How’s work?” Tilda asked Beck, interrupting long minutes where the only sounds had been chewing and satisfied mm-mm-mms.
“Good. The same. Too much paperwork, not enough healing work.”
“Our priorities are so screwed up.”
“Indeed they are.”
“How’s your work?” Tilda asked Imogen, somewhat to her surprise.
“Good. Just finished the copyedits on my second novel, Esther’s Ghost.”
“That’s awesome, congratulations! Sorry if I missed your announcement online.”
“Thank you.” She opted not to say more than that. Tilda either hadn’t seen, or chose not to acknowledge, any number of announcements: the deal itself, the cover reveal, the book’s acquisition by a UK publisher.
“She couldn’t post about it but she got a raise, on her advance,” Beck said, chewing as she spoke.
“A little one.”
“And they’re going to send her on a book tour.”
“A little one,” Imogen said again. It wasn’t that she wanted to downplay her achievement, but it had started to bother her when people assumed that being published automatically earned certain benchmarks of success—like making the New York Times bestseller list, or selling the movie rights. Most books lived in a liminal place of near obscurity.
“You really stuck with it,” said Tilda. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.” She appreciated Tilda’s better-late-than-never support, but it triggered some guilt at her own hypocrisy. “Congrats on your book deal—I meant to tell you before, but…”
And then she didn’t know what to say. Tilda’s announcement had come via Instagram a few weeks earlier and Imogen hadn’t “hearted” the post. From the wording, Tilda was being paid six figures to write a feel-good, you-can-do-it-too book inspired by her post–American Idol career. At a minimum, that meant Tilda was being paid five times what Imogen had been paid for her first finally-got-the-damn-thing-published novel.
It had made their impending reunion in the Canyon that much weirder to think about, and Imogen had found herself too often at the losing end of her tug-of-war with the green-eyed monster. It was every variety of petty to be upset by someone else’s success, but sometimes her mind morphed into a vindictive screensaver blinking words from the most flawed part of her heart—former waitress, aspiring-but-retired singer (quitter), reality-TV star, social media influencer. And then, more urgently, and in bold, capital letters: NOT A WRITER! NOT A WRITER!
In the conversational gap, Imogen heard laughter—high-pitched, a woman’s—drift up from the neighboring camp. She imagined a trio of women backpackers in their midthirties, lifelong friends, all of them having a great time. In this trio, it was Tilda who finally came up with a response.
“I know it has to seem funny-not-funny, seeing how I’ve never written anything.”
“But you worked really hard,” Beck said, perhaps oblivious to the tension.
“I’m really happy for you, Tilda, I am. But you know…I have this belief, about how two diametrically opposed things can exist in the same space?” Judging by her face, Tilda had no idea what Imogen was trying to say. “That means I can be happy for you—sincerely happy—but also be jealous.”
Tilda let out a gush of breath, as if she’d been holding it. “Thank you.”
Beck looked up from her dinner, unable to track the subtext of the conversation. “You’re happy that she’s jealous?”
“No. She’s happy I admitted it.”
Tilda nodded. “If the situation had been reversed, if you announced out of nowhere that you’d gotten a big record deal I’d be like what the fuck?”
“I would too ’cause Imogen can’t sing.”
They laughed, but without heart.
“I was almost afraid to be with you this week,” said Tilda. “I know I’m not a writer, I don’t have any of your talent.”
“Sometimes books aren’t about the writing.” Imogen was trying to say something conciliatory, but it didn’t sound right. “I mean, I understand it’s a completely different kind of book. This is your life, your thoughts, your words of wisdom. I’m sure it’ll do really well.”
“If I can write it. It’s probably the most daunting thing I’ve tried to do.”
“Except for this,” Beck offered.
“You might be relieved after this to get home and only have to write a book.”
This time their laughter was more genuine. Imogen was glad it was out in the open, and she recognized Tilda’s efforts to understand her perspective. But it still didn’t feel quite okay. Tilda’s if was a reminder of her own predicament. What would Imogen do when she got home? Even the poems and short stories she’d dabbled with over the past year were unfinished. She’d always prided herself on her discipline. At times she thought writing about the shooting would help her process it, and at other times she considered trying her hand at something light and uncontroversial—a children’s book, perhaps. But all she had to show for a year of effort were dozens of mostly empty Word documents.
“How’s the volunteer stuff going?” Beck asked, nimbly—or obliviously—changing the subject.
“Great.” Tilda’s whole demeanor changed, to something with a high but soft wattage. “I have so much respect for Jalal and everything he’s doing. I feel purposeful in a way I never have.”
Imogen was clueless. Jalal she knew about, though hadn’t met; Tilda had been dating him for over a year, but she didn’t share much about him online.
“What kind of volunteer work are you doing?”
Tilda turned to her, still beaming. “I’ve gotten involved with the immigrant resource center. Originally I thought I’d mostly be helping recent immigrants tap into the resources they needed, but now we’re also trying to keep people from being deported. It’s gotten so merciless—parents who’ve lived here for a generation, paying taxes, all their kids born here. The kids go to school and worry that their parents won’t be there when they get home. They’ve even deported people who were adopted from other countries as babies and have never lived anywhere else. Jalal helps on the legal end, but sometimes we’re literally just ferrying people around, hiding them from the authorities.”
“Oh my God.” Imogen thought of all the dystopian novels she’d read. “This is worse than a horror novel.”
“I don’t understand what’s happened to this country. But I wish my Spanish was better.” She sighed. Imogen remembered how annoyed Tilda used to get in high school when people assumed she spoke Spanish or came from somewhere else. She hadn’t been shy about screaming that her mother was from Texas and her father was from Brooklyn and “We speak English!”
Imogen didn’t know Tilda as someone who took on serious issues. “Why don’t you ever talk about it online? I’m sure some of your followers would be really interested.”
Tilda sucked on her spoon for a moment. “On the one hand I want to, to make more people aware of how bad, how unfair it is. But I don’t want to seem like I’m virtue signaling—and a lot of people in my space do that.” She shrugged. “I’m working behind the scenes, until I figure out a good way to use my platform.”
“Wow. That’s really cool.” She hoped she sounded as impressed as she was.
“When all that’s left…,” Beck sang, rather wobbly. “Remember that? When you’re so bereft…”
Imogen groaned. It was a song from Eighty-Seven Seconds. A slow, sappy tune that fit the maudlin moment when the people on the doomed plane realized they could perform a mitzvah in their final moments of life by simply comforting those around them.
“Is helping your fellow man—we’re all a clan, so take my hand!” Tilda’s professional voice hid Beck’s wavering notes.
“I can’t believe you can still sing that.” Imogen meant it as a put-down to her own forgettable writing.
The singing came to an abrupt end. “You always did underestimate me.”
The rebuke came swift and sharp. Imogen felt herself shrink; she hadn’t meant to insult Tilda. But she didn’t correct or excuse herself, because she heard the deeper accusation behind Tilda’s words. And the truth of it made her feel like she was naked under a spotlight. In Imogen’s mind Tilda was often shallow, self-centered, selfish even—and somehow she hadn’t thought Tilda capable of divining her secret opinions. Surprise.
The silence that followed made Imogen want to mount some sort of argument or counterattack, and she knew exactly where she wanted to direct her blade. But to do so would mean excavating The Thing. A long time ago Imogen had had to choose between dwelling on The Thing or stuffing it away. She’d gone with the latter. Dwelling, she’d feared, would discolor every choice she made.
Night settled in around them and it was almost pitch black. She struggled not to cry.
“We should get this cleaned up.” Beck stacked her dirty dishes and got to her feet. She and Tilda had resumed their easy dialogue, though Imogen had slunk inward and finished her meal without speaking.
Imogen and Tilda both flicked on their flashlights, which had been dangling from their wrists. Together, the three of them rinsed the dishes with the rest of the boiled water, leaving them facedown on a rock to dry. They exchanged light banter in soft voices, as if afraid of awakening someone—or something—best left to slumber. Maybe that was what they all needed, sleep. Tilda’s anger hadn’t resurfaced, but Imogen sensed it there, like a predator stalking the nocturnal landscape, waiting for its moment. As Beck and Tilda got out their toothbrushes, Imogen dug out her marijuana tincture. Just as she was dripping the slightly skunky liquid under her tongue, Tilda directed the flashlight on her.
“What is that?”
“It helps me relax.”
“That isn’t your medical marijuana?” Beck asked, her tone well on its way to disapproval.
“It’s mostly CBD.” Imogen returned it to the pocket of her pack.
“That’s not the point. You brought that on the plane?” Beck’s tone now surpassed disapproval.
“I needed it.” She joined them in their toothbrushing huddle.
“It’s illegal to travel with—”
Imogen cut her off. “I repurposed a Visine bottle.”
Tilda laughed. “Clever.”
“Not clever,” said Beck. “Stupid.”
Imogen shrugged. “Security didn’t look twice.”
They slithered into their sleeping bags, with Beck in the middle, still in their clothes—though they each pulled off their top layer and added to their pillows. It was cold; Imogen hunkered into her bag and zipped it all the way up. For a time they gazed at the sky, pointing out shooting stars and satellites and bright objects they could almost name. Imogen wished she knew the constellations better, but Beck named a few, and spotted a couple of planets, too.
After a while the commentary stopped and they silently watched the heavens. Imogen, aware of the mellowing effects of her tincture, let her eyes go out of focus. In that blurry place the cosmos enveloped her. She breathed in the night and became the night, with the memory of the Milky Way imprinted on her shuttered lids.