by Sonja Yoerg
Hours later, Dante returned from a visit to his parents’ hotel room and told Liz the call had been from Emilia’s husband, Rico, who was to join them in Oaxaca tomorrow. He had taken Dante’s place in the Espinoza’s company three years prior, preserving the legacy, after a fashion. Today he’d stopped at home after a business trip and discovered Emilia had left her phone behind. On it were several text messages providing him with incontrovertible evidence of the affair he’d long suspected his wife of having.
Dante slid onto the bed next to Liz. “She’s gone home.”
“Wow. Just like that?”
“Yes. And we won’t be seeing her—or speaking with her—again.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“But you don’t know the story. It might be complicated.”
“In our family, loyalty is never complicated.” He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more. He sighed and leaned back on the pillows. “And the matter of the company came up. Again.”
Liz had been thinking of Emilia, Rico and their children. The business implications hadn’t dawned on her. “If your family excommunicates Emilia, does it change Rico’s position in the company?”
Dante shook his head. “My father didn’t share the details of their arrangement with me, but my mother begged me to move back. Literally. She was on her knees.”
“That’s awful.” He looked crushed. Liz’s mouth went dry at the possibility he had given in and would leave the States—and her. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t have to say anything. My father answered for me. He helped my mother off the floor and said, ‘Rico is my son.’”
Now Liz lay in bed at Muir Ranch with a sleeping Dante and realized he had not mentioned talking to Emilia in the ten months since the radish festival. Not long ago he’d said his youngest sister, Rosalinda, was spending time with Emilia in secret. Their parents had found out and given Rosalinda a stern warning, accompanied by the threat of a substantial hit on her inheritance. Liz could not fathom having three siblings, much less losing one by decree. What had been the price of a sister?
Liz stared into the darkness. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t Dante’s family, but she doubted that would change how he’d view her indiscretion. If Emilia and General Petraeus were damned, so was she.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mike Wilson wasn’t handsome or charming. He wasn’t effusive or affectionate, or a particularly good listener. He wasn’t wealthy or ambitious (not to a fault, anyway), and he hadn’t planned on having an affair any more than she had. He didn’t send Liz love notes or buy her sexy underwear. He didn’t even buy her lunch. He didn’t talk trash about his wife or assume Gabriel was a monster. And when they finally got around to it, he wasn’t even good in bed.
Liz had taken the job at Extensor Labs while finishing her master’s degree. Of the company’s two hundred or so employees, Mike Wilson was the only black man, although that wasn’t why she noticed him. She, Mike and two other men, Trenton Wu and an assistant known as Baxter, shared bench space. When she joined the group, they were developing biosensors that detected muscle activity and sent the information to a mechanical device, such as a prosthetic limb. The group reported to Stacy Stratticon, a ruthlessly driven scientist-turned-manager determined to advance in the company. Liz’s group, with the exception of Baxter, called her Strap-it-on behind her back. She’d hired Liz because her thesis research suggested a promising new direction, and because, as a rookie, she came cheap.
Liz’s relationship with Mike developed in the same insidious, incremental way that her marriage to Gabriel drifted away from her expectations. At the time, she did not see the two as related, because her husband had lost interest in her (if that is what happened) long before she felt anything more than friendship for Mike. In retrospect, however, it might have been muddier. The scenes she could play in her mind, but the feelings were harder to recall, submerged as they were under a sea of shame and guilt, then sunk to the bottom like a wreck after Gabriel died.
Trenton and Baxter ate lunch at their computers. Trenton played video games and Baxter caught up on Facebook and Twitter. Liz was glad Mike enjoyed eating outside because she had too much time alone at home. They talked about nothing of consequence: sports (Mike was into professional tennis and NASCAR), nonpolitical news, science and a little office politics. She knew he was married with no kids and he knew the same about her, but it was irrelevant because they were only having lunch. Occasionally, people from other lab groups would join them. Few women worked at Extensor, and Liz never clicked with any of them.
Before long, lunches with Mike became the social focus of her day. When she went home, she’d have twenty minutes at dinner with Gabriel—much of it spent discussing household business—then would be on her own until bedtime. Mike wasn’t exciting, and she wasn’t attracted to him, but she came to depend on him to verify an essential truth: she was a human being someone could talk to comfortably.
She hadn’t given up on her marriage, and continued to try to get through to Gabriel. She suggested outings, even midweek, but he turned most of them down, citing the need to make progress with what he had come to call “his real job”—the video game work. When she finally asked him point blank if he was dissatisfied with her, he said he couldn’t understand why she would ask. Of course he wasn’t. One night, a year or so after she’d begun working at Extensor, she had too much to drink and cried her eyes out in front of Gabriel, pleading with him to love her the way he used to, “to see her.”
He handed her a Kleenex and squeezed her shoulder. “You wanted a normal life, Liz, right? Well, this is it.”
In the morning as he left for work, he said she was drinking too much and might think about seeing her doctor about it. She called in sick and spent the day rereading the first Harry Potter.
What she was not able to foresee was that only so many lunches could be shared by two people unhappy in their marriages before one of them let their guard down. Neither Liz nor Mike knew their guard was up until he let his down. It could have as easily been her. She was telling him about a hike she had taken in the Sandias the day before while Gabriel was reading the paper (although she left out that part).
Mike put down his turkey sandwich—the lunch he had every day—and regarded her seriously. “You know, I’d have enjoyed hiking there with you.”
She didn’t have to answer. His guard had dropped a little, so hers did, too. She was picturing them hiking together and he could tell that she was because he smiled a little, and so did she. Their guard dropped another notch. Nothing had happened, and nothing would for a long time—not even a hike. But if Liz had to put her finger on it, she’d say that was the moment she began her affair with Mike.
If that was the beginning, it lasted fifteen months. They had sex twice. Once to get over the inevitable and once because they were sad. The sex wasn’t great but it didn’t matter. What did matter was how Liz came to feel when she was with him—not like a lover or mistress or soul mate, but a whole person. She was acceptable, and visible.
Gabriel had, in the beginning, made her feel special, and adored. She’d been suspicious of those feelings because they were novel and unexpected. But she went along with it and was swept up in his conviction. Too good to be true turned out to be exactly that.
Her relationship with Mike wasn’t too good to be anything. She couldn’t even speculate whether it was ultimately better than the normal life Gabriel was selling. How could she know while they were both married to other people?
Mike said once maybe people came into your life just to show you the way through.
“Like a guiding spirit?” she said.
“Yeah, exactly. Only flesh and blood.”
“Of course. So it hurts.”
The night Liz told Gabriel about Mike the air conditioner was running full blast but the house was still baking hot. The air temperatu
re had been building all week, a slow fire feeding on the heat stored in the cement and stucco and asphalt of Albuquerque from one night to the next.
Liz made taco salads for dinner, and they each had a beer. The air was stale inside the house, so they went out to the tiny patio at the rear and sat side by side in plastic chairs facing a stucco wall. They could see the tips of the Sandias beyond their neighbor’s roof.
She hadn’t planned to say anything that night in particular. Her bare legs were glued to the seat, and she stared at nothing in the colorless sky. The weight of the hot air reminded her of the lead apron at the dentist’s office.
Gabriel asked if she wanted to go to Santa Fe for the weekend. The interval between visits to their families had increased with the distance between them.
A cricket rubbed a leg against its back, scraping out a dry chirp.
“I had an affair.” She hadn’t realized the affair had ended until she heard herself use the past tense. She turned to him, her movements dragging, laden with dread.
He’d been about to take a swig from his beer. His hand paused for a beat in midair, then he tipped his head back and drank. He swept his thumb across his lips, his gaze straight ahead. “That’s not funny, Liz.”
“I wasn’t joking. I’m sorry.”
He twisted toward her. “You had an affair.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it.” His tone was neutral but his face, in sharp relief from the patio light, betrayed uncertainty.
She waited, unsure of what he would do and whether to say more, wishing she’d thought it through. Wishing she hadn’t said anything.
His eyes locked on hers. She wanted to look away, but could not. Her throat cinched shut.
He said, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
She couldn’t speak. His face became blurry. She managed a nod and wiped the tears from her eyes.
He leaned toward her, his eyes dark. “Who is it?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s true. It’s over.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? That’s it?”
She picked at the label on her beer, dredging inside herself for the words for feelings she did not understand.
“Why, Liz? Why the hell did you do it?”
“I’m really sorry, Gabriel.”
He bent over his legs with his head in his hands. A few moments passed. He was breathing loudly through his nose, his shoulders rising and dropping with each breath. “You promised,” he said to the ground, his voice thick.
Her mind flashed to their wedding day. She remembered how happy and relieved she had felt when Russ handed her to Gabriel, but the feeling was trapped inside a glass box, like a keepsake or a relic. As she stared at the nape of her husband’s neck, she thought of coming out of the bedroom late at night and finding him hunched over his computer. She thought of how she’d come to resent Sundays and The New York Times. She thought of all the times he had promised to come to bed, to talk to her, to spend time with her. “So did you.”
He sat up and glared at her. His jaw muscles scooted back and forth under his skin like trapped fish. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I trusted you.”
“You trusted me? What did I do? Huh, Liz? What fucking crime did I commit?” He jumped out of his seat, strode to the wall, fists clenched at his sides. He spun around. “I can’t believe you’re making this my fault. What’s wrong with you?”
Gabriel’s anger and hurt came off him in sheets, smothering her. She shrank in her chair, her flash of righteousness gone. She was suddenly unsure she had tried hard enough to bring her husband back to her. Had she done anything? Had her marriage been terrible enough to justify this? A sinkhole opened in her chest. She gripped the edge of the chair in desperation. She was falling.
Gabriel stormed past her.
She stood. “Gabriel—”
He stopped at the back door and turned to her, his eyes red, his jaw set. “Save it, Liz.” He yanked the door open, slamming it against the side of the house. She heard him pick up his car keys from the hall table and leave. She never saw him again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Liz and Dante left Muir Ranch the following morning, facing the rising sun across Shooting Star Meadow. The grasses were burdened with dew. Liz, tired from a poor night’s sleep, walked in silence. Dante trailed several steps behind her and offered small talk when they stopped to drink or have a snack. Their packs were at their heaviest, both bear cans filled to the brim with food for nine days. It was cruel, she mused, this fact should coincide with the climb ahead of them today, one of the toughest of the entire trip—a total of three thousand feet of elevation gain over twelve miles. The summation sounded gradual but the topo map indicated otherwise. The climb occurred predominantly in two sections, where the contour lines were compressed as if pinched shut. A long, hard day.
She had read online that some hikers avoid this scenario and instead resupplied after Muir Ranch. It wasn’t straightforward. The southern half of the JMT was remote, tucked in the crease of massive mountain ranges on either side. With no easy way in or out, the mountains here were castle walls, ready to lay siege. To resupply, a hiker would leave the JMT and climb over, say, Kearsarge Pass, and hope to hitch a ride into Independence. After a night in a hotel, they’d pick up their bucket from the post office, return to the trailhead, and hike back to the JMT. Two days lost, if all went according to plan, and no closer to Mount Whitney. Most hikers, Liz included, could afford neither the extra vacation time, nor the hassle. They filled their bear cans at Muir Ranch and hoped for the strength to carry them up and up and up.
The trail followed one river, then another, reminding her of a dancer changing partners: a level waltz along the South Fork of the San Joaquin, a quickstep across Piute Creek, then a swing marathon all the way up Evolution Creek, the river pulling the trail into a closed hold in a switchback, and sending it away with a twirl, into the pines, again and again. Water raged down the steep canyon, poured over granite ledges and boulders as white paint, and landed in a froth in the pools below. Liz wiped the sweat from her eyes every few minutes and imagined standing under the falling water, an unending supply of ice-cold relief.
In the middle of the first climb, she stepped off the trail for a water break. “When we stop for lunch, we should soak our feet.”
Dante nodded, too breathless to speak.
A half hour later they reached Evolution Meadow, where the creek, now flat and broad, intersected the trail. They changed into their camp sandals and tied their boots to their packs.
She dipped a foot in. “It’s freezing!”
“Be careful what you wish.”
The rapidly flowing water came midway up her shin, and the rocks beneath were slick. Each time she placed a foot on the river bottom she tensed, knowing a slight slip could make her lose her balance completely, toppling her and her pack into the water. Halfway across her feet went numb, and she couldn’t be sure of her footing. The slower she went, the less sensation she had in her feet. She looked around to see how Dante was faring and found him already on the far bank, lacing up his boots. She continued in mincing steps and joined him a few minutes later, amazed she hadn’t fallen in.
“Finally,” he said. “An alpine activity I’m good at.”
“You’re good at many alpine activities.”
“Like what?”
“Not freaking out at storms.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Remembering to apply sunscreen.”
“I’ll put it on my resume.”
Liz thought for a moment. “How about lunch?”
“Oh, yes. I’m an expert at lunch
. Perhaps even an opinion leader.”
After they ate, they entered Evolution Valley. The creek had become a wide ribbon lying across an immense golden field. At the far end rose the Hermit, a bare lump of rock two thousand feet above the valley floor. The river bent south, and they pursued it, toward the towering peaks of the Evolution Range and true wilderness.
They rose above the timberline and picked their way along a sloping boulder field. Liz could feel the lake approaching. To her left, the western side of Mount Darwin canted downward and disappeared behind the wall of rubble they’d climbed. To her right, the backside of the Hermit did the same. In the middle would be the lake, and this arduous day would be over. The chill from the river had long since left her feet. She was exhausted; her legs trembled with each step. Only pride stopped her from breaking into tears.
Above the tree line, a lake is either seen not at all, or all at once. For the past four hours, everything Liz had seen was gray: gray trail, gray rock, gray slopes, gray mountains. The monotony made the minutes drag, and it was hard to feel as though they were making progress. Every small rise should have been the final one, but wasn’t.
She concentrated on her footing as she climbed a broad slanting ledge. The trail leveled out and she raised her head. Everywhere was blue, blue, blue.
Now that she had arrived, she regretted having considered the lake as merely a spot on the map. This had happened before. She would arrive at the day’s destination, so relieved not to have to walk a step farther that she forgot why she’d hiked there in the first place. Today, at the sight of Evolution Lake, gratitude, wonder and relief surged through her. The energy she thought had been completely expended, returned. It made no sense for a view to have the power to completely alter how she felt, but it did. The sparkling sapphire water spread out before her, and she laughed.
