by Antony John
“Why?” I look up, but Matt and Alex are leaving the room. “Why, Matt?”
There’s no reply. Meanwhile, Fran makes herself comfortable on the other bed.
“We can’t share a room again,” I tell her. “It isn’t right.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she says. “But it’s your turn to sleep in the car tonight.” She claps her hands. “Hey, if you set off now, you’ll be there by nightfall.”
She laughs as she tugs at her gray vest top. It’s sleeveless, and her shoulders are tan. If I ignore her ink-blemished arms and focus on just her shoulders, I can almost picture the way she used to be.
“You know, I wrote a book too,” she says. Her words are softer than usual, less assured. “I was like you—got carried away with Andy’s assignment. Wrote a hundred and eleven pages.”
“I-I didn’t know that.”
She stares at the wall, lost in thought. “No one does. No one’s ever read it.”
“Why not?”
“By the time I finished it, I wasn’t going to church anymore. I wanted to show it to Andy, to talk it through—I think that would’ve helped—but he was busy with Hallelujah.”
“Which you don’t like.”
Now she makes eye contact. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a guess. Did you watch the Pastor Mike interview?”
“No. Why should I?”
I sit up and rummage through my bag in search of something to eat, but there’s nothing there. I’m practically wasting away, thanks to Matthew Dorsey’s sadistic weight loss program. “You hate this whole tour, don’t you?”
“I never said that. But now you mention it, why did you want your book published?”
It’s a simple question, but the answer is complicated: because Pastor Mike said I should; because I was flattered; because the publisher paid me. Only, I don’t want to get into all that—not with Fran, anyway—so I go with one of Pastor Mike’s famous catchphrases instead: “It’s the job of every Christian to spread God’s word.”
“They’re not God’s words, Luke. They’re yours.” She runs a finger along the black lines on her left arm. “Did the Sunday school kids like it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to ask.”
“But you wrote it for them.”
Again, I wish it were that straightforward. At the time, I believed I was writing it for them. But really, Hallelujah was more like my spiritual journal: 150 pages of euphoria, followed by 100 pages of despondency. No one suspects that, because my editor rearranged every section. But I know. After editing the book for six months, I even begged him to take out the funny passages—told him they didn’t feel real to me anymore—but he refused. He said they were dynamite, and people needed optimism, and no one would buy a 100-page book. So I stopped arguing. Now it feels like he put those words in my mouth. As for the Sunday school kids, I guess I haven’t thought about them in weeks.
Fran is watching me.
“I’ve been really busy,” I tell her.
“Yeah. I guess you have. And hey, your book’s on course to be a best seller. But I can’t stop worrying about who you’ve become.”
“Hold on. You’re worried about who I’ve become?”
She smiles. “See what I mean? A year ago you never would’ve said that. Or even thought it. Because a year ago you didn’t feel superior to anyone.”
“What makes you so sure I do now?”
She takes a swig of Gatorade and places it deliberately on the nightstand beside her. “Good point. Fifteen–love. Or maybe we’ll just give you the game. Unless, you know… I’m right, and you do feel superior to me, even if you can’t admit it.”
She’s quiet then, and the chilly silence gives me all the time I need to work out that she’s absolutely right.
3:20 P.M.
Havasu Falls, Supai, Arizona
It’s all Alex’s fault.
Matt, I can ignore. He’s the one who dragged me from my room and onto yet another dusty path, pushing me like one of those hyperactive personal trainers on TV infomercials. I can pretty much tune him out. But Alex…
“Come on, Luke,” she says, my personal preppy cheerleader with the perfect perky ponytail. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” I say, more breath than words.
“Wherever Matt is taking us.”
She is Matt’s messenger—just a go-between—but I can’t be angry with her, and she knows it. Ahead of us, Matt bounds forward, eyes shifting from left to right in search of something I can’t see.
And then, finally, he stops.
And points.
Alex runs to join him. She gazes at the scene before us, entranced.
I can see why too. It’s a vision from a movie: A waterfall cascades down a sheer cliff face, into a circular lake so blue I’d swear I can see the bottom. Actually, it’s not blue—it’s turquoise. And as the spray from the waterfall catches the afternoon sun and sparkles like jewels, I know it’s the most astonishing place I’ve ever been.
Alex doesn’t speak, but she and Fran lean against each other, heads touching. Fran is smiling too; not a big smile, but enough that I know she’s content. Whatever else has been said today, we’re at peace right now, all four of us. And in spite of the throbbing in my legs, I’m glad I got to see this.
“I could read from the guidebook,” says Alex.
“Or you could just stay absolutely still and quiet,” replies Fran.
Alex nods. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll do that.”
“And in that moment he realized the silence was not around him, but inside him,” says Matt, reciting a line from Hallelujah. “And he thought, ‘Whoa. That’s actually pretty cool.’”
I glance at Matt, but he won’t meet my eyes. I can’t believe he just quoted me perfectly.
“What on earth are you talking about?” asks Alex.
“Just being reflective,” he says.
I can’t tell how far down the lake is, but it has to be the clearest water I’ve ever seen. Compared to the Mississippi back home in St. Louis, it’s glassy. Then again, everything looks clean compared to the Mississippi.
“I have to go down,” says Fran.
“To the water?” I ask. “How? There’s no path.”
“Sure there is.” She and Alex pull apart, and Fran walks on a little way. Then she points. “See, there’s a path right here. Easy.”
I’m sure we’re not supposed to go down there, but Matt and Alex have decided this is a kissing moment, and I’m not hanging around for that. So I traipse along behind Fran, feet slipping, hands grasping for support. In the back of my mind is the nagging thought that I’m supposed to be on a book tour, for Pete’s sake. But when I glance up and take in the scene before me, I forget about everything but the pure and awesome beauty of the sky and rocks and water.
Fran sprints the final yards and kneels beside the lake, cupping water and letting it slip through her fingers. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she says.
Neither have I. The world has been stilled here. The waterfall sounds like a parent hushing a child, and the other sounds merge together harmoniously. The sun feels reassuringly warm against my back.
I close my eyes and lose track of time. For weeks now, I’ve been preparing for the release of Hallelujah, and the TV interview with Pastor Mike, and the tour. My entire life has revolved around this book. Maybe it is the job of every Christian to spread God’s word—to reach out to others—but no one warned me how exhausting it would be; or how it would feel to lose faith in my own words. I haven’t slept well, eaten well, even thought well. I haven’t felt inspired.
But now, as I stand here in my own paradise, I feel the tension melting away. Even Fran is silent. I open my eyes to see what she’s doing.
She’s sitting on a rock, removing her shoes and socks.
“What are you doing?” I ask drowsily.
“I’m going to swim behind the falls.”
Behind her, the sound
of the movie-set waterfall seems to shift: no longer a lullaby, but a roar of warning. It pulls me back to the present. “That’s crazy.”
“No, it’s not. Alex said it’s possible.”
“But look at it.” Fran removes her shorts; it’s hard for me to concentrate. “The falls are…”
“Are what?”
“Are…” I can see her underwear. “Are…” Her underwear is green. “Are… dangerous,” I say so loudly that her eyes flick up.
“Not if you don’t come with me, they aren’t. And I don’t expect you to.”
“It’s irresponsible to swim alone.”
“You’re not responsible for me, Luke. Anyway, if I don’t make it back, just think of the extra room you’ll have on the backseat. This could be a win-win for you.”
I hate that she said that. It’s cruel. So is undressing in front of me. I don’t know where to look anymore. I was so relaxed, and now she’s messed everything up.
“What happened to you, Fran?” I ask.
She folds her slender arms into her body, hiding the black marks on her forearms. “Things changed. That’s what happened.”
“But you used to believe. Now you talk about drowning like it’s a joke. It’s like your faith got tested and you just gave up.”
“At least I’ve faced that test. If I challenge you, you ignore me.”
“You’re not challenging me, Fran. You’re just arguing for the sake of it.”
“Let me get this straight: If you disagree with me, we’re debating. If I disagree with you, I’m playing devil’s advocate. How is that fair?”
“If you like debate so much, why did you leave the team?”
She slaps the water. “I didn’t leave. I was kicked off.”
“You left. You had a choice of sticking to the dress code or leaving. You made your choice.”
“There wasn’t a dress code until I showed up!”
She’s raising her voice, so I lower mine. “They have standards.”
“Yes, they do,” she says, mimicking my tone. “Their standards of debate are inversely proportional to their dress code. How’d it go without me this year?”
The words may be quiet, but her message is fierce and self-righteous. It makes me want to scream. “If you thought they were wrong, why didn’t you fight them?”
“Why should I have to?”
“Oh, right, I get it. It’s not your fault. Nothing’s your fault.”
“Don’t be so naive,” she snaps.
“Personal attack.”
“Screw you!”
“Vulgarity. Automatic disqualification.”
She snorts. “If you’d seen what I’ve seen this year, you’d have a crisis of faith too. I kept waiting for something to change… or someone. I just needed a sign, that’s all. Is that really too much to ask?”
I shrug. “Blessed are those who have not seen, yet still believe.”
“Like you used to believe in me?” she asks quietly.
Fran is half-naked, and it’s a challenge for me not to look away in shame. If this is her sport, I’m unprepared to play. “Yes,” I say finally. “Just like that.”
“But not anymore, huh?”
I don’t want to lie, so I say nothing at all.
Fran takes off her vest and steps to the water’s edge. I can see her bra.
Then she turns around.
Instinctively I look away. But as the seconds tick by in silence, my eyes gravitate back to her. Frances Embree stands before me, a figure from my dreams with a body to give me nightmares. Her purple hair touches her shoulders, metal earrings catching the sun, too many to count. But more horrifying than any of that, I see the same black lines that are etched into her forearms are scarring her stomach too.
We’re alone in our very own Eden, and all I want to do is cry. In the face of all this perfection, Fran has turned against herself, hell-bent on destruction. It’s a path I can’t follow.
I turn and leave. Behind me I hear the gentlest of splashes as she slides into the crystal-clear water, uninhibited, unashamed.
I wonder if I really ever knew her at all.
6:10 P.M.
Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona
The water trickles down my body, rust-colored rivulets that puddle at my feet. I’m halfway through washing my hair when I hear someone coughing next to me. I practically tear down the shower curtain in surprise, and the shampoo runs across my face. “Who is it?”
“It’s me,” says Matt. “What other guys join you in the bathroom?”
“But I’m showering.”
“No kidding.”
I try to rinse the shampoo from my hair and face, but it spills into my mouth and nostrils and my eyes. I start whimpering.
“Man up, bro. It’s only soap.”
I swipe at my face, slapping at anything that feels soapy or filmy. It doesn’t help at all.
Matt doesn’t speak until the whole embarrassing performance is over and I’m collapsed on the floor. “Luke, the Bible gives us several examples of true suffering. Not to sound judgmental or anything, but I’d have say that on a scale of one to biblical, soap in the eyes barely even counts.”
He tosses me a towel. I wrap it around my waist and join him in front of the mirror. Side by side, we’re like before-and-after photos for a bodybuilding program, with me on the wrong side of the illustration. My eyes are red and puffy too.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be making out with Alex or something?”
“Actually, yes. But I promised Mom you’d have clean clothes for all your events, so I’m hand-washing your shirts from the weekend.”
I look at the sink—sure enough, he’s cleaning my white shirts. I can’t believe it. It makes me especially glad I decided to bring my whole backpack. “Thanks, Matt. That’s really… wow. Can I have a word with Mom and Dad too?”
“Uh-uh. Phone’s recharging. But they send their love. Told me to make sure you’re not late again.”
“Oh. What about Colin? Has he called?”
“No. Were you expecting a call?”
“I guess not.”
Matt rinses the first shirt and wrings it out. “Look, I know you probably don’t want to talk about this, but I really need you to try harder with Fran.”
All the goodwill between us evaporates immediately. “But she shouldn’t be here!”
“But she is here. And I’ve read enough of Hallelujah to know that the boy in that book—the boy I saw on The Pastor Mike Show—would do everything possible to make her experience positive. Right?”
To be honest, I don’t remember much of the Pastor Mike interview. I recall hanging out in the greenroom, but as soon as I walked onto the set, everything was overwhelming. My voice found some kind of zone where words came out, but my mind was flitting around like a moth distracted by the countless studio lights. But I see what Matt’s getting at: The boy in Hallelujah wouldn’t stop trying to make a difference, no matter how exhausting that might be.
“Please, Luke,” he says, filling the silence. “Underneath it all, she’s still Fran.”
“Okay,” I say, because really—what other answer can I give? “In return, can you promise me there’ll be no more detours like this?”
Matt rinses and wrings out my other shirt, and hangs both of them up to dry. “Sure. I can absolutely promise you there won’t be any more detours like this,” he says, putting so much emphasis on the last word that I almost wish I hadn’t asked. “Hey, this is going to be a trip to remember. You might want to consider enjoying it.”
As Matt ambles off, I wonder if maybe he’s right for once. Maybe the worst is behind me. Maybe all I need is a good night’s sleep.
At least that’s something I can control.
11:20 P.M.
Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona
I’m fast asleep when the banging starts. I stumble out of bed, open the door, and guard my eyes from the flashlight aimed directly at my face.
“She with y
ou, man?”
I can’t see the guy who’s speaking, but I can smell him just fine. I can also make out Fran’s stooped figure beside him, and nod before I think better of it.
“Better keep an eye on her then,” he says. “She’s wasted, man. Totally wasted.”
He’s clearly telling the truth. Fran will hit the ground the moment he lets go of her.
“Is she going to be sick?” I ask.
“Not sure. Depends, you know? She blew chunks all over the cactus over there, so she might be running on empty.” He lifts her arm off his shoulder and lets it fall over mine. “Another thing: I’d try to get away early tomorrow, if I were you. People around here are pissed, man. Dudes love that cactus like a brother.”
The guy shakes his head and walks away, and it’s just me and Fran and the stench of barf-breath hanging between us.
“Bathroom,” mutters Fran.
I drag her inside, shut the door, and direct her to the toilet. As I turn the light on, she wraps her arms around the bowl and liberates some more of her half-digested dinner. She wipes her mouth with a piece of toilet paper and leans back as she flushes it away.
“Sorry,” she says. “I drank too much.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s a confession, not a question.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Don’t know. I didn’t mean to get drunk. We were just having fun, you know?”
“This is fun?”
She shakes her head, and a few purple strands of hair slip over the seat and into the toilet bowl. She doesn’t even notice.
“Remember Thanksgiving dinner?” she asks suddenly, words slurred. “When you picked up those metal tongs… pretended to defibrillate the turkey?” Her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling.
I remember it, all right. Fran and me standing side by side, serving dinner at the downtown homeless shelter. She snorted so loud when I did it—made me do it again too, until everyone in line cried tears of laughter. How could I forget the way she looked at me in that moment?
That was our last Thanksgiving dinner together.