Getaway

by Zoje Stage

  Imogen didn’t know Tilda as someone who took on serious issues. “Why don’t you ever talk about it online? I’m sure some of your followers would be really interested.”

  Tilda sucked on her spoon for a moment. “On the one hand I want to, to make more people aware of how bad, how unfair it is. But I don’t want to seem like I’m virtue signaling—and a lot of people in my space do that.” She shrugged. “I’m working behind the scenes, until I figure out a good way to use my platform.”

  “Wow. That’s really cool.” She hoped she sounded as impressed as she was.

  “When all that’s left…,” Beck sang, rather wobbly. “Remember that? When you’re so bereft…”

  Imogen groaned. It was a song from Eighty-Seven Seconds. A slow, sappy tune that fit the maudlin moment when the people on the doomed plane realized they could perform a mitzvah in their final moments of life by simply comforting those around them.

  “Is helping your fellow man—we’re all a clan, so take my hand!” Tilda’s professional voice hid Beck’s wavering notes.

  “I can’t believe you can still sing that.” Imogen meant it as a put-down to her own forgettable writing.

  The singing came to an abrupt end. “You always did underestimate me.”

  The rebuke came swift and sharp. Imogen felt herself shrink; she hadn’t meant to insult Tilda. But she didn’t correct or excuse herself, because she heard the deeper accusation behind Tilda’s words. And the truth of it made her feel like she was naked under a spotlight. In Imogen’s mind Tilda was often shallow, self-centered, selfish even—and somehow she hadn’t thought Tilda capable of divining her secret opinions. Surprise.

  The silence that followed made Imogen want to mount some sort of argument or counterattack, and she knew exactly where she wanted to direct her blade. But to do so would mean excavating The Thing. A long time ago Imogen had had to choose between dwelling on The Thing or stuffing it away. She’d gone with the latter. Dwelling, she’d feared, would discolor every choice she made.

  Night settled in around them and it was almost pitch black. She struggled not to cry.

  “We should get this cleaned up.” Beck stacked her dirty dishes and got to her feet. She and Tilda had resumed their easy dialogue, though Imogen had slunk inward and finished her meal without speaking.

  Imogen and Tilda both flicked on their flashlights, which had been dangling from their wrists. Together, the three of them rinsed the dishes with the rest of the boiled water, leaving them facedown on a rock to dry. They exchanged light banter in soft voices, as if afraid of awakening someone—or something—best left to slumber. Maybe that was what they all needed, sleep. Tilda’s anger hadn’t resurfaced, but Imogen sensed it there, like a predator stalking the nocturnal landscape, waiting for its moment. As Beck and Tilda got out their toothbrushes, Imogen dug out her marijuana tincture. Just as she was dripping the slightly skunky liquid under her tongue, Tilda directed the flashlight on her.

  “What is that?”

  “It helps me relax.”

  “That isn’t your medical marijuana?” Beck asked, her tone well on its way to disapproval.

  “It’s mostly CBD.” Imogen returned it to the pocket of her pack.

  “That’s not the point. You brought that on the plane?” Beck’s tone now surpassed disapproval.

  “I needed it.” She joined them in their toothbrushing huddle.

  “It’s illegal to travel with—”

  Imogen cut her off. “I repurposed a Visine bottle.”

  Tilda laughed. “Clever.”

  “Not clever,” said Beck. “Stupid.”

  Imogen shrugged. “Security didn’t look twice.”

  They slithered into their sleeping bags, with Beck in the middle, still in their clothes—though they each pulled off their top layer and added to their pillows. It was cold; Imogen hunkered into her bag and zipped it all the way up. For a time they gazed at the sky, pointing out shooting stars and satellites and bright objects they could almost name. Imogen wished she knew the constellations better, but Beck named a few, and spotted a couple of planets, too.

  After a while the commentary stopped and they silently watched the heavens. Imogen, aware of the mellowing effects of her tincture, let her eyes go out of focus. In that blurry place the cosmos enveloped her. She breathed in the night and became the night, with the memory of the Milky Way imprinted on her shuttered lids.

  8

  Hands on her knees, Imogen stood hunched for a moment, her legs like crab claws. Standing upright would shatter the claws—send pink shards everywhere—that was how tight her muscles felt. But slowly she straightened. Limped a few feet. Greeted Tilda, who was attempting a Sun Salutation on her stripped-down mattress pad. The sun hadn’t warmed the air yet, so Imogen layered up with clothing from her pillow.

  In the kitchen, Beck already had the stove going, its signature roar like a greeting from another time. They exchanged good mornings, though the morning was a shock for Imogen, who hadn’t awakened out of doors in many years. So much air! So much sky! The gloriousness of it distracted her, made her forget the stiffness in her calves and down the backs of her thighs. It was so quiet she could hear the murmur of voices from the camp beneath them, and the creek water rippling through its eternal bed. A canyon wren trilled its little song, an almost melancholy series of notes, dropping in pitch. The breeze took a more tactile approach and caressed her cheek—“Hello dear, welcome back.”

  An outdoor morning was so different from an indoor morning, with a loss of certain creature comforts, but a gain in mindfulness. Back home, there was nothing and no one to acknowledge her upon awakening. In the Canyon, she was part of something elemental, returning to consciousness to resume being alive.

  “Head to the loo?” she said to Tilda, by way of invitation, as she shook out her boots.

  “Yup.” Tilda, enviously limber, abandoned her yoga and plucked the partial TP roll from her left boot before slipping her foot into it. “What if we run out of toilet paper?”

  “That would suck. Don’t overuse the toilet paper.”

  “Get the food bag on your way back?” Beck asked.

  “You got it,” said Imogen.

  Beck already had the mugs lined up. She was a Coffee Person of the First Order, Tilda of the Second Order. They both had many ways of describing their nonpersonhood when confronted with life before the day’s first cup of coffee. At home, Beck’s standards for the type and strength of that coffee were quite high. Not willing to sacrifice, she’d brought a small Melitta cone and a wad of filters to make individual “pour-over” cups. Tilda, not needing it quite as strong, had agreed long before they entered the Canyon to take the second cup, so they could reuse the dark grounds and justify this bit of luxury.

  None of them were quite awake enough to be sociable, but Imogen was glad for Tilda’s company as they headed for the pit toilets. Was this what it would be like to live with someone? A boyfriend, in Tilda’s case. A wife, in Beck’s. Someone to brighten your day with companionship? Help you with ordinary tasks? Sometimes Imogen thought she wanted that, and other times she told herself it would be too annoying—cleaning up after another person, having them around when she wanted to be alone, sharing a bed. Arguing.

  In college the trio had started out in an apartment together—financed by their busy, guilt-ridden parents—but Imogen had moved back to her dad’s when she quit school. A few years later, with her dad’s help, she’d gotten her own small apartment. She’d lived alone since then. It was hard sometimes, having to handle every single contingency by herself. Laundry, meal prep, paying the bills. Walking to Rite Aid for ibuprofen in the middle of a migraine. Sitting in the dark alone when the electricity went out. She’d suspected for a while that she might be missing out on something, but hadn’t figured out how to remedy it. Joining the synagogue was meant to be a beginning.

  After their pit stop they headed toward where they’d hung the food the previous evening. Even a short walk helped to
loosen Imogen’s cranky legs.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked Tilda.

  “Great. Better than I expected.”

  Imogen beamed; Tilda might be a full-on outdoor enthusiast by the end of the week. She could already hear her exclaiming, “Why didn’t you make me do this sooner?” But all her good vibes withered when she spotted their bright blue food bag—not swaying on its branch as it should have been, but resting in the dirt.

  “Fuck.”

  They hurried to the bag. It lay open, on its side.

  “I knew I didn’t get it high enough off the ground. Beck’s gonna kill me.”

  In a panic, Imogen dropped to her knees and sorted through the contents, taking a quick inventory. If too much was damaged or eaten…She couldn’t—simply couldn’t—be the reason they had to leave the Canyon early; they’d never had to abandon a backpacking trip before. And she wasn’t ready to go. If one day in the Canyon could do so much, who would she be after seven days? She wanted the chance to find out.

  Imogen looked for signs of gnawing—tooth marks or ragged holes. She expected to find the spilled contents of instant oatmeal or gorp. But she didn’t. And then she realized the drawstring bag had been opened, not chewed.

  “Imogen?” Tilda’s voice—uncertain, borderline alarmed—instantly drew Imogen’s attention. “Look.” She held the end of the thin rope that still hung from the tree. “I’m not an expert. I’m not anything…But this looks cut to me. Cut with a knife.”

  “That’s…” Imogen wanted to say impossible. But there were no teeth marks on the food or the bag. And the rope…had clearly been sliced at an angle. A clean angle.

  Had they been robbed?

  Her barely awake mind struggled to make sense of it. They’d never had anything stolen while camping. It was a code, unwritten. It just wasn’t done. Sometimes backpackers even stashed food or supplies for long trips, and it was understood: if you came across such a stash you left it alone. Someone’s life might depend on it.

  As Imogen huddled beside the bag, she took a more thorough accounting of its contents. Tilda, wanting to help, tidied the piles of freeze-dried dinners, the different Ziplocs—holding hot beverages and instant soups and cereals. At the very bottom of the bag was the heavy-duty Tupperware container, where they kept crackers, Fig Newtons, and other crushable snacks. Imogen snapped it open: its contents looked untouched—someone hadn’t bothered to dig that deep.

  “Looks like they took…all of your protein bars, and some of the sandwich bags of gorp. That’s it.”

  “You think it’s those other campers?” Tilda looked in the direction of their blue-tented neighbors. “Should we go talk to them?”

  “No. That wouldn’t make any sense.” She remembered the previous night’s laughter, and the normal morning sounds of hikers getting ready for their day. “If they were in trouble they would ask.”

  “Well someone didn’t ask.”

  Was there another group staying at Hermit, or a solo backpacker they hadn’t seen? Imogen quickly swept all the food back into the bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Can you get the rope down? Still might need it.”

  As they tramped back to camp Imogen’s mind was awhirl. At her side, Tilda radiated worry. In their high school days Tilda had thought the Blum sisters were nuts, sleeping in places without beds and doors. Though Imogen had carried an unease—Is it safe? Could I be cornered?—as she moved through the world, it had never followed her here. Is there anywhere to go for help? Tilda had asked that as they’d packed. Help was miles away at best, but they’d assured her they’d never needed help, not even on the trip where they’d been separated from their parents.

  And they didn’t need help now—it wasn’t an emergency, she reminded herself. But it was unnerving: someone had invaded their space. Her brain refused to zero in on a plausible reason why this could happen. Not here.

  Imogen wanted a diplomatic way of phrasing the theft to Beck, still feeling on some level like it was her fault: Should she have kept the bag within view of their camp? (As if they could’ve seen in the dark, while asleep.) But the second they were within sight of Beck, Tilda blurted out, “We were robbed.”

  “Robbed?” Beck stood as they approached, sounding half concerned and half befuddled. The water started boiling, chugging steam, and she bent over to turn down the stove. “Robbed as in an animal helped themselves to our supplies?”

  “Robbed as in someone cut the bag down.” Imogen plopped it at her sister’s feet. Saying it aloud erased her guilt: this was squarely someone else’s fault.

  “And then helped themselves to our supplies,” said Tilda.

  “Are you sure?” In another situation Beck’s doubt might have angered Imogen, but she hadn’t believed it at first either, even while holding the evidence. “It would be easy for an animal to chew—”

  “No tooth marks anywhere. And the rope was cleanly cut.”

  As if to corroborate Imogen’s words, Tilda held out the severed cord.

  Beck took one glance at it and dropped to her knees, yanking the bag open to start an inventory of her own. “What did they take?”

  “Looks like just snack stuff. Mostly Tilda’s energy bars.” Watching as Beck counted off their dinner packages, Imogen felt useless—the feeling she hated more than any other. She’d so hoped to leave that, the worst of her failures, at home.

  With the right number of freeze-dried dinners heaped beside her, Beck’s anxiety evaporated. “Wow. That’s never happened. I guess someone…was really hungry. They could’ve asked.”

  “That’s what I said.” Imogen was relieved that Beck seemed so chill about it, but she looked carefully—toward the next camp and beyond. “Someone else must be here though.”

  “Probably gone by now,” said Beck.

  “With my organically sourced protein bars.” Tilda sat on the ground near Beck. “Not to sound like a jerk, but I wish they’d taken the Fig Newtons instead.”

  “That wouldn’t have made it better,” Beck said, a tad self-righteously.

  “So says you.”

  Imogen continued scrutinizing the surrounding rocks—possible camouflage for a boogeyman. It was only sort of a ridiculous idea, given that she’d written an entire novel about a woman who believed she’d been raped by a ghost.

  “It’s okay, Im.” Beck spoke gently. “No one’s hiding. It was just some asshole, too embarrassed to admit they underpacked.”

  “I guess.” Imogen finally sat down too.

  “At least they didn’t take the important stuff.” Presumably Beck meant the dinners, but she grabbed the coffee and returned to the stove to finish her preparations.

  With her own cup steaming, Beck set the Melitta cone over Tilda’s mug and slowly poured the hot water over the coffee grounds.

  “Thank you.”

  Imogen, clutching an empty mug, still wasn’t sure how she felt; backpackers weren’t supposed to be assholes. Was this a new development in declining civility, or had they just gotten lucky before? It was some relief when Tilda, blowing on her coffee, sounded hesitant too.

  “So we’re not…? We’re still just…? Like nothing happened?” Tilda looked from one sister to the other. Imogen waited for Beck to handle it, but she took a minute to enjoy the first careful slurps of her coffee.

  It was only when Beck’s eyes sprang open, as if jolted awake by the caffeine, that she noticed them both gazing at her, waiting for her response. “Oh. Well. Nothing’s really different.”

  “Should we leave? Do we have enough food?” Tilda asked.

  The morning was still nippy and Imogen, the only one without a hot drink, reached for a packet of hot chocolate. For once she appreciated her sister’s nonchalance: Beck wasn’t worried, and leaving hadn’t even crossed her mind; they would continue on.

  “If you’re okay with gorp for a snack,” Imogen said, pouring hot water into her cup, “we probably have enough.”

  Beck nodded. “I’m sorry about your energy bars, but we alw
ays overpack a little. And we have the crackers, and your favorite Fig Newtons.”

  Tilda returned Beck’s good-natured dig with a good-natured smirk.

  Imogen stirred her lumpy chocolate until it fully dissolved. The stuff in the Tupperware tended not to get eaten as quickly, partly because it wasn’t as accessible. “We can save the gorp for travel days, and snack on the rest on camp days.”

  “Exactly. We’re in good shape,” said Beck.

  Tilda sipped her coffee. “I guess for an asshole they were almost nice about it—didn’t take anything that would ruin our trip.”

  “There ya go.”

  “Still. It’s a shitty thing to do.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Speaking of shitty,” said Imogen, “if they’d stolen our toilet paper that would’ve been a real problem.”

  Tilda and Beck laughed, which felt like a victory. Imogen was pleased that they’d worked through this and were forging ahead. Many times on Alone a contestant was reduced to tears when an animal invaded their stash and ran off with their last piece of food. By comparison, they had it easy. She tore open two packets of cinnamon-apple oatmeal and poured them into her bowl.

  “It’ll be better when we’re back on the trail,” Beck said. “And even better than that when we get to Boucher—probably won’t see a single person out there. And undoubtedly someone who came into the Canyon without enough food is already on their way out, or heading thataway.” She pointed east, toward the more-traveled inner canyons. “Maybe going to Indian Gardens to get some help, if they’re smart enough to know they need it.”

  Imogen remembered that morning when her parents still hadn’t shown up at this very camp. She and Beck had debated their options: head back up the Hermit Trail to look for them; hike over to Indian Gardens to ask for a search party; or stay put and see what happened. They’d opted to stay because they were pooped and weren’t sure what to do, and by lunchtime they were all reunited. Later, they told their dad they’d considered heading for Indian Gardens and he was so relieved they hadn’t. Their guesstimate had been off by several miles and it would have been an arduous journey for two young kids with incomplete gear.