Before #2
“Oh, yeah, well…”
“I mean it. It’s inspiring. Most people live their whole lives and never even think to try something like this, much less alone. And here you are—doing it.”
My chest was tingling. My whole body was.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched.”
After that, we hiked in silence for a long time.
But the tingling stayed and stayed even through the exhaustion of a day that seemed to go on and on.
By the time we were taking a short break before our last push to camp we were all struggling, Van most obviously.
To his credit, he persisted without complaint, but he was breathing noticeably harder than the rest of us, a surprise given how fit he obviously was.
“You taking the altitude medication?” Richard asked him when we stopped for a break.
We were grabbing water and snacks, our new routine.
“You worry about yourself” was Van’s response.
“Come on now,” Scotty pressed. “This isn’t one of those naturopath things, is it? I get it—you’ve got a brand to protect but—”
“I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” Van said. But it wasn’t very convincing, even to me.
“I don’t believe you,” Richard said. “It’s all fine and good for you to push vitamins and a vegan lifestyle on people who just need to get off the couch, but this isn’t a game.”
“Oh, leave him be, Richard,” Brooks said. “He’s a grown man who’s twice the athlete any of the rest of us have ever been. He knows his own body.”
“I’m with Richard on this, Van,” Scotty said. “The medication isn’t optional.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Step in line, Scotty,” Brooks said in a deep baritone. “The general has spoken.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Richard laughed, but he looked more confused than amused.
“Come now,” Bakari said firmly. “Onward. Daylight is wasting.”
—
An hour later we arrived at the first camp. Our tents were already set up, lower and even smaller than I had expected.
We were at 9,255 feet now, 2,500 feet above base camp, 2,000 feet above the point from which we had started hiking that morning after an hour’s drive to the trailhead.
Two thousand feet was a very respectable elevation to have covered in a single day, and I’d held my own.
More than kept up with the group, in fact.
Van was doing better after a little food and rest, but now it was Scotty who was struggling.
“The mountain has its own plans,” Bakari reminded us later as we finished dinner, acknowledging the random swings in everyone’s homeostasis. “It is important to be patient.”
“Sorry about that earlier,” Richard said as the others rose from the table.
We were alone for the first time since the trip started, the rest of the group headed out into the darkness, headlamps guiding their way.
The air in the dining tent suddenly felt charged.
It was destabilizing. There was something here.
Something I wasn’t looking for, did not want. And yet it was impossible to ignore.
Not that it mattered. I didn’t mess with married men—figuratively or literally. Never again. That had been a promise I’d made to myself and easily kept over the years. Inappropriate men, on the other hand—too young, too drunk, too creative, too distracted? Sure.
“Sorry about what?” I asked.
“Our bickering. Sometimes we all act like the teenagers we were when we met. But you don’t need our regressing ruining your trip.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” I said, because who cared about that in a moment like this. The quiet. How close we were standing. Had we moved closer together or did we start that way? I could almost feel the heat of his body. “I have a group of old college friends, too. It’s like family: complicated.”
Richard smiled. “That’s generous.”
“You guys are easy to spend time with. It’s kind of nice disappearing into all your history. In a way, it makes it easier to forget my own for a while.”
Richard was looking at me like he wanted to ask exactly what I meant. I saw the moment he decided not to.
“So why are you here?” I asked quickly. “I mean, aside from the joys of regressing.”
“That’s a good question,” he said, making a face as he tapped the table. “Lately, I’ve been trying to get to the point of all of it. I’ve been working my whole life, achieving things—and I don’t care about my job at all.”
“So, you decided to climb one of the seven summits?”
Richard laughed. “Wasn’t my idea, technically. But I am here now. You’re right, I should get something out of it.” He paused. “I bet you care, really care, about your work.”
“That’s true. But don’t worry—I have lots of other problems.”
And then we both laughed.
“Anyway, we’ll try to keep the juvenile razzing to a minimum so as not to disrupt your peace.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
The tightness was still sitting in my chest as we stepped out of the dining tent into the darkness.
In the distance, the headlamps moved back and forth.
I could hear quiet laughter, the sounds of singing very far away.
There were at least a dozen other groups at the camp, and it was much less serene than I’d anticipated.
But we’d been assured that the groups thinned out as the days passed.
I looked up at the inky sky, so blanketed with stars that it looked like glitter-covered velvet. I felt at once so small and also infinite. “This place seems so impossible—the trees, the animals, the sunsets. I don’t even believe I’m standing here, to be honest.”
“ ‘Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.’ ”
“Where’s that from?” I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets and looked up again at the sky.
Richard laughed. “The Bible, I think. I’m not very religious, but I believe that at least.”
“Sounds…risky.”
We stood together for one last moment, eyes lifted to the glittering sky.
Finally, Richard shrugged. “Maybe that’s the best part.” He slid his hands into his own pockets as he started forward toward his tent. “Sleep well, Frankie.”
—
Inside my tent, with my headlamp set up like a lantern, I was still trembling from my exchange with Richard.
But no—I’d already decided. Just no. I was grateful for the focus required to get even the most basic tasks accomplished: teeth brushed, spitting out the tent flap; face cleaned with wipes; getting the right clothes laid out for the morning.
Trying to figure out what the right clothes might be.
I left the air mattress for last, trying and failing to inflate it the way I’d seen the tech at REI demonstrate so easily.
When I tried a second time, I instantly felt lightheaded.
At this altitude, some things just weren’t an option.
I wiggled into my sleeping bag on the hard ground.
And then there was only the dark and the mostly quiet.
And me. Not silence, not yet. The smallest sounds traveled forever through the night air.
Every cough, every shift or footstep. The rustling of some kind of creature at the outside edges of my tent. Still, so much space to think.
About the ground—so cold and so hard.
About that night. I was back in that cramped little bathroom at the back of the house, the noise from the party far away.
The bathroom tiles cold and hard under my bare knees as I knelt to unbuckle the Senator’s pants—God, that part was thrilling.
Because he was glamorous and powerful and so sure of himself.
How I loved the feeling of being chosen by someone like that.
Someone who knew things that I didn’t, who saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself.
The sick truth was that his wedding ring made the whole thing more exciting.
It made me feel mature and reckless and almost as powerful as he was.
I wanted to take him in my mouth, I did.
But suddenly, the Senator was on top of me.
He shoved my dress up and pulled my underwear to the side.
And then, so fast, he was inside me. I didn’t say no.
Not out loud. But silently, a part of me was screaming. She had been screaming ever since.
I was jolted awake sometime later by voices in the tent nearest to mine. Richard’s tent. I couldn’t make out most of the words. Just the cadence of a conversation between Richard and Van. The anger between them was unmistakable.
“I am not” and then “…money”—that was Van.
And then Richard: “I am not having this conversation again. I’m going to sleep.”
“I’m done, done—done,” Van replied. A beat later there was some aggressive unzippering and zippering of Richard’s tent, then footsteps stomping away, then what must have been Van’s tent opening and closing.
Then nothing at all.
* * *
After Noah and Max leave, I consider leaving, too.
I could face the damage in the morning. At least the ruined paintings weren’t intended to be included in the show.
Those I’ve already moved to the gallery.
But I’m pretty sure the new series is—was—the best thing I’ve ever painted.
Figures of women, more fractured than anything I’ve ever done—bolder, braver, more uncompromising.
Raw. But there’s also an emotional depth to them.
Like what I found in Africa has made its way into my work.
The paintings feel like the first tangible proof that a new version of me might be possible. Gone now, erased again. By the Senator.
The sooner I clean up, the sooner I can pretend this whole thing never happened—which, of course, is my specialty.
But the destruction, it turns out, is even worse than I realized—four out of six of my newly finished canvases are sliced, as if with a knife, clean through their center.
I could tuck them away somewhere, hope to figure out a way to fix them later.
But I don’t think I can bear to be reminded of this feeling of powerlessness; like I’m a ballerina trapped in a sinister music box.
Turns out the paint on the floor and walls is even more of a problem than the damaged paintings.
Spray paint, I think when I look closely at the fuzzy edges—neon red, blue, yellow.
The colors feel blunt and garish compared to the subtle shades of my own work.
The frenzied pitch of the damage feels like someone is screaming at me.
I try paint remover, but it immediately pulls the stain off the floor, leaving a small bleached area. Shit. It makes even more of a mess on the wall. The floor will need a professional. Not cheap, but okay—I can handle this. The damage isn’t permanent. Forward. Onward.
I lift the first of the four damaged canvases and head for the door.
There are renovations going on next door, a large dumpster out front covered in warnings blaring: No Unauthorized Use!
I’ll need to get the canvases all the way inside, so no one sees.
The last thing I want is for the gallery to get wind of what happened, but also for my own sake.
I can’t bear the thought of leaving them abandoned on top. Like actual garbage.
Outside on the dark stretch of sidewalk, I stand on tiptoes and peek inside the dumpster. Nearly empty, but not completely. Perfect. In the morning, more construction debris will go on top, and this nasty incident will officially be buried. Like so much else in my past.
I close my eyes as I lift the canvas. It’s not light, and I get it only halfway up in the air before it catches the edge of the dumpster. I manage to slide it up a little farther until eventually it tilts and falls in. A second later, there’s a loud thud as it hits the bottom.
“That bad, huh?” a voice calls.
I startle and turn—Richard, standing under a streetlight, hands deep in the pockets of his navy-blue field jacket. My breath catches, and I feel myself blush. In my defense, the halo of light makes his blue eyes glow.
“Oh, hi…” I’m thrilled. But also a little confused. “How did you know where…?”
It sounds more accusatory than I intended. Richard gestures toward a neon sign in a window above my head: Crystal Ball and All. “The name stuck with me,” he says a little sheepishly. “I looked it up.”
While we were hiking, I’d mentioned to the group my habit of getting my tarot cards read upstairs from my new studio when I was having a bad day.
“Oh, right.” I move away from the dumpster, trying to ignore the rush of warmth moving from my cheeks to my chest. “What are you doing here?” I don’t really care. I’m just glad he’s there.
“Why are you throwing out art?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“Someone broke into my studio and trashed a bunch of paintings. Spray-painted all over the place.”
“That’s— Are you okay?” He looks worried as he comes closer. “Is this—do you think it’s that guy you heard from?”
Of course he makes that connection. Because he listens, he cares.
But he’s married. What is wrong with me?
God, this…whatever I feel is exhausting.
I am exhausting. It is much easier, all things considered, to feel nothing.
I focus on brushing the construction dust off my pants. “I don’t know. I think maybe.”
“Can I help you clean up?” he asks.
“It’s okay. I think I need to do that part myself,” I say. Relying on Richard’s help feels wrong under the circumstances. But I do need to tell him about the picture the Senator sent me. “If you give me a bit to clean up, though—I’ll need a stiff drink when I’m finished.”