Everything Beautiful Is Not Ruined

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “No, no, we don’t have outhouses here,” Pat says.

  “Oh. Ha-ha. Phew!” I say, smiling for the first time. “Silly me.”

  “Yeah, you can just . . .” Pat waves an arm toward the line of trees.

  Now it’s my turn to frown. “I can just . . . what?”

  “Go over there,” he says. “You need some TP?”

  He starts rummaging in one of the bigger vest pockets and pulls out a small spool of toilet paper.

  “Oh, sure, okay,” I say, and take some, thinking, Okay, the bathrooms are not well stocked, but at least they’re not outhouses. I point in the direction he gestured. “So they’re just through there?”

  “Sorry . . . what are you talking about?” Pat says. “What are just through there?”

  “The bathrooms.”

  He looks at me as if I’m a lunatic. Hello, he’s the one waving vaguely at a mile-long line of trees like I should be able to just find the bathroom in there.

  “What bathrooms?” he says.

  “The bathrooms. You said the bathrooms were . . .”

  My voice dies.

  Oh no.

  No, no, no.

  I clear my throat. “You mean . . .”

  “I mean take your TP and find a spot in the woods,” he says. “Just dig a hole for the toilet paper afterward. We like to leave nature as we’ve found it.”

  “Dig a . . . ? I’m sorry . . . what?”

  “Never mind,” he says. “Bonnie’ll go over those details tomorrow. If you don’t want to go in the woods, you can just walk off a ways and go in the field where the grass is taller.”

  “Where the grass is taller . . .” I repeat in confused disbelief as I back away from him. “I’ll . . . That’s okay. I’ll . . . just . . . wait.”

  So, Mom, I’m waiting. And thinking. And what I’m thinking is that the camp, assuming we ever get there, is going to be a little more rustic than it looked in the brochure.

  It’s possible, for example, that I may not be able to use my rechargeable flashlight. Fortunately I packed quite a few things that will help make me comfortable no matter what the situation, so I remain optimistic.

  Love always,

  Ingrid

  By the time the dead mosquito count is past one hundred and I’m starting to deal with massive black flies too—these beasts bite through clothing—I capitulate and put on the mosquito-net hat. Everyone else has one on too, except the leaders, Hairy Dude, a girl whose chain-smoking of weird-smelling cigarettes makes it impossible, and another girl who’s wearing a ton of makeup and taking photos of herself from above (the better to show her cleavage, I assume) with a phone I know she’s not going to be allowed to keep.

  Finally I hear something in the distance—a vehicle. It gets louder and then it arrives, driving out from a gap between the trees and coming to a stop right in front of us.

  Rescue. Thank God.

  The eleven of us—nine campers and two leaders—are going to be pretty squished in there, but I’m so relieved, I could kiss the driver, sight unseen.

  A massive, strapping ginger of a man unfurls from the front seat, stalks over, and stands, legs apart, hands on hips, glaring at us like we’ve woken him from hibernation or stolen his last cup of coffee.

  “I’m Duncan,” he says, “and I’m in charge of making sure you’re properly accounted for, packed, and ready to go.” He pulls out a piece of paper, unfolds it, and starts barking out names.

  “Seth!”

  A cute, flippy-haired guy who’s had his standard-issue hiking pants altered to fit like skinny jeans, says, “Y-yes . . . ?”

  Duncan nods at Seth, then moves on. “Jin!”

  The chain-smoker, a very urban-looking Asian girl with streaks of blue and purple and blonde in her short black hair, gives him an unenthusiastic wave.

  “Melissa!”

  A tall, athletic-looking, wide-eyed blonde tentatively raises her hand.

  “Bob!”

  “Actually, my name is Peace,” Hairy Dude says.

  A pause. Then, “Registration says your name is Bob.”

  “I’ve been rechristened. Peace. It’s an important part of my personal journey. I only answer to Peace.”

  Duncan grunts, then moves on.

  Peace? Give me a break.

  “Ingrid!”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “No rechristening for you?”

  “Um, no.” I smile, ready to share the joke, but Duncan just stares at me until I look away.

  “Tavik!”

  Not-Isaac with bursting pecs looks up. “Yo.”

  Next are two boys who’ve been punching each other in the arm and chortling like six-year-olds. They answer to Harvey and Henry, and appear to be brothers. Possibly twins? And finally there’s Ally, the makeup girl, who’s stopped with the selfies and is dabbing her face and chest with a bandanna.

  “That’s the last of you then,” Duncan says, then strides over to me. “You—Ingrid.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not packed.”

  “Yes I am.” I straighten my spine and point to my duffel bag.

  “In the backpacks,” he says, pointing to a pile of packs I hadn’t noticed.

  “Oh,” I stammer, “no one told us to—”

  “No one told us to!” he mimics in a whiny, high-pitched voice. “Are you all sheep?”

  Most of us appear to shrink as Duncan looks around, his disapproval sweeping over the group.

  “Get yourself a pack, missy,” he says, turning his attention back to me.

  He’s big and growly and in possession of both van and keys, so I’d better do what he says.

  I sniff a few of the grungy-looking backpacks, choose the least offensive, then turn to go back to my duffel . . .

  And stop in my tracks at the sight of Duncan crouched beside it, going through my things, touching my things, my socks, my T-shirts, my toiletries, my underwear . . . holding them up for people to see and then . . . tossing them onto the ground.

  “What are you doing?” I run over and start gathering everything up. He raises my copy of War and Peace, looking at it like it’s contraband.

  “This is not going into your pack.”

  “But—”

  “Each person is responsible for carrying a portion of the food rations,” he says.

  Maybe it’s the fumes—toxic repellants, cigarette smoke, exhaust from the van, plus whatever is wafting up from the backpack—combined with the heat, but I swear I heard him say something about “food rations” and “carrying.”

  Carrying a portion of the food rations, that was it.

  “My job is to make sure you have what you need!” he explains as I stand there, gaping. “Only what you need. Five nights from now, when you’re in charge of dinner and you’ve been hiking all day, your fellow campers are going to be pissed when you tell them you brought this book instead.”

  “Obviously I wasn’t going to bring it when we go hiking. But surely at night—”

  He guffaws, throws the book down, pulls out something else.

  It’s my sage-colored microfleece hoodie—one of the ones Mom bought me.

  “Don’t touch that,” I snap.

  He snorts, mutters something about my being “a piece of work,” but lets me keep it, in favor of continuing to decimate my packing job.

  Yes, I studied the packing list. And yes, I did bring three pairs of pants, not two, if you include the ones I’m wearing, and six shirts, not four, and a couple of extra pairs of socks and underwear, plus a bikini in addition to a one-piece. And the journal—the one with the leather cover and ties—and the book because it’s on what I hope will be my reading list for the fall. I may as well multitask while I’m out here serving the conditions of my deal with Mom.

 
Also . . . there are a few things in my bag that weren’t on the list, because the list was so sparse, I figured it only covered the basics. Plus, as I thought about the overnight camping trips we’ll be taking (Ella’s group did three nights in a tent), I started worrying about getting lost, surviving a thunderstorm, and people getting injured. So I added a compass, a reflective rain poncho, candles, emergency flares, a first aid kit, a few packets of instant coffee, and . . . a few other things. None of them unreasonable. All of them there because, never having done anything like this before, I wanted to be prepared.

  Regardless, within five minutes I’ve lost three-quarters of my belongings, including my biodegradable shampoo and conditioner, which were on the list but are apparently supposed to be in travel-size bottles.

  The small amount of stuff I’m allowed to keep goes into the stinky backpack, and the rest gets shoved back into the duffel bag. Whether or when I’ll get it back is unclear. I press my lips together, swallow hard, and try not to panic.

  Duncan goes through everyone else’s luggage in a similar manner. Before long I understand his no-nonsense attitude a bit better, as his pile of forbidden stuff expands to include alcohol, baggies of leafy stuff, and even some pills.

  As surprised as I am that people tried bringing these substances on the trip, I’m even more surprised that nobody seems to get in trouble for it, beyond having to suffer Duncan’s caustic remarks.

  When he gets to Jin, however, and tries to confiscate her cigarettes, she puts up a fight, and even produces a letter. “From my doctor,” she says, almost snarling. “They’re herbal, totally nicotine-free, and I need them.”

  Duncan scans the letter, then shares a long look with Pat. Pat nods, then Duncan shrugs and lets her keep them.

  Finally he helps us divvy up a bunch of gear that includes random-sized metal poles and canvas-covered bundles, plus dense parcels that seem to contain food—making our backpacks full to bursting. Then he instructs us to put our extra luggage in the van, since we’ll primarily be using our packs.

  By this time I’d like him to drop dead, and regardless of all the illegal substances he found, I think he’s taking his job way too seriously.

  But he is our ride to the camp.

  So.

  Fine.

  I don’t need all that stuff anyway.

  War and Peace may have been a tad ambitious, considering my recent state of mind.

  And what a relief to be free of ridiculous stuff like clean clothing.

  It’s only three weeks, right? Two pairs of underwear should be more than enough for a Nature Girl in the making like me. No need for the chorus of hysterics hurtling around inside me.

  I heave my bag into the back of the van with a grimace, then go to get my pack.

  We’re going to be like sardines in that vehicle, and I can’t imagine how we’ll be in compliance with seat belt laws, but at least there’ll be no mosquitoes. And hopefully the trip will be short and not too bouncy, because really, I would be mortified to pee my pants.

  But just as I’m attempting to pick up my pack—crap, is it ever heavy!—I hear the van doors slamming shut, and then, as I’m turning around, Duncan jumps into the front seat, closes the door, starts the van . . .

  and

  drives

  off.

  As in, away . . .

  without me.

  Without all of us.

  Oh. My. God.

  My ears start ringing, presumably from the scream I’m repressing, and I have the sensation of plunging, like from the top of a roller coaster, or a cliff. I’m standing here breathless and unbalanced and unable to think straight or calm myself, and I know it’s an overreaction, but I can’t help it.

  I do not thrive on surprises of this kind, do not like being left . . . and this, after the pilot already left us in this field with no explanation, is twice in one day.

  Three if you count my being left at the airport this morning.

  Like I don’t already have abandonment issues.

  SUN AND MOON

  (Ages Six to Ten)

  It could have been that I was a child.

  It could have been that I was biased because she was my mother.

  Or it could have been that Margot-Sophia Lalonde was massive, larger-than-life, riveting, take-your-breath-away vivid, and astonishing.

  In spite of all the years and everything since, I still think of her that way.

  Up on the stage in performance or rehearsal, or even in one of our living rooms in one of the European cities we lived in so briefly, Margot-Sophia drew breath and opened her mouth, and the sound, the music that came, it shook the air, made all the colors brighter.

  My mother’s voice pulled something from the depths of me that made me feel everything all at once, things I didn’t have names for yet and maybe never would. It was huge, marvelous, magnificent.

  It wasn’t just me. The vocal coaches and directors and fellow musicians who came in and out of our various temporary homes regarded her with barely disguised awe, and the care required for the nurturing of her—voice, body, soul—was significant. There were special teas, optimum percentages of humidification and temperature, with the requisite humidifiers in every room, house calls from the ENT (ear, nose, and throat) specialist in each city, private teachers of yoga, Pilates, Alexander Technique. She was focused and diligent, and everyone around her was focused and diligent, and practically falling over themselves . . . all to maintain the magnificence.

  I took piano and violin and breathed music. I would be a singer too, I thought, or some variety of musician or performer. It was a given. Our life had a sense of purpose, of importance, of largeness.

  There are soft memories too—warm, tactile memories—all of these also tied up and infused with music. Mom singing me to sleep on the nights she was home, me waking partway, late in the night when she came into my room after a performance, smoothing my hair and dropping soft kisses on my cheeks and forehead and nose. “Don’t wake up,” she would whisper. But I wanted to. I always wanted to.

  There was my hand in hers everywhere we went: museums, concerts, bookstores, through train stations and hotel lobbies and opera-house lobbies and in greenrooms and dressing rooms, her hand. I can still feel the silkiness of her fingers, the warmth of her palm.

  I remember how tall she seemed, how good she smelled, how loved I was. I remember, when she told me I could be anything I wanted if only I was willing to work hard enough, how I believed her. And how I wanted to be just like her.

  But every so often the magnificence faltered. There were days or weeks even, usually between jobs, or after one of our trips back to Canada to check on the house Mom’s parents had left her, when Mom was very sad—too sad to do much of anything but lie around, crying and sleeping. It always passed, but it scared me.

  Still, life was good.

  In Vienna we bought matching coats in elegant red wool.

  In Prague we went to the Charles Bridge in the foggy dawn, then had hot cocoa for breakfast.

  In Antwerp we gave a mini concert for some of Mom’s opera friends, Mom singing and me on piano and violin, and it got written up in the paper.

  My education was both odd and interesting. Mom downloaded a hodgepodge of North American and British curriculums for homeschooling, cherry-picking what she thought was important versus not, while still making sure to cover all the basics. She taught some of it to me herself and hired tutors for the subjects she didn’t like. Plus there were always the music lessons, history, tennis in certain countries, depending on the season.

  In most cities, there would be kids—other opera kids—for me to do my activities with, to take sewing or hat making or dancing or fencing lessons from the costumers, choreographers, or fight directors of whatever opera house Mom was working at. And we would hang out backstage or in the props rooms, or run around the
dressing-room area when no one was there, precocious little opera urchins, making nuisances of ourselves until someone shooed us away. Some of the kids I liked better than others, but we were never anyplace for longer than a few months, so while a few of my friendships were intense, they were also short-lived.

  There were a couple of girls I exchanged e-mails with for a while, and occasionally I would end up at an opera house with someone I’d met before, but I went into every friendship knowing that sooner or later, I would be saying good-bye.

  Still, I had my mom, and so it was okay.

  Once, when I was nine, she handed me a Rubik’s Cube and told me that was my schoolwork until I figured it out. This seemed awesome, at first.

  “Do you know how to do it, Mom?” I asked a few frustrated hours later.

  “No, I do not,” she said, looking up from her music stand.

  “But . . . then . . . why are you making me do it?”

  “So you can learn to sort things out on your own,” she said. “So you will learn to persevere. So you will be able to do more than one thing.”

  I didn’t get that. To be able to do one thing, if you could do it as well as she did, seemed to me to be more than enough. But when I presented her with the finished Rubik’s Cube a few days later, her eyes shone, and that night she let me stay in her dressing room during the show, and the next day we went to a beautiful little café where we had tea Russian-style, from a real samovar, and sat, side by side, drinking it.

  A few months later came London. Covent Garden.

  Covent Garden was a big deal—in and of itself, but also for Margot-Sophia.

  I was used to opera houses, but Covent Garden, with its Corinthian-columned entrance, stunning glass atrium, and seating for over two thousand people, was gorgeous. It was also daunting, being so much bigger, in every way, than any opera house Mom had worked in.

  I was entranced, in awe, infatuated.

  “This is the place they write the music for,” I said to Mom one day near the end of rehearsals, looking up to the three levels of galleries, and farther up, miles up it seemed, to the dome of pale blue with gold filigree.