by Sara Barnard
“I’m fine,” I said, through a mouthful of blood.
I really was. I was so high I couldn’t even feel the pain in my cheek or my tongue, which had got caught between my colliding teeth at the moment of impact. All I cared about was the fact that all my friends were clustered around me, horrified and worried, saying my name. Flick was in tears, asking me over and over if I was okay, alternating between nibbling her fingernails and smacking Eric, who’d gone very quiet, eyes round and startled. Callum and Nico talking over each other about boxing and how the face is made to take punches and, “You’ll be fine, won’t you, Pey-Pey?” “Pey-Pey’s tough as shit.” Casey reappearing with an ice pack (frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel) and pressing it to my face, telling everyone else to shut up.
Once they finally accepted that I was fine, we all laughed about it. A lot. There were some dramatic re-enactments, mostly done by Callum and Nico and given a score out of ten by me. Eric apologized, once in front of everyone, very loudly, and once more in the kitchen later, quietly, “I get carried away sometimes. I’m a dick.” (I’d wonder, later, and often, whether that was how he apologized to Flick all those times he was mean to her, or if he just never did.) Travis checked my face after everyone had calmed down, kissed me more gently than he ever had and called me a diamond. It wasn’t a word he could pull off, but I loved it anyway. I even felt like a diamond that night—sparkling and so strong. Wanted. Invincible.
But then I woke up the next morning in my own bed with a screaming pain in my cheek so bad it made me stumble to the mirror, panicked. The bruise was a color swirl of black and blue, spread from the corner of my swollen eye down across my cheek to near my jawline. I was still in the clothes I’d been wearing the night before, and there was blood on my T-shirt that I hadn’t even realized was there. My makeup was smudged, my eyes glazed, my head aching. I didn’t look like a diamond. I looked like a breakdown.
Maybe that should have been the wake-up call, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t let it be. It was all fine, I told myself. I was now the central part of an anecdote that quickly became a private joke, one I treasured. I’d never been a part of a private joke outside my family before. All the grubby details—why Eric had been punching anyone, the fact that we were all high out of our minds in an empty house at seventeen, the blood on my dirty T-shirt, the collision of fist and bone—were forgotten in favor of the re-enactments that got more and more absurd each time, more and more distant from reality. Even I mostly forgot how I’d felt that morning in my bedroom, sober and alone, when I looked at myself and saw the naked misery wrought across my face. You wouldn’t think I could forget something like that, but I did. You can convince yourself of anything if you try hard enough, if you want to be someone enough.
For a while.
NOW
WHISTLER—JASPER
We leave the next morning for the next leg of our trip. The drive from Whistler to Jasper is a lot longer than the one from Vancouver, but we’re all a bit more used to the RV and each other. It feels like we’re properly in it now, our road trip adventure. We take three days to do the whole journey, stopping off regularly on the way to see as much as we can. At Joffre Lakes, the water is such an unreal shade of blue I feel like I’m hallucinating. I don’t even try to sketch it, because there’s no point. I just stand and stare.
We have no Wi-Fi when we’re on the road, and there’s no TV in the RV, so we spend our time together talking and playing cards as a group or in pairs. Someone sits up front with Seva—usually Maja or me—keeping him company. There’s always music pumping out from someone’s phone or laptop—the playlist we created together before we left Vancouver runs for three hours, which is long enough for it not to matter when it starts to repeat. After a few days, Stefan uses the Wi-Fi at an RV site to download The Bridge, and we—him, Lars, Beasey, Khalil, and me—binge the whole thing for the next couple of days, clustered around his laptop, subtitles on.
It’s not all idyllic, obviously. Seven people in one RV is too many, and we’re on top of each other more often than we’re not. We all irritate each other for various reasons—I get annoyed when I feel like they’re babying me, which is a lot. Khalil hums when he’s bored, which infuriates everyone. Lars and Stefan sporadically break into bursts of Swedish at each other in tones that vary from moody to outright fury. Maja occasionally snaps at us all for acting like children. Basically, we bicker. Constantly.
We try and combat this by stopping as often as possible, way more than the breaks we’d factored into the road-trip plan. Sometimes, when the air starts to spark with irritation, Seva will pull over and bark at us all to “Be with nature! Go and have the awe!” We pile out obediently to go and have the awe. (There is literally always something to have awe at from the Trans-Canada Highway.) Within days, this phrase has meme-like status within our little family. Happy? “I have the awe.” Unhappy? “I do not have the awe.” Want someone to go away? “Fuck off and have the awe.” And so on.
We usually get to the RV sites in the late afternoon rather than drive for as long as possible, which surprised me at first until Seva explained that big animals like deer and moose can be out in the roads, which can make driving more dangerous at dusk. At the campsites there are shops and laundry facilities, as well as better showers than the one in the RV. We share the various RV chores between all of us, except Seva, because he does most of the driving.
Our last overnight stop before we get to Jasper is Wells Gray Provincial Park, where there are dozens of waterfalls and the whole place seems to hum with the sound of rushing water. It feels almost alive with it. We explore a couple of the waterfalls together as a group before dividing off. Beasey and I wander off on our own and, much as I love our RV family, it’s blissful. It’s so quiet, just the two of us. So easy. We take our time hiking the couple of hours to Moul Falls, which we chose because there’s a path you can walk that takes you right behind it. Right behind an actual waterfall. Like a Disney film.
“Robin Hood,” Beasey says, nodding, when I say this, and I honestly don’t think he could have said a single thing that would have made me love him more than I do in that moment. So cheerfully, so confidently. And then when he adds, “Good that you’re thinking of that and not thinking of the second Jurassic Park film like I was,” I laugh so hard I snort.
I’d thought we’d get some amazing pictures standing behind an actual waterfall, but it’s too dark, though we both try with different camera settings. It’s just the two of us in the cold and damp, his arm snaking around me as I shiver. If I could cut this moment separate from the rest of the trip and our lives in general, I would turn to face him, lift my chin, and lean into the inevitable. We’d kiss and it would be the most perfect, romantic thing ever: our bodies would heat up so we’d forget about the cold, his glasses would steam up, he’d whisper my name between kisses and oh my God, I want to kiss him, I want to kiss him so badly, but you can’t cut moments away, there’s no such thing as a kiss in a vacuum. Kissing him would mean consequences, and that would mean—
“We may as well get a selfie,” Beasey says. His voice is completely normal, which is a relief to the practical part of me and a disappointment to the rest of me.
“Go on, then,” I say, turning so I’m facing the right way.
We end up with a photo of us both with strained, shivery smiles, straggly wet hair sticking to our faces, looking like we’re standing in a slate wet room with bad lighting.
“Oh well,” I say.
“Oh well,” he repeats, then laughs. “We’ll just have to remember it, like the old days.”
* * *
Later, we meet back up with the others and head to the nearest town, Clearwater, to explore before settling back in the RV for the night. Between us, we’ve seen thirteen waterfalls, and my ears feel like they’re still ringing from the sound of rushing water. I want to tell them how alive I feel, how I’ve never felt so alive, not really, but I don’t know how to say it without it coming out cheesy and self
-consciously dramatic. I mean it, though. It’s like every part of me has woken up. Which may, if I’m totally honest, have something to do with that moment with Beasey behind the waterfall, when I’d imagined us kissing and my body had reacted as if we really were. What would have happened if I had kissed him? He would have kissed me back, I know it. And yes, there would have been consequences, but maybe they would have been good consequences…
I lie awake in the dark that night when everyone else is asleep, letting these thoughts—increasingly delicious—wind through my head. After a while I calm myself down by reminding myself that the friendships I’ve made here are the most important thing, especially with Beasey. His is basically the best friendship I’ve ever had, and however much I like his face, however much I want to kiss him, it’s just not worth risking that. Especially not as risking that would mean, in consequence, risking everyone else. I run through all their faces in my mind, this proof that I can make and have friends, good friends.
And then the first thought, treacherous and quiet, creeps into my head, scary enough to trigger my anxiety and leave me lying with my eyes wide open in the dark, trying not to spiral into a panic attack. Coldness has seeped in, filling my chest. What if it’s just here? What if me making and having actual friends is some kind of Canada thing? Maybe everyone can make friends here. Maybe it’s like how people queue in England because that’s just what you do. Like, a cultural thing. I’ve been thinking that this trip has marked some kind of change in me and my life, proof that my loneliness before was not some state of my existence I’d need to get used to but just a sad, painful period I had left behind. But what if it isn’t? What happens when I go home—I have to go home, don’t I?—and leave behind these friends I’ve made, and the me I was with them, too? What if going home means returning to exactly the life I thought I’d left behind?
I don’t feel at all like the same person I was then, who did the things I did. But I am the same person. That version of me is still in me. Under the right circumstances—or the wrong ones, I guess—who’s to say I wouldn’t be her again? I wouldn’t, I tell myself. I’m stronger now; I understand things now I didn’t understand then.
I try to breathe in slowly through my nose, like we learned once in that session at school about breathing techniques if you or someone you know is having a panic attack. What was it? In through the nose, out through the mouth? And I’m meant to count, aren’t I? Oh God, forget it.
I reach quietly into the bag I’d hung from the corner of my bunk and withdraw my bottle of water, taking little sips until I calm down. I’m being ridiculous. Of course I’ve changed. I won’t go back to the old life because I’m the one in charge of it. I can make sure it won’t be like it was. It’s like Maja said when we went hiking—I’ve learned from those experiences. I’ll be better able to spot the red flags as they happen, instead of pointing them out in hindsight.
Besides, it wasn’t like it wasn’t obvious then. I can remember how it felt when things started to change with my friends, how it got harder to ignore how I really felt. I just wasn’t brave enough to face up to what that meant, and I would be now. I try to reach into my memories, letting myself remember that last summer we shared, how my unhappiness had started to grow into something I couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was because I’d spent so much more time with them, or maybe because it had been long enough by then that the novelty of having friends had worn off and I began to see them for who they were instead of who I wanted them to be. I wanted more of my alone time back, which was weird, because I’d always thought I didn’t like being alone. I started leaving earlier, going home instead of staying at Flick’s or Travis’s. I’d get home too high to sleep, retreating instead to my studio, where I drew unPeytonlike landscapes of imaginary places in the kind of big, bold colors I didn’t usually use. In the mornings, sobered up, I’d stare at them in consternation, looking for myself in the lines, finding a stranger.
There were also things that happened within the group that made a difference. Callum got a new girlfriend who seemed mostly bored by us, sitting on the sofa examining her nails while he tried to hang out with us as normal until he eventually gave up and chose her company over ours. This shifted the dynamic slightly, but it was more affected by the other person who also got a girlfriend: Casey, who was really the moderating force of the group, started going out with a thin-lipped, dark-haired slither of a girl called Grace, who we met only once before Casey spirited her away from us. A couple of weeks later, when Grace came up in conversation, Eric made a reference to “muff-diving” that made Casey—stoic, unflappable Casey—cry right in front of us, before she grabbed her bag and left. I didn’t get then why she’d been so upset by what I’d thought was just Eric being Eric. Crude, dickish, but essentially harmless. Later, when I met up with Casey at the Clarks where she worked that summer, she said, “I know why Flick didn’t say anything, but why didn’t you?” and I was both confused and flattered that she’d thought I would.
To be fair to my former self, I was a bit distracted around that time because my period was late. Late enough to send me into a spiral of actual terror at the thought of being pregnant, not just with any baby but a baby who was half Travis, potentially tying me to him for life. My terror was so huge, in fact, that it was impossible for even me, still high on the fumes of denial, to ignore the fact that I barely liked him, let alone loved him. Even after my period came—I cried with relief—I could barely tolerate him touching me for a while, which confused and annoyed him, and we argued. A lot. I should have left him, but I didn’t; I couldn’t. It was clear to me that doing that would mean losing all my friends, and I just couldn’t even fathom being alone again.
The final thing was Flick and Eric. They’d always been loud and annoying together, either kissing obnoxiously or arguing, but over that summer—or maybe it hadn’t changed and I’d just begun to notice it more—the arguing got worse. Eric was often grumpy, and he’d snap more at Flick even when she wasn’t trying to wind him up, insult her without using his usual softening, teasing tone. Once, toward the end of the summer when we’d all spent a suffocatingly hot day inside, drinking and smoking, he spilled his drink on her dress and she yelled at him, smacking her hand against his arm, and he grabbed her by the shoulders, shoved her backward and slammed his fist into the wall, right by her head. I still remember the way she jerked her head instinctively away, like she’d done it before. How that one movement had chilled me more than the look on Eric’s face, the sound of his fist connecting with the wall. It was Travis who’d pulled him back, yelling, “What the fuck are you doing?” and I’d tried to comfort Flick, but she wouldn’t let me, shaking me off, telling us all it was fine, she was fine, everything was fine.
It frightened me. I think it frightened all of us. But no one talked about it, least of all Flick, even later on. “You don’t understand,” she’d say. “You don’t know him like I do.” And then, if I pushed, it was me she’d get annoyed with. She could be mean if she wanted to be, and I couldn’t handle mean, so I backed off.
The night of that particular incident, when I was lying with Travis in his bed—he’d been soft and sweet with me after what had happened, even affectionate—he said into the quiet, “Eric really loves Flick,” and I said, “Okay.” He said, “I love you,” and I wanted to say, “Okay,” but I didn’t, I said, “I love you too,” and were we both lying, or was it just me? I stayed awake long after he’d fallen asleep, listening to him snore, wondering how I’d gotten there.
So yeah. It wasn’t a golden summer. If anything, it was a dulling summer, a tarnish on what I’d so desperately wanted to believe was something shiny. What happened was inevitable, really. I can’t pretend I hadn’t known, somewhere inside me, what was coming.
NOW
WHISTLER—JASPER
“Guys!” Seva’s voice, a high-pitched yelp, sounds from the front of the RV the following afternoon. By the time we’ve all hurried over to him, he’s already pulled over, gesticulati
ng with excitement.
“What’s wrong?” Lars asks, alarmed.
“Bear!”
We all pile out of the RV—I can’t help hanging back, nervous, until Beasey grins reassuringly at me and promises that he won’t let me get eaten—and see that there’s a couple of cars also pulled over near us, their occupants leaning out of windows.
“Where?” Maja asks.
Seva points, and finally I see. It’s an actual bear. A real live Canadian bear, just clambering away between the trees near the road, like it’s normal. Like there’s no road at all, like humans don’t exist.
“Wow,” I say, right out loud.
“I have the awe,” Lars says.
“So much awe,” Khalil agrees. “Awe in abundance.”
When we’re back in the RV, clattering away toward Jasper again, I sketch the bear over and over again. In one sketch, he’s waving at us, all gawping at the side of the road. I caption it THE AWE.
* * *
Before we cross the border into Alberta, we stop off at a Tim Hortons for coffee and snacks. It’s still early; cloudless but cold. Beasey joins the queue with the others, and I hang back near the door, pausing as I connect to the Wi-Fi. It’s nice being disconnected while we’re traveling, but I have to admit, getting back online when we make stops like this feels like being plugged back into the world. As soon as I’m connected, I send the email I’d drafted the night before to my parents, telling them all about the trip since I last spoke to them, Wells Gray, the bear. I’m about to read the emails that have accumulated since I was last connected, when an Instagram notification slides into view at the top of the screen: flickabrick has tagged you in a post.