Getaway

by Zoje Stage

  “Whatever,” Tilda mumbled.

  “It just…” A twinge of emotion tore a space in Beck’s words. “It seemed impossible. Not here. Of all places.”

  This man had done more than scare Beck or wound her pride. He’d stolen some of the holiness from her chosen synagogue. And Imogen fully understood, fully agreed.

  Finally they were far enough away and Beck flicked on her flashlight. As Imogen switched hers on, she thought she heard something behind her. A scampering. She swung the light around: there was nothing there but the luminescing beam and a shroud of inscrutable darkness. Maybe it had only been a mule deer, startled by their crossing. What else might be out there…Elk? Javelina? Mountain lion? Coyote? Something hungry.

  The last thing they needed was another animal in need of food.

  19

  They paused for a short rest and a sip of water when they reached the Scary Spot.

  “Are we really doing this?” Tilda asked. “It was barely passable in daylight.”

  At least it was a question and not a refusal. Imogen thought it might be better to have only the trail visible in the beam of her flashlight; she could pretend the drop-off wasn’t there. As it was, hiking at night felt like walking in a dream. Nothing seemed quite real.

  “It’s actually easier from this direction,” said Beck, “heading uphill rather than down.”

  “Can I go first?” Imogen asked. She wouldn’t have been able to explain her eagerness; all she knew was she didn’t want to be the last to go, to watch Beck and Tilda disappear around the boulder and blink out of existence like the snuffed flame of a candle.

  “Sure.” Beck let her pass.

  The extra weight Imogen was carrying compressed her hips; her bones seemed to grind in their sockets in protest. So far it had been manageable, on a trail without lengthy inclines or uneven crossings, but she wasn’t sure she could carry her pack all the way back up the Hermit Trail. The packs should’ve been lighter at the end of their trip, depleted of food and fuel, not heavier.

  Before she crossed, she turned to Beck. “Hey. Maybe we could take turns with the packs tomorrow.”

  “Sure, that would be good—that should help a lot. Up for that, Tilda?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded worn out. “Are we almost where we’re going?”

  “Almost. We’ll be to Travertine soon.”

  Where they could finally—finally—relax. Talk about what had happened (or not). Sleep.

  Imogen headed up the path at the edge of the gorge. It might be less perilous from this orientation, but now that she was here, with her flashlight on the finite ground in front of her, she felt even more the dark absence at her side. Beyond the beam, the world simply ended. The nothingness beckoned to her. It won’t hurt at all. She kept her eyes on the trail and walked with resolve.

  Behind her, Beck asked Tilda, “Want to go next?”

  Tilda must have agreed—or maybe Beck had performed her hypnosis trick. A minute after Imogen reached the other side, Tilda appeared, strolling casually, head tilted toward the circle of light at her feet. Beck followed just a few steps behind.

  “See,” Beck said. “It really is—”

  “Let’s just get to camp.” Grouchy Tilda had taken over. Nobody could blame her.

  The rest of the walk was undemanding and they moved more swiftly—or so it felt—than Imogen would have predicted, given their exhaustion and the darkness. Beck, with the aid of her flashlight, had no trouble keeping track of the trail, whereas Imogen was fairly certain she would have wandered off to God knows where without her sister’s guidance. That’s how Dad almost tumbled off the cliff.

  There was one tight spot—literally, a place where they had to squeeze and clamber between two boulders—but then Travertine was right there, a few feet beyond. Imogen recognized it from the morning before: Had it really been just yesterday? The dry creek bed was flat and mostly level, making it a safe area to maneuver in the dark.

  Beck exhaled an emphatic puff of air, releasing hours of tension.

  “Set up camp?” Tilda asked.

  “Yup.” Beck unbuckled her hip belt.

  “You guys really think…” Imogen held her flashlight high enough that it cast a glow on Beck’s and Tilda’s faces. “Is this far enough? I mean, we could keep going a little?”

  She was tired, but willing to push on if it put more distance between them and Gale with his questionable past. Tilda rubbed one weary eye.

  “Are you serious? Why?”

  Imogen couldn’t really shrug with her pack still on. And she knew if she bungled the explanation they wouldn’t listen to her. “He’s…He’s a survivalist—have you ever seen the show Alone?”

  “You watch way too much TV.” Beck set her pack down.

  “No, I’m serious, there’s something about him—”

  “We know, Imogen, believe me. He’s bad news, and that’s why we gave him half our stuff and left. But he’s not looking to go where we’re going.”

  “And there’s no way he’s crossing that fucking deathtrap in the dark.” Tilda retrieved her stuff from Beck’s pack.

  “I know it’s not perfect,” said Beck, “but we’re okay. I did everything I—”

  “I know,” Imogen said. “I know, you did.”

  And Beck had. She’d used her doctoring skills, her calm-under-pressure skills. Sometimes it struck Imogen how truly unalike they were. Beck the left brain, and Imogen the right. Imogen would keep inventing scenarios, keep reimagining Gale as a character, fluid to the needs of her story, no matter how far away they got from Boucher. Perhaps someday he’d show up as a character in one of her books.

  All of their remaining food was already in its nylon bag and Beck quickly found a place to hang it. “And now it’s time to get some sleep. We’ll have a hot meal in the morning. And we’ll take a real break on our way out and cook a good lunch.”

  It sounded comforting, but Imogen knew that had nothing to do with why Beck had refused to hand over the stove—or her pack or walking stick. Where Imogen had an emotional attachment to a large percentage of her belongings (stuffed animals, books, knickknacks), Beck was more discriminating when it came to bonding with inanimate objects. Beck reserved her fondness for things that were useful or provided a sense of companionship (or both). Her little Swedish stove had been an essential and reliable companion on many a journey; Imogen understood why she hadn’t wanted to let it go. Especially not to the man who’d defiled their sanctuary.

  Tilda wasted no time blowing up her mattress pad. “I should’ve just given that dickhead all my overpriced hoodies and socks,” she said, balling everything into a pillow. “I’m never wearing this shit again.”

  “Your clothes might have been a little too girly for him.” Imogen was hoping to lighten the mood, but even in shadow she saw Tilda’s unamused smirk.

  They were both annoyed with her, at least that was how it felt. The longer Imogen stood there with her pack on, the more she wanted to lie down and go to sleep. Finally, she took her backpack off. With all the shuffling and reorganizing, she’d lost track of her little Visine bottle. But she made a quick search, to no avail.

  Their flashlights rested on the ground, directed toward their activities as they finished laying out their mattress pads and stashed their boots for the night. Imogen couldn’t see her sister’s face, and almost didn’t want to. How much of this was she blaming on herself? Imogen was a pro with the if-onlys; if she were in Beck’s position she’d probably start with If only I hadn’t staged an intervention in the middle of nowhere. Imogen wasn’t ready to digest everything that had been said. It was out in the open now, which was potentially a positive start, but nothing with Tilda felt resolved. And Imogen had her own inner work to do. I let him change me.

  “You know, this is the kind of thing we’ll be talking about thirty years from now,” said Imogen, needing a distraction. In a weird way, it could end up being a bonding experience beyond what any of them had hoped for.

 
“Let’s just get through tonight,” Beck said, tucking her laces into her boots.

  Tilda wriggled into her mummy bag. Imogen pushed her mattress pad flush with Beck’s, and proceeded to unzip her sleeping bag all the way around to make a blanket. It was out of character for her, but while the other two had retreated inward, Imogen was in the mood for talking. She wasn’t sure if she could fall asleep; she was weary, but her thoughts were as unsettled as a plundered beehive.

  “Maybe when we get back to the car we can head south,” she said. “Find a nice hotel, sunshine, a swimming pool?” A hotel always had been more Tilda’s speed. “We need a couple days to relax, process. Want to?”

  Tilda sighed, turning away from them. “Maybe. Okay.”

  As Beck curled up on her eggshell pad, Imogen floated the faux-down “blanket” over the two of them.

  “You don’t have to,” Beck said.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s barely big enough.”

  “So we’ll cuddle.” Hadn’t they done that long ago, as kids? Though maybe they’d been face-to-face then. Whenever they stayed overnight in a new place they would take turns reciting their favorite story, “Rumpelstiltskin.” They’d done it at their Bubbie and Zayde’s house, or on those rare occasions when they found themselves in a hotel with one of their parents in the adjoining room. Except for that fateful Canyon trip and a few family visits to Kentucky, the Blum sisters had usually traveled with one parent or the other, rarely both.

  She spooned behind Beck now. Even with all their layers on it promised to be a chilly night, and the narrow sleeping bag left Imogen’s butt hanging out in the cold. Beck tucked her half under her chin. Imogen felt her sister’s silent, shuddering sobs, and wished she remembered the whole tale of the hobgoblin who promised to spin straw into gold.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered in Beck’s ear, unable to give her a bedtime story.

  They were awake for a long time, shifting restlessly in the dark, probably whirling close calls and do-overs in their head. Finally Tilda’s breathing settled, and then Beck’s. Imogen still had too much going on inside. Too late she realized she hadn’t gotten her Swiss Army knife back from Tilda. It would’ve been some comfort to hold it in her hand as she tried to sleep, but Tilda would probably kill her if Imogen awakened her to ask for it.

  She longed for her own bed, her comforter, the safety of her small apartment. Advantages to being a hermit? Shit like this doesn’t happen! She thought of how two diametrically opposed things often exist side by side: that was how she could like the confining walls of her apartment as much as she loved the wide-open out-of-doors, with little regard for anywhere in between. But, for the first time in Imogen’s life, the wilderness had become uncomfortable.

  Instead of sleep came the memory of another night when she’d lain cramped beside her sister, filled with swallowed tears.

  Every summer Imogen and Beck (then Becky) went to Kentucky to visit the Blankenbillers. (Their dad, once known as Bobby Blankenbiller, became Robert Blum after his marriage, much to his family’s chagrin.) When Imogen was nine and Becky eleven they stayed at their cousins’ for the first time without their dad. That was when Imogen came to fully understand the difference between her home and the word as it applied to where other people lived, which was more antihome. Aunt Barb reacted as if her discomfort were wonderfully amusing and inquired about Imogen’s homesickness multiple times a day, seemingly with the hope that it was getting worse.

  Her aunt and uncle insisted Imogen looked just like her mother (whom they clearly didn’t like), and teased her for every little thing. Her buckteeth. (Two years later they practically rolled on the floor laughing at her over-the-head night brace.) Her distrust of glow-in-the-dark-green pistachio pudding. Her jeans, which she liked to wear rolled up to keep from getting muddy. Becky was exempt from their judgments, and held in high esteem because she didn’t mind helping with the sheep and chickens.

  Imogen was familiar with house cats and fish tanks, not farm animals. The chickens looked sort of friendly and she almost gathered the courage to help collect the eggs. But then Aunt Barb came out with an ax and chopped off one of their heads. The chicken ran flapping and headless and Imogen didn’t understand what it meant: Did things not die instantly? Was the chicken watching its own body run around? The sheep were different. Stinky, for one. They were giant woolly mammals that behaved like schools of fish. Young Imogen couldn’t wrap her brain around it. What were all these creatures thinking? The headless chicken and the herd of cotton balls?

  One night the cousins decided it would be great fun to have a slumber party in the back of the pickup truck. Aunt Barb layered the hard bed of the truck with blankets; the five girls were to sleep width-wise like sausages. Imogen wasn’t keen on sharing a bed with anyone, ever, and she got stuck in the middle, with Becky on one side and their youngest cousin on the other. She lay on her back, afraid to move, gobbling the night air. It smelled sweet, of fresh-cut hay, but she couldn’t shake the sensation of being in a grave. Imogen’s lungs started to collapse. Her heart raced.

  The bodies around her squirmed and giggled while Imogen gasped for air.

  “Becky! Help me!”

  The cousins were a chorus of What’s wrong? and Imogen didn’t want to cry in front of them. But she wanted out. Out! Out! Becky helped her climb over the side of the truck. She walked her to the house and opened the door. For once, Aunt Barb’s concern wasn’t tinged with glee. Becky returned to the truck while Aunt Barb led Imogen to Tammy’s room, where she got to sleep in her eldest cousin’s big bed all by herself.

  “You’re just a little homesick,” Aunt Barb said for the sixty-third time.

  But Imogen knew she’d been misdiagnosed. Yes, there were things about her home she missed. But the real problem she had while summering in Kentucky was an endless lack of having her own space. Privacy. Alone time. A door to close. She’d had no way to explain to Aunt Barb or anyone else the ways in which she didn’t feel okay. Her dad thought it was fun for them, spending time in the country with girls their own age. But the cousins were only fun during the day. Come night, Imogen yearned for her own room.

  Afterward, she’d longed to be a snail, carrying around its beautiful spiral of a home. Or a turtle, which could draw in its extremities and say bye-bye. Yet, for all the hours Imogen spent as an adult cocooned in her apartment, she still wasn’t sure if she’d ever felt truly at home anywhere. Sometimes in the company of a tree—or a creek, or a moss-covered rock, or a desert night haloed by the Milky Way—she felt the tension inside her finally relent. There—out there—was a place where she belonged. But it had always been fleeting; she could never stay out there. Not then. Not now.

  This wasn’t the trip she’d hoped it would be. Though a dormant part of her had started to revive, ultimately her fears were proven to be valid: destructive men lurked everywhere, willing to wreak havoc to get what they wanted.

  The one positive thing she’d done following the incident at the synagogue was to refuse to give the shooter space in her head. She never saw his face; she shut her eyes when they showed him on the news. Rather, she held the images of everyone who had been injured or killed; they were the ones who deserved to be remembered, not the insecure bigot with the gun. When she got home and started to process this misadventure, she’d forget Gale and focus instead on Beck and Tilda. Maybe, where Tilda was concerned, there was still something to salvage. And with Beck’s epiphany held close, Imogen wouldn’t let herself regress further. If nothing else, she understood now that she didn’t want to end up late in life with regrets over things she could’ve changed.

  As she gave herself over to the moment, breathing in the pure air and reflecting on the dark whimsy of her childhood summers, an idea came to her. A dark fairy tale about a girl who had to go on an extraordinary journey to understand who she really was. Pieces of the story materialized instantly—the girl, her best friend, wise women, a glorious forest. Imogen saw the
allegorical world unfold in her head and smiled. This, finally, was an idea that excited her.

  She hovered near sleep, wondering if home wasn’t a physical location after all, but a state of mind—the place she entered when she filled a page with words. At least she’d found the first upside of their situation: she couldn’t wait to get home. And write.

  20

  Someone kicked her in the back. It was a shitty, confusing way to wake up, but it was only as Imogen regained consciousness that she realized how deeply asleep she’d been. The sky was radiant with color; the sun, too, was just peeking over its nightspread, blinking at the new day. Her first thought was that Tilda or Beck (or both) must be anxious to get going and she was impeding their departure. But then she felt Beck’s warm, sleeping presence at her side.

  And another kick in the back.

  “Tilda, what the fuck—” Imogen rolled over.

  Initially she was too shocked to even gasp at what she saw. The instinct to get away made her push backward, trying to crabwalk an escape. But her hands encountered sharp pebbles and her elbow collided with a small but bruising boulder.

  “Ow, fuck.”

  “Rise and shine, sleepyheads,” Gale said.

  Beck was the only one yet unaware. Imogen wished with all her might for it to be a nightmare. But as she locked eyes with Tilda and the heat of peril throbbed in her spine, she was all too awake. Gale knelt beside Tilda, the hunting knife at her throat. Her friend appeared almost dazed with terror. As Beck startled into wakefulness and took in the situation, her instinct was to lurch forward, toward Tilda. Gale stopped her by tightening the grip of his other arm, squeezing his prisoner against his body.

  For a moment they all froze, unsure how to proceed.