Chapter 3
Maggie
Idon’t move a muscle. Crouched behind a fallen log, focus trained between two ancient eastern white pines, I wait for that split second the sunset will splinter through the branches and explode into hues of gold, amber, and silver.
A sliver of guilt slices through me.
I suck in a deep breath. Not this time. Everyone is safe. I’m home.
One minute more is not going to cost—
My eyes burn and I run a hand over my face, keeping my breaths steady until it passes.
The guilt.
The self-diagnosed PTSD . . .
I double-check—okay, triple-check—the lens cap is off and breathe in the rare air of the Canadian Rockies.
Yoho National Park is the perfect place to discover such things.
It helps I grew up here and have been walking these trails for years.
What better way to debrief from my last assignment than with the nature that nurtured me.
I stifle a scoff at my ridiculously lame humor, not wanting to move a quarter inch before the light finds its last target for the day.
The wildlife all around quietens, settling down as the air turns colder, and the piney scent infiltrating the air around me from the day’s warmth gives way to a more earthy tang. Among the pines and the dense undergrowth, I stand as the shadows of the falling sunset darken.
The disappearing beams travel ever so slowly down the ancient trunks, and I readjust the camera for the umpteenth time . . .
Lower.
Lower . . .
Low—
I depress the button, holding my breath as shards of light pierce the pine-needled bough. Light fragments, illuminating the canopy overhead in its ethereal aura.
I take as many as I can as the light shifts, sways, and bobs downward, giving way to the twilight hues. Darkness falls much faster in the dense forest. I swing around and snatch up my backpack, sliding my camera inside before nestling it onto my back and taking off at a jog back down the trail.
It will be well and truly dark by the time I make it the kilometer and a half back to my car. But absolutely worth it, if those images turn out anything like the real thing. I go over the specs I set one more time as my footfalls thud along the soft, earthy path.
ISO, low—check.
Shutter speed, slow—check.
Angle was great—check and check.
Excitement thrums through me thinking about finally seeing the images and taking my time to peruse, edit, and upload into my portfolio.
I’m so close. This outing is for a submission for my next position. After the incident in the Ukraine, I lost my job. Too much bad press. So much for no such thing as bad press. You wouldn’t imagine how fast the industry turns on its own.
Photojournalism jobs are as rare as hen’s teeth. And I’m submitting for a part-time gig on the East Coast, but they want an updated portfolio.
Apparently, war-torn villages weren’t the aesthetic they’re going for.
This, the stunning spot where I grew up, is my way in.
I cannot miss this opportunity.
My toe snags on a tree root and I face-plant on the dirt, elbows skidding along the path.
Shit.
The forest is dark and cold, like it’s ready to swallow me whole. If I was smart, I would have brought someone along. Heading out alone in the wilderness is never a good idea.
My ankle pinches as I push back to my feet.
“Ah! Oh geez,” I whine, rubbing the throbbing side of my foot.
I need to keep going.
I limp as fast as I can and finally reach the end of the trail where the wild meets the parking lot. Relief floods through me as I find my car where I left it, under one of the few lamp posts. My two-door buzz box fires to life when I turn her over and drop my pack to the passenger seat.
“Good girl, Buzzy.”
I reverse and leave the parking lot, hoping to make it home before Mom starts calling, worried about where I am.
I drive the twenty minutes back to Field, through Main Street, and turn at the second to last left, the corner at Mountain Lake Lodge. My home for the last twenty years, and my mom and my stepdad’s business.
The lodge is lit up. The enormous log-cabin-style accommodation is always busy, no matter the time of year.
Coming and going between assignments, I notice the changes I would have never have before.
The upgrades Brad and Mom have made. The peak season’s influx that’s bigger every year.
The new staff and immaculate gardens and grounds.
When Mom and I first took over the lodge, it was run-down and rarely booked to capacity even in peak season. I was just a little kid.
I pull into the parking lot on the southern side of the lodge and kill the engine. My ankle still throbs from the fall and the hike back to the car, and I make sure to brush off any evidence of a tumble before pushing out of the car.
Folks wander from the foyer and onto the sweeping porch that wraps around three sides of the big, old building. Large oversized multipaned windows afford a view of the packed restaurant and the chandeliers ablaze overhead of happy diners.
I smile, pushing through the front door.
“You’re out late.” Mom’s gaze finds me the second the door shuts.
“Sorry, had to get a shot.”
“Well, you could have got eaten. What do we keep telling you about going up there alone?”
Brad walks from the restaurant section to my left, his arm cradling me into a hug against his chest. “She worries about you. Text next time, hey.”
That’s all it takes for my nonchalant attitude toward my mother’s constant need to know where I am to die a swift death, letting guilt find me the next heartbeat over.
“Sorry, Mama.” I break away from the warmest of bear hugs.
Brad ruffles up my hair like I’m five, not thirty years old.
I smile up at the bear of a man who stepped in and loved us both after my father was killed.
I know how lucky I am to have a father who loves me.
Not everybody gets that. Brad didn’t have to love me, I’m not his flesh and blood, but he did.
Mama’s been through a lot, and her worry is justified after losing my dad.
“Wash up, hey. Looks like you climbed half the mountain.” She winks at me, her worry transformed to cheekiness.
“Only a quarter of it,” I volley back, shouldering my pack and making for the stairs to the right of the front desk.
“Oh, Terrance has a few new things for us to try for next season’s menu. Dinner’s in fifteen.”
“Shoot, I really have to send this submission in.” I grip the banister rail, hesitating on the first step.
“Alright, I’ll bring you a plate. We definitely can’t miss that.”
Brad rounds the front counter, taking the tablet from Mom so she can have a break. Always looking out for her, he is. And me, too. “You’ll have to show me what you got up that mountain later. Dying to see the last pieces to the Maggie Gallagher exhibition.”
I roll my eyes playfully. “If they’re any good.”
“They will be perfect.” He winks at me.
Now I know where Mom learned it. With a chuckle, I spring up the steps, taking them two at a time. Pushing through my bedroom door on the third floor, I toss the bag onto the bed and head straight for my en suite.
Nothing like a warm shower to wake up cold and weary bones. Right now, I need to be awake. I need to bring my best game.
I cannot screw this up.
So much is riding on this.
The steam curls out under the door as I wash away the last of the dirt from my afternoon excursion.
Debris swirls around the drain before being pulled downward, disappearing as if it never existed.
With my skin scrubbed clean and limbs relaxed to the point my ankle no longer bothers me, I shut off the water and hop out.
Dried off and in my comfy jeans and a boatneck long sleeve, I slide into my office chair at the desk that’s seen me through every phase of my life, from third-grade spelling bees to college applications and now this job hunt.
Spinning the wheeled chair round, I lean to one side, plucking my backpack from my bed and retrieving my camera.
I power it up and slip the connection cord into it. Opening my laptop, I wait for the devices to sync. The bar loads, ever so slowly.
I lean back in the chair, scrolling through my Instagram account, double-tapping comments before replying.
Even with a solid ten thousand followers on my account dedicated to my art, every time someone comments on my images it still makes my heart skip a beat.
I love photography, it’s practically in my blood, and I will be following the light with my lens till I’m no longer able, I’m sure.
But seeing other people enjoy it gives me purpose.
I need purpose as much as the air in my lungs and the freedom I’m so, so close to finding. The next step after the disaster of my last assignment.
The laptop pings.
I settle in for the long haul, filtering through shots, dragging and dropping the ones I want to resituate to another folder before backing up all the images to my external drive.
Finally, after three hours, I select the dozen images from the forest trip I want to include in the last segment of my portfolio—flora and fauna.
Another hour later I have them just how I want them and place them in my digital portfolio before writing up the copy for the specs of each image, the intention behind it, and a reflection of my thoughts as I captured them.
With a brief final sweep to check over my writing, I make a backup copy of the portfolio and submit it, five minutes before the deadline.
Nothing like cutting it close.
With a satisfied, happy sigh, I slump in the chair, arms hanging over the armrests. The rest of the week will be a breeze. Feeling very productive for a Sunday, I yawn and rise, padding to my bed. My phone, still on the desk, lights up.
Mom.
All done?
I chuckle as I tap back a reply. I snap on my bedside lamp, killing the main light, with a yawn that waters my eyes.
All done. Sorry I didn’t make it for dinner. See you in the morning. Love you both.
We are so proud of you, sweetheart.
Brad. On Mom’s phone. I bet they’re sitting in bed, waiting for an update. I glance at the clock. 11:57.
Damn, that took forever . . .
I fall back on the bed in full-on starfish mode. Too tired to bother with pajamas, I curl up and pull my duvet over me into cozy burrito formation. My eyes drift shut before I can lift a hand to flick out the lamp.
I lie awake for a moment, waiting for sleep to take me under, sending a little prayer to whoever is listening that the nightmares don’t find me tonight.
I wake up to my alarm Monday morning for the breakfast shift. My unspoken duty when home, waiting tables for the morning crowd and tending the front desk so Mom and Brad can catch some rest. I roll out of bed and waste no time. Already fully dressed, I brush my teeth and fix my hair.
My laptop is open on my desk, but in sleep mode.
It’s only been eight hours since I submitted my portfolio and application, but I’m itching to see how it went even now.
I tap the space bar and the screen lights up, asking for my password. I tap it out and when the telltale ping of new mail rings around the room, I tap the track pad over the mail app.
At the top of the inbox sits an email from my future boss.
That was quick . . .
I open the email with the subject line Portfolio Feedback.
I read the first sentence, and my stomach plummets. My submission was too late. I must have mixed the dates up. When I reach the final one, I collapse onto the chair.
“Oh no . . .”
My hand covers my mouth as heat prickles behind my eyes.
“Oh honey, maybe it’s for the best. You could use a gap year. You’ve almost killed yourself over the last few years.” Her face falls the second the words leave her mouth.
Mom’s hands close over mine still holding my mug.
The stone in my throat is a direct contradiction to what she’s trying so hard to make me see.
This isn’t the end of my career.
This isn’t the end of my art or my voice.
“You can use this year to find your feet again. Do something out in the wild for a while. Just think of the pictures you’ll capture.” Brad gives me an empathetic look.
“Maybe. But how will I get by without an actual paying job . . .” My forehead hits the dining table as a groan rips through my throat.
“Well, if you’re after something paid, I have an option for you. But it’s a traveling gig.” Brad messes up my hair.
I pop my head up.
“What is it?”
He gives me a hopeful smile.
“Pbr needs a new circuit photographer. Pays pretty well, and you’ll see most of the country while you’re at it.”
Rodeo.
“Absolutely not.” The words are as harsh as I intended them to be.
How could he even suggest it?
“Maggie, think of the people you’ll meet and the opportunities that might come your way.” Mom sips her coffee.
“How could you say that? Rodeo is the reason we lost Dad.”
I glance at Brad, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.
“That was decades ago, hon. And no one said you should run off into the sunset with a rodeo man.”
I roll my eyes. Like that would ever happen.
“Well, what do I do for accommodation? I am not sleeping in my tiny car.”
Mom perks up. “I have just the thing.”
Next thing I know, I’m standing in the doorway of the double bay barn. Its doors are swung open, revealing the old VW van Mom used to drive when she was my age. How is that even possible . . .
“Take a week or so to get her running,” Brad starts, pulling the tarp from the old van. “But she’ll take you anywhere you want to go. These old buses are sturdy, and it’s like a tiny home on wheels.”
I fold my arms as I narrow my gaze at him. “You’re serious.”
“As a coronary, Mags.”
I sigh and push up a smile. Watch out, rodeo, here comes the most skeptical photographer with the biggest baggage the circuit has ever seen.