Carry Me Home (12 page)

Beth gives him a little wave. “Hey, Mr. S.”

His head grazes the top of the door frame. He’s huge, my dad, but quiet, more a gentle giant. Mom used to run the show around these parts, a high-strung Chihuahua to his laid-back golden retriever. Now he wanders around like he forgot where he hid his bone. He’s not in the right headspace to deal with my crap. All I need to do is fake happy and stay alive.

“You finished yet?” He shifts his weight, eyeing the mess spread over my bed. “We’ve got to hit the road soon to beat the traffic. Don’t want you missing your flight.”

Sunny leaps up with a squeal and wraps me in a fierce bear hug. “Safe travels, honeybunch.”

She’s the only person who occasionally calls me by Pippa’s old nickname. I miss hearing it but don’t have to look at Dad to know he flinches.

“Remember your promise.” Sunny presses her forehead to mine. “You can’t call either Beth or me while you’re gone. We’ll be fine. This time’s just for you. Relax. Get a tan. Ride a platypus. Throw a shrimp on the barbie and whatnot.”

“Got it.” I nod as she gives me a final squeeze. Sunny’s firm in her belief that we can’t communicate until I return home. She wants me to escape from my family train wreck, and you can’t get much farther than Australia. I’ll have five months to screw my head back on straight.

Beth steps forward with a steely look in her gray eyes, but maybe I’m imagining things because in another second it’s gone. She rumples my hair. “Don’t forget to have fun, Tals.”

“Never do,” I crack. When’s the last time I let go, lived without an invisible boulder crushing my chest? Can’t even remember.

“Good times.” Dad grabs the suitcase with an easy swing while I cram the rest of my stuff in the bulging duffel. “There’s going to be a lot to celebrate when you get home. You three, almost ready to graduate.” He casts a hesitant smile in my general direction. He was the first kid in his family to go to college. I know it means the world to him that he can provide me with an opportunity for higher education.

My lungs go on strike. A full breath is impossible.

He’d be so proud to learn his only surviving daughter is a liar and a failure.

I’m letting him down.

Like mother, like daughter.

My core grows cold. The letter from the history undergraduate committee is torn into a hundred pieces in the trash. They denied my petition to extend my senior thesis and the resulting F is a nuclear detonation in my transcript. My GPA is blown and because I didn’t pass a mandatory class, I’ll have to repeat the semester. Dr. Halloway offered to write a letter requesting medical exemption, but that would mean owning a crazy-ass diagnosis like obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Even before Pippa’s accident, there were warning signs. Indicators like being hyperconscious about unplugging electrical devices or rechecking that I locked the front door in a certain way that felt “right.” Over the last few years my compulsions intensified. I had to eat my food in pairs, not one M&M, not three M&M’s, but two every time. Don’t get me started on setting my alarm clock, changing a car radio, or trying to fall asleep. Over the course of last semester, I became convinced I contracted leukemia, thyroid disease, and MS. My nights were spent symptom Googling my way to academic probation.

After breaking down in my childhood doctor’s office a few weeks ago, Dr. Halloway wrote me a prescription for a low-dosage antidepressant. He says the medication will increase my serotonin levels and in turn decrease the severity of my symptoms. It’s got to work. I can’t continue being a closet freak. Dr. Halloway also strongly advised cognitive behavioral therapy, stressing it would be helpful—vital, in fact—in controlling OCD impulses.

Right now, escape is preferable to weekly psychologist meetings. Once Santa Cruz and its ghosts are behind me, I’ll feel better.

“Peanut?” Dad’s frowning, so are Sunny and Beth. I’ve zoned out again, lost in my navel-gazing bullshit.

“It’s all good.” I flick on a megawatt smile because that’s what I do best, fake it until I make it. “Australia’s going to be great. Just think, tonight I’ll be passing the International Date Line. I’m going to Tomorrowland.”

Leaving is the only way to move forward.

If I never get lost, I’ll never be found.

A
ll the online “how to land your dream job” advice stresses the same point—expect the unexpected during an interview. But come on, how can one expect what’s unexpected? Then again, my imagination is vivid. Surely I can expect anything, right? And if I expect the unexpected, maybe the unexpected will cease to exist. Ooh, or what if it never existed?

My brain implodes while I fidget on the beanbag, the only available seating in the lobby. No, I didn’t just smoke up outside in the parking lot—my messed-up lungs would never tolerate that. For better or for worse, this is the usual functioning of my sober mind.

The
Outsider
magazine offices have evolved beyond sad little cubicles, beige carpet, and soul-sapping artificial light. I expected capital
C
cool, but this is a whole other alphabet of awesome. Platinum LEED-certified building? Check. Koi ponds and floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of Bear Peak and the surrounding Flatirons rock formations? Check. Let’s not forget about the team-building zip lines near the main entrance, the electric-car charging stations, or the indoor climbing wall.

Pursuing a job with the country’s oldest and most prestigious outdoor lifestyle magazine is the last thing anyone would predict me doing. I’m a play-it-safe girl suited to an entry-level role in the state capitol press corps, a reliable and responsible career path. Not this—tiptoeing into the land of adventure junkies. But being here, pushing my limits, quickens my pulse, sends an adrenaline surge through my veins. It’s out of character, and it feels damn good, like I’m stepping from black-and-white into a world of color.

I shift position, scratching my knee, and the resulting bean crunch is noisy enough to cause the receptionist to glance over the plant-filled stack of timber beams that passes for her desk. Her gaze is cool, slightly annoyed. She’s no doubt thinking that I don’t have a hope in hell of fitting in here if I can’t even manage to sit without making an awkward production. I drop my eyes, diligently studying the ankle zip of my slim-fit gray dress pants.

Everyone strolling past is the epitome of laid-back and earthy while simultaneously projecting this indefinable aura of capability. They are also really, really, ridiculously good-looking. Even the receptionist must moonlight as a Pilates instructor or a fitness model. The large yellow
VISITOR
sticker on my shirtfront makes it clear I don’t fit in, especially not with my poor attempt at a sophisticated French-twist hairstyle and awestruck stare. An unaccompanied golden retriever pauses for me to give it a quick behind-the-ear scratch. In yet another unconventional nod, apparently dogs are welcome around the office. The DIY espresso cart across the lobby offers complimentary organic fair-trade coffee while understated indie folk music plays from the surround sound.

Holy Mother of God, I long to be part of this cool club.

Except you’re nothing compared to these people. Why are you even bothering? They are going to laugh you out the front door.

My cheeks burn as my breathing gets shakier. It’s funny how all my internal negative self-talk whispers in my twin sister’s voice. Not ha-ha funny, either—weird funny. But this isn’t a time for dredging up my self-worth issues. I need to focus, project calm competence. I can do this.

I have to.

My only offer is a reporting gig with a community paper out of Bakersfield, California, recently rated America’s most polluted city. Beggars can’t be choosers in this economy, but even though my asthma improved after my teens, I can’t afford to play with fire, or more specifically, shitty air quality. I need the
Outsider
position.

Boulder is the perfect place—hits lists for both happiest and brainiest city, in addition to topping community well-being indexes. It’s been my home for the last four years, and even with the shiny new University of Colorado degree under my belt, I don’t want to live anywhere else. Three hundred days of sun a year, fabulous food, hundreds of local hiking trails, amazing street performances on Pearl Street, and a small-town feel with a big arts scene—where could be better?

“Miss Woods? They’re ready for you.” The receptionist gestures to the three-sided glass cube meeting room behind her, the one where four strangers lounge around the
Outsider
version of a conference table, an orange picnic table on rollers.

Go time.

Asthmatics can be mouth breathers. Not a great first impression. Lip check. Ensure mine are politely closed. Yes, good. Now inhale through the nose, shallow breathing at a controlled rate. Key is to remain calm and keep the self-doubt under lock and key.

Four people are on the panel: Tortoiseshell Glasses Lady, Bushy Sideburns Guy, Red Turban Girl, and Man-Who-Has-Seen-So-Much-Sun-He-Resembles-Beef-Jerky. They introduce themselves as Ember (editor in chief), Capp (editorial assistant), Briar (associate editor), and Reed (editor). There’s a phrase scrawled over the table in stenciled words.
To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.
There isn’t an attribution to the quote, but I have a smug moment of thinking,
Oscar Wilde.

Tortoiseshell Glasses opens with an easy, “So, Auden, can you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

Why, yes, I can. In fact, I’m so rehearsed, it’s almost as if I’m reciting bullet points.

• Twenty-one-year-old journalism grad from Aspen (omit the whole depressing childhood asthma part where I spent winters nose pressed to the ski lodge windows while snow fell on the slopes).
  
• Won a scholarship from the Outdoor Writers Association of America for the piece about my grandfather, plus held several different positions on the university paper with progressive responsibility (including my senior-year role as the online content manager). Don’t leave out the 3.94 GPA. That’s all in my résumé, but it’s worth reiterating.
  
• Cue a mic-drop moment by describing how my grandfather is Dale Woods, one of the twentieth century’s most revered explorers and a major life influence. (Ignore the pesky detail that Grandpa died before I ever got to really know him or how I’m more enamored of Booker Prize–winning author Hilary Mantel than Edmund Hillary, the first person to summit Everest.)
  
• Identical twin, grit teeth and mention Harper is heading to the Olympics. (Conveniently overlook the not-so-fun-fact that our relationship sucks. When people hear the word
  twins
  , they often imagine besties who finish each other’s sentences. Yes, some twins behave that way. I’ve encountered a few and they’re mystifying. Harper and I never shared a mirror-image relationship, unless it was one from a fun house.)
  

I dry my sweaty hands on my knees and on we go. That’s when the trouble starts. Every question is exactly what I expect, what I rehearsed.

Beef Jerky: “Can you tell us about your experience with social media?”

Bushy Sideburns: “Are you okay working evenings and weekends?”

Red Turban: “Share an example of a time you’ve worked in a team to get something accomplished.”

Back over to Tortoiseshell: “What cartoon character best describes you?”

That last one’s random, but the by-the-seat-of-my-pants answer, “Scrappy from
Scooby-Doo
,” earns me a few chuckles.

I’m on fire and they’re taking notes, smiling and giving one another subtle nods. My guard drops and I start mentally decorating my desk in the rustic but chic open-plan office space when it happens.

The unexpected turns up when—wait for it—I least expect it.

Guess it exists after all.

Red Turban (who would be my boss): “Tell us about a unique, personal adventure you’ve undertaken that would be of interest to
Outsider
readers.”

From the way the panel leans in, making direct eye contact—this is it, the money question. The proof in the pudding that I’m their people: rugged, exciting, interesting. The reality is I’m none of these things. I’ve traveled nowhere noteworthy, and this crowd isn’t going to be impressed with the fact that I’m a fair-to-middling croquet player or rock the house in darts, especially after a few pints of PBR.

Blow this moment and kiss Boulder and office nirvana good-bye. You’ll be living in the USA’s worst place to breathe, clutching your inhaler. Childhood asthma will seem like a time of rainbows and unicorns after a year in smog-filled Bakersfield.

A framed woodcut poster hangs on the mud-brick wall behind their heads. The image is of three massive stone towers and the words
Torres del Paine, Patagonia.

Wait…What if…?

My tongue forms the next words before my brain can put on the brakes. “You know…traveling to South America has always been a dream of mine.” There are a few faint frowns. “A dream I’m about to make a reality,” I amend hastily. Seriously, if I had a firstborn child handy, I’d offer it up to get this opportunity.

My quick thinking works—the four frowns turn upside down.

I start rattling off upcoming plans to cycle tour South America even though the idea never crossed my mind until sixty seconds ago. Who knows where these words come from? It’s like I’ve been plotting the trip for years. I’m even getting excited about the outrageous prospect. My Spanish is better than decent, and this internship isn’t set to begin for another three months. This could be a perfect way to get out in the world, live a little, and gather story fodder to build my street cred.

Plus, there are huge bonus points to being on another continent during the lead-up to Harper’s Olympic bid. A cycle trip is a perfectly acceptable way to avoid Sister Dearest’s mounting stress and her inevitable wire hanger-esque meltdowns. Imagine not having to be her human punching bag for once?

I road bike on the weekends (fine, like once or twice a month), and I am pretty good in my spinning class, so it’s not out of the question. I’ve never been big on improvising, but damn it, I want this internship: the freaking koi ponds with Japanese-style footbridges, the environmentally responsible toilets, and cappuccino on tap.

Tortoiseshell Glasses sits back and crosses her arms, leveraging me an assessing look.

Have I done it, convinced them? I cross and recross my legs.
Come on, come on, come on.
I’ve almost half convinced myself at this point.

“I must say, I’m impressed, Miss Woods,” she says. The others nod.

“Thank you,” I answer quickly, nerves exploding like miniature bottle rockets.

“This South America trip has the potential to be of great interest to our audience,” she continues. “There is another vacant position here at
Outsider
, one we are vetting during the internship interviews. It’s an online content writer, putting out one to two items a day on our website with a guaranteed byline.”

“I’d be very interested,” I manage to say even though my mouth is dry. A paid position building clips for my portfolio?
Glory, glory, hallelujah
.

Tortoiseshells gives me a tight smile. “I’m sure you are. So are the other thirty-five applicants we’ve interviewed. We are hiring three interns, and the one who electrifies us the most will land the position.”

It takes a massive effort, but somehow I manage to keep my nod more casual and less desperate. An internship would be a dream come true. An actual job here would be akin to discovering a pot of gold.

It’s a tight fit inside my pointy-toe flats, but I cross my toes with a quiet plea to the universe.
Please.

Fate must have taken pity on my sorry butt, because the next day, I get the call from human resources. “Miss Woods, we are pleased to inform you that you’ve been selected for an internship with
Outsider
magazine.”

I’m starting the position in three months, right after New Year’s, and even more amazing, I’m in contention for a paid job. Publishing is a competitive industry, and this opportunity represents a solid foot in the door.

Maybe I stretched the truth—fine, outright lied—but there’s no guilt bubbling inside my stomach, because for once I’m going to be the one who takes a risk, reaches out to grab opportunity with both hands. Growing up, I never chose the more daring path reading Choose Your Own Adventure books. It’s now or never.

My grandfather left me a small inheritance, so I use some of the funds to book an Aeroméxico plane ticket to La Paz with the stated aim of cycling part of the Andes Trail, the popular route that stretches most of South America, from Ecuador to Tierra del Fuego. I’m going to do it, live life a new way, without a list of rules and regulations. My story doesn’t have to be ho-hum, safe, and predictable.

I mean, what can go wrong for an unworldly asthmatic on a last-minute trip to a foreign continent in a separate hemisphere?

Oh. Shit.