I amble up the ridge, eyes peeled for a wary coyote cutting across the slope; a jackrabbit that has leapt out of a folk tale; a roadrunner, spiked crown on its head, which appears to have flown off the page of a paleontology textbook. Meanwhile, my ears pick up the rasp of a cactus wren in the underbrush, the warble of a meadowlark in the open field, the scream of a red-tailed hawk high overhead. I rarely see another hiker. It is just as well, for I appreciate what is not here: buildings, traffic, other human beings. This is a place to be alone. 

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It was on such a walk through the preserve years ago that I noticed something not quite right with my wife Hiroko. A natural athlete and a regular at the local fitness club, she could keep pace with those half her age despite her smoking habit. I rarely accompanied her to the gym but happily joined her on walks. Hiroko would lead the way, her stride steady and long. On that late-autumn day, however, a few months before being diagnosed with liver cancer, she lacked her usual spring. She was getting old, I joked, prodding her from behind and reminding her of the times she’d pushed me up the hill when I was weak from ulcerative colitis and later surgery to remove my colon. I recalled the shorter walks we’d taken before I could venture as far as the preserve, and the improbable patience she demonstrated when guiding me, step by feeble step. 

Hiroko scoffed at my prodding but moved no faster. 

I thought no more of it at the time, yet the memory haunts me. Had I taken her fatigue to heart and sent her to the doctor, might we not have discovered a problem early on? One that could be fixed? Would greater vigilance have allowed us to treat her liver, that notoriously silent organ, before it began shutting down? 

Probably not. She’d had a physical around that time and nothing seemed amiss. Irregularities in the liver are detected with more specialized tests, and none were indicated. When she finally underwent them, a chorus of doctors would chant as one, to a patient who’d been given a clean bill of health only months before: “Nothing can be done!” 

*****

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Regardless of my route going out, I invariably stop on my return at a shrub-covered island on the street above mine that fronts a clump of houses. There, beneath a cover of Indian hawthorn, I place a spray of Lantana, a cluster of Bougainvillea, some bush daisies, or whatever else I might have plucked from hedges along the way. This, my roadside shrine, is the spot where Hiroko stood her ground during a stroll three weeks before she died.

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It was Thanksgiving Day. Hiroko’s parents had flown in from Japan and were helping me care for their daughter, who still enjoyed the occasional outing but relied on a wheelchair. Light and compact, it enabled her to visit friends, shops, and the beach as well as the hospital or clinic. Its maneuverability made it a hit with family members, who took turns pushing its cargo. Hiroko, on the go her entire life, was usually eager for a ride. The only drawback was nausea, at times brought on by the slightest motion. 

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We four set out after breakfast. Hiroko’s father piloted the wheelchair. Hiroko donned her wardrobe for outings: pajamas and robe covered by a raincoat that concealed her appliances and kept her warm. A wide-brimmed hat hid her gaunt features and thinning hair. 

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We’d gotten no farther than the island when Hiroko, retching, signaled her father, who brought the wheelchair to a stop. Hiroko’s breakfast dribbled from her lap down to the pavement. I stroked her back repeatedly.  

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She refused to retreat. I raced home and returned with bottled water, tissues, and plastic bags. We swept the vomit onto the soil beneath the hawthorn. We patted her face, wiped her robe and wheelchair, and washed residue from the curb with the remaining water, saving just enough to rinse our hands. We then pressed on to our destination: a grassy knoll overlooking the newest housing phase going in. 

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It is here that I pause, mindful not to attract the attention of passing cars or passersby, and lay flowers beneath the foliage. When accompanied by the occasional visitor, I merely nod in its direction. When with someone I know well, I might, after a brief word, make a quick bow. I usually am alone. Crouching down, one knee on the curb, I arrange the flowers into a small bouquet that goes unnoticed at any distance. I don’t want to tell the world. I’m doing this for me. 

*****

When Hiroko could still walk unaided, our favored destination was the community garden, not two minutes away on foot from the house, and the ridge beyond it. Situated on a narrow rectangle eighty yards long from front to back, the garden is home to dozens of plants from near and far: sweet alyssum, lavender, and rock rose from the Old World; native California laurel and lemonade berry; agave and Matilija poppies from south of the border; plumbago, protea, and kangaroo paws from south of the equator. The grounds are graced by artemisia and other plants redolent of sage; and graced as well by flowering and evergreen trees: Acacia, Erythrina, and, no surprise, California live oak. 

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The Valencia orange, once synonymous with the California citrus industry, is also represented. The Irvine Company, which owns vast tracts of land in Orange County, bought interest in the fruit and once grew it on half its land. As more people migrated to the area, the fields, orchards, and pastures were ploughed under; in their place sprang up housing developments, shopping malls, office parks, and the university at which I work. 

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Trellises entwined with morning glory guard the entrance. A gnarled Wisteria protects a sturdy, pew-like bench that awaits the visitor at the garden’s midpoint. Left to grow in rank profusion until more orderly minds assumed management in recent years, the grounds, even more than now, were a riot of color, especially in June. 

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*****

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“Damn, damn this nausea!”

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One afternoon in early summer, Hiroko let out a holler that shook the house. She wanted to scream, she said, but not here, not from her bed. She’d hike to the preserve and shout from the granite outcrop, where she’d shouted with her mother before. She rose from her bed only to sink back and retch. Then she rose again.