Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2017

  Copyright © 2017 by Danielle Younge

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE

  Ebook ISBN 9780425288092

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One: “Vacation”

  Chapter Two: Sun and Moon

  Chapter Three: The Hard Way

  Chapter Four: Curtain

  Chapter Five: At Risk

  Chapter Six: Isaac

  Chapter Seven: Peace Out

  Chapter Eight: Diva’s Bed

  Chapter Nine: Shit Hole

  Chapter Ten: Marshmallows

  Chapter Eleven: Metamorphosis

  Chapter Twelve: Pariah

  Chapter Thirteen: Smoked

  Chapter Fourteen: Phantom Limb

  Chapter Fifteen: Weeping Leader

  Chapter Sixteen: Long Silence

  Chapter Seventeen: Pit

  Chapter Eighteen: Oh, Boy

  Chapter Nineteen: Peace

  Chapter Twenty: Local Organic Autumn

  Chapter Twenty-One: Courage

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Glinda’s Agony

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Killer

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Just Leave Me Here

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Try Not to Kill It

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Serve

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Try To Keep It Alive

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: On the Water

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Paper Dorothy

  Chapter Thirty: Options

  Chapter Thirty-One: Oz, Et Cetera

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Speed

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Live

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Home

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Forever

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  This book is dedicated to my wonderfully generous, kind, hilarious, smart, one-of-a-kind mom, Cindy Ullman . . . who is nothing like Margot-Sophia but who may have sent me on a wilderness trip once upon a time.

  “VACATION”

  (Peak Wilderness, Day One)

  Dear Mom,

  Thanks. Really.

  I can’t wait for this tiny excuse for an airplane to take off into the sky, and then deliver me into the dismal middle of nowhere. Into the stunning, unspoiled lap of Mother Nature, I mean.

  I’m not scared, in case you’re wondering. It would be much scarier to be looking after small children, or backpacking in Asia unsupervised, like some of my friends. This? It’s just trees and lakes. The great outdoors. Nothing to worry about.

  Though I gather there will be backpacks. Excursions from base out into the wild. Exotic bugs and plants. Singing, bunk beds, roasting marshmallows, weaving friendship bracelets out of twigs from the forest, awards to those who swim in the coldest water, learning to fish, and so on.

  I know you think I’m going to hate it and wimp out and maybe quit. And if that happens, you’ll consider me to have reneged on our deal. But you underestimate me, and my determination. You see, I have a new, positive attitude, and I’m not going to continue all huddled, wounded, and tragic like I have been the past few months. I’m done with that. I’m going to have a fantastic time. I’m going to make new friends, connect with my inner Nature Girl, become transcendent and tough and ready for the apocalypse/adulthood/other unforeseen crappy stuff, and I will have fun.

  And then you’ll see that I am capable enough, and strong enough to make decisions about my own future.

  My future.

  After everything we’ve been through, I shouldn’t have to prove that to you. I shouldn’t have to prove anything. But I said I would, and so I will, setting it all down here in this journal you gave me in your one and only effort to encourage me to “process things.” One hundred journals. That’s a lot of processing, Mom. I’ll tell you this: I’m not turning into a touchy-feely journaling person.

  These are just letters.

  And it’s just camp.

  How bad can it be?

  Wow. It’s been quite a day so far.

  Quite an interesting start to this “vacation” of mine.

  Remembering that this is supposed to be fun, let’s see if I can give you the highlights. . . .

  First there was the plane ride. Right away I got such a visceral sense of my mortality. That’s probably the very reason they use such a small airplane: so you can really feel the air you’re flying through, each harrowing pocket of turbulence, causing you to convert to every religion you can think of and make all kinds of promises to the various gods therein about how much of a better person you will be if only you can live through the experience.

  Mission accomplished.

  Then, when you finally feel the earth under your feet, despite everything being, let’s just say, different from what you expected, you are so freaking grateful, you want to just roll around on it and cry. From happiness, of course. Always happiness.

  And maybe it’s also for bonding purposes. Because, even though I hadn’t worked myself up to the making-friends thing yet, I ended up talking to the very hairy, very smelly (not that the two are necessarily connected, but in this case, maybe) person beside me when it got too bumpy to write, just to distract myself.

  Based on first and admittedly shallow impressions, I will confess that I didn’t like him. But it’s important to move past preconceptions about people and approach them with an open heart in order to see the true person inside.

  Right?

  The true person inside this Very Hairy Dude revealed himself quickly when I inadvertently grabbed his arm on our shared armrest during one of the more upchuck-inducing air pockets.

  I said, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” and removed my hand.

  And he said, with such a friendly smile, followed by a downward glance at his lap, “Any part of me you wanna grab, I’m okay with it. Grab away, babe.”

  I so love being called “babe” and am only a little traumatized by the mental imagery his leering prompted. The point is to be making friends, even if they are disgusting, stinky, hairy perverts . . . on the surface.

  Next, we landed.

  Enough said.

  Actually, I could say more.

  We landed in a field, and it took three attempts.

  Three, Mom.

  The first two times, our little single-engine Cessna approached and got heart-stoppingly low, and then jerked up at the last minute, barely clearing the trees, and in fact snapping a few of the higher branches on our way. I’d have thought that would be frowned upon as our first act when entering nature, but maybe being terrified at the start is supposed to be part of the fun . . . ? It certainly got my attention.

  On the third attempt, the pilot actually said, “Field’s a little shorter t
han regulation, but we’ll get ’er done. Hang on tight!” over the headsets (reassuring, non?), and then we bumped and jerked and shuddered our way forward, almost—I’m not kidding—slamming into the trees at the far end.

  Oh, did I mention there wasn’t a runway?

  Or an airport?

  Nope. Just a very bumpy, not quite long enough field.

  Finally, the plane was still, and the pilot crowed, “Cheated death again!” and laughed like a maniac. I, pale, wobbly, and shaken to the core, stumbled out of the plane and down the steps onto the ground.

  My connection to the earth at that point was intense. Profoundly so. By the time I looked up again, our luggage and a pile of gear had been dumped, and the pilot was back in his little sky buggy. And before any of us had a chance to even think about it—and proving it’s only landing and flying he sucks at—he took off in a single attempt and was gone into the blue. . . .

  Leaving us in the middle of God knows where, aka Northern Ontario.

  I staggered up, stunned and amazed to have been left so abruptly. Stunned, also, at the unfamiliar hugeness of the sky, and the sheer volume of non-city around me, at being here at all, truly, because like so many things, it still didn’t feel quite real.

  Anyway . . .

  What a thrill.

  Love,

  Ingrid

  I perch on my duffel bag and, though I am a bit out of practice with being social, try to make friendly eye contact with my fellow campers (except Hairy Dude, whose eyes I’m avoiding). But everyone is either in their own world or possibly still in shock from the plane ride and landing, and no one returns my interest. This is both weird and discouraging enough to send me into a quick retreat.

  And then the mosquitoes descend.

  I’m not talking about a reasonable amount of mosquitoes; I’m talking a veritable plague of mosquitoes, biblical proportions of mosquitoes.

  Fortunately, after months of refusing to think about this trip and trying my best to pretend it wasn’t happening, a few days ago I finally snapped out of it. I pulled the packing list from the desk drawer I’d stuffed it into back in February, and pored over it obsessively, making sure I had everything on it and more, while simultaneously trying to remember everything my mom’s boss’s daughter, Ella, had told us about her “life-changing” experience at Peak Wilderness. (Ella’s rhapsodic depiction of her adventures, told over dinner at the office holiday party two years ago, complete with words like “intense” and “mystical,” was undoubtedly what inspired my mother to force this same experience on me. Also, Peak Wilderness inspired Ella to go to law school.)

  All of this to say, I knew there would be mosquitoes, and I am prepared.

  I dive into my duffel bag, get my perfume bottle of botanical fragrance that doubles as repellant, and apply it, as directed, to my pulse points.

  Around me, my fellow campers are doing the same, but I notice immediately that I’m the only one with the all-natural, nontoxic repellent—everyone else is using something with DEET or one of the other super-stinky kinds. Like none of them got the memo about this trip being all about nature and preserving the environment and so on.

  One of the leaders—the man and woman who briefly identified themselves at the airport—will probably set them straight later on.

  Two minutes later, I’m still being bitten, even through my clothes, which means pulse points were insufficient. Fine. I take my pretty repellent back out and give my entire body a misting.

  Sadly, I soon realize these are super mosquitoes, immune to my fabulous-smelling “natural botanicals.” They are determined and hungry, and I am food.

  So, I start to kill them one at a time.

  I’m on my ninth when I lock eyes with this boy who’s suddenly in front of me. At the sight of his face, everything inside me seems to coil up, and for a second I forget to breathe.

  He reminds me of Isaac—not that he looks like him, but there’s something about his jawline, and the deep-set eyes, that is so Isaac. Of course, after that first crazy coiled-up moment, I see he’s actually nothing like Isaac. He’s taller and wearing clothes Isaac would never wear—ripped jeans and a T-shirt tight to bursting with his very developed delts, pecs . . . and all those other muscles I studied in health class but forgot the names of. And his head is shaved and he doesn’t have even a hint of sweetness about him either. It’s really just the eyes—so dark against dramatically pale skin. And even the eyes would only look like Isaac’s eyes if someone took Isaac and put him through the military, or in a very tough gang, and then spit him back out into the wilderness.

  I’m just being a freak. Because maybe I’m still a little obsessed with Isaac. Still feeling pained and confused every time I think about Isaac.

  Dear Isaac . . .

  I could write some letters to him, too, in my fancy journal. God knows I’ve had enough imaginary conversations with him over the last year and a half, while the distance grew between us, thickening like a callus, like an all-day fog, until we were both so well versed in our new roles as people who didn’t matter to each other that it was impossible to break through. Still, it doesn’t feel properly finished. Dead but not buried. Or buried but not dead.

  So what would be the harm of writing him a letter? It’s not like I’m planning to send any of them—I just feel lame writing “Dear Diary” or whatever.

  No. This is one of those things I need to not think about.

  I have quite a few.

  My hand drifts to my shin where, three weeks ago, there were stitches. It shouldn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t hurt anymore . . . except sometimes, when I start thinking about things I shouldn’t, and then it throbs or aches, and occasionally sends hot, stabbing pain up my leg. I know, of course, that this doesn’t make any sense, but it’s true; when the pain comes, it’s real.

  I am feeling it right now.

  I catch my breath, and another mosquito tries for my nose. I clap my hands together, and this guy says in a very non-Isaac voice, “I doubt that’s gonna help.”

  “Well, maybe not at the moment,” I reply, clapping again and mentally tallying the dead mosquito count at eleven.

  He cocks a questioning eyebrow and I hesitate. Every action, or lack of action, takes a decision. And a decision takes energy. And every bit of energy taken in making decisions about stupid things takes energy from the important things. That’s something I’ve become aware of, the past few months. I do not have unlimited energy. Sometimes I have none. I have a narrow field of things that I want to let in, and many things that I don’t want to let in, and so every bit of my focus needs to stay on the things I want. Only those things. Otherwise, it gets uncomfortable. Painful. Still, I decide to answer the question because this dude looks intense, and therefore it might take more energy not to.

  “Every female mosquito lays approximately five hundred eggs,” I say, “and if half of the ones that hatch are female, then they each lay five hundred eggs. Then half of that new batch is also female and they lay another five hundred eggs, and that adds up to . . . well . . . a crazy amount of mosquitoes by the time all the reproducing is done, later in the summer. From one female mosquito. And so each mosquito you kill now means, like, potentially millions of mosquitoes that won’t be born later on.”

  See? Nature Girl. That’s me. “You can thank me later,” I add, “when you don’t have the Zika virus.”

  Not-Isaac studies me for a few long seconds like he’s either going to laugh or roll his eyes, and then just slouches away instead.

  Unfortunately the bastards are still all over me, and I realize I’m going to have to embrace toxic repellants. I will roll around in them, bathe in them, if only it will keep these damned bugs away.

  Of course, I don’t have any, and I’m not about to go begging my fellow campers for favors on the very first day—especially when they’re so universally shy/weird/unfriendly/pervy. I�
��m sure there’ll be a store or something at the camp where I can buy anything extra I might need. I’ll just have to survive—smelling like a house of ill-repute, I might add—until then.

  So, although it’s steaming hot and we have no shade and it’s not going to look cool, I tuck my pants into my socks then go back into my bag, where I briefly consider donning the freakshow mosquito-net hat Mom bought for me. However, I bet my best friend, Juno, that I wouldn’t wear it. She wouldn’t know, but still. Instead, I pull on a hoodie and tie the hood so tightly that only my nose and eyes are exposed to the mosquitoes.

  “Why you covering up, hot stuff?” This from Hairy Dude, of course. “You’re ruining my day.”

  “Likewise,” I mutter into my hood as I yank the strings tighter.

  Dead mosquito count: thirty-five.

  I’m all for nature and everything, but this is ridiculous.

  Dear Mom,

  Still here in the field.

  Apparently we’re waiting for a guy in a van, but it’s been over an hour, and I have to pee.

  I get up and make my way to the two leaders. There’s Bonnie, who is all earth-mother-in-camping-gear with long hennaed hair and wide-set brown eyes. And then there’s Pat: sinewy, not much hair, dark skin, and deep-thinking brown eyes. He’s wearing a T-shirt worn soft by a zillion washings, hard-core camping pants, and a vest with myriad zippered and buttoned pockets, which he keeps patting. He’ll be the guy with the thread, the can opener, the secret stash of protein bars.

  “Uh, hi, I’m Ingrid,” I say to them.

  “Hello, Ingrid,” they say in unison, and then Pat says to Bonnie, “I got this.” And she walks away.

  “I have to . . .” I pause, mortified. You always told me that ladies do not discuss bodily functions, Mom, and so I don’t.

  “Yes?”

  “Uh . . . will we be near any . . . facilities anytime soon?”

  “Facilities?” Pat says.

  I clear my throat. “A bathroom?”

  He frowns.

  “Or . . . an outhouse?” I wince saying this. I’ve been hoping there will be real bathrooms but preparing myself for the worst. I can only imagine how bad the mosquitoes will be in an outhouse. Not to mention the smell.