IF THERE ARE ANGELS,is this how they feel?
Do they want to weep with frustration because they can see everything but touch nothing?
Someone once told me that bearing witness counts. That being present when something happens, even if it is something hard or terrible that you can’t stop, still matters. Because then no one was alone.
Now that I am watching, I don’t know if I believe that. What good is bearing witness if you can’t bear any of the burden?
And as for angels:
I haven’t seen a single one.
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PEOPLE WHO COME TOvisit Eden treat it like their playground—it exists for their entertainment, their convenient and sporadic awe. They think it disappears when they’re not here and comes into Technicolor existence when they are. And summers are the worst.
Astronomical numbers of YouTube and LikeMe influencers clog the restaurants and sidewalks of Spring Creek. They take pictures at the trailheads and pose next to the sign marking the entrance to Eden National Park. They park illegally and talk loudly. They’re outraged when they can’t get into the park because of the overcrowding and livestream their displeasure at the very crowds they’re part of. With the disaster, it’s even busier than usual. And Sonnet is at the heart of the drama now that everyone knows Hope Hanover was staying here.
Only resort guests, staff, and the police are allowed on private property, but influencers and tourists have begun to camp out next to the reporters and other media near our main entrance. The phones have been going crazy all morning with people trying to arrange a last-minute stay or book a meal at Bristlecone.
The crowd was large when I left Sonnet earlier this morning. When the police bring me back several hours later, the masses are still perched in their camp chairs under shade tents or sitting in their cars, air conditionersrunning. Their heads turn when they hear us coming. I duck down before we get close enough for them to see who I am.
“We’re very sorry,” the kinder of the two officers says as the tires crunch on Sonnet’s gravel drive. He has salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of weathered skin people get from living a life outdoors. His name is Officer Joad, which makes me think of my mom’s favorite Springsteen album and the book we read in English about the people during the Depression who tried to change their lives and died. “Thank you again for your assistance.”
“Of course,” I say, like it’s no problem, like I do this kind of thing all the time. I know my voice is too falsely cheerful. I know I’m overdoing it, that my tone is off. We all know that this wasn’t my last trip to the police station. Everything is just beginning. Everything has already ended.
“Are you sure we can’t take you anywhere else?” Officer Joad asks. “Can you take the day off?”
“No,” I say. “I’m needed here.”And I need to be here.After all of this, after everything—I can’t give up now.
As soon as the officers are gone, I walk briskly around to the back of the staff tent and throw up in one of the trash cans there. I let myself stay like that for a minute, bent over. It feels like even when I stand up straight I’m folded in half, like my organs are collapsing in on themselves and there’s a heaviness always on my back. I can’t ever shrug it off.
I take a deep breath. As I feel my pockets for gum, a mint, anything, my eye catches on Ty standing in the doorway of the staff tent.
“Whoa, there.” Ty looks surprised. I don’t drink, I don’t get hungover, and I don’t party, so I’m not one of staff who usually get caught using the trash cans for this purpose. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I say. “I didn’t sleep great the last couple of nights. I got kind of dizzy a minute ago, and I guess that made me nauseous.”
“It’s been wild for sure.” Ty’s expression is sympathetic. “You want anything to eat?”
“I’m good,” I say. “Thanks, though.”
I’m relieved he’s not Carmel, who would definitely press the issue,would try to mother me and make me take a break or drink some Sprite or something. Still, Ty hesitates, as if he doesn’t totally believe me.
“I’m fine,” I say. This time my voice hits the right note. I sound like myself. I sound like I’ve got this. “Better get back to work.” I open the door to the staff tent. “See you, Ty.”
EDENNATIONALPARKTRAGEDY:WHATWEKNOW
For once, no guests are lined up at the reception desk. Skye’s sitting there alone, looking at her phone, of course, though that’s against the rules while we’re working. “Look.” She holds it out toward me so I can see the headline she’s reading. “We’re everywhere. This isPeople.”
“Have you seen Gareth yet this morning?” I’m not going to engage. Not going to tell her that the article is already outdated, that I have more information than she could dream of.
“No.” Skye turns the phone back toward herself. “You should keep up on this,” she admonishes me. “It’s only going to get bigger.” She’s not literally licking her chops at the possibilities, but she has her lip gloss out and is applying it liberally. I wouldn’t put it past her to go talk to the reporters at the end of her shift.
I need to keep an eye on Skye.
I pull up her LikeMe account on my own phone to see what she’s been posting about the disaster. She’s already uploaded a reel today. It’s her, sitting in a yoga pose out on the plateau, dressed in a matching sage-green workout set. Her back’s to the camera, and the morning light’s perfect and pink. Some kind of gentle music is probably playing in the background—I don’t turn up the volume to find out—and a caption in a wistful, curlicue font appears.A moment of silence for those who are missing, it says, with a prayer hands emoji. At end of the reel Skye turns to look at the camera, her expression somber and beatific.
