Placing the fibers underneath the pyre, I reach for my fire starter.
Images of Mike’s face emerge in the dark— the way he always looks at me like he’s a little surprised, the scar over his right eyebrow, the side of his face that gets more freckles than the other side (a mystery we haven’t had the chance to solve).
One.
I strike, but no spark appears. My hands shake, signaling that I don’t have much left in me. My legs used the last of their strength to climb the tree. If I can’t light this fire, I’ll fall asleep and become one with the forest. My body will be found later, frozen, fingerless, eaten by the snow.
Fingers. Hands. Suddenly I remember Mike’s hands, intertwined with mine, on a night months ago when I almost got fired from my job. A guest told the hotel’s owner I wasn’t “friendly” enough, prompting him to invite comments from the rest of the staff on areas in which I could improve. We spent an hour as a group, workshopping ways to provide “warmer customer service,” or more specifically, “ways to make Zoe less of a bitch.” No tears were spilled until I got home. Mike held my hand until I fell asleep.
Two.
I strike again. A spark appears this time, but the kindling doesn’t catch. Now my whole body is shaking, and I have to promise myself that I won’t give up, no matter how tired I am. If I die and some future hiker stumbles upon my remains, my skeleton will be found holding the fire starter, its arms bent in the middle of trying to strike again. Quitting is not an option. If I’m going to die, I’ll die trying.
I crouch over the pyre, hoping a change in angle will shield the spark from the wind. The position reminds me of a morning I spent hunched over the toilet, hungover and vomiting after too many mai-tais while celebrating a friend’s birthday. Mike held back my hair. I told him not to come in. “I’m fine,” was the reason I gave, but really— I was afraid to let him see me that way. We’d only been dating a few months, and this moment would ruin the illusion, the smokescreen of perfection I’d created. Mike needed to see me as a photoshopped instagram model, not a real person. I slammed the door in his face. He came in anyway.
I strike again.
Three.
Swoosh! The fire starter makes a spark, which leaps to the kindling. It glows red. Air grates against my chapped lips as I blow on it, fanning gently in the hopes it will grow. It flickers as if it might fade, but then it doubles in size. My hands poke at the kindling— not caring if the flames lick my mittens— prompting it toward the twigs. The fire leaps onto the pyre. Blue-orange flames spread from twig to twig. In just an instant, the whole thing is ablaze, and for the first time in a long time, I remember what “warm” is. I lean back, letting the edges of the fire kiss my neck.
Mike’s face swims inside the orange pyre, conjuring memories— the way we met, the feeling of entering unknown territory, guessing at who he might be and what we might become, together.
Lighting a fire is like starting a relationship— hazardous, marked by the feeling that you’re only one error away from total failure. But every now and then, a spark ignites, and it makes you remember why you agreed to take on the whole terrible process in the first place.
18
Thursday
The moment is big, and I am small.
Half-dome towers above me, casting a shadow over the world, stable and imposing. Its scope makes me too aware of the space I take up. Tracing my outline doesn’t help— it’s impossible to calculate how much room the universe intended me to have. Whatever space I’ve carved out for myself, it’s too much: half-dome needs it.
A smattering of thin trees skirts the base of the beast. Their branches are skinny, devoid of leaves, almost as if they’ve tried to make themselves smaller so as not to impose. They live in the shadow of the mountain, and it’s hard not to wonder what they could’ve been, if they’d taken root somewhere else.
It makes me want to look at my own roots— to make sure nothing’s impeding my growth— but there’s no time. My ascent begins.
The trailhead to the cable walk is marked by a tilted wooden sign. It’s easy to miss in the snow, but dusting it off reveals an arrow pointing me in the right direction, toward “Mist Trail.” I’ve officially left the backcountry, and I can’t help but hope I’ll run into another park visitor— someone brave enough to face the cables in the snow. It’s unlikely, given the weather, but it makes me smile to think about an accidental run-in with another tourist. What would I say?
Hi. My boyfriend has been kidnapped by a murderer! I’m on my way to save him right now. When you get a chance, could you please let the rangers know we’re up here? Also, a cheeseburger would be great!
Then again, there’s always the possibility than any stranger I run into is no stranger at all, but my enemy. Without any idea as to who did this to us, I’m in a vulnerable position.
Shoots of determined grass push through the slush, fading as I climb higher. I stop and check Mike’s phone for a signal every few minutes, but none appears. Something wet lands on my cheek, and all at once it’s snowing again. This time, I’m not afraid. Dots of white sprinkle the world. They dust my hair, my hands, the tip of my nose. The valley quiets under the fresh powder, and so do I. It gets harder to breathe as the incline increases, but the floating specks of white comfort me. They signal that the Great Everything is still at work, and no matter what happens when I reach the cables, the world’s clock will still tick.
Hours pass, and by now my feet have grown so used to walking that they barely notice the distance. By the time I see it, I’ve almost forgotten what I’m looking for:
The cables. Their origin point looms in the distance. Taut, steel ropes snake up the mountain, curving into a tiny pinpoint before disappearing on the horizon. It’s a treacherous route; steep, made more hazardous than usual by the melting slush that coats the cables. But it’s not the danger that makes me stop in my tracks. It’s the man, standing at the start of the cable-walk, his back turned to me, hands wrapped tight around the steel ropes.
He’s looking up the mountain— away from me— his face obscured. Through white streaks of snowfall, the outline of his body is barely visible. Broad shoulders are cloaked in bulky winter-wear. His posture is easy; not a care in the world as he leans up against the poles that hold the cables in place, like he’s waiting in line at Starbucks. He’s the man who turned my world upside down, and to him, today is an ordinary day. He waits for me with his backpack hanging off one shoulder, as if he can’t be bothered to put it back in place. It’s a lime-green backpack; hideous, with silver reflectors on the front. They amplify rays of sunlight, making him noticeable even in the drifting powder.
My breath catches in my throat. I’ve seen that backpack before. And even though every fibre of my being wants to deny it, I know who this man is. Maybe I’ve always known. My voice croaks out his name, but it comes out more like a scream than a whisper.
“Mike?”
***
Something in me shatters, and the earth breaks open.
My cells divide, ripping me into a thousand pieces. My body is like the snow, and suddenly I know where snowflakes come from. They’re pieces of a woman who lived in a cloud, so high up that the man she loved couldn’t hear her scream. She tore herself apart to blanket the world in white, because it was the only way to make him sit up and pay attention. I’m standing in the middle of her beautiful, tragic remains.
So many things make sense now, and yet nothing makes sense at all. The jacket; Mike must have packed it after all, to leave as a clue. The fire; Mike disappeared because he was the one who set it. The horses; Mike insisted on the horse tour because he knew it would take us into backcountry, remote and far from help.
Mike’s footing shifts; he’s about to turn around, to look me in the eye. At eight thousand feet up, we’ve climbed to the top of the world together. Half-dome is a vacuum— a place to tell our secrets. Whispers and screams are one and the same in a place without air. Here, he will show me what kind of animal is h
e is.
His shoulders move. Another second and we’ll be standing across from each other, teeth fully exposed, darkest selves released. It’s a task other couples only toy with. They skirt around it at the dinner table, see glimpses of it in the car on the way to the movies. Sometimes a person’s animal lurks in the shadows for a lifetime, emerging only briefly because a hint is all that’s needed to keep a partner in check. Other times, the animal waits until the opportune moment to make its entrance— usually after a wedding, or a birth— a time when its partner has no means of uncomplicated escape. But no matter when it emerges, rarely is the animal revealed in its entirety. It’s always offset by the best of a person. But not now. Not here. We will show each other our most secret selves, without pretense.
He’ll want me to ask, “why?” But I won’t give him the satisfaction. Maybe it’s a game Mike likes to play with Cassandra, the woman he really loves. Maybe Ken was right, and they planned this together. Or maybe Mike just resented my inability to open up to him, and to test how much I cared, devised a twisted scavenger hunt. A hunt that— like so many others— will certainly end in death. If I have anything to say about it, it won’t be mine.
The wind shifts again and my hair wraps around my neck like a scarf. The wilderness sprawls out beneath me, and I picture my body tossed off the side of the mountain, cradled by the trees like forest debris. If Mike tries to kill me, I’ll fight to the death. I won’t let surprise make me slow, or reluctance weaken my fists. He may be stronger than me, but even if he wins, I’ll make him feel like he’s lost. Fingers will gouge, teeth will bite— he won’t walk away whole. I’ll get at least one good shot in, if only because he won’t expect my ferocity; shock tends to make opponents slow. But I am not one who wastes time asking, “Is he really going to hurt me?” Because, if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been expecting it all along. The piece of me that looks for the worst in others, is also the worst in me— but it’s about to save my life.
He’s almost fully turned around now. I can see the edge of his ear.
Next up will be the freckles we can’t explain— the ones that scatter asymmetrically.
The thought makes my heart ache, because— to do what I need to— I’ll have to let go of a future I didn’t know I was planning. One with Mike and I, in the home we’d buy together, its wood floors the exact color of maple syrup.
Our kids would be more like him and less like me, and I’d love that about them. They would trust the way he does, with wide, open arms and a sense of ease. At night, we’d all sit out on the deck, eating dinner under the summer stars, talking about how Mom and Dad met. She didn’t think love was to be believed, and he proved her wrong. We’d have too many pets, our house a tangled mess of sticky hands and dirty paws; but everything about it would be beautiful.
It’s the first time in our relationship that I’ve let myself acknowledge the depth of my feelings for Mike. He’s the one.
It’s too bad I’ll have to kill him.
Stillness. A gap in the snow. The Earth stops turning; the Great Everything is preparing to catch me, in case I fall. Planets move in retrograde, and somewhere far away, a star explodes. Meteors thousands of miles wide collide with foreign moons, and none of it matters any more than what’s here: two small people, on top of a rock, meeting each other all over again. My broken heart is only a piece of the vast cosmos, but to the Great Everything, it matters just as much as any sun, as any moon. Her eyes are large, and when the scale is infinite, even solar systems appear small. To her, I am the size of a galaxy, and just as important.
I want to stay in this moment forever— when the possibilities haven’t collapsed, and everything is both true and false at the same time. But then it happens: Mike turns around. The moment is lost.
We stand across from each other, the divide between us caked in white powder. My boots leave footprints on the snow as I close the distance. Falling snowflakes blind me, but I continue my approach. The gap between us shortens. The figure of a man comes into sharp relief, all his features visible; a smile playing at the edge of his mouth; one eyebrow that drops lower than the other; a child-like, youthful roundness to his jawline.
Air fills my lungs. Planets return to their orbits. The Great Everything nods, because yes, she knew it all along, and was only waiting for me to find my way home. Just as quickly as it shattered, my heart repairs itself. The universe is set right again, all because of one undeniable truth:
This man isn’t Mike.
My knees buckle— begging to sink into the snow— but I deny them and stay upright. Syrup pumps through my veins, sweet not just because I’ve admitted how I feel about Mike, but because I can have him. If we survive this, we can return home, together. Something sour pulls at the edges of the idea, but I bury it deep and plan to unearth it later. Now, it’s time to face my enemy.
Relief gives way to nausea. I know this man. Seven days spill across the snow; Sue making eggs, a broken arm, hot chocolate, and Tums.
“Logan.”
Logan looks off into the distance, tracing the outlines of the invisible trail behind me.
“You made good time,” he says, as if nothing has changed between us. He absent-mindedly scratches his cheek, his gloves digging into the side of his face, leaving red streaks behind.
I search for possibilities— for any explanation that negates Logan’s involvement— but then my inner wolf howls and I know he’s the one.
“That backpack is Mike’s,” I tread carefully, feeling out our strange new dynamic. Logan just nods, and doesn’t volunteer any more information. “He isn’t—” I can’t bring myself to use the word dead.
“Not yet,” Logan answers, and we leave it at that.
“You killed Brock.” The words tumble out involuntarily. My heart races, and suddenly I’m thinking of Sue, and Ken, and the way Sue looked at me on the night I left. “The Hardingers—” I start to ask about them, but Logan puts a finger to his lips and makes the shhh sound.
“We won’t talk about them. Not now,” Logan says, his eyes placid like the surface of Tenaya Lake. The corner of his lip twitches a little, but not in amusement. It’s a spasmodic motion, like his mouth is trying to run away from his face in protest to its assignment. Suddenly, I notice a million tiny quirks in Logan’s exterior. The red splotches on his neck that hint at unexpressed emotions. The whistling sound when he exhales. The constant fidgeting, his body always in motion. All of it hints at a well-hidden instability.
“How did you do it?” I ask, still trying to piece together this new version of Logan. “Mike would’ve beaten you in a second…”
Logan flushes, and suddenly the red spots on his neck congeal, coloring his throat auburn. “I made the hot chocolate that night,” his voice shakes a little, and now I know where his weakness lies. “It was simple enough to drug him. Despite what you might think, brawn isn’t everything. Sometimes brains win out. If more women realized that, they’d end up with better men.”
I don’t say anything, and the color leaves Logan’s neck— he takes my silence as agreement. He scans the horizon, thoughtful, mentally reviewing his work. “It was well-planned overall, except the last clue was too easy,” he adds, pulling at the edge of his coat, his fingers always moving, always fidgeting. “But I didn’t think you’d make it this far. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.”
“How was it supposed to end?” I whisper the question, not so much to him, but to no one in particular. My legs resist the urge to pace. The wolf within me yearns to attack, but I’m waiting until he tells me where Mike is. I can’t destroy him until I know where Mike is.
“You were supposed to give up,” Logan shrugs. “To leave him in the wilderness.”
“I would never do that,” I answer, but before the words have left my lips, Logan’s talking again.
“Wouldn’t you?”
His jawline looks different in motion, and I realize now that what I took for a youthful roundness is actually just the product of a
little extra weight. He isn’t a college-kid on spring break; he’s a grown man. He sees himself as a victim, deprived of what the world owes him. It adds a sulky affect to his features, making him appear younger than he really is. Why didn’t I look closer, when I had the chance?
“All people look out for themselves, Zoe. You know this, yet you fail to behave accordingly,” he’s pacing now, lecturing, his words tumbling out with ease, as if he’s practiced this exact monologue many times before. “You’re careful, yes. You moved in with him but put the lease in your name. That was excellent. You keep him at arms length, a guest in your life. And yet, there are moments when you look at him, and you soften,” he adds, creases appearing by his eyes. “This is a very dangerous thing. I’m here to help you, Zoe. You need a partner who understands true human nature. I’ve been watching you for some time now, and I have to say, you and I— we’re the same.”
Suddenly Logan is a mirror, and my reflection is my adversary, bouncing back the worst of me in fractal pieces.
“It’s ironic, you chose a butterfly as your picture,” he continues, rapid-fire, almost frenzied in his delivery. “That’s what I see you as. A caterpillar becoming a butterfly. You know somewhere deep inside that you can never really trust another person. They won’t understand, not the way I do.
Butterfly. The word triggers something, a memory of the final clue. “So come get Mike! At least, you’ll try. I’ll be waiting, butterfly.”
“This was your chance, Zoe. By leaving Mike to die in the wilderness, you would have finally come to terms with the basic nature of human beings: selfishness. You could have freed yourself. You and I could have tried again, as equals.”
Animals We Are Page 16
