by Zoje Stage
“I don’t think I’m ready for this either.” Imogen grabbed the now-vacated mattress pad and dragged it toward her, desperate to lie down and shut her eyes. Maybe they’ll all disappear. But the drama kept unfolding and she couldn’t look away.
“You can’t force an intervention,” Tilda said to Beck with a sneer.
“Do you really think I’m wrong?”
Imogen realized she’d chosen an unfortunate moment to curl into the fetal position when Beck gestured to her as Exhibit A.
“This isn’t my fault. She wasn’t even sure if she’d been raped.”
Imogen sprang into a sitting position. “No, you weren’t sure if I’d been raped. I was always pretty clear—”
Tilda emitted a sarcastic snort, brutal enough to stop Imogen in her tracks. “I think you’re rewriting history. You only said a thousand times that you weren’t sure what happened.”
This was Imogen’s battle too, and she stood up to claim her ground. Beck moved to form a barrier between them. “You’re the one who’s rewriting history. Yes, I was very unsure about why it happened. I was insecure that I’d done something stupid—I knew Rob, felt comfortable with him, because he was your boyfriend. You were the one who didn’t want to accept that your boyfriend raped me, because it was more important to you to stick by him than to believe me.”
“Look, it wasn’t a great time for me either,” Tilda said, yelling over Beck’s shoulder. “My boyfriend cheated on me with my best friend, you think I was happy about that? But at least he admitted—”
“Oh my fucking God!” Imogen brought her exasperated hands to her cheeks. “You’re still taking his side.”
“I loved him! What he did hurt me.”
“Me too.”
In the heavy pause, the Canyon sounds returned. Wind. A bird trill. The rocks were eavesdropping and Imogen felt the flush of shame, as if they’d seen her naked.
“Tilda.” Beck was back to her calm self, determined to mend a festering laceration. “Don’t you think that if Rob—who claimed to love you—could be shitty enough to cheat on you, he might also have been shitty enough to force himself on someone? And deny it? And lie about it?”
Tilda spun away, burying her face in the crook of her arm. It was a posture of embarrassment, of guilt. “Things were different then.”
“You mean people didn’t believe victims then.” Now Imogen felt the full weight of her own sadness. It was true; Imogen had spent half of her life in her own grave, buried alive. She trudged away from them a few paces and dropped into a sitting position, half facing the river. Beck gently tugged on Tilda’s arm and guided her to the mattress pad, where they both sat down.
“I’m sorry,” Beck said to Imogen. “I wish we’d told someone, Mom or Dad, someone.”
“I’m glad I never told. It would’ve made it worse.” At the time, it hadn’t occurred to Imogen that she wouldn’t be believed; she’d feared her politician mother would make a case of it, use the Terrible Act perpetrated against her daughter as a public ploy. She’d never trusted her mother with truly sensitive matters. Something occurred to her, and she snorted. “Remember that photo op Mom did with the drag queens?”
Tilda burst out laughing. “That was priceless.”
Beck winced. Their mom really had used her sexual orientation to earn bonus points with voters. “Still. I’m sorry we didn’t take you more seriously. Do more.”
“You tried.” Imogen remembered Beck and her girlfriend, Jenna, comforting her the next day. Taking her to Planned Parenthood for emergency contraception and an STD screening. It was a lot to handle, and they did what many teenagers do who don’t have an adult they trust: they circled the wagons. They made a place in the circle when Tilda got back from Mexico, but she didn’t want it. The gaping wound of her absence had been there ever since.
How would they make this okay? Okay enough to not leave them with a ruined trip—days of awkward interactions—and a friendship in irredeemable tatters. Imogen watched the Colorado rushing past. It could wash her away. Carry her into oblivion. Her bones could become silt and in another million years maybe a creature would come to rest at this very spot, unaware of a girl called Imogen who was now a sliver of the rock tapestry.
“I’ve thought…,” Tilda began. Imogen glanced at her tentatively, but Tilda had softened. “I’ve thought about it over the years. You might not believe me, but I have. There were so many things I struggled with, that didn’t make sense, that didn’t seem fair. I thought Rob was a good one. I’d had boyfriends since I was thirteen, since like the second my mom died. Rob seemed by far the best. Someone I liked, who liked me just as much. He was funny, generous, always there for me. You know how important it was to me to feel like someone considered me their number one priority—it’s not my dad’s fault, I know he was trying, but it was really hard after my mom died. For both of us—it took me a long time to really understand, so many things in our lives were never the same. But for years I missed feeling…important to someone. Doted on.”
Tilda cast them a slightly guilt-ridden look. “I mean, I had you guys, obviously. But I wanted…” The light had shifted away, but she slipped her sunglasses back on. “When you told me…well, I felt ambushed, honestly. It seemed like an attack, on me—you, Jenna, Beck—like you’d all just been waiting for me to come home, like it was my fault because Rob was my boyfriend.
“I’ve thought about that night I found out. And how quickly I put my walls up. And with the walls up it was easier to believe that it wasn’t like you said it was. I wanted to think Rob was lonely and drunk and I was on vacation, and that in some stupid way it was about me, him missing me. I know it’s fucking asinine—yes, the years have given me clarity on that.”
Imogen recalled a line from a Leonard Cohen song and something within her cracked a little, willing to let the light in. But Tilda wasn’t finished; something inside her had opened too.
“After that I didn’t trust my judgment at all. If Rob was the good boyfriend, the boyfriend I loved, what did that say about me and my shitty taste? I had hoped that if maybe you were wrong—a little wrong about what actually happened—then maybe I was only a little wrong too. I mean, how was I supposed to tell? What’s a good man, a nice man? Rob was good to me, nice to me. But if he wasn’t, in the end, good or nice…So I’ve wondered ever since then with practically every man I’ve dated: What might he do? Or what has he done in the past? You can’t have that constantly in the back of your mind and have a healthy relationship with someone.”
“I know,” Imogen said, trying to give Tilda a pointed look.
Tilda nodded, but with the dark lenses on Imogen couldn’t tell if she was looking at her. Imogen hadn’t expected this to flip around and become about Tilda’s insecurities, but Beck was apparently right about The Thing affecting her life too. Imogen had never contemplated Tilda’s attraction to assholes or why she needed so much attention, so much approval. In recent years Tilda had matured, and from everything Imogen knew about him Jalal was a genuinely decent human. Yet Imogen heard, in the multiple times that Tilda had insisted it wasn’t her fault, that on some level she’d always felt like it was.
It wasn’t an apology, but it was better than nothing. Now that they were so close to it, she realized an apology might be something she needed. And she understood another important thing, something that Tilda might need.
“It wasn’t your fault. What Rob did was never your fault.”
“We never even considered that,” said Beck.
Tilda let out a slow, measured breath, as if she were doing yoga.
Suddenly it felt like they’d been sitting there all day. Imogen’s butt was sore and she needed to walk. As she stood, the others did too. They gathered up their things and started back along the creek, the mood heavy but not oppressive. Imogen wondered if, once they were moving, Tilda’s missing I’m sorry might joggle loose. But apparently the talking was finished.
“Cook up some dinners when we get back? I could
use a real meal.” As the one who’d blown up their lazy day, Beck tried now to reestablish a lighter mood.
If someone had told Imogen that this confrontation was the trip’s true agenda, the day’s true plan, she wouldn’t have come. Of course Beck had known that. Dr. Beck—Little Miss Smarty-Pants—was right about more things than Imogen was ready to admit.
“Sure,” she said, trying to sound chipper. The last thing she wanted was to give them any more reasons to think she might fall apart.
“Do we have anything other than chicken?” Tilda asked. “Not that I don’t love all your chicken dishes, but we’re a little skimpy on the veggies.”
Imogen sensed they were all trying to play it light, reassure each other that it didn’t have to be weird. That was probably a good sign, though who knew what would happen once Imogen and Tilda had real time to ponder Beck’s secret hand grenade.
“Toldja you shoulda brought the seaweed—veggie with protein,” said Beck, mock-reprimanding.
“I know,” Tilda whined. “I just can’t, unless it’s wrapped around some sushi.”
Food talk put everyone in a better mood. The blue bag, now slung across Tilda’s back, held all their choices, chicken and otherwise, but they discussed their options as if there were a restaurant waiting for them back at camp.
Their chatter sputtered to silence as they arrived.
The camp had been ransacked.
Their backpacks.
Their personal belongings.
The vital necessities they’d so carefully packed. Strewn everywhere.
It was impossible to tell at first glance what all was missing, though Beck’s sleeping bag wasn’t with the other two, weighted down with rocks.
“Oh fuck. Holy fuck.” Terror made rapids of Imogen’s blood and she clutched her chest where the roiling converged. She’d been right, about everything—the robber was here. How could she, after all she was supposed to have learned, not have trusted her intuition? “I told you—I fucking told you!”
She wanted to explode. Why hadn’t she put more effort into the debate? Little Miss Smarty-Pants wasn’t always right, after all. Being angry felt safer than being scared, but Imogen couldn’t keep it up for long. The minute she looked at her sister she was overcome by something even worse than fear.
15
Beck trembled, her face awash with a sickness that was part horror, part heartbreak. Ever since they were tiny children there was one thing above all others that brought Imogen to instant tears: Beck, in any sort of emotional distress. Even as a child Beck was stoic, and when her pain surfaced Imogen felt it as if it were her own.
Tears stood in her sister’s eyes. Imogen knew everything she was feeling: this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not on Beck’s watch. Not when people were counting on her. And not when I’d warned her. There was a faceless who out there, indifferent to the sanctity he’d shattered. Imogen felt exposed again, like she had the night before, knowing someone had been watching them. There was nowhere to hide. He would take what he wanted.
“I’m sorry, Beck, I didn’t mean…” To blame her? Imogen was equally mad at herself.
But Beck wasn’t listening. Her shock abruptly became urgency and she darted to the biggest pile—ditty bags upended, socks and underwear and toiletries—and dropped to her knees, searching, making a frantic exhumation.
“What’s happening?” Tilda asked, confusion and panic in her voice. “Were we robbed again?”
“I told you I saw a flicker of light.” There was no point in adding and no one believed me.
“The same person who took my protein bars?”
“We don’t know!” Beck kept digging, sorting her urgent piles.
Imogen looked up toward the rocky embankment. Tilda took off her sunglasses and gazed with her. “What did they look like?”
“I couldn’t see—”
“Look, we still don’t know if it was the person from Hermit,” said Beck. “Other people are allowed to camp here.”
“Two different thieves?” Tilda snarled. “Seriously?”
Imogen hated everything she was feeling: anxiety, dread, guilt. And her old enemy, futility. She was afraid if she tried to help Beck she’d only be in the way, but she didn’t like the sarcastic hostility Tilda had turned on her sister. At this point she and Beck would look even stupider if she admitted to having found a remnant from a wrapper suspiciously like Tilda’s.
“This is so fucking…” Tilda anxiously glanced around, as if a taxi might come by and carry her away from this unruly place.
“We’ve never had anything like this happen before,” Beck snapped. “It didn’t seem possible that it could happen again.”
“That’s illogical, Mr. Spock—if it happened once of course it could happen again.” Tilda glared at Beck.
“Wrong,” Beck countered. “If something unlikely happens, the odds don’t change—it’s still just as unlikely to happen.”
“Guys, this isn’t helping.” Imogen really didn’t want to put herself in the middle of their fight, but bickering over semantics, or statistics, or whatever the fuck they were arguing about wasn’t going to fix the situation. “We should’ve done things differently. But we did the best we could with the facts we had. At least we have all the food.”
Yes, Imogen was sticking up for her sister. Beck, ultimately, was the leader, but Imogen couldn’t fault her for being skeptical. Even now, they had little in the way of hard facts: stolen protein bars (when the thief could’ve taken much more); a torn wrapper (which could’ve been from anything); a camper in the rock shelter with a cigarette. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick. Only someone like Imogen would connect those dots, and the odds were always in Beck’s favor that they were unrelated.
“Even I didn’t think I was right,” she said. Which wasn’t exactly true, but she worried about such things so often that she didn’t always know what was real. She felt a twinge of guilt knowing it was her own neurotic behavior that made it easy for them to dismiss her. But alongside it came a stab of anger; hadn’t she earned the right to be taken seriously? And couldn’t they see how the Grand Canyon had already restored a missing piece of her confidence?
“Okay.” Beck, with the mess hastily sorted, bolted upright, on a mission. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” She looked at Tilda. “Can you get this stuff back into its proper bags—the fire ditty, the toiletries, get the clothes and stuff separated?”
Tilda hesitated. “Yeah…I guess?”
“Is that a yes?” Beck, no-nonsense, wanted confirmation. Seeing her take such decisive charge, Imogen felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe everything was going to be okay.
“Yes,” Tilda said.
“Good.” Beck turned to Imogen. “You and I are going to go have a talk with our neighbor.”
Beck snatched up her walking stick, already on the march, heading for the creek. Tilda and Imogen exchanged openmouthed expressions of flabbergasted dismay. Imogen had zero interest in confronting an unknown thief who was hiding in a rock shelter, spying on them. And why had Beck chosen her? Nothing about Imogen’s stature or presence said Ooh, I’m so tough and scary!
“Uh…Beck?” Beck must have grasped that Imogen hadn’t fallen in line. She stopped. Imogen couldn’t shake the impression that Beck had become a soldier, the walking stick her rifle. “Think this is a good idea?”
“This is not a good idea,” Tilda insisted. “We don’t know who this guy is.”
“He could be…dangerous.” This, Imogen told herself, wasn’t paranoia; this was a logical conclusion drawn from the mayhem at their feet.
“Maybe he already booked on out of here with our stuff, but we have to try.”
“Maybe he didn’t book on out of here with our stuff,” Tilda said. “Maybe he’s thinking ‘No way those stupid chicks would come after me, not if they know what’s good for them.’”
Beck considered her words. And quickly formulated a new plan. “Okay. Let’s all go. You have your kn
ife on you?” Imogen nodded. “Bring your walking sticks. Let’s try to look like we mean business. I know you’re upset. I know this is fucked up. But we can’t let this guy win. We have to demand our stuff back, and look like we won’t take no for an answer. Okay?”
Imogen and Tilda exchanged another round of stunned looks. Where was levelheaded Dr. Beck, and who the fuck was this reckless person who’d taken her place?
“Why don’t we sit and talk about this.” Tilda took her best shot at calming Beck down. “We’re mad, upset, this is a violation of our space, of our beings, but the worst has already happened. We don’t need to rush in and put out a fire.”
“Yes, we do.” Beck, wired, was ready to go. “Look, I’m sorry if there’s something else I should’ve done. I’m glad you had us bring the food bag—”
“We should’ve taken our packs.” Imogen hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but the truth of it was so obvious. They wouldn’t be in this position now if they’d just lugged their damn packs the one mile to the river.
“Maybe.” Beck sighed. Her zeal for the mission wavered for a moment, and the pain returned to her face. Pain, and sadness, and worry. “We have a problem.”
“No shit,” said Tilda.
Ignoring Tilda, Beck kept her gaze on Imogen. “He took the iodine tablets.”
In spite of the sweat in her armpits—part nerves, part the flurry of activity—icy dread plucked at Imogen’s skin. Now she understood her sister’s call to action. Something electric passed between them.
Tilda looked from one sister to the other, desperate to know. “What’s going on? You guys can’t keep leaving out the important parts!”
Beck hadn’t bothered to mention the loss of her sleeping bag; on the priority scale, it wasn’t critical. But without the iodine they couldn’t purify their water. They’d have nothing to drink, unless they risked having untreated water—and whatever ailments that might cause. Without the iodine tablets they couldn’t stay even if they wanted to, and fleeing the Canyon would become a painful exercise in dehydration. Or worse.