“It’s beautiful,” Kat said, holding the bracelet in her palm. “It will remind me to sort my jewelry, so to speak.”
When the two women hugged tightly, it felt like two souls connecting for one moment, which was one pure treasure.
—
When she pulled out of the driveway, Ammalie sang a string of joyous cusswords to Lady, who sat in the seat beside her, taking it all in with a panting smile. The curses were a release of nervousness, an acknowledgment of the weirdness of some future time when the homeowner might have a strange exchange about a mysterious person who stayed for Scrabble, the one who had scraggly graying hair, or the moment he found the stacked wood or a necklace or a note about a missing puzzle piece.
Oddly, she wasn’t scared. There was no camera at the house. Kat had never seen her car, since she was inside unpacking when Ammalie pulled out of the driveway. Humans were capable of not noticing, or not caring, or explaining things away in their mind, both small stuff and big.
People were truly capable of zoning out. Which is exactly what she’d done these last years, of course. There was plenty she’d not noticed, surely.
Still, it was stunning how easy it was to get away with this.
And if anyone stopped and questioned her, well, now she could just say she was exploring, driving along and looking for public land access for camping. An older man drove by in a black minivan and tipped his hand up from the steering wheel—a local rancher, she assumed, in an odd choice for a vehicle. She lifted her fingers from the wheel at the same time she saw him squint at Lady and tilt his head. She pressed on the gas and drove faster, glancing in her rearview mirror, but the minivan had gone on. For one thing, it was a narrow, snowy road, no good places for a turnaround, but for another, he was likely on his own way, somewhere, in his own life.
Real food. That was her first stop, and so she drove to a coffee shop in a cluster of buildings alongside the highway and ordered a coffee and lasagna to go, not wanting to leave Lady in the car alone for long.
Communication. That was next. Her phone revealed a text from her sister, and she decided not to respond, which was normal—she and Apricot often went weeks without check-ins, even since the diagnosis. Nothing from Powell, and she felt a surge of bitterness or anger or sorrow, she wasn’t sure what, rise and bloom in her chest. After the funeral, Powell had checked out, which is the opposite of what she had hoped and tried for. Since her repeated texts and calls clearly only irritated him, then made him blow up big-time, she’d been trying for silence.
Mari, however, had left many texts.
All well? What tense are your daydreams?
Hey, I’m at Avogadro’s! Which is reopened now after the fire! Burt recognized me, says hello, says a customer has been asking about you. Wondered if he can give out your number?
Hey, a guy named Levi is here at Avogadro’s. Handsome Black middle-age guy. He wants to know where you are. Can I tell him? Please advise.
Oooooohhh…Is he that regular you liked so much? How come you never told me he was Black? Not that it matters, but maybe it does? Just because, well, our neighborhood. Our lives. Not the stuff of our youth. Not what we dreamed of. I’m the only POC around & so get to deal with all the dumb Day of the Dead questions! America is so weird. I won’t give out number till you give me the ok. How’s the dog?
Now that you mention it, my daydreams are about a younger me. That is sad.
Ammalie sat in the car, engine running for warmth, and closed her eyes. So that she could feel what she was feeling. Because it was a burst of warmth. Of magic. She felt the Sea Creature surge up happy in her chest. Levi. Levi was looking for her!
Such a simple small thing, such a dumb thing, but it filled her with some youthful excitement, expanded her whole chest. She hadn’t felt this in so long! She had the vague echo of a memory of this sort of feeling, and she touched her chest and laughed.
She texted back: Safe and sound but leaving for a new place. Yes, Levi was the nice regular. He looks like Denzel Washington. Handsome, don’t you think? Do you think it’s weird I only ever dated white men? Well, I hardly dated. Then I got married. So maybe I didn’t have the chance. Always had a crush on Levi and maybe him on me, but I think I just dreamed that because I wanted it to be real. But there was…fondness. But honestly (I can admit this only to you), I was always intimidated by him—he’s too cool, and I’m too, well, uncool. As you know. Tell him I’m on a spiritual journey of sorts. Or on vacation. I’m not ready. Get his number and tell him I’ll reach out. I’m secretly happy to hear he asked about me. Even though he was just a customer. But still. It’s nice. I want him to be happy.
Immediately Mari responded, Call me, but when Ammalie tried, the call dropped twice, and so she responded, Sorry, can’t, will when I have a signal, at a small café in the middle of nowhere, but larger towns coming up.
Mari wrote back, You always compare men to actors. Is there any man who does not look like an actor? Are you lonely?
As a reply, Ammalie attached a photo of snowy mountains lit by alpenglow. I have plenty of company, including myself. Vincent only looked like Vincent. You look like Rita Moreno. You are a good friend. Xoxoxox
Then she texted a vague Hope you’re well, love you to her sister and son.
There was a call about extending her car warranty and one from a vague friend from childhood, checking in, having just heard about Vincent’s death. There were some emails from friends, both close and peripheral, but nothing required a response. She sipped at her coffee and stared at her phone. It used to be so important—the dings kept her addicted and grounded—but now she felt no great need for it at all. Before she left, she texted Mari one more time: Hitting the road again. With the dog. Will call soon, I promise. I’m happier than I’ve been in some time. Thank you. It’s working, this plan of mine.
CHAPTER 7
The next morning, after splurging for a room in an old mom-and-pop hotel on the side of a road, she drove south toward Taos, a historic town she’d always wanted to see. She chomped on an apple with her driving hand, finger-combed her hair with her other, and sang ’80s songs as loudly as she could. Randomly, when she had service, she asked her phone, “Where does the Rio Grande rift start?” Taking the time to do this was something explorers would do. To simply allow the space for curiosity. Deep canyons had to start somewhere, after all, and she knew the Rio Grande Gorge started with a rift, but where did that rift begin?
Somehow, seeing the beginning of a tectonic chasm felt important—perhaps it would give her insight into her own shifting, her own fault line. Google Maps led her across a flat landscape dusted with snow that ended in a desolate dirt parking area with an expansive view of the Rio Grande winding its way across flatland. The area had one old car parked in it, which felt like a beacon. She pulled up next to it, got out with Lady, bundled up, and started walking alongside the slow-moving river, which was beautifully caught in the in-between stages of freezing over, a dark stream of running water in the middle, ice on both edges.
And there it was: Up ahead, the land started to sink. Or, rather, small red cliffs started to rise up alongside the river. It depended how you wanted to look at it, either the land sinking or the cliffs rising, but either way, this was the very beginning of what would become one of the world’s most famous and deep canyons downstream.
“Empyreal,” she said, and it was. She picked her way along the ice and rocks with Lady trotting nearby, and then they both stopped suddenly. The large tracks of a cat—mountain lion? bobcat?—gave her pause. Her heart thrummed and her ears went on alert and her eyes scanned the cliffs, now as deep as she was tall, but all she saw were mud swallow nests clinging to rock.
She considered turning back, but she had Lady, and also she could see three figures in the distance, and the presence of other people made her feel at ease. As they neared, she nodded a hello, as did they, and they were about to pass one another when she cleared her throat. “Hey, do you know what that is?” She pointed across the river to several tall columns made of stacked stones.
A teen with a shock of black hair with dyed blond edges spoke first. “Old remnants of a mojonera.”
“From the late 1800s.” The man was broad-shouldered and wore a thick flannel shirt. “Provided shelter for those watching sheep. Also a directional marker—a cairn of sorts. And also, maybe, humans just need a landmark, a place to feel safe, or to land, no?”
“Interesting,” she said, and meant it. “And this is exactly where the Rio Grande Gorge starts, this is the rift that turns into that big, deep canyon near Taos?”
All three nodded, and she said, “That’s way cool,” and they nodded again.
Then the woman spoke. “Can you imagine those early explorers? Encountering a huge gorge like that? They had to cross it somehow. And this is the spot. This area is known as the Vargas crossing. Of course, they were relying on the people already here, who knew such things.” She had graying black hair pulled into a cascading ponytail. “De Vargas was an explorer, and like everyone, he needed a way to cross the chasm. I think we forget how hard it must have been, getting across these landscapes.”
“You walked the bridge across the great canyon yet?” the man said.
“Not yet. Going there next.”
“People jump to their death there,” the teenager said in a matter-of-fact voice. “There are telephones. You know, so you can make the call. It’s super scary. The bridge sways and stuff. Gives me the squeebie-jeebies.”
The woman reached out to ruffle his hair. “It’s true,” she said, quietly. “Two types of people go there. For such contradictory reasons too. Either to jump to their deaths or to be awed by the beauty. The second is the holy choice,” and she made the sign of the cross.
The kid nodded downstream. “And this is a holy place. There are petroglyphs in that direction. On the right. This area has a pretty interesting history.”
