hands are smooth, and her grip is firm.

When her hands touch me, there’s the same tingling recognition I felt before, but there’s also something else.

Something new. A sensation in my lower stomach that feels like hunger and satiation at the same time.

She’s delicate with my blisters as she begins rubbing my arches with her thumb. Then she flexes my foot against her palm, slowly at first, working out some of the stiffness.

It’s not only the massage that feels intimate, I decide after a minute of these soothing movements. It’s her eyes. The way she stares at my foot with such intense focus, like she’s trying to learn the language of my skin and sinew. She finally drops my foot, and I can finally breathe again.

“Well, the first thing we’ve got to do is get you better shoes.” She seems wholly unaware of how sexy that foot massage was.

“My boots are from REI. And they were really expensive.”

“Incidentally, that is not the sole marker of a good shoe.” Mal picks up my left foot and begins absently going through the same movements.

“You bought hiking boots, which are great for, you know, hiking . But we’re walking , and it will be mostly on boardwalks, sidewalks, roads, and other hard surfaces.

You don’t need all the ankle support. In fact, I think the ankle support is restricting your movement.

You need something that will cushion your feet from the repetitive pressure of your body slamming against the ground.

And it doesn’t help that these seem to be brand-new? ”

Embarrassed, I nod.

“A Pacific Northwest girlie should know better than to ever exercise in shoes that haven’t been broken in. Your poor, poor toes. And these arches!”

Demonstratively, she strokes my left arch. Involuntarily, I shiver.

“What size shoe do you wear?”

I cannot believe I’m expected to carry on an intelligent conversation amid these weirdly sensual touches, but I clear my throat and try. “Size nine, usually.”

“Perfect.” Mal stops touching my feet once and for all and quickly gets up to fetch her dirty Hokas from over by the door. “These should fit you. I want you to try wearing these tomorrow.”

I sputter at this generous offer. “B-but then… then what will you wear?”

“I can wear my hiking sandals.” Mal shrugs. “It’s only a fourteen-mile day.”

Only .

“At least we’ll give your feet a reprieve from these torture devices.” She picks up one of my hiking boots and then tosses it over her shoulder with a flourish.

“I-I can’t let you do that for me.”

She breezes right past my protest. “And your wool socks are quality, but the most important thing is to keep your feet dry while trekking. Here.” She tosses me something. “Try these under your socks. Don’t worry. I haven’t worn that pair yet.”

I hold up the thin socks she’s handed me. “Toe socks?”

“Trust me. They’ll feel weird at first, but they’ll stop your toes from rubbing together while sweaty. It makes a huge difference.”

Suddenly, the pair of toe socks in my hands feel like the nicest gift anyone has ever given me.

“Oh, and did you pack any Vaseline? Never mind, actually. Mine is right here.”

“Why are you doing this for me?”

She stops riffling through the pouches of her bag and turns toward me. “What do you mean?”

“Um, well, it’s just…” I twist the toe socks in my hands. “Well, you’ve seemed annoyed with me ever since you discovered we’re on the same trek.”

Mal purses her lips in a very annoyed fashion. “Why would I be annoyed with you?”

“Because I’m the drunk woman who weirdly came out to you when I thought I was dying, and now you’re stuck with me.” I cringe at myself. “Because I’m a ridiculous fool who knows nothing about the Camino or Portugal or what shoes to wear.”

“You confuse the shit out of me, Freckles,” Mal explodes, and the tub of Vaseline in her hands goes flying.

It takes me a second to realize that Freckles is a proper noun in this context. That I’m Freckles. By the time I put it together, Mal is ranting again. “How can someone who owns and runs her own small business have zero self-confidence?”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. Mal huffs and then plops herself down on the floor beside me.

“I’m not annoyed with you, Sadie,” she says softly, “and I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say.

“And I’m doing all of this for you, my sweet baby gay, because that’s what we do for each other. As your queer elder, I have to look out for you.”

“Queer elder? What are you, like two years older than me?”

“Queer elder is more a state of mind than an age,” she says. “It’s like I’ve been trying to tell you. As queer people, we operate on different timelines. You are on a different timeline, and that’s okay.”

I rotate the pair of socks in my hand. “Thanks,” I grumble. “For, um… for acting like I’m queer.”

Mal snorts. “What are you talking about? You are queer.”

“Not on this tour.”

“ Ah . Right. Because everyone keeps calling you straight.”

“I hate it,” I admit. “And I don’t know why, because I don’t want them to know I’m gay. I don’t even really know if I am gay or bi or pan or whatever! And it’s not like I’ve ever dated a woman or anything.”