By Mark Ready

Carrie should have suspected something when she found Jeremy’s Ford parked in its usual spot and their housekeeper Brenda’s Mazda in place of her Toyota. Until that fateful Friday afternoon, Carrie’s life had seemed perfect. Then she discovered her husband and Brenda indulging in a passion she believed Jeremy was incapable of. When she confronted them, Jeremy told her that Brenda was pregnant, that he loved her, and that he wanted a child more than he wanted to be with her.

“But you knew I couldn’t have children when we married,” said Carrie.  

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I changed my mind.”

***

Steve, Carrie’s supervisor at the Census Bureau, stepped into her office. “Why don’t you take some time off to find yourself? Going through a divorce is a big deal.”

“I’m fine,” Carrie replied, hoping that saying it would make it true.

Steve glanced at the used tissues in the trash can. “No, you’re not,” he said, tossing a file onto her desk. “We’ve tried contacting this Stanton woman by mail, but she hasn’t replied. I need you to do a home visit.”

Carrie opened the file and quickly Googled the address. “Stanton Springs? Good grief, Steve. She lives in the middle of nowhere. This could take me three days, maybe four.”

He smiled. “I’d say it will take you more like a week, Ms. Wright. Pack some camping supplies and extra water and I’ll see you in five days.”

Stanton Springs was located thirty miles off State Route 77, near the Utah-Idaho border, and seventy miles from the nearest post office in Malta. Carrie, a native of North Idaho, found the desert’s wide horizon—filled with muted golds, grays, greens, stalky grasses, and cinnamon-brown basalt—breathtaking. Unlike modern roads with straight lines and sharp edges, the wagon trail she followed dips and curves blended seamlessly with the landscape. The path meandered like a living thing, navigating around obstacles instead of going over them. Early Mormon settlers commissioned the road to transport minerals from Soda Springs to Boise, and Stanton Springs became a crucial water stop for the teams and drivers.

Carrie imagined a long string of creaking wagons filled with men and boys wearing broad-brimmed hats and kerchief-covered faces traveling beside her. As she sipped ice-cold water from her insulated cooler, she almost felt like apologizing to her ghostly companions. She knew the wagons weren’t real, but she couldn’t help but wonder: what if they were? What would they think of a 35-year-old blonde woman in Ray-Bans driving alongside them? And what did she think of herself?

Carrie’s bladder urged her to push aside the ghostly riders and the uncomfortable question. Knowing how to pee outdoors was necessary for working in rural Idaho, where parts of the state remained unchanged from pioneer days. Rest areas and even outhouses were considered a luxury. Carrie had grown up relieving herself alongside her brothers. When they teased her about not being able to sign her name in the snow, she responded by learning Morse code. That experience revealed that women had to work twice as hard and be twice as bright to earn the same respect as men.

Carrie switched off the engine, stepped onto the ground, and felt small beneath the vast blue sky and wispy white clouds. A warm, gentle wind carrying the scent of dry pollen caressed her skin, while she listened to the sagebrush tremble and the brittle weeds rattle against one another. She reached for her cell phone but hesitated. No picture could capture it fully. Nothing could, except being there with the sun shining like a warm golden ball and the wind softly whistling among the plants and rocks. Carrie dropped her pants, whispered a silent go, and was back on her way in less than thirty seconds.

Stanton Springs gradually slowed to a trickle, ultimately leading to the town’s decline. As internal combustion engines slowly replaced horses, the authorities built a new north route. Trucks needed flat, level roads instead of water-filled troughs, which caused the old wagon track to be abandoned and marked as just a series of dashes on the map.

A cemetery filled with weeds and surrounded by a wrought iron fence appeared on her right. If she hadn’t done a double take, she might have missed the lone burst of pink amidst the brambles. Pink? It seemed as out of place there as a grove of Western white pines or a patch of wild huckleberries. She stopped the truck and noticed a fresh rose lying on a gravestone. How did such a flawless, teacup-sized rose end up on a grave in the desert? The words on the stone read: Nickolas Stanton, born 1968 – died 1968. Carrie rubbed her lower abdomen, contemplating whether it was more painful to lose a child or to know she would never give birth to one. Someone must have placed the rose there, and she hoped it had been Sariah Stanton.

A sturdy older woman wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, a long-sleeved shirt, and khaki pants materialized like a ghost among the ruins of Stanton Springs, accompanied by a black-furred dog. Carrie turned off the truck and put on her best meet-and-greet smile.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you Mrs. Sariah Stanton?”

The woman took a moment to respond. “It’s Doctor Stanton.” She tilted her head slightly. “And you are?”

“You’re a doctor?”

“A botanist,” the older woman said, examining the lanyard with Carrie’s official Census Bureau ID. “Carolyne Wright. Hmm.” Her mouth wrinkled as her dog growled. “Quiet, Buck!” Sariah cleared her throat. “The census is still conducted every ten years, isn’t it, Miss Wright?”

Carrie reached for her bag. “It’s Ms. Wright, Doctor Stanton. Yes, but your address was selected for an American Family Survey, and we couldn’t contact you by mail.”

“Oh yes. I plan to collect that any day now. Do you enjoy rose hip tea, Ms. Wright? I have very few visitors, so we could complete your survey while enjoying tea and cookies.”

“You don’t have to go to any trouble. I won’t be here that long. Oh! Speaking of rose hips, I noticed a rose in the cemetery. I didn’t know they were native to the desert.”

Sariah raised an eyebrow. “They’re not. Their Latin name is Rosa exspirabit.”

Carrie quickly translated the Latin into English. “Pink ghost?”

The older woman looked curious. “You know Latin, Ms. Wright?”

“A little. I enjoy writing and researching, and picked up some of the language along the way.”

Sariah patted her dog. “What do you think of that, Buck? A writer named Wright. Interesting. Come along, we need to talk.” 

Sariah’s home blended into the desert landscape like the wagon trail. Its basalt walls merged with the natural outcroppings, looking identical except for the door and windows. 

“Did you build this?” Carrie asked.

“No, but I did design it. A construction company from Salt Lake City did the work. Come in and make yourself comfortable.” She opened the door, and a wall switch illuminated a large, cavern-like room with LED lights.

“Wow. I never would have expected this,” Carrie exclaimed.

“You’re surprised?”

“I’d have to say, yes. I imagined kerosene lamps and patchwork quilts. I pictured Country Living, not Architectural Digest.”

Sariah laughed. “I subscribe to both. I also use Amazon when I can order and pick things up in a timely manner. I’m old dear, not dead.”

Carrie admired the modern furniture intermingled with antiques and the shelves filled with books. Photographs of Paris, London, and the Great Wall of China adorned the rough rock walls. “These photographs are beautiful, and I love your collection of books,” she said.

Sariah laughed as she walked into the kitchen. “Thank you! I took the photos myself. I’ve traveled quite a bit.”

Carrie followed her. “But you choose to live out here in the middle of nowhere. Why?”

“Is that question on your survey, Ms. Wright?”

“No, I was just curious,” Carrie replied.

“Curiosity killed the cat, but it is also the mother of invention. My curiosity led me to study botany and develop what I call my ghosts.”

“Ghosts? Are you trying to be cryptic, or does it come naturally to you?” Carrie asked.

Sariah took a canister of dried rose hips from the top of a wooden shelf. “The Canyon Wren is a small, unobtrusive bird that nests in crevices or under cliff ledges. It is an exceptional songster—a plain clothes virtuoso.” She furrowed her brow. “The Almighty gives gifts even to the humblest of creatures. He does the same with humans, too, Ms. Wright.” She patted the back of a chair. “Please have a seat while I make the tea.”

Carrie filled out the survey and then began to talk. She opened up to Sariah about her feelings regarding Jeremy and Brenda, expressing how alone she felt and that she was essentially starting over. She even shared her struggle with not being able to have children.

In response, Sariah shared her own story about Nicholas. It was the 1960s, a time marked by free love and the Vietnam War. Sariah had grown close to one of her professors, believing their intimacy meant more to him than it did. However, when she revealed to him that she was pregnant, he abruptly left for a two-year sabbatical in Spain without informing her.

Stanton Springs had always been her refuge, and she returned here to have her baby, but tragically, the child did not survive. Sariah empathized with Carrie, saying she understood all about starting over and feeling lonely.

Carrie awoke to sunlight streaming into the bed of her Toyota. She’d chosen to sleep under the stars on a foam mattress with her sleeping bag instead of on Sariah’s couch because she wanted to listen to the lonely cries of coyotes and other creatures of the desert night. After breakfast, Sariah took her to an area surrounded by tall rock walls with a mesh roof and showed her the Ghost Roses blooming in every imaginable color.

Carrie brushed the petals of a blue rose against her cheek and asked, “How did you do this?”

Sariah replied, “When I was a little girl, I found light pink roses growing in the desert. Their seeds had been carried by a wayward bird and left in their droppings. They shouldn’t have survived, much less thrived, but they did. Over the years, I cross-pollinated them into the varieties you see here. They all belong to the Genus Rosa, but I think of them as my Ghost Roses because they bloom where others die.”

Carrie admired Sariah’s fine wrinkles and braided white hair. “You are a remarkable woman! You’ve traveled all over the world but chose to live in the desert. You’re like your roses, blooming where others would perish.”

Sariah laughed. “Stanton Springs is my refuge from technology and the world. It gives me time to think. There is no WiFi or cell service, just nature. You’re going through a rough patch now, but you’ve been through them before and will come out on top. I know it.”

Carrie gazed at the morning sky. “I suppose,” she replied, taking a few steps closer to the older woman. “Can I come back to visit?”

“Of course,” Sariah said with a warm smile. “I also occasionally teach at the University of Idaho and Washington State. Maybe I could visit you too?”

“That would be wonderful. I would love to hear more about your life,” Carrie said enthusiastically.

***

Carrie looked up from the Tribune’s birth notices. Brenda and Jeremy had welcomed another child, adding a girl to their two boys. After two years of counseling, Carrie had learned to accept herself as she was, and Sariah—and her beautiful roses—had significantly influenced her. She sent a card to congratulate her former housekeeper and ex-husband, thinking it would be a pleasant surprise, if nothing else.

Her cell phone rang, and the screen displayed Sariah’s name.

Carrie answered. “Hello, I was just thinking about you.”

Sariah’s firm, confident voice sounded different this time. When she asked Carrie to come to Twin Falls, she quickly arranged to catch the first flight out of Lewiston.

Sariah had listed Carrie as family, allowing her to visit her hospital room. The nurse informed her that Doctor Stanton was suffering from a urinary tract infection and had declined treatment but had asked for her several times. Carrie was taken aback by how old and frail her friend looked, yet she knew Sariah recognized her when she opened her eyes.

Carrie gently took her hand. “I came as soon as I could,” she said softly.

Sariah closed her eyes, and Carrie held her hand until her friend and mentor passed away.

Sometimes, you meet people who change your life when you least expect it. Carrie found Sariah when she needed her most—only for death to take her away. But not entirely. Sariah left detailed plans and indicated that Ms. Carolyn Wright would carry them out. A hydrologist discovered why the spring had dried up, and Sariah left funds to restore it. Stanton Springs would come alive once more. She had licensed her rose’s drought-tolerant genes to be spliced into bushes and trees, helping to combat global warming. Because of this, the Sahara had receded and become more fertile. Sariah held other patents as well and left behind a sizable estate.

She requested that Carrie open Stanton Springs to curious individuals from around the world who write, paint, or create useful and beautiful images and objects. She aimed to help ordinary men and women flourish, become ‘plain clothes virtuosos,’ and share their talents with the world, much like the Canyon Wren.

Carrie envisioned the ghostly riders who’d first accompanied her tethered to the now full watering troughs, their horses drinking as the men washed away the trail dust. They smiled at her, and she laughed and waved back. Sariah’s dog, Buck, ambled over and sat beside her.

She scratched his head. “How are you doing, old man?” Buck nuzzled her hand in response.

As Carrie watched her ex-husband, Jeremy, and his wife, Brenda, trying to engage their children with the fiery orange sunset, she reflected on how her card congratulating them on the birth of their daughter had sparked a phone call that led to dinner. Now, their children addressed her as Aunt Carrie, and she and Brenda worked on a book about finding common ground after divorce. Life was too short for holding grudges, and the children were innocent bystanders. Besides, she truly enjoyed being with them and believed Sariah would be pleased that she had moved beyond her resentment and anger.

“Well, Buck,” she said, looking down at the dog.

He looked up at her and whimpered.

“I’m like one of Sariah’s roses, aren’t I?” The old dog didn’t respond, but Carrie knew her friend had planted her in the desert to bloom, and bloom she had.