First, I pull my arm backward, but the fissure is too narrow for me to make any progress. Pushing in the opposite direction works better, even though the space is tighter than where I am now.
It’s counter-intuitive, but the wolf within me senses it’s the way out, even if my mind resists. My opposite hand searches, feeling across the gap in the Earth; it gets narrower before it gets wider, but if I can squeeze my arm through the thinnest piece, I’ll find my way to freedom.
My mind is satisfied. This is the way out. With much squeezing and scratching, I’m able to push my arm deeper into the narrow line. The jagged edge of the fissure scrapes against my arm, but I don’t cry out, because emotion can’t exist here, in this calm, quiet, well of necessity.
I push again, focusing on what I stand to gain; it’s a birth, a new start, a chance to do everything all over again, as my new, cohesive self, part animal and part human, integrated pieces joining together to make a whole.
Just when I don’t think I can move any further, my arm pops into the wider segment and out from the fissure. I sit back, soaked, wiping rain from my face, cradling my scraped arm.
The climb across the fissures continues, carefully, as I feel my way through the rest of the maze. Fissure after fissure lands behind me: the exit must be close. I’m nearly there. Soon, the Earth is smooth, devoid of cracks, absent of flaws. I think I might have made it, but I’m afraid to stand in case I’m wrong. It’s best to wait for light. Minutes pass, and another flash of light illuminates the mountain— the labyrinth is gone, and the ground in front of me is nothing but solid rock.
I’ve reached the end of the maze. A smart mouse.
Cradling my scraped arm, I run toward hazy trees in the distance, hoping to find shelter.
A cluster of branches appears, and I crouch underneath them, shivering in my wet clothes. The trees grow close enough together to offer decent protection from the rain. A new home for the mouse. After wringing out my wet jacket, I create a makeshift umbrella by hanging it between two boughs. Then, Mike’s windbreaker wraps around my shoulders, fitting loose and warm like the day I tried it on in that store.
A deep craving for warmth makes me consider lighting a fire, but the sticks around me are too wet. There’s no choice but to wait out the rain, trusting that the Great Everything will lead me onward when the time is right. She’s saved my life twice now— she must have plans for me.
A disjointed bible verse plays in my head, but I can’t get the words quite right, or remember who said it. It doesn’t matter though, because the feeling is the same, and I know what the Great Everything is trying to tell me.
You matter.
There’s a puddle next to me, and for a second I think I see Brock’s face in it. I whip around, expecting to find him standing right behind me, but there’s no one there— just a vast expanse of forest. The figure in the puddle was my own reflection, gaunt and hungry, a woman on a mission.
The phone.
I pull it from the pocket of Mike’s windbreaker. It’s a little wet from the rain, but Mike has one of those military-style, unbreakable phone cases from the commercials geared toward men. “Run it over with a truck! Flush it down the toilet! Light it on fire! The phone you’re going to replace in a year anyway will be just fine.”
Holding down a button on the side makes an Apple logo appear. I’m an android user who refuses to convert to an iPhone, if only because it’s what everyone else has. Mike, in contrast, has never had a problem liking what everyone else likes.
Mike’s lock-screen is a picture of two cups of coffee, both with impressive foam art on top. The day he took it, we’d stopped at a café in Silverlake— one of many. You can’t walk a block in Silverlake without finding yet another funky coffee shop, usually featuring books on the walls, or light fixtures made from broken beer bottles. This particular cafe set itself apart with succulents; cacti of every kind dripping from the ceiling, in the center of each table, perched on the cash register. The barista who made our coffees was monastic in his focus, painting matching foam swans on both coffees like he was working on the Sistine Chapel.
“Do you care that we’re going to destroy these?” I asked him, pointing to the intricate loops of white on top of my drink.
“That’s the best part about it,” the Barista answered, stroking his goatee, “Just because something’s temporary, doesn’t mean it wasn’t important. It made you smile, right?”
I nodded. It did.
“You guys make a cute couple,” the Barista added, taking for granted that Mike and I were together. I was about to correct him, to tell him we hadn’t had the big “talk” yet and that we were just dating, but Mike jumped in before I had the chance.
“Thanks,” he said, “She’s the better-looking half.”
It was so simple for Mike to define us that way; with no anxiety, no fear. Mike entered our relationship naturally and with ease, as if he’d never been hurt before.
At least, that’s how I saw it at the time. The picture of our matching cups of coffee— so preciously saved, so intentionally taken— hints at a need for reassurance, a cataloging of moments. “They both had swans on their coffee,” the photo seems to say, “… so they belong together. They’re the same.” Maybe Mike feels the gap between us sometimes, too.
I type in Mike’s code and his phone unlocks.
My breath catches in my throat. There’s a blinking icon in the upper left-hand corner where the signal strength usually is. Mike has a different carrier than me, and maybe— just, maybe— their satellites can find me at this higher altitude. Cassandra is probably too strategic not to have thought about the potential for a signal, but still, it’s worth a try.
The screen blinks. Two words appear:
No signal.
The revelation makes my heart sink, but there’s no time to indulge disappointment: I need to find the next clue.
Where would Cassandra hide it?
I debate between opening notes or text messages first, then settle on starting with text messages. Cassandra would want my discovery of the clue to feel personal, and might have typed it as a draft in her conversation with Mike.
A tap on the blue speech bubble and Mike’s text messages open. Cassandra is the most recent person to have written him. Their conversation fills the screen. Mike has put two bright, red “X” emojis at the start and end of Cassandra’s name, as if to say “proceed with caution.”
My breath hangs in the air, frozen and heavy. Rain pounds against my makeshift umbrella, and a buzzing noise fills my ears.
This can’t be right.
My makeshift umbrella-jacket sinks a little, causing rain to drizzle over the side. I don’t move to fix it, though, because I’m too busy staring at the screen.
I don’t know who kidnapped Mike.
But it isn’t Cassandra.
15
WEDNESDAY, November 5th
5:45pm
Xx CASSANDRA xx: Hey jellybean. How are you?
THURSDAY, November 6th
10:13am
Xx CASSANDRA xx: Sorry to bug you. Had the craziest dream last night & it made me think of u.
7:28pm
Xx CASSANDRAxx: Drove by your place on the way home from work. Did you see me?
Xx CASSANDRAxx: No car outside but the lights are on. Zoe must be home. I bet she misses you when you’re gone.
XXCASSANDRAxx: I know I always did. : )
THURSDAY, November 7th
12:30a.m.
XXCASSANDRAxx: Did you tell Zoe about me?
XXCASSANDRAxx: Did you tell her what happened?
2:32am
MIKE: Cass— Next time you drive by our place I’m calling the cops. I don’t want to, but I will.
XXCASSANDRAxx: I like the flowers you planted.
2:45am
XXCASSANDRAxx: That’s it?
XXCASSANDRAxx: Are you there?
4:23am
XXCASSANDRAxx: Do you ever wonder if we would still be together? If thin
gs hadn’t gone the way they did that day?
6:55am
XXCASSANDRAxx: Fine. Don’t answer me.
XXCASSANDRAxx: Remember when I said it
wasn’t your fault?
XXCASSANDRAxx: It WAS your fault, Mike.
XXCASSANDRAxx: Everything.
XXCASSANDRAxx: You ruined my life.
11:08pm
XXCASSANDRAxx: I’m sorry.
XXCASSANDRAxx: I didn’t mean it.
XXCASSANDRAxx: Please answer me.
FRIDAY, November 8th
9:30pm
XXCASSANDRAxx: Drove by your house twice today. Couldn’t tell if you were home.
11:05pm
XXCASSANDRAxx: Parked outside across the street.
XXCASSANDRAxx: Mike?
12:53pm
XXCASSANDRAxx: Still here.
XXCASSANDRAxx: Where are you guys?
SATURDAY, November 9th
1:02 am
XXCASSANDRAxx: Fell asleep in my car.
XXCASSANDRAxx: I’ll stay the night
XXCASSANDRAxx: I miss you.
3 a.m.
XXCASSANDRAxx: Could you look out the window, please? So I know you see me.
3:23am
XXCASSANDRAxx: Do you see me?
4:30am
XXCASSANDRAxx: Do you see me?
5:38am
XXCASSANDRAxx: Do you?
***
Air enters my lungs, but the oxygen isn’t getting to my brain. It congeals in my throat, making the forest spin and my fingers tingle. My makeshift umbrella-jacket is completely overflowing now, but I’m only vaguely aware of the water streaming down my face.
It couldn’t have been her.
Forgetting where I am, I move to stand and head into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea — my habit in anxious times, although I never really drink the tea. It’s more about the process of making it. But there is no kitchen, no tea, no honey, no milk. Just dark trees, dripping branches, and a bitter taste on my tongue that I can’t wash away.
Everything is upside down.
I turn my umbrella-jacket over to empty out the water that’s collected, then crawl back underneath it and pick up Mike’s phone, scrolling through the messages a second time, looking for anything I might have missed. Some pivotal piece of information that will turn my world right-side up again. Nothing new appears. The facts stay the same, confirming what I always knew deep in my gut.
Cassandra didn’t do it.
She was outside our house at 3 a.m. on Saturday morning. Our first night in Yosemite— the night someone pinned a photo to our tent with the word “DEAD” scrawled across its surface— was Friday evening.
While Mike and I were trying to convince Brock to search the forest for Cassandra, she was sleeping in her car, outside our house in Silverlake— a seven-hour drive from the valley.
It couldn’t have been her.
But I want it to be her, because Cassandra is a known entity; one I’ve always felt strangely comfortable with. The notes she leaves in the mailbox, the perfume she sprays on their envelopes— all of it’s familiar, from a friend. If she’s not the one doing this to us, then this is the work of some darker, chaotic, random evil, some wickedness I can’t understand, can’t decode.
I need it to be her.
My brain runs wild, trying to close the gap between what I want to believe and what’s true. It’s cognitive dissonance, and it allows us to believe things that aren’t real, but I don’t care— right now, it’s a survival technique. The pieces are in front of me, and if I can solve the puzzle, I’ll explain how Cassandra might have achieved the impossible and been in two places at once.
Maybe she’s working with someone.
It’s a theory that might answer some logistical problems, but it’s not realistic. Even though I’ve never met her, I feel like I know Cassandra. I imagine her quirks, the way she might wring her hands while she talks, the loose, sad way her hair hangs by her face. Cassandra would never reach out to a stranger and trust them with a task that involves Mike. She loves him too much, and she would consider the risk involved. If it went South, she would never forgive herself. Not to mention that hiring a professional killer requires a job, and money— two things Cassandra can’t seem to hold onto.
Leaves crunch under my boots. Without realizing it, I’ve stood up to pace. I’m out in the rain again and my injured leg feels like it’s on fire, but I ignore it, because right now I need to move, need to think, need to breathe.
Maybe she wasn’t really outside our house.
A scroll to the last test message reveals a selfie, taken by Cassandra, her close-mouthed smile highlighted by the jaunty tilt of her head. It’s not a sexy selfie— there’s no attempt at duck-lips, no blouse opened to reveal just the right amount of cleavage. It’s the kind of picture you’d send to a friend to let her know you’re outside, waiting to pick her up. Harmless, hardly the work of a cold-blooded killer. She’s behind the wheel of her car, and the house behind her by is marked by ugly, canary-yellow paint on the front door. It’s our neighbor, Mr. Henderson’s house, and if he knew Cassandra was parked there, he’d be furious. Mr. Henderson is the self-appointed watchdog of all street parking in our neighborhood. The color of his door stands out in my mind, if only because it matches the sickly, jaundiced tinge to the whites of his eyes.
The picture’s not staged: she’s definitely outside our house.
She could have taken the picture before she got here, and waited to send it as an alibi.
A more in-depth scroll of their text conversation reveals Cassandra’s love of selfies.
Normally excessive selfies would make me dislike a person, but Cassandra’s are so well-intentioned it’s hard to hold it against her.
Picture after picture appears; Cassandra eating lunch, holding a glass of wine with the caption, “my new favorite red!”
Cassandra outside the window of a pet store, pointing to a puppy with her free hand, wearing a look on her face that seems to say, “Remember?,” which makes me wonder if they ever owned a dog together.
Cassandra curled up by a fireplace in flannel pajamas, reading a book, her hands up in a shrug that suggests she’s not sure if she likes it yet. None of the pictures were taken out of vanity, but from some desire to share her life with a person. Her desperation to be noticed is so tangible that it burns through the phone, jagged and smokey, a blaze of desire.
The picture from Friday night isn’t an excuse, or an alibi. It’s right in line with Cassandra’s typical modus operandi. It would be more suspicious if she hadn’t sent a selfie.
Not to mention, if she’d waited until she reached the valley, the picture might not have gone through at all. My reception disappeared the moment we got into backcountry, just as Brock said it would. Mike faired a little better, but he still lost all service by Saturday morning, when he couldn’t look up the weather.
“Look at the sky, there’s your weather!” Brock had said to him, rolling his eyes as if he was one more city-boy away from quitting his job entirely and moving off the grid, presumably to a cabin where he’d grow his own food, compost his waste into fertilizer, and never have to speak to another person again. It’s jarring to think that Brock isn’t alive anymore, and I imagine that he’s still out there somewhere, wandering through the forest and muttering about useless city-folk.
The time on the selfie reads: 3:08 a.m., Saturday morning. My phone had already stopped working at that point. Obviously Mike still had service, because he was able to get the messages, but there’s no guarantee Cassandra’s phone would have been so operational out here in the forest.
Mike still had service.
Something about that last point strikes me as sticky and warm, like taffy in the sun. What if Mike sent himself the messages, from a second number?
Ken’s words echo in my ears, but I can’t allow myself to indulge them.
Mike would never do this to me. It can’t be him.
I’m feveris
h again, but this time, there’s no flush to my skin. The rising heat is simply a sign that the spider has returned to knit cobwebs over boxes and scrapbooks— the things in my brain I don’t open.
I look at the selfie one more time— noting the hope in her face, the openness in her eyes— and suddenly I feel guilty for blaming her for all of this. My initial instinct was right: Cassandra is harmless. I re-read her messages, going back to the section I didn’t understand.
XXCASSANDRAxx: It was your fault.
XXCASSANDRAxx: You ruined my life.
What was his fault?
My legs curl up underneath me as I pull Mike’s windbreaker tighter around my shoulders, wondering if my journey across the wilderness has been a quest for a liar. The cold makes me shake, and even though it kills me to do it, I pile leaves over my body to try and insulate myself, thinking of Brock’s corpse the entire time.
My body grows heavy. Sleep calls, but I don’t answer because my heart is beating too hard, making me wish I didn’t have one. Then I’m thinking about the cowardly lion, and I picture myself as a strange kind of Dorothy, talking to the wicked witch of the west, who tells me I have it all wrong— she’s been good this whole time. Her face is Cassandra’s face, and she’s holding my hands. She tells me not to go see the wizard, because he turned her skin green, and he’ll do the same thing to me, if I let him. She says people can survive almost any yellow-brick-road, no matter how arduous or painful, if they know why they’re doing it, if they know what reward is waiting for them when they get to Oz.
Animals We Are Page 13
