“It’s not that big a difference considering the value,” Katie continues to recite. “For example . . .”
We are half salespeople, half cruise directors. We need to “squeeze a chuckle” out of the disenchanted, to “heat things up” if they’re not sold on the cold. We need to sell the idea of freedom—exclusive, outdoor, extreme freedom. Get Outside! Be Extremely Free! It makes my job and my dad’s old one quite similar.
My dad, Lyle, was VP of operations. After Breckenridge was bought by Vail in ’97 he helped the resort lengthen its grip—into gas stations, real estate, restaurants, hotels, retail, this show—so that all the profit went upstream, through the fingers, and back into the palm. I think of my seventy-three-year-old dad at my house now, most likely working on things that no longer involve him. The horse put out to pasture who has no interest in munching on grass.
“The benefits,” Katie says again, now to me and not herself. “We’ll show them that a greater expense results in a better experience, and even a better life.”
“That’s quite an equation,” I say.
I can tell she isn’t sure if I’m being sarcastic or sincere, which must be hard for her. At work, I have typically been the happy sort, but this week during preinterviews a caustic side is crossing over, infiltrating my professional life. I’ve become stormy and difficult, mean and sad. If I was confronted with someone like myself I’d feel so sorry for them. Then I’d get bored by them, and then I’d hate them for their sad, sad story. Each day I start out wanting to do better, to be kinder. Each day I fail.
Lisa, done with Katie, approaches like I’m a horse, letting me see her powder brush, a warning she’s going to touch me. I love when she fixes my makeup. I like being touched without being touched.
“You look different,” Lisa says. She moves the cool brush over my cheekbones.
“I’m not supposed to,” I say. “That’s the deal.”
“What are you doing? Not as much eyeliner, it looks like.”
“I’m simplifying.” I laugh, but she doesn’t look like she heard me. She’s like real hair and makeup people in that they never seem to hear the answers to their questions—or maybe they don’t respond to insincere answers. But it is an honest answer. My beauty regimen for the past months:
I don’t use primer or my eyelash curler, and I don’t wear lipstick.
No moonbeams, sunbeams, emulsifiers and exfoliants, or a hundred-dollar serum to make me sparkle and glow. Only now do I realize I’ve been shelling out cash for packaging and ad copy. It’s all the same product, but one month a blush will be called Beach Babe Bronzer and the next month, Angel in the Sun.
I don’t put on the self-tanner that makes my legs itch.
I don’t shower or shave as often. My bush looks like a gremlin and I want to keep it that way.
I make lists in my head so I can
check
check
check things off.
“I’ve scaled back,” I say. The brush sweeps my forehead then moves down to my jawline. Smooth my eyebrows, I think. I love it when she does that. I missed it while I was gone.
“You look good,” Lisa says. Her face is close to mine. I can smell her watermelon gum. She places her fingers on my temples and checks my eye makeup. I look to the right. I can never look back into her eyes. She presses her thumbs to my eyebrows and runs them over the arch. I relax my shoulders. This is the best part of my day.
“Okay, let’s do this,” Holly says, and claps her hands together. I crack a smile. Everything is so silly to me.
Mike brings the camera to his shoulder.
Katie breathes out, then sits up straighter.
I’m ready. Ready for this thing, this job. I will try harder because it’s not just me here.
“Okay, clap,” Mike says.
Katie and I clap.
“And we’re rolling,” Mike says.
“What a gorgeous morning,” I say to the camera. “Absolutely beautiful.” And it is. It really is. I can still recognize this. I can still love feeling so close to the sun and peaks of mountains, still love life at this altitude—it makes me feel like every breath counts.
“Seriously,” Katie says. “Seriously amazing, and every lift is up and running. I can’t wait for all the snow that’s supposed to come tonight!”
I try to smile and eventually get it up. Up and down. Smile reps. Exercising the muscle.
“It makes everything worth it,” Katie says. “Even if you don’t ski, the snow just gives you that warm cozy feeling. Makes me want to run out and condo shop! Now, Sarah, you’re a big skier, right?”
“I try to get out there,” I say, “but I haven’t in a while.”
“I’ve just heard from the COO of Breckenridge Resorts, Richard Fowler, that lift ticket prices have gone up seven dollars.” Katie makes a pained expression. Then she shrugs her shoulders. On camera she always looks like she’s playing a game of charades.
“But I guess that’s not too bad,” she says. “The new gondola goes right to the lots. Holds eight passengers and I’ve heard rumors of future heat and Wi-Fi. And the views of Cucumber Gulch are amazing.”
She looks at me.
“They are amazing,” I say.
“And once you’re up there, the lifts are amazing too—the seats are so plush, I could sleep in ’em. Padded seats, fiberglass shields, lots of room, and safe—I know there’s a responsive braking system and load-sensing devices. I could just ride that thing all day long! Best part of the lifts is they go to places like the Vista Haus, where you can have a beer, a glass of wine, some onion soup, or one of their famous mammoth burritos. I guess you get what you pay for! And that’s a lot!”
I can’t speak. How could I possibly speak? That was remarkable. That was preparation.
“What else do you get?” Katie asks. She puts on her thinking face. “Hot guys on ski patrol.” She laughs, then looks at me to continue.
Yes, hot guys on ski patrol.
The level-three trauma center where you’ll wake from your Norfolk pine–induced concussion saying, “Dude, where’s my spleen?”
Avalanche control equipment.
The rescue team that will find your son frozen in ice, fingers gripping his coat, body like an ancient artifact already in its glass case, already stuffed with preservatives. You will wonder how it’s possible that your son, your baby, your friend, was here in December and now he is not.
“You get moguls,” I say, quickly trudging through an emotion that feels like an injection of fear. “It costs money to make them, but it’s worth it because you’ve had a beer and you like the way you look doing moguls.” I exhale.
Katie laughs and shakes her head. “Too funny.”
“And we’ll do that again,” Holly says. “Sarah, maybe comment on the development, the evolution of this place. Yes, lift tickets are high, but there are more lifts, more terrain, more bang for your buck.”
“I know,” I say. “Sorry. Getting into the swing of things.”
I say something about evolution, but it comes off wrong. I say this place used to be pastures and farmland, very ovine. I have to correct Katie when she says, “Bovine?”
“No,” I say. “Not bovine, ovine for sheep. Baa.” I actually bleat. “Sorry,” I say.
We do it again, and yet, it’s so easy. We get to start over, no problem.
I say something about change and adaptation. Too vague.
I say, “More bang for your buck.”
I say something about burritos. It flies.
“Oh my goodness,” Katie says. Her post-laughter segue face. “Okay. Well, let’s head on over to the Twisted Pine, our premier furrier—animal-friendly furrier, I should add.”
The statement is so ridiculous. I look around. Really? Do we just let this go? I can’t help myself. “Yes, Twisted only sells free-range mink. Nothing there has bitten its own foot off!”
I smile at the camera, then happen to glance at Holly, who’s staring at me, horrified, as th
ough I’m a non-free-range mink, gnawing into my little paw. Yes, this is the exchange. In return for a hard punch, in return for getting completely hijacked onto a sick, sick ride, I have been given a little bit of leeway. But I don’t want the exchange. Even though I take liberties, even though I feel entitled to mess up, I am not having fun with it. I am not liking the way I am punishing people. It’s revolting.
Holly looks at the two of us, waiting. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was . . .” I feel a heat in my chest, not panic, but a kind of exhilaration and confusion. While I don’t like my feelings, I still feel them.
Holly gestures for me and I unclip my mic and walk to her behind the equipment. She wears a maroon caftan-like sweater over black leather pants. Her gold hoop earrings have blue gems in them like little eyes. She is determined to not look like a producer. Her hair is in a perfect ponytail. My head is itchy from the sun.
“Hon,” she says, “if you want, Katie can get this. Easy day. Only takes one of you. I can always step in too, if need be.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m already here.”
Her hip juts out. I stare at the hip. It’s like a personal assistant. I almost laugh when I imagine it speaking.
“You just seem a bit distracted,” she says. “I mean you’re doing great, so great. So great! I’m just saying everyone understands if you want a break. A longer one. Or if you want to reenter more slowly. Do more behind-the-scenes work? Preinterviews, editing . . . This all must be so hard. I don’t know what I’d do . . . where I’d be if . . .”
I wait while she imagines her children dead. Sabina, Gunner, and Lola: kaput. Her eyes well up and she shakes off whatever inconceivable worst-case scenarios she conjured up. She holds her hands awkwardly in front of her like she’s gripping an invisible bat. I cough into the crook of my elbow.
“Are you getting sick?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I just had to cough. Hairball,” I joke, but based on her expression it didn’t come off well. “I’m fine,” I say. “I’d like to be here.”
I want connection. I want to be in control of something. I want new ground.
“Okay,” she says.
I go back and Mike hands me my mic. He watches to make sure I clip it on correctly. This part always makes him antsy, the fact that we have breasts.
“Should we try for a few alternative sound bites?” Holly asks.
“Aren’t your boots from Twisted Pine?” Katie says. “Maybe I can point that out?”
I look down at my lace-up boots with the rubber soles, a fluff of fur in the lining. “These are from Nordstrom Rack,” I say. “They’re faux.”
“Let’s just mention some of their products,” Holly says. Her gaze at me is full of dread.
“Rolling,” Mike says.
Katie launches in: “Today’s Fresh Visit will take us to the Twisted Pine, our premier luxury furrier—animal-friendly furrier, I should say—where you’ll find all of your fur needs for a very reasonable price.”
I did not consider the fact that people may have fur needs.
“They carry mink, sable, fox . . . ”
“Lynx, sheared beaver,” I say, then laugh a little, and then some more.
“Yes, yes,” Katie says. “And mink.” She laughs too, and then laughs hard, the good, barely audible kind, we both do, and for a moment I feel like I can bring something true to all of this, that I can be allowed in somehow. Our eyes are full of water.
“I guess we’ll do that again?” I say, still laughing.
She can’t respond, still laughing. “Okay,” she says and lets out a sigh. “Okay. Just don’t say beaver.” We settle down while Mike waits. He looks like he wants to shoot us or maybe even something more hands-on.
Katie and I make eye contact, deciding on something. She takes a deep breath, repeats her lines. I add nothing this time, what we silently agreed upon. Really, there’s no need for me to be here. I should be put out to pasture with my dad. I could wear my faux boots and eat pho and make foes. Fo’ sure. God, what is wrong with me? I mean, I know what’s wrong, but why can’t it be expressed in some other, prettier way?
“—then after our shopping spree,” Katie says, as her voice slows and deepens and she transitions to a concerned face, “Justin Calhoun and Liza Norfleet will be joining us to talk about Loud Deaf World and their work in international deaf communities. We’ll show a clip from their documentary, an inspiring story of an impoverished dead girl, or deaf girl rather, in Guatemala. I’ll say that last bit again.”
“Clap,” Mike says. Katie claps.
“A poor deaf girl from Guatemala,” she says.
“Perfect.” Holly whispers something to Mike, then looks up at Katie. “I think we have enough if you want to sum it up.”
Katie brings things to an end. Take it away, Katie. I tune out for a while. Eventually I make it back, just in time to hear her question, one she’s been asking me on camera for years: “What is the third most popular activity to do here in Breckenridge, Colorado?”
At the University of Denver I decided I wanted to be a reporter. I got a taste for it from the Broadcast Club and wanted to recite breaking news. I especially liked the bad news—there was a thrill to it, and a bigger thrill of being the one to relay it. You have the power of information and the power to be trusted. I liked watching and hearing foreign reporters, their accents making them even more glamorous to me, because that’s what I was after, surely: style and a voice. For the World this is Neige Lampur. I wanted, one day, to have a sign-off like that: “For the World this is Sarah St. John.”
That was a long time ago. I’m forty-three now, my son is dead. I don’t have any desire or abilities to address the world, but I can recite our resort’s third most popular activity. My sign-off is this:
“Tubing.”
Chapter 3
I drive down the seven-block stretch of Main Street, forcing myself to be patient. We’re a small town, but with 686 hotels and inns. Our population is around four thousand but increases to about thirty-five thousand during the season. Each year we start all over, a new batch enters, then departs. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t feel lucky and blessed to live here. Three hundred days of sunshine, breath-sucking views, living in other people’s vacation destination. You’ve got nothing to complain about. Until you do.
Most people who live here fought to stay or fought to come back and make it. I fought to get out and got stuck, though maybe I used Cully as a way to make it okay to come back, telling myself that if it hadn’t been for him then I would have been somebody, but I had to return and make the best life I could for us. I think, at twenty-one, that was the story I wanted to emanate. It was cowardly. I think that after the shock, I was relieved by the pregnancy. It allowed me to whittle life down.
I found out at the end of the semester when I was busy with finals and applying for internships at various news stations. I had a paper due on Islamic art, of all things, and was so overwhelmed, so tired, and I thought, I don’t have to do any of this right now. This can be delayed. It was as though I pressed a reset button, and all my choices, all these opportunities and struggles, they all disappeared.
“I’m pregnant,” I told my roommate. “I’m going to have a baby.”
“Are you kidding me? Why? With who?” Trini Sengupta, a highly promiscuous girl who hated her father. She looked at me like I was a germ.
“It’s what I’ve decided to do. I’m excited. I’m going to move back home for a while, raise him on my own.” I sold her my story, painting a picture of novelty.
I turn off of Main and find a pocket of peace from the crowds. The few blocks to my subdivision are pedestrian-free; the air is warm. Too warm. It’s hard to believe snow is supposed to come tonight. The earth hates us. Yesterday I saw a butterfly.
I turn on Carter and am surprised by the black truck reversing out of the driveway. My internal idiot reacts: a friend of Cully’s! In high school his friends always used to be at our hou
se, probably because of the skate ramp. It felt like customs—everyone came through at some point declaring themselves and leaving things behind. Mainly boys, most absurdly good-looking with the exception of Kevin (his skin pale and freckled, tight on his bones like a lizard’s) and Markus (body like a full Hefty bag, starting out small, widening, then tapering in again). Some girls: Shay, the beauty, and her sidekicks, Gina and Rianna (whom the boys would sometimes call Gonor and Rhea). They would watch snowboarding videos with the boys, pretending to like it. They would politely smile when I entered the room, pretending to like me as well.
After college when he moved back in, he didn’t have anyone over, most likely embarrassed to be living at home. Or just practical. Why come here when everyone you know rents their own place?
The truck reverses, and I pull up alongside it. The driver looks small in the seat. She’s around Cully’s age, I suspect. Dark hair, round, rosy face, shaky smile. Pretty green eyes, like gems. She looks startled.
“Hi,” I say. “Can I help you with something?”
A voice on the radio booms. “I’m just saying”—the DJ laughs—“people don’t know how to drive in snow.” We are listening to the same station and realize this at the same time, both reaching to turn it down.
“Are you lost?” I ask.
She makes to speak but doesn’t.
“Just watch,” the DJ says. “After this storm tourists are going to be sliding all over the place.”
“We’re supposed to get a lot of snow tonight,” she says. “Ten inches.”
I smile sympathetically.
“I’m going around the neighborhood seeing if people want me to come by tomorrow. To shovel. I was just . . . I’ll be going now.”
“Great,” I say, feeling sorry for her and maybe a little eager to have a young person around. I miss them, the kids—they disappeared when Cully died, stood me up. Pretty much all of the social things I did in life stemmed from him, from having a child. He was like a ticket. When he went off to college I still socialized, but mainly with people who had kids his age, or just Suzanne. Now what? I wonder. No one will ask me to do anything. Everyone will feel bad and awkward. Kids I used to know will come back here and feel sorry for me, bashful about their success, their jobs, their marriages, their children. I’m like the family with three or more children. You don’t invite them over because they’re too hard to feed.
The Possibilities Page 2