Animals We Are

by Valerie Brandy

  It was the first time he’d used the word “love.”

  If I let it, my fear of the monster within others will ruin the best relationship I’ve ever had, leaving me alone at night with nothing but “what-ifs.” My ogre will chip our partnership into tiny pieces until there’s nothing left but jagged edges and thin cuts on the tips of my fingers from trying to hold a broken thing together.

  “We’re finishing the trip,” I say, quiet and certain.

  “What?!” Mike comes crashing back to Earth, as if my words are a kind of gravity too strong to evade.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I take his hand in mine and pull him to his feet. “We’re on a vacation,” I smile at Mike, and he smiles back. Nothing else needs to be said. We make our way toward camp, a bored Brock plodding and whinnying behind us, presumably polishing his “Most Useless Ranger of the Year" award.

  Well, maybe not that useless.

  “Survival instinct.” Brock was right about that. But Cassandra’s not the only one who has it.

  6

  Saturday

  We burrow deeper into the Forest as our party rides to the next camp site, and I’m starting to understand her like a sister. Her rage, when the wind blows and the trees shudder. Her warmth, when we step off our horses and the soft, padded moss gives way beneath my boots, as if she’s making room for me. Weary bees seeking flowers, slimy fish slipping through liquid air, wayward branches dodged by humming birds— the forest has found a space for all these things within her, simply because she loves them. I’m beginning to feel she loves me, too.

  It’s a simple act of caring— the act of making room— and women do it all the time. We rearrange our lives and our bodies to create space for someone else. We open the door, invite another in, and change the furniture around, trying to Feng-shui our way into wholeness that’s really just shrinking. We make the space, somehow, even when it means becoming smaller ourselves.

  I wonder how much room I’m willing to make for Mike. I think about Cassandra and what she rearranged for him, only to be left with a disordered room, couches stacked on top of chairs, pots stored in the dresser, everything so topsy-turvey that she never managed to sort it all out.

  It takes bravery and selflessness to rearrange your life for another person. Religions tout selflessness as the highest form of spiritual beauty, but too often leave women out of the architecture of their houses. If they’d only let us in, we’d make room for the neighbors, and the children, and every kind of person.

  Women are excellent at finding ways to make room. We’re remarkably good at it, but the task is viewed as incidental, expected— an every-day errand. It’s hard to say why, except that it has something to do with the thing Cassandra and I both understand; that feeling of needing to be seen as you are— whole— when everyone else perceives some kind of lack in you. To be seen as incomplete when you know you are whole makes recognition of sacrifice impossible.

  It makes me want to never attach myself to another person as a form of quiet protest. “Here she lies,” my tombstone will read. “The girl who didn’t need anyone.”

  Our caravan weaves down a steep, rocky trail, and I cling to Molly’s back, holding tight to the saddle. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe the rearranging won’t be one-sided. My couch, Mike’s coffee-table, the towels in the refrigerator and the sweatshirts on the roof. The home we make together will be whimsical, an Alice-in-Wonderland hodge-podge of his things and my things, co-existing in fanciful arrangements. We’ll make room for each other in equal measure and, if we can’t find balance, Mike’s pretty good with his hands. Maybe he’ll build us new furniture. Time will fill the holes, and one day I’ll realize that I’m complete all on my own— that I always was. I’ll know I chose Mike out of love, not fear of lack, and suddenly I won’t feel the need to be seen anymore, because I’ve finally decided that my eyes and God’s eyes are the only ones that matter.

  The blank spaces in Mike’s story push against the fabric of the future I’ve woven, but I ignore them, meditating on fullness, refocusing on the trail.

  A fly lands on Molly’s neck and she shudders, clearly bothered by an itch she can’t scratch. But she doesn’t buck, she doesn’t kick. Instead, she sticks to the trail, more concerned with getting us to our destination than with her own comfort.

  I scratch her neck. She notices.

  ***

  It’s midday when we reach the waterfall, and Brock makes a point of gesturing across the mountain range, indicating a pattern of low-hanging clouds off in the distance.

  “Might get some rain tomorrow,” he says, but I don’t believe him. The afternoon sun beats down with such purpose, it’s as if he’s heard our conversation and lit himself on fire to make a point. The clouds are miles away; the sun is here to stay.

  We hitch our horses to an old tree, then gather at the base of the falls, watching gallons of water tumble over a sheer cliff face just to land abruptly at our feet. Droplets splash into my eyes, and Mike laughs as he puts a hand in front of my face as a makeshift splashguard.

  “This waterfall isn’t as popular as Vernal or Yosemite falls,” Brock motions at the cliff, shouting to be heard over the rushing water. “Too far off the beaten path. Makes it a bit of a ranger secret.”

  He points to a trail that winds around a steep incline to the West. “We’ll make our way up there tomorrow. Have to go ‘round the base of the mountain and approach from the other side because of the horses. But you’ll get to see the falls from two perspectives.”

  Sue Hardinger raises a hand, and I notice her other arm is wrapped tightly around Ken’s. “How far does the water fall?”

  “About 1,200 feet from here to the top,” Brock answers.

  “Will there be any other tour groups on our way up?” Logan asks, his voice tinged with a sharp edge I can’t quite place. I wonder if he’s lonely. Maybe he came on this trip solo in the hopes of meeting some outdoorsy, sun-kissed sorority girls. If that’s the case, he picked the wrong caravan; all he got was the retired married couple, Mike and I, and Brock, who doesn’t appear to be Logan’s type.

  Brock shakes his head. “Not likely. Like I said, this isn’t one of the more popular stops, although I like to think it’s the prettiest. We don’t give out many permits for the backcountry in the winter— weather’s too unpredictable. This gang is a lucky crowd.”

  Logan nods, his face impossible to read.

  Something moves behind me, and I spin around, preparing myself to find Cassandra, wielding a knife, ready to make good on her promise: “DEAD.”

  Instead, I discover an unexpected assailant. He’s about two feet tall, covered in fur, and looks like a cross between a squirrel and a capybara. His paws are up— the cutest boxer the world has ever seen.

  “What is he?!” Mike shouts over the water. The look in his eyes says he’s completely enamored.

  “That’s a marmot,” Brock answers. “They’re rodents, mostly live in colonies. That one’s probably the look out, but they’re usually more afraid of hawks and snakes than humans. They’re curious little guys. Won’t leave you alone if you feed ‘em…”

  Mike’s already rifling through my bag, looking for the other half of a granola bar I ate earlier.

  Brock clears his throat, “… so don’t feed them. Encourages aggression. And we can’t have him following us all the way up to half-dome.”

  Although he tries to hide it, Mike’s disappointment is palpable. Brock points to the Northwest, indicating the direction we’ll make camp. The group gets back to the trail, leading their horses toward the space that will soon become our hotel.

  I wait until Brock’s back is turned, then quietly pass Mike the other half of my granola bar, which I’ve managed to remove from my pack without being spotted.

  Mike’s face lights up, and he breaks the bar into pieces, tossing bite-sized bits to his new friend.

  “We should name him,” Mike says. “What are your thoughts on ‘Harold’?”
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  I shake my head. “We can’t keep him,” I answer, but I can already tell Harold is memorizing our faces. When the bar is finished we follow the others down the trail, and I swear Harold watches us leave, as if making a mental note of where his new best friends live.

  ***

  Night falls, and she doesn’t pick herself back up. She lands hard, blanketing us in stars, bringing with her a circular, enveloping feeling of forever; as if it’s always been dark, here, and always will be.

  Brock builds us a fire and our party gathers around it, six moths seeking light in a heavy, silent night. Embers crackle, the rough scent of smoke burning my eyes when I lean in too far, greedy for warmth. Logan circles the group, handing everyone hot chocolate in metal mugs, made from filtered creek water and a powdered mix. We talk for awhile, chattering about nothing in-between sips, but then the silence surfaces again, and Brock breaks out a guitar, strumming the strings with fingers blistered in all the right places. The melody— one I don’t recognize— vibrates across the forest, changing its form as it bumps into trees, clanging into the sky, ricocheting between the stars like a silver orb in a pinball machine.

  Without prompting, Sue Hardinger stands, flinging her arms out wide and rising in a sweeping circle, her hips swaying, hair down. She’s ageless this way, her silver locks reflecting the moonlight, careless as she owns herself, completely at peace with who she is in this exact moment. It’s a side of her I haven’t seen yet; a piece I like. We all watch her for a minute, letting her make her own magic until she trips in the darkness, breaking the spell. She laughs as she hits the ground, catching herself like she meant to do it. Mike and Ken jump up at the same time, both of them helping her to her feet. Now, all three of them are dancing together, swaying under the moonlight like drunk hippies at a solstice celebration. Mike motions at me to join, but I shake my head— dancing in public isn’t for me.

  Logan refills his hot chocolate before taking the empty spot next to me, swirling his mug around to disperse the steam.

  “Pretty night, isn’t it?” he asks, and I nod, because it is. “You don’t want to dance?”

  “I’m not a much of a dancer,” I tell him.

  “Me either,” he pauses, watching the way Ken, Sue, and Mike spiral around each other like the steam from his mug, free, unencumbered, weightless in the night. “Maybe if I could see myself. If there were a mirror or something.”

  “That would make it worse,” I say, sure that it would.

  “At least then I would know if I were bad at it. I could try and adjust, make myself look more normal.”

  “Mmm,” I agree, my stomach turning. Something about the idea of trying to look normal hits too close to home. “What brought you out here?” I ask him, changing the topic.

  “Rejection,” Logan says without missing a beat. “And commitment. Once I’m on a course, I have to stay it.”

  So I was right. He wasn’t planning on taking this trip alone.

  “It takes awhile,” I say, careful with my phrasing— we’re close enough in age that it requires effort to avoid sounding preachy. “It takes time to get to know someone, to see if things are going to work out.”

  “Do you think you ever really know someone?” Logan asks, and the question is so jarring that it makes me look away from the moon circle, straight into Logan’s eyes. I don’t find anything there, except maybe someone trying to solve a puzzle that’s missing a piece. The sudden urge to find it burns in my chest, and I want to turn over sofa cushions, check the closet the box was kept in, just to show Logan that holes can be filled.

  I’ve taken too long to respond, so Logan answers his own question. “I don’t,” he says. “Not really. At the end of the day, no one really has anyone.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my heart beating a little faster, wondering if maybe Logan is an unknowing carrier pigeon, sent to me by the Universe to confirm my fears, the dark things that I keep stored in boxes in my brain.

  “Human beings always put themselves first. It’s just in our nature,” he says it like it’s as obvious as blue skies and orange sunsets.

  I don’t answer him, but turn instead back to the dance circle, watching Ken wrap his arms around Sue, swaying with her. Mike’s left the party, and it takes me a moment to spot him. He’s off to the side, standing in a clearing between the trees, looking up at the moon like he’s trying to remember it. The look on his face says it’s something special, something rare, like it’s the only moon he’ll ever see. I’ve only seen him make that expression once before, and it was on the day we met, when he said he brought some furniture and asked me where the hotel manager was, and I told him it was me.

  Long after the fire burns down, Mike and I lay in our tent, which we’ve purposefully placed on the edge of the camp for privacy. We make love, and it’s different than anytime before, although it’s hard to pinpoint how.

  Maybe it’s the vastness of the forest, or the depth of the night, or Cassandra’s note, but the world feels more unstable all of a sudden, like its axis has changed, and now North is South and South is North.

  Mike’s lips on mine, soft and careful, become avatars for one version of Mike; the one that absolutely must feed the marmot, the one who loves kids and goes to Comi-Con, the one with a smile that conveys a belief in the best of the world.

  But when his hands pin mine above my head and I feel the power in his arms, I’m reminded of another side of Mike. I don’t fault him for it, because it’s a side we all have; the piece of ourselves that thirsts and wants, the instinctive voice that whispers nothing if not, “to have.”

  Mike gently pulls my hair, and we switch positions. I move on top of him, trying to unfold the mysteries of another person through the veil of my own darkness, my own “to haves.”

  His fingers trace a pattern up and down my back. Mike’s always touched me like I’m something precious, something rare, something like that moon. Sometimes when he looks at me he’s a little wide-eyed, like he can’t believe he’s found me, and he’s afraid I might disappear at any moment, might not show up again, night after night, reliable and waiting.

  I was so close to taking my walls down. I had already decided to unwrap the barbed wire, letting it cut into my fingers— bloody and torn— because I’d finally found someone who was worth the trouble. But now, questions flood the ramparts of my decision, making me step back. That idea of wanting to be seen— that longing— aches in my bones, but now it’s carried by its inverse, the reflection of the question.

  Do I really see him?

  I remember the way Mike crushed that flower under his boot, like it was nothing.

  Have I chosen the same man in a different form? Why didn’t Mike get a restraining order against Cassandra? I want to take our relationship apart and build it back up, stacking the pieces in a better arrangement. The worries fall like raindrops. But then I put a hand on Mike’s chest, and for a moment I feel his heartbeat. I remember the fear in his eyes when I asked, “Why now?,” the depth of his joy by the waterfall, him pulling me back into the car on the drive up, the way he looked at that moon— all of it the work of a human, not a monster. I wish I could break him open, to pull thoughts from his ribs like harmless pieces of thread.

  Why are you lying to me?

  We roll over and now Mike is on top. I hold onto him, my fingers digging into his back as if letting go will cause him to crumble, the dust of who he used to be floating into the endless night sky.

  Mike tilts my chin up and looks into my eyes, brazen and unapologetic.

  A relationship is a question, asked over and over across a lifetime:

  Will the animal in you, bite the animal in me?

  7

  The flashlight I’m carrying almost slips out of my hand. I’m sweating, even in the cold. I’ve left a sleeping Mike alone in the tent, and now I’m making my way through the woods, flashlight in one hand, trowel in the other, searching for a spot to go to the bathroom. No one ever said camping was glamorous.


  I should’ve woken Mike up. It’s wise to ask for company when there’s a stalker following you through the forest. But I still feel some strange, unexplainable connection with Cassandra that makes me think she’d never hurt me. Besides, it’s easier to do what’s comfortable than what’s smart.

  In any event, Cassandra must have turned back by now. One person can’t carry enough supplies to make it all the way up the mountain. It’s not safe, for a lone traveller to tread so deeply into the wild. We’re too far away from a cell phone tower to get reliable service, and even an idiot would think twice before continuing the trek on his own. I’m confident she’s turned around by now and, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s not Cassandra that frightens me anymore. Instead, it’s the blank spaces in Mike’s story, the question marks where there should be periods.

  I find a spot close enough to camp that I can shine my flashlight between two trees and see the edges of our tents. Brock would probably tell me that’s not nearly far enough away to be sanitary, but if I’m very wrong and Cassandra is capable of extreme violence, it’s not Brock who’s coming to my rescue if she tries to make me into a skin-suit. He’d probably see it as a learning opportunity and teach her how to fashion pine needles into thread.

  A surly wind bellows through the trees, making my hair flip into my eyes, causing a cascade of leaves to fall at my feet. I zip up my jacket and hurry to find a spot.

  When my business is done I bury it in a hole, patting the soil down with my trowel: evidence destroyed. I’m about to make my way back toward camp when I hear something that makes me pause.

  It’s a static, overwhelming sound, constant and throbbing. It takes me a moment to place it, but then I realize it’s a sound I heard earlier today; the clatter of thousands of gallons of water rushing over the waterfall, crashing into the lake at the foot of the trail.