by Zoje Stage
She folded the news report along its worn creases and zipped it away, forcing her attention to the more aptly framed article on Beck’s wall: their triumphant moment from high school. Boom boom now watch me fly!
Sometimes intrusive thoughts invaded her conscience, but she tried not to dwell on those final moments with Gale. Though, late at night, she occasionally felt a wicked bloom of pride that, if she really wanted to, she could plan the perfect murder. Once she would have ascribed such fantasies to her writer’s imagination, but it was more than that now.
Esther’s Ghost was doing well—better than expected—thanks in part to Tilda, who’d started an online book club. She’d selected Esther’s Ghost the month of its release, which helped propel it onto USA Today’s bestseller list. In return, Imogen was helping her work through the organizational and brainstorming challenges of her own book. They talked regularly now, and while they sometimes found themselves in the murky waters of miscommunication, they always took the time to sort it out.
With some buzz attached to her name, Imogen was able to sell the slightly odd project she’d conceived in the Grand Canyon. The dark fairy tale poured out of her in the eight weeks after she got home, and it remained very close to her heart: another strange girl on an extraordinary adventure, who proved she was more than anyone understood her to be. It was different than anything she’d ever written, dark in spite of its whimsy, beautiful in spite of its horror, and constructed of the same fabric as her own soul.
She’d promised Beck and Afiya she’d get the guest room ready, so she stuffed her suitcase into the closet and went into the next room. She tried to be as helpful as possible whenever she visited, which she was managing to do for two weeks at a time, every three months or so. Cooking and cleaning and doing laundry were easier (and less scary) than caring for the baby, though she was getting better at that, and never missed a chance to plop down on the floor to play with her little niece. Tilda and Jalal were due to arrive imminently—Beck was picking them up at the airport—so Imogen put fresh sheets on the guest room bed. It had been hers until thirty minutes ago, but she didn’t mind shifting to her sister’s office with its slightly less comfortable bed but fabulous picture window.
The trio had decided to celebrate every friendiversary going forward, so they would have one guaranteed reason each year for them all to be together. While they’d agreed to be flexible with the exact date and location, today was precisely one year since they’d gathered at Beck’s to prepare for entering the Grand Canyon. Tilda hadn’t met the baby yet, and she was bringing Jalal—her fiancé—for the first time.
When the guest room looked tidy and welcoming, Imogen hurried to the living room on bare, silent feet—well, she was pretty sure her tread was soft. She always had some ringing in her left ear, a permanent reminder of Gale’s punch to her head. A lot of living had happened under the cathedral ceiling since the baby was born, and Imogen picked up toys and pacifiers and plush animals and blankies. At seven months old, Isadora was a curious, crawling bundle of energy who scattered stuff everywhere, gurgling happily as she went. Imogen heard Afiya from the nursery, singing to her in Swahili as she changed her diaper.
From outside, a car uttered a short beep-beep as it pulled into the drive.
“They’re here!” said Afiya and, with Isadora on her hip, she and Imogen converged on the front entryway.
The door opened and it was like a firecracker went off, tossing up people and greetings and exclamations and hugs. Isadora very agreeably allowed herself to be bounced in new arms, cooed over by new people, while Beck and Afiya beamed.
“Look at you!” said Tilda. “Aren’t you the sweetest little thing ever—yes you are!”
“Yes she is,” Beck agreed. Isadora sputtered, grinning as she threw back her head.
“And we are not at all biased,” Afiya said, only half kidding.
“No, she is—she really really is!” said Tilda.
“She knows it, too.” Imogen tickled her niece’s little foot as Tilda passed the baby to Jalal, who lifted her up with silly-faced glee. Isadora was definitely the cutest, smartest, cuddliest, most loving bundle of goo ever born. Imogen said so often. She was in love with every part of her—those inquisitive brown eyes, that curly black hair, her chubby legs and arms, those grasping fingers that wanted everything. And that dimpled smile.
Imogen reached for their luggage, ready to be helpful and squirrel it off to the guest room, but Tilda stopped her.
“Wait, wait! Okay, I know we’re barely in the door, but it’s been killing me and I can’t wait anymore.” Tilda flashed Jalal a grin, excited and a bit bashful. He returned a smile almost as dopey. Tilda thrust out her belly, patted it with her hand. “I know there isn’t much to see, but we’re going to have one too!”
Afiya squealed and threw her arms around her—one excited mother to another. Then she hugged Jalal and it was Beck and Imogen’s turn to embrace Tilda.
“So happy for you—you’re going to be an awesome mom,” Beck said.
“Hope so.”
“Can I be Auntie Im for your baby too?”
“Of course—especially if we get all that great service we’ve been hearing so much about from Beck!”
They laughed, and the party finally started to move out of the entryway. Imogen gathered up their bags and suitcase and stashed them in the bedroom. When she returned, Isadora was back in Afiya’s arms and Afiya was reopening the front door, about to take Jalal on the tour—which, as was tradition, started outside with the wild Western landscape. Imogen felt such happiness for her sister in that moment, that Beck had such a merry and spirited family, and that Afiya was still so proud of their home that she jumped at the chance to show it to every new guest. Or maybe she only showed such enthusiasm for extended family, and that was what Jalal was now. She was equally elated for Tilda.
It bubbled out of her, “I’m so happy for you guys!”
As if they’d been longing for it, needing it, waiting for the moment when it was just the three of them, they fell into a huddle, their heads bowed as they clung together. After a silent moment, Beck spoke.
“I’ve been waiting to share something too, to tell you in person, together, because only the three of us really understand what it means. I wanted to keep to the Jewish tradition of naming a baby after a recently deceased loved one—like you’re named in memory of Uncle Isaac, and I’m named for our great-grandmother Rachel.” In more observant families, a child would bear the actual name of a deceased relative, but the more relaxed tradition was to simply use a name that started with the same letter. Beck had shown more interest in religion in the past year—in addition to a new passion for Krav Maga.
“So Isadora Tirzah is named after the two of you—the parts of yourselves that you left behind, and the parts that will go on forever. I feel like we’re all so different now, and I want my daughter to be the best parts of both of you.”
“That’s so beautiful, I love that.” Tilda took their hands and squeezed.
A gasping sob escaped Imogen’s throat. Her sister’s words gave clarity to what she’d been feeling since leaving the Canyon, how the suffering of her old self had been a necessary conduit to birth the person she wanted to be. And since then the universe had been hard at work amending an imbalance. Beck was right: their time with Gale was the most frightening, uncertain thing that had ever happened to them, and now they lived more fully, more intentionally, more joyfully than had previously seemed possible.
“I love when you guys call her Izzy-Tiz,” Imogen said. “But I didn’t realize it was for us.”
“When I’m with her, I feel like you’re both here, nearby.”
They remained hand-in-hand until the house tour moved inside; when Afiya and Jalal saw them together they made a light joke about “bonding time.” Then Afiya led him toward the kitchen, the master bedroom, the nursery, explaining all the renovations they’d made over the years.
Jalal and Afiya didn’t know about the s
even days. The dark brilliance of a Canyon night. The way the ravens caught the drafts of air and floated—lazy gods, playful gods—as the sun warmed their outstretched wings. They didn’t know that bad food tasted delicious when eaten after a long day with Zoroaster on the horizon. Or that the Canyon exhaled an ancient air that, like a lullaby, was a balm to weary souls. They didn’t know how nature could bring you to your knees, in awe, in misery, in prayer, in everlasting gratitude.
There was so much they didn’t know.
Sometimes Imogen thought of Gale. Of Crystal. What had she thought of her wayward father? Sometimes when Imogen gazed at the wonder that was her niece she imagined the baby who was probably not called Diamond, who had the DNA of a murderer coursing through her infant veins.
There but for a breach in the trail…
Anyone could tumble from the edge of the earth.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many stories have a “What if…?” at their origin, and this is such a story. When I was in my late teens, camped with my family at a remote place in the Grand Canyon, a scary person came by—a person who didn’t seem to belong there. In real life the scary person walked on, but this book came from imagining “What if he’d stuck around?”
In years past I went backpacking in the Grand Canyon four times. I’ve been down and/or up the two maintained trails—South Kaibab and Bright Angel—and one wilderness trail, Hermit. And I’ve camped at numerous places within the Canyon, including Sumner Wash, Clear Creek, Monument, Hermit, Salt, Horn, and Bright Angel—and even spent a night at a deserted Indian Gardens one cold December with my dad. But I have never been out to Boucher or Slate, which play such pivotal roles in this story. I’m indebted to my dad, John Stage, for all the knowledge he shared—the gazillion questions he happily answered—that allowed me to write this with as much accuracy as possible.
I wouldn’t get to keep being an author without my unflappable agents, Stephen Barbara and Claire Friedman. And this book wouldn’t be in readers’ hands without my astute editor, Helen O’Hare. I’m grateful for the entire team at Mulholland Books: Josh Kendall, Sareena Kamath, Pamela Brown, Alyssa Persons, Lindsey Heil, Massey Barner, Laura Mamelok, Nancy Wiese, Pamela Marshall, and Ben Allen. Thank you to Little, Brown for all your support: Bruce Nichols, Judy Clain, Craig Young, and Sabrina Callahan. Thank you to my copyeditor, Barbara Perris, for being the “final eyes” on this manuscript. And thank you to Gregg Kulick for another stunning cover.
I keep being surprised that each novel evolves so differently from first draft to publication, even though my basic writing process is the same. Thank you to Jenny Belardi and Brooke Dorsch for feedback on an early draft. Much of the rewriting of this book happened during quarantine and, as hard a time as it was, I’m grateful for so many Saturdays spent with my “quarantine bubble”—my sister and my mum. As always, sending love to my friends: I miss you!
#PittsburghStrong #NoPlaceForHate
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About the Author
Zoje Stage is the USA Today and internationally bestselling author of Baby Teeth, Wonderland, and Getaway. A former filmmaker with a penchant for the dark and suspenseful, she lives in Pittsburgh.
Also by Zoje Stage
Wonderland
Baby Teeth
