He won’t, can’t, climb up to help me right now. And I don’t expect him to. In the Before, I once froze against another wall. In the Before, Dad climbed up to meet me. In the Before, Dad put his forehead to mine and told me It’s okay. I’m here. Whatever’s coming, we’ll face it together.
In the After, Dad doesn’t have the strength. In the After, I face this by myself.
SEVEN
Dad pats my helmet and removes it. “I was worried about you for a second. Everything all right?”
I gaze around at the tall, layered walls in every shade of red imaginable and breathe in the cool canyon air. “Yeah.” I remove my helmet and clip it to my backpack. “Everything’s good.”
We change back into our hiking boots. Leaving the bright red rappelling rope in place so we can climb up later, we set off to discover whatever secret things might be hidden down here in the canyon.
I stretch my arms out wide and gently run my fingertips along the canyon walls while I walk. Small embedded pebbles tickle my fingertips and gently chip at my bitten nails. “Hey, Dad.” I stop and press my palms against the cool, rough surface. He turns around. “Look, I’m as wide as a canyon.”
“As wide as a small canyon.”
“Well, I didn’t say I was as wide as the Grand Canyon.”
Every passing minute brings more light into this narrow crack in the desert. Rock surrounds us and colors transform, light pink blending into deeper maroon like someone swirled cream into the stone but not very well. Sunlight gradually creeps down one wall of the canyon, the rock shining so brightly above us, it seems the canyon is making the light instead of reflecting it.
“Do you think anything lives down here?” I ask.
Dad points at a small, shallow cave, at the white stains running down the rock. “Bats. Probably smaller animals, lizards, snakes for sure.”
“What about bigger animals? Like a mountain lion?”
“I suppose a mountain lion could climb down here.”
“Have you ever seen a mountain lion?”
“Yes, but only from a safe distance.”
“Is there anything you’ve never seen in the desert you think would be cool to see?” Mom and Dad spent so much time out here together, it’s hard for me to believe there’s anything he hasn’t seen.
“Oh, sure. Lots of animals.” Dad stops and thinks a moment. “Never seen a ringtail. Never seen a fox. That would be pretty neat.”
Making our way through the canyon, I gaze up at the pale green jojoba and brittlebush lining the edge and spot a barrel cactus growing out of the wall, where no plant should be able to live. Nothing could ever hurt us down here. Down here we are safe. Alone.
But I’m not sure all this safety is worth all this aloneness.
Dad picks up a rock. “It’s shaped like a heart,” he says and places it in my hand. “A heart for you, my dear.” I roll my eyes at him, and he laughs.
When he turns away, I pocket the heart-shaped stone, the only gift Dad has given me today for my birthday. And this canyon is the only place he can take me because Dad no longer feels any place is safe if people are there—not stores, concerts, festivals, schools, and especially not restaurants. That’s why he found us this canyon—because nothing can hurt us when no one is nearby.
We didn’t die with Mom one year ago at Café Ardiente, but we’ve been slowly dying ever since. Alone.
I pat the heart-shaped stone in my pocket and watch my father’s beaming face as he points out a small gopher snake hiding under a ledge. When he continues walking, I realize he’s humming. I stop and listen, finally making out what it is: “Across the Universe.”
Maybe today we begin to come back to life.
EIGHT
We stop after several hours of hiking and exploring. I remove my backpack and stretch my arms above me, take out my hair tie, and run my hands over my scalp, sore from my tight ponytail. I toss my hair tie in my pack.
Dad’s already munching on some beef jerky, so I grab a protein bar and make my way to an outcropping along one canyon wall where the rock juts out like a small stage a few feet high and wide. I pull myself up and sit cross-legged, eating my bar, running a finger along a deep crack in the stone surface. When I’m done, I take off my hoodie and bunch it up under my head. I lie back on the flat stone surface, just large enough to hold me with my knees bent, and gaze at the slim river of blue sky above. It must be around midday because the desert is quiet and sunlight shines down pretty far into the canyon. Lifting a hand, my fingers nearly touch the beam of light, sparkling with dust, but it’s just out of reach.
Pushing off the outcropping and walking over to my backpack, I remove my notebook and sit down next to Dad. He peers over my shoulder, and I pull my notebook up to my chest so he can’t spy on what I’m writing. He smiles. “Are you ever going to let me read what you write?”
Hugging my notebook, I tell him, “Maybe.”
Dad stares down at me. “Maybe?”
“What if it’s not good?”
Dad puts his arm around me. “If it came from your heart, then it can’t be anything but good.”
“You have to say that. You’re my dad,” I say, my voice hoarse.
“I mean it. Plus, I have some great lines for you to write.”
Raising an eyebrow, I look up at him. “What?”
“What’s brown and sticky?”
I squint at him. “What?”
He picks up a small twig from the canyon floor and places it on my knee. “A stick.”
Scrunching up my nose and covering my smile with one hand, I brush the twig off my leg.
“Seriously, though,” he says, “I used to like writing haikus.”
“I like haikus.”
Dad scratches his stubbly chin. “If I tell you one, you have to tell me one.”
“Okay.”
Dad taps a finger to one pale cheek, already turning pink from the morning sun. A mischievous grin builds on his face, and I know whatever’s coming is not going to be a serious haiku. “This canyon is small,” he says. “But it’s way way way bigger,” he counts on his fingers as he talks, “than shrimpy Nora.”
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, Dad?”
“What?”
“How can you expect me to share my writing when you make a joke out of it?”
“I’m sorry.” His grin fades. “I’d still like to hear one if you’re willing to share it.”
I don’t have to make one up on the spot; I have several written in my notebook. The truth is I love writing haikus. They feel orderly… patterned. I often use them to remember the things Mary tells me. Flipping through my notebook, I find one. My choice is not random. My choice is entirely deliberate.
“Hypervigilance,” I say. “Dad won’t let me go to school.” I slowly look up at him. “He’s protecting me.”
Dad gazes down at me, eyebrows drawn together, questioning, though he doesn’t speak. I know he was expecting me to make up something on the spot, and now he’s waiting for an explanation.
“I want to go back to school,” I say so softly it’s nearly a whisper.