by Zoje Stage
“Who wants gorp?” Afiya, Beck’s wife, floated in from the kitchen, her smile a white gleam against her dark skin. She clutched pint-sized resealable bags in both hands, shaking them like percussive rattles. “I’ve got the high-protein mix with assorted nuts and seeds, the fruity extravaganza mix with almond pieces, and a big quick-energy batch of M&M’s and cashews.”
“Ooh, I’ll take those.” Imogen reached for the baggies with the chocolate candies.
“You can’t have all of them,” Beck said, irritated.
“I wasn’t going to take all of them, but I don’t like the others as much.”
The three of them descended on Afiya like vultures, stripping her of the proffered food. More calmly, they took a moment to divvy up the varieties of trail mix. Afiya crossed her arms and watched them, an amused smile tugging at her lips.
“Everyone should keep at least one bag in an outer pocket, so when we take breaks it’s easy to grab.” Beck’s intensity softened as she caught Afiya’s eye. “Thanks, babe.”
“Master Gorp Mixer, at your service.” Afiya gave a dramatic bow.
Imogen grinned, relieved by Afiya’s presence. But then she started fantasizing about how much better the trip would be with Afiya along rather than Tilda, and her smile faded. Was this a mistake? Afiya wasn’t just a better human, Imogen trusted her with her life. The same couldn’t be said for Tilda.
2
Tilda and Afiya sat on the sofa performing an elaborate (or so it seemed) tea ceremony with fancy herbal bags that smelled like lemons and fresh-cut hay. Imogen stuck near Beck, sampling the M&M’s. She knew she should be doing more, but she wasn’t sure what, and she really didn’t love her sister’s approach to packing.
Imogen had always been well organized when it came to projects, and this was a large project—with no room for error. Had it been up to her she would have made lists (just as she had to get ready to travel from Pittsburgh to Flagstaff), color-coded by pack and person. And if the lists had their own lists, all the merrier. But Beck was the leader of this expedition, the resident Grand Canyon expert, and her system was to inventory everything first, then claim personal items, and then divvy out the rest by weight.
“Need help?” Cruncha-muncha-crunch.
“You could stop eating our food.” Imogen hated it when her sister chastised her, but Beck shot her a playful smirk—and handed her a fuel canister. “This can go in your side pocket.”
Instead of zipping it into one of the long pockets on either side of her forest-green pack—specially designed for the petite wearer—she tucked it under her arm and watched as Beck put the stove and pot in the main compartment of her own rust-colored Kelty pack.
“Don’t you want them together?” Imogen asked. “The stove and the fuel?”
“Too much weight.”
“Well, we could distribute the other things in your pack differently, so you can keep them together.” Beck flashed her a flinty glare, chafed by her attempt to micromanage. But it made so much more sense to keep the items together that Imogen risked a harsher rebuke and kept pressing. “I’m just thinking, what if—”
“I know what you’re thinking.” Beck cut her off. The cold look in her eye extended to her voice, but she spoke softly. “But we’re not going to get separated, so we don’t need to worry—”
“Well of course we wouldn’t intend to get separated, but you know it’s theoretically—”
“Imogen.” Beck cut a quick glance behind them to Tilda. In spite of the miles and years that moved between them, Imogen understood what her sister was trying to say: don’t scare Tilda. The set of Beck’s jaw, her unblinking eyes, made a plaintive case for not reminding their already-new-to-all-of-this friend that, if things went awry, even a hot meal might not be an option.
As teenagers they’d shared Canyon stories with Tilda, including the one where their family had gotten separated for nearly twenty-four hours. Had Tilda forgotten those stories, or had she written them off as adolescent hyperbole? Beck was in charge now, as their dad had been then, and part of her responsibility was encouraging everyone to get mentally and physically ready. If she was this concerned about scaring Tilda over how they packed, had she kept other, more serious dangers from her too?
Suddenly Imogen was certain Beck had left things out. If Tilda knew the entirety of the hazards that could befall them—and death wasn’t impossible—she might not have agreed to the trip. Or might have canceled, as Imogen had anticipated. Something electric short-circuited, sending skittering flames of anxiety through Imogen’s gut. It wouldn’t matter if Tilda was physically strong if she was mentally weak; there wasn’t an emergency exit if Tilda decided she wanted out. Had Beck done her due diligence in helping her prepare?
(Or maybe Beck had realized that Tilda was only equipped for physical training and the mental training would be a lost cause.) Snarky. Be nice.
If Imogen and Tilda had been on better terms, Imogen might have had a chance to talk to her about the things her sister wouldn’t say. But it was too late now and, unlike Imogen, Beck didn’t share a philosophy of preparing for the worst.
“Okay, I was just trying to be careful,” Imogen conceded, a bit of whine in her voice. Sometimes (often) she hated how easily she played her old familiar role, as if her life were a theatrical production and certain voices prompted preset responses. She wanted to change that, but for now she put the fuel canister in her pack.
“There are many ways to be careful, grasshopper.” Beck’s eyes sparked mischief, with the undercurrent of a challenge.
Imogen accepted the bait. “If you say so, bull’s pizzle.”
“‘Oh, plague sore! Would thou wouldst burst!’”
Beck’s British accent was terrible, but Tilda, overhearing from the couch, erupted with laughter. “Oh my God, you still call each other that?”
“Only on special occasions.” Beck gave Imogen a little wink.
“What’s that from?” Afiya asked.
“Shakespeare. They started it in high school,” Tilda explained.
“Why?” Baffled, and a touch disgusted, Afiya looked from Imogen to Beck.
“Because she was a genius,” said Beck, “the next Shakespeare.”
“Hardly,” Imogen mumbled. (It used to please her that Imogen was associated with the play Cymbeline, but now such references made her feel like a fraud. She was pretty sure the Bard never suffered from writer’s block.)
“She wrote a musical, the whole thing, play and lyrics, when she was only fifteen.” Tilda sounded proud, which made Imogen a touch nostalgic. “Our teacher discouraged profanity, so she worked in some Elizabethan insults instead.”
“Oh that,” said Afiya, finally having context.
“I saw you have the article framed, behind your desk.” Imogen was staying in Beck’s home office, on a foldout sofa, since Tilda was using the guest room. She hadn’t expected to see the article in a place of honor on her sister’s wall.
“Really, you still have that?” Tilda asked Beck.
Beck shrugged, but Imogen thought it was interesting too: of the three of them, only Beck had preserved—and displayed—the newspaper piece written just before Eighty-Seven Seconds had opened for its two-night run. The musical took place on an airplane filled with strangers who formed last-minute connections with the people around them when they realized they were about to crash. They talked (and sang) about the loved ones they were leaving behind, the mistakes they’d made, and the things they’d always hoped to do. While the first act had teetered between not bad and pretentious, the second act turned into a trippy hallucination of the afterlife.
“Beck’s always had so much faith in your work.” Afiya said this with such earnestness that Imogen sifted through her words for the subtext, but couldn’t quite figure it out.
“Did you get all your clothes in?” Beck asked Tilda, forever engrossed in the task at hand. Tilda bounded off the sofa and she and Beck chattered about socks and windbreakers and if they should bri
ng a few tampons “just in case.” Seeing them so bubbly together made Imogen feel left out.
Afiya strolled over and casually rested a lanky elbow on Imogen’s shoulder. Towering above her, Afiya had to hunch to whisper in Imogen’s ear, bringing with her a scent of soapy apples.
“How’re you doing? You ready?”
Those five words registered a kindness utterly different from anything Imogen would ever receive from Tilda, or even Beck. Only Afiya would openly acknowledge her agoraphobic tendencies, which hadn’t improved even though the shooting was almost a year behind her. At thirty-four, Afiya and Imogen were the same age, though Imogen always thought of her sister’s wife as older, wiser. Maybe it was her drive: Afiya earned a PhD at twenty-three and became the youngest tenure-track professor at Northern Arizona University. It took a few years, but she almost singlehandedly reshaped the cultural studies department, transforming it into the most intersectional program in Arizona. But it was more than that. Afiya carried an understanding of people, a maturity that struck Imogen as motherly.
She saw the concern in Afiya’s eyes. “I’m okay.”
“It’s not too much? All this—out and about?”
Of course Afiya knew that Beck was trying to help her—fix her—and for all Imogen knew the whole trip could’ve been Afiya’s idea. But in demeanor, Afiya was by far the most sensitive to Imogen’s enduring trauma. She wondered, and not for the first time, if Afiya came by this naturally because of her own difficult start in life. She’d emigrated from Rwanda at three, with her brothers and her mom, and it had taken her mom some time to get the hang of their new country. Afiya’s father was never spoken of. The writer in Imogen liked to invent dark secrets for people, but it was also possible that Afiya’s goodness came from not being burdened with secrets, dark or otherwise.
Imogen didn’t feel comfortable answering Afiya’s question in front of Beck and Tilda. Too often over the years she’d been at the receiving end of their scorn when they thought she was being ridiculous. They probably wouldn’t be so heartless now, given the circumstances, but she remained reluctant to let her guard down. Without being able to fully immerse herself in another world—an ability she’d taken for granted as a lifelong writer—she’d had no extended hours of peace or engagement. The last several weeks had been especially stressful. Even with the airport’s security protocol, she’d dreaded wading into the zoo of bustling people. She didn’t feel safe in groups; groups were targets.
Afiya seemed in tune with Imogen’s thoughts—or perhaps Imogen’s face betrayed some semblance of fear. Afiya gave Imogen a quick squeeze, then spoke to her as Imogen imagined a mom might (though her mom lacked such warmth).
“You’re going to be in one of the most beautiful places in the world, with your big sister and your oldest friend—”
“I wish you were coming.”
“This is for the three of you. You’ll challenge yourselves and see how strong you are. The Canyon’s going to give you a big hug and welcome you home.” That made Imogen smile. She wanted that. She needed that. “Why do you think we live here?”
“Your dream home?” Imogen knew how proud Beck was to have provided her wife with this magnificent house, on its picturesque parcel of land.
“The Grand Canyon’s our backyard. A place where we can forget the unimportant things, and remember the things we most need to know. When we start to lose track, we go there and remember.”
Imogen nodded. “I’m ready.”
“You are.”
Unlike Tilda, Imogen knew how hard the journey would be. She’d backpacked in the Grand Canyon four times when she was younger, but hadn’t done any real hiking in over ten years. Still, Beck was counting on her. Beck needed her to be reasonably competent and helpful, and Imogen didn’t want to let her down. That was a worry she carried, almost as heavy as her pack promised to be, that some part of her weakness would jeopardize their trip.
During the past year Imogen had been infected with loneliness, a new condition for her. It was far-fetched, but sometimes she fantasized about being an adventurer, someone at home in every corner of the world. She was a long way from being that person, but thankfully nature in general—and the Canyon in particular—had always made her feel more immune to the anxieties she experienced in her everyday life. Mentally, she could do it. Push through if she got tired or sore, but what if she really was too weak?
A minor stumble in the Canyon could end the trip. A major stumble could send her hurtling toward her grave.
3
It was starting to look like a living room again, not a staging area for a six-night, seven-day trip beyond the reaches of civilization. Imogen dragged her pack over to the couch so she could sit, without anyone seeing the trepidation on her face, and attach her new sleeping bag to the frame beneath the main compartment of her pack. Afiya made a human Roomba of herself and zipped around picking up discarded packaging and stray bits and bobs that Beck confirmed they didn’t need. While Tilda played with her phone, Beck secured a Therm-a-Rest sleeping pad to Tilda’s burgundy pack. It was all getting too real. They were almost done.
Upon hearing of Beck’s desire to go down the Hermit Trail and head out to Boucher, Imogen had balked, and suggested an easier trip out to Clear Creek instead. Her dad still loved to tell the tale of the first time he’d taken Beck, at seventeen, out to Boucher, and how he’d held his breath as she crossed the narrow passage—rock face on one side, an abyss on the other—hoping he wouldn’t have to call home to report that Beck had oops! slipped to her death.
Beck had finally convinced Imogen that the trail out to Boucher wasn’t as death-defying as their dad liked to make it sound, that the narrow passage was, in fact, a super-short stretch and totally worth it and she needed to push past her fears. Imogen had a habit of letting her sister talk her into things, even when knowing that Beck, who’d backpacked alone at least twenty times, might not have the greatest understanding of other people’s fears. She’d promised them more beauty and greater rewards by heading deep into the backcountry, where they could admire the mighty Colorado at ground level, and might—off-season in October—have the desert to themselves.
Imogen had been thinking about that precarious stretch of trail for seven months. She knew the strategy: keep your eyes on your feet. But it still worried her. What if she took one look at it and chickened out? Then she wouldn’t even be mentally capable. And she could almost hear Beck explaining it away to Tilda, “There’s just one tricky section,” as if the rest weren’t already going to be the hardest walk of her life.
It wasn’t a helpful thing to be thinking about, but their dad really had almost died on their mom’s first—and last—Grand Canyon trip.
Things had gone awry almost from the start as they’d descended the Hermit Trail. Beck, fifteen and on her third Canyon trip, and Imogen, thirteen and on her second, went at their own pace and were soon far ahead. When their dad blew his emergency whistle they’d feared their parents were in real trouble. They hurried back only to be told that their mom was wobbly on her feet and proceeding slowly; apparently stomping around the city in high heels was not effective preparation for clambering over rocks with a heavy pack on. Their dad told Beck and Imogen to hike the rest of the way on their own, and have camp ready when they got there.
By the time they reached the Hermit camping area, Imogen had felt unwell. Hot. Hungry. Tired. But Beck was more worried than exhausted. Even at barely fifteen, she was already inclined to fix everyone’s problems: she decided to head back to Cathedral Stairs—a particularly difficult section of trail—and relieve their mom of her backpack. It was getting dark. Imogen didn’t want her sister to go. It was too dangerous, and Beck was the one person she couldn’t live without. She was alarmed by her sister’s sense of duty—her reckless grit—as she set off alone with only her walking stick and a tiny flashlight.
Having backpacked in West Virginia many times, Imogen knew how to set up camp—how to hang all the food from a tree, and
lay out the ground tarp and mattress pads so they could sleep when ready. But after that, she sat on her thin bed and cried, imagining her sister swallowed up by a cavernous mouth that only opened when the sun stopped looking, when the surrounding rocks loomed black in their shadows.
She found out the next day that for some number of hours the four members of the Blum family had all been on their own in the dark. Two months later their mom filed for divorce. And six months after that, the Blum sisters started at Beechwood and told their new friend how their dad had almost fallen over a cliff, and they’d laughed and said he deserved it for being so clueless. Adult Imogen knew that wasn’t true. Though he might have miscalculated his wife’s abilities, when he realized they weren’t going to make it to camp he’d hurried ahead to find a level spot where they could bivouac. But night came on too quickly and he found himself racing back so their mom wouldn’t be alone. Careless in his panic, he’d stumbled off trail, and soon heard his walking stick go clattering off rocks as it plunged into the darkened emptiness.
“You okay?” Beck asked her now, skeptical.
Imogen realized her face had crumpled and she coughed the tightness from her throat. “Just thinking.”
How had it not occurred to any of the Blums to just stick together? Though Beck had forsaken her mission to Cathedral Stairs and returned to camp safe and sound, they hadn’t been able to eat a hot breakfast the next morning—not without the fuel in their missing father’s backpack.
Imogen wanted to excuse herself to go tongue a few drops of the medical marijuana tincture she used for anxiety. (Later, she’d slip it into her pack with the last of her personal things.) But they were all watching her. Maybe they thought this was what she did at home in the months since the shooting—randomly burst into tears. But these tears were for something else.
Their dad had hoped that backpacking trip would somehow shore up the crumbling infrastructure of his marriage. It hadn’t. If anything, it accelerated its collapse. Could Beck do it better?
