As Marigold stared at her destination, her wariness about the task at hand sank to a new and distressing level. She was exhausted from the long drive, but, worse, she’d spent the last hour in increasing anger and bitterness. If Marigold could admit it to herself—Marigold wasn’t quite ready to admit it to herself—she might recognize these feelings as betrayal. She’d told North everything there was to tell, but he’d either lied or withheld. She couldn’t recall him once, not once, mentioning a plan that didn’t involve working on his parents’ farm (their ambition) or going to college (his).
So what in the hell was this?
When turned into a hard number, their four months together sounded more like a brief encounter than an actual relationship. But their connection had always been about more than romance or hormones or sex. Almost instantly, he’d become her best friend. They’d texted each other throughout the day, every day, even after she moved away. Until his texts grew sparse in May. Until he’d stopped texting her altogether in June.
Marigold had imagined many reasons for his textual disappearance: jealousy over her evolving life, shame for staying behind, a possessive new girlfriend, losing his phone in the river, losing his memory in a car accident, losing his thumbs to a tractor blade. But she’d never imagined that he’d gotten another job. That he had moved on with his life, and that it didn’t involve her.
What am I doing here?
The heat, rising up from the parking lot.
What. Am I doing here?
The heat. It was suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. Marigold backpedaled into her Kia and slammed the door shut. She turned the key in the ignition for a blast of cold air, and her phone blared on through the stereo. She’d been listening to Mystery Show, one of North’s favorite podcasts. She’d never listened to podcasts before North. Now she listened to them more than music.
Fuck you, North. Fuck you for ignoring my messages. Fuck you for making me worry, for making me feel guilty, for making me drive into the middle of fucking nowhere, for fucking ruining fucking podcasts!
Fuck!
She grabbed her phone, hit the music app, and her speakers exploded with a soul-belting roar from Beyoncé, but it wasn’t enough—not even a teensy spark of enough—because her entire world had been tainted by North. He used to pretend that he hated Beyoncé, but once, after they’d gotten into an argument about something that didn’t even matter, he’d stopped mid-debate and deadpan-recited every single word of “Halo.” She’d laughed so hard that she’d cried, that it actually made her abdomen sore. North could say anything and make her laugh. He had one of those voices.
Marigold pounded her fists against the steering wheel, pounded and pounded and pounded and pounded, until one of her flailing hands hit the horn. Startled, she jumped back in her seat. The family of six getting out of the minivan beside her also jumped. Marigold waved in an embarrassed apology.
Fuck you for that, too, North.
But she didn’t feel it so strongly.
Marigold lowered the volume on her playlist and kept her gaze downward, pretending to mess with her phone until the family left. She concentrated on her breath like her hippie mother had always instructed her to do. In. And out. In. And out. Their voices grew faint and then vanished completely. She raised her head.
Mount Mitchell loomed before her.
Marigold’s heart sank. The peak didn’t look particularly steep or foreboding—it actually looked pretty mild—but it did seem … somber. Amid the spruces and firs were a startling number of dead trees. It was like the mountainside had been scattered with broken toothpicks. Their skeletons were so white and empty beside the bushy evergreens that they were almost a negative space, despite their physical presence. They were a question. Something missing.
“What are you doing here?” Marigold asked aloud. But this time she wasn’t talking to herself or to the dead trees.
She’d driven all this way. She might as well go ask him.
* * *
The funicular was at the end of the parking lot. It was an incline railway consisting of two slow-moving cable cars—one ascending, one descending—and it was for people who didn’t want to hike their way to the summit. Judging by the sizable number of tourists waiting on the benches beside her, that meant it was for most people.
Marigold hadn’t been here since an elementary school field trip. Her memories were of a rickety green car, shaking its way up the track, daring her not to become at least a little afraid of heights. Marigold wasn’t afraid of heights. But as she listened for the descending car’s approach, she crossed and uncrossed her arms. She glanced nervously at her reflection in the window of the park office—where she’d paid the exorbitant twelve-dollar ticket price—and then, alarmed, she ripped off her sunglasses for a closer inspection.
Her face was flushed, her T-zone glistened with grease, and her black hair was frizzing out from its braid. Every day, she wore her hair with a thick braid across the top of her head like a headband. The rest of her hair was pinned up in the back. Usually, this signature look made her feel spunky somewhat Heidi-ish and cute.
Right now, she did not feel so cute.
Vibrations. Behind her. The rolling hum of the pulleys grew louder, into whirs and clanks. The descending car was approaching. According to his mother, North was operating one of the cars. There was a fifty-fifty chance that he was almost here.
Marigold’s stomach lurched. She was here to help out a friend, sure, but that didn’t mean she wanted to look like a human garbagemonster. This was still a person who had seen her naked. In a burst of panic she yanked out the bobby pins, unbraided her hair, finger-smoothed it down, and then hurriedly redid the whole thing.
The clanking grew louder. As parents and children and couples all shuffled to their feet—she was the only person here without some type of partner—Marigold stayed planted, grabbing a compact from her purse. It took three oil-blotting sheets (three, for God’s sake) and a layer of powder to hide the shine. It didn’t cover her freckles, but nothing ever did. They were more prominent this time of year, and, to her, they seemed jarring with her Chinese American features. She used to hate them, but North had told her they were sweet. Once, he’d even connected the dots on her right cheek with a Sharpie to make a lopsided heart.
The car’s shadow fell across her back. Some of the kids cheered, and she sensed the twenty or so assembled people surging toward it.
Fifty-fifty. Her real heart felt lopsided.
The gears locked into a complete stop, and there was a whoosh of accompanying wind. The flags beside the park office—US and NC—momentarily flapped harder as her nose was assaulted by the scent of fir. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Christmas in July. Rationally, she knew it was the mountain. Irrationally, she knew it was him.
Marigold shoved her sunglasses back on, grateful for any protection, however minimal, from the elements. In her short jean shorts and tight tank top, she suddenly felt vulnerable.
You’re just here to talk. That’s it. Whatever happens, it’ll be fine.
Sometimes it was hard to believe the truth.
Marigold’s knees quivered as she stood and turned around. A forest-green car was parked beside the platform. Above its large front window was a name: MARIA. It was written in gold lettering. She couldn’t see the driver.
But then—then—
A single voice rose above the crowd, through a tinny, old-fashioned speaker. Her spine shivered in recognition. With North, you always noticed his voice first. It was deep and confident. Sardonic and dismissive. But the timbre also held an unexpected underpinning of amusement and warmth that let him get away with saying all sorts of outrageous things. People just liked hearing him talk. He was only a few months older than she was, but he sounded like a grown man. Except … even that wasn’t quite true. No one sounded like North. It’s what had attracted her in the first place.
“Please watch your step as you exit,” he said through the intercom. “I’d feel terrible if you
tripped and wrecked your face. Not you, sir,” he added. “Your face is a disaster. No one would notice.”
The crowd—on board and off—laughed jovially.
Marigold raised her eyebrows.
A door popped open and North Drummond stepped into view. Her heart hammered against her rib cage. He swiftly jumped down from a platform on the back of the car to the main platform and then held out a hand to help an elderly woman disembark. “Goodbye,” he said. He wasn’t using the intercom anymore, but Marigold could still hear every word. “Please tell your friends. We’re trapped in the boonies, and we’re desperately lonely. We could use the company.”
The woman chuckled and patted his hand.
Marigold wasn’t sure why she felt so startled. Maybe it was because she hadn’t seen him since April, but it was as if North’s expression had been frozen in time. Despite his droll smile, his eyes held the same heavy weariness. The same edge of exasperation. Or maybe it was his uniform, which made him look like a junior park ranger. He was dressed entirely in pale blue. Powder blue. A powder-blue, short-sleeved, button-up shirt, powder-blue shorts that hit just above his knees, and a powder-blue hat that looked sort of like a baseball cap, only taller. And more awkward. In tidy white letters, two words had been stitched onto the front of it: FUNICULAR OPERATOR.
When the last passenger exited, he hopped back onto the car’s short platform, using its guardrail to help swing himself up as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Marigold realized, disconcertingly, that perhaps he had.
“Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys,” he announced, “I’ll need you to board this car one at a time. Politely. Not like the jerks that you actually are.”
The crowd laughed again as they queued into a single-file line. Marigold hesitated near the back, hiding between two bikers with thick arms and wizard beards. Trying to be invisible. Trying to think. She’d thought it would have been easy enough to get him alone, but she hadn’t expected to find him … doing a routine? Was that what this was?
A ranger in khaki hurried past, signaling something to North. He nodded, the middle-aged woman took his place, and he jogged off toward the park office.
Marigold watched anxiously as he disappeared into the log-and-stone building. The line moved forward as passengers continued to board. Would he return? Should she wait out here? She couldn’t see him through the office’s windows.
“Come on, sweetheart. You’re up.”
Marigold looked back, agitated, to find the ranger signaling for her to board. “Um.” It came out as a stammer. “Uh…”
The ranger’s hand gestures grew more impatient.
“Is he—is that guy coming back?”
The woman nodded brusquely. “He’s on his way right now.”
Marigold glanced over her shoulder to find North striding toward them, halfway across the main platform. Like a startled rabbit, she shot up and into the car. It wasn’t flat, like a cable car on the street. It was built to match the mountain’s natural incline, and the wooden benches faced backward—toward the view. The front of the car, the best seats, were already taken, so she hustled down the sloping aisle and onto a middle bench. It was as far away from the back—where North would be standing—as she could get.
“Thank you, Kathy.” His voice clicked on over the intercom, and Marigold heard him shut the door. “I’ll take it again from here.”
She could have at least waved to show him she was here. Why had her first instinct been to run? Marigold sank into her seat, flaming with regret. The car smelled like body odor and old machinery. Its windows were closed and revealed traces of rain earlier in the day. The atmosphere felt stuffy. Claustrophobic. It was too late, that was the worst part. At some point—some point very soon—North would discover her, and for the rest of his life, she’d be a silly anecdote he’d tell to friends and future girlfriends.
“Greetings, good afternoon, and welcome to Mount Mitchell State Park,” he said. “Because you’re all lazy, you’ve chosen to sit your way to the summit, when you could have easily walked it instead.”
As the other passengers groaned with good nature, Marigold heard him pressing buttons and flipping a switch. The small car lumbered into motion.
“Out the front window, you’ll find spectacular views of the Black Mountain range—part of the larger Blue Ridge range, part of the even larger Appalachian range—and out the side windows, you’ll find that we’re rising at a near-horizontal incline. I cannot stress this fact enough: It truly isn’t a difficult hike. Denali, the tallest mountain west of the Mississippi, has an elevation of 20,310 feet. We’re headed up to 6,684 feet. This funicular should not exist. Unfortunately, it does, so we’re stuck here together for the next nine minutes.”
More laughter and guffaws. The travel-fatigued parents seemed relieved to have someone else entertaining their children, if only for this fleeting respite. But Marigold felt surrounded by his voice. Cornered by it. Beside her, a couple in their late twenties with ironic hobo hairstyles was snapping carefree, square-shaped selfies. She hunkered down even lower and peered through the slats on the back of their bench.
North had one hiking boot–clad foot propped up on a metal box. His left hand held the intercom, while his right hand rested on his thigh. It was an oddly masculine pose for someone so casually flashing his bare knees and calves in such absurd blue shorts. “The first rails were laid over a century ago, and they’ve only undergone minimal repairs since. But have no fear; this antique rattletrap breadbox is safe and sound.” He pounded on a wall for emphasis. It was not a sturdy noise.
The rickety car joggled and clattered, beneath and around her, but nothing else was matching up to her childhood memories. It was true that the mountain didn’t seem very steep, and she also didn’t remember the operator delivering such a gimmicky spiel. He sounded like a skipper on the Jungle Cruise at Disney World.
“I’m delighted to say that it’s been almost three weeks since my last derailment,” North continued, “and I only lost half of my passengers.”
Marigold marveled at his propped-up leg. They’d dated in colder weather, pants weather, so she’d never seen his legs outside in broad daylight. They were tan and muscular and hairy. She would’ve guessed that hairy legs might be kind of gross, but they weren’t. They were manly.
Everything about North made him seem older than his age. It wasn’t just his voice or his legs. He was tall and broad—brawny was the word that most frequently came to mind—from years of hard farm labor. He listened to NPR and had dreams of becoming a radio broadcaster. His vocabulary was considerable, and he’d consciously dropped his rural accent at a young age. He could also be a bit grumpy and curmudgeonly, though with a tenderness and thoughtfulness to his actual actions that she found rather charming. Marigold used to joke that he was born to be someone’s grandfather.
The hipsters beside her had stopped Instagramming. Conscious of their wary side-eyes, Marigold whipped her head forward again, wincing with embarrassment. She slid back up, slowly, into an almost normal sitting position. As if there weren’t anything suspicious about her behavior. As if she weren’t being a total creep.
“Each car was christened upon the funicular’s launch,” North said, and Marigold heard a twinge of genuine distraction in his voice. Not the sort that meant he’d spotted her, but the sort that meant his mind was elsewhere. He was working on autopilot. “The first car was named Elisha after the Reverend Elisha Mitchell, the scientist who proved that this mountain was the tallest in Appalachia. At the time, Dr. Mitchell’s claim was hotly contested, and tragically, he died on an expedition while trying to verify his original measurements. He fell from a nearby waterfall. Later, both the mountain and the waterfall were named after him, and his tomb was moved to the summit.” A thunk indicated North’s foot landing back on the floor. “Now. Did anyone catch the name of the second car—this car—as you were boarding?”
“Maria!” a man called out.
“Careful, sir. No one
likes a show-off.” After pausing for the inevitable laughter, North continued. “But you’re correct. This car was named after Dr. Mitchell’s wid—”
He stopped. Midword.
The hair rose on the nape of Marigold’s neck. She felt him staring at her, staring through her, and the sensation was tense and electric and charged. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing him to continue. He didn’t.
The other passengers shifted on their benches to see what was happening. North’s silence was deafening. Her entire body burned as she removed her sunglasses. Suddenly, the mountainside car seemed precarious. She turned, dizzily, to face him.
North stared at her for several long seconds. His expression remained flat. Unyielding.
She grimaced and held up a hand, just barely, in acknowledgment.
He held her gaze for one last, pointed second. Blinked. And then turned away with a blithe smile for his audience. “His widow, Maria. The one left behind.”
There was a collective exhale as everyone settled back into their seats. North didn’t miss another beat, and Marigold knew he wouldn’t deign to look at her again. She angled herself toward the closest window, ignoring the stares of the more curious passengers. North was her friend. She was here to help him. Why was this all so shameful and humiliating?
Since moving away, she must have accidentally said or done something awful to him, but she was flummoxed as to what this transgression might be. North was still talking. Her head buzzed, and her bra was lined with sweat. She wished she could crack open a window. The railway split into two sets of tracks, and they passed the other car—jokes were exchanged and hands were waved and bells were rung—and then the two tracks merged back into one. The ride was only half over. It was agonizing.
When they finally reached the top, she lingered behind while everyone else exited. Several people expressed their gratitude to North. “Save your thanks for the return trip,” he replied with faux merriment. “There’s still plenty of time to be mauled by a black bear.”
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