The Long Way Back, page 5
So they stopped. Or at least cut back dramatically. Charlie shot and uploaded the occasional porch view—making sure that there were no identifying landmarks in the photo—or the row of their new succulents on the kitchen window ledge. But it wasn’t the same, and Eva wasn’t exploring anymore. Not in the way their audience wanted. Her discoveries (the numbing routine of tardy bells and homework with a strict deadline) were not the stuff of social media esteem. They lost a lot of followers in those first few, rooted weeks, and many who stuck around had no qualms about sharing their disappointment.
The first search engine hit is a disgruntled former fan. Someone has tagged the @EvaExplores account in a list of influencers who “lost the magic touch.” Whyyyyyyy? the user whines. I don’t know where to go (vicariously) or what to do (vicariously) without them. Thanks a lot, Charlie and Eva. You ruined my life.
Charlie rolls her eyes. Clearly not much has changed in the land of social media.
The next hit takes her to a Reddit thread helpfully titled Charlie/Eva Sutton, The OG Lewis & Clark. Charlie knows that there are several Reddit threads dedicated to Eva Explores, but she learned long ago to give them a wide berth. There seems to be little oversight (or basic human kindness) on the platform, and after reading a particularly nasty conversation that made her want to lay waste to someone who referred to herself as Instasnark, Charlie swore it off. But this entry is recent, less than an hour old, and as Charlie clicks through, her palms go damp.
bebemama18
The dynamic duo we know and love (or love to hate) has been AWOL for months now, leaving us biting our fingernails as we wonder: Where next? (We all know they haven’t hit Kentucky yet. Got something against the deep south, girls?) Will Eva ever grow up? (Seriously, how do you survive in a 27-FOOT TRAILER with your mother, chica?) And, most importantly, will the Sutton girls ever learn to take a selfie??? (Welcome to the new world, bitches.) BUT, HYH all, did you hear? Is Eva missing? If you know, spill all, but please read the rules before posting, and try to have at least a little chill.
There are already fifty comments and counting. As Charlie watches, the number ticks up to 51, 52, 53. She scans the first comment (it’s something about how pushingupdaisies would intentionally go missing if she had to share a 27-FOOT TRAILER with her mother) and quickly scrolls through a few more, looking for something of substance.
She hits it about halfway down.
blairstichproject
Are we surprised? Tell me no one is surprised by this. You spend 2+ years tripping all over the country in a trailer and DOCUMENT it and you think you can go back to life as normal??? Somebody finally caught up with that pretty girl and did bad, bad things to her. Or she ran away (you go, girl). All I know is that her mama should lose custody because WHO DOES THAT? When I have kids, I will NEVER post their pictures online. She was asking for it.
bebemama18
Define IT. I agree, they dug their own graves, but do you really think something bad happened to her?
blairstichproject
IT is whatever bad thing happened. Mark my words. Credit where credit is due, and when the truth comes out you all have to admit that I called it. She ran, she was taken, or her mama did something to her. Didn’t you always think that there was something not right about them? This won’t end well, and Evangeline Sutton will be just another cautionary tale. Write it down kids: Mamas (GOOD mamas) don’t let their babies grow up to be Instagram stars.
The severity of their collective judgment is staggering. But it shouldn’t be. This is the way of things: a dizzying fall from grace can turn even the most beloved public figure into a scorned pariah.
Charlie’s shaking so hard she can’t hold the phone anymore. It slips from her fingers and topples down the stairs, coming to rest in the rocks of the gravel path. But she doesn’t really care about the condemnation of a bunch of strangers. She’s trembling because she hasn’t even considered that anything truly unthinkable has happened to Eva. Drifting alone in a life raft on Lake Superior in May is bad enough. Never mind—God forbid—drowning. But what happened? The appalling possibilities replicate like sores and fester in Charlie’s mind, each one more horrific than the next.
It’s true, they have their fair share of obsessive followers and fanatics. A few creepy spin-off sites that fans set up to try and track them. Of course, Charlie and Eva were always just out of reach—they never posted about where they were until they had moved on, and there was no discernible path or pattern to their wanderings. If anyone showed too much interest, or posted something inappropriate, they blocked them immediately.
Still. They’re sedentary now. Rooted in the same place and veritable sitting ducks. It wouldn’t be nearly impossible to find them anymore. Has someone slipped through the cracks? Could Eva be in danger from more than just the elements?
Panic claws at Charlie, but before the tears that are threatening can fall, a commotion from the road interrupts her near hysteria. She stands on shaky legs to get a better view. A police cruiser with lights flashing but siren off is driving slowly down the lane. Officer Grady’s replacement. But at the apex of the hill, reporters crowd the property line, pushing each other in their excitement to get the money shot. There are zoom lenses and people shouting questions over the distance between them—Charlie’s been spotted. And because there is no gate, they spill down the road, following the cruiser. Lights flash, a boom mic surges forward, and Charlie freezes.
“Get in the house!” Officer Grady shouts.
But it’s too late. The first few frames are already captured. Charlotte Sutton is bent and disheveled, her short hair impossibly mussed and her eyes red-rimmed and seeping. She looks wild. Angry. Maybe just a bit mad.
They’ll call her: Crazy Charlie. The story is already being written.
INSTAGRAM POST #325
Everything they said is true. Yellow stone is superlative. And if you consider yourself a lover of the great outdoors, we think you should definitely put this national park on your bucket list. There are so many things to see and do—and we’ll break them all down for you over the next few days—but for now, we’ll share a view from Mount Washburn, one of Yellowstone’s most iconic peaks. From the Dunraven Pass parking lot, it’s a 4–6 hour, moderate difficulty, out and back hike (took us 5 hours, so we’re decidedly average), and from the summit you can see the Tetons and all the way to the Grand Canyon of Yellow stone. Worth. Every. Step. Stay tuned for so much more! And don’t forget to drop your guesses in the comments… Where next? #yellowstone #washburnsummit #evaexplores
Always take the long way back,
Charlie & Eva
[IMAGE CONTENTS: A young woman is pictured from behind at the top of Mount Washburn in Yellowstone National Park. She is sitting on the ground with her arm around a taffy-colored dog. She’s wearing a yellow tank top and a red hiking backpack, and her long, dark hair is in two loose braids. Snowcapped mountains and lush, green hills roll away in the distance, and there are bright white clouds scattered across an extraordinarily blue sky.]
Charlie and Eva posted about Yellowstone from a campground near the Montana/Idaho border. It was a hidden oasis, set far back from the nearest paved road and alongside a wide, shallow river. A pair of fellow adventurers at a diner in Wyoming had hand drawn them a map.
“You won’t find it online,” the woman told them, scribbling on a napkin. Her skin was baked and leathery from hours spent in the sun and wind, but her smile was soft. Genuine. Her partner called her Honey. “It’s the greatest little spot. Mostly a hub for fly fishers, but September is pretty slow. You’ll have no problem finding a site. Right, Crew?”
“Yeah, but the map’s not quite right.” Crew reached for the napkin and made a few topographical corrections. “Here,” he said, tracing the path with his finger when he was done, “you’ll want to take I-90 through Butte, then take the exit just past Rock Creek…”
Their conversation had been light and easy, but when Eva excused herself to use the restroom, Honey had pursed her lips. “You’re alone?” she asked.
“Hardly alone if we’re together.” Charlie smiled.
Crew gave her a quizzical look. “That’s not what Honey means. Two pretty, young women traveling by themselves… Do you own a gun?”
A gun? It had never crossed Charlie’s mind to arm herself. Even if she had a firearm, she highly doubted she’d be courageous (foolish?) enough to point and shoot when it mattered. “No.” She laughed. “No gun. Pepper spray and a trigger-happy nine-one-one finger.”
Honey and Crew exchanged a look. “Don’t get me wrong,” Honey said, “ninety-nine percent of the campgrounds you’ll encounter are perfectly safe. Great lighting, decent security, lots of regulars, and managers that live on-site and truly care about their travelers.”
“But it doesn’t hurt to travel smart,” Crew cut in. “Avoid South Dakota during Sturgis, Lake Mead in the height of summer, and anywhere that just doesn’t feel right.”
“Trust your gut.” Honey nodded. “You’ll know.”
“Have you had problems?” Charlie asked, a slight quiver in her voice.
“No!” Honey quickly replied. “No. We’ve been camping for forty years. We’ve never had anything stolen or been confronted by vandals or… worse.”
“But it’s not unthinkable. And you’re…” Crew trailed off.
Two women alone. Young. Easy targets. Charlie could fill in a dozen vulnerabilities that she and Eva possessed. Not that she hadn’t thought of these things before they hit the road. It was just sobering to hear someone else say them out loud.
“We’ll be careful,” Charlie said. And then, Eva was sliding back into the booth and the conversation was over.
When they parted ways in the parking lot—Charlie and Eva into the steel-colored 4-wheel-drive truck that had already conveyed them nearly two thousand miles, and Crew and Honey into a Mercedes Sprinter—Crew beckoned Charlie to follow him. He dug around in a compartment in the back of the camper van and came up with a Louisville Slugger.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Charlie. “Just in case.”
Thanks to Crew and Honey’s map, the hidden campground had been easy to find. And their newfound friends were right: it was an oasis. After three weeks in Yellowstone—hitting all the touristy spots and hunting for hidden gems—they were ready to slow down a bit, and the sleepy, half-empty Crooked Creek Campground tucked between a circle of tall mountain peaks fit the bill perfectly. The peculiar mix of their “on the road” yet “in the public eye” new life was fun and exhilarating, but also exhausting.
They picked a site beside the river and angled Sebastian so that when they sat around the fire ring at night, it felt as though they were the only people in the world. High above, the stars pooled like cream between the mountains that hemmed them in.
They felt fierce and free.
“I liked them,” Eva said as they were lying in the Airstream late one night.
Charlie had retro-fitted Sebastian with both heat and air-conditioning, and it was the first night that they turned on the heater. They were snuggled under plush quilts in their respective beds: Charlie’s a queen beneath the big window on the hitch-side of the trailer, and Eva’s a twin perpendicular to her mother’s and across a narrow hallway from the bathroom.
“Liked who?” Charlie asked, rolling over so she could better hear Eva. She had been half-asleep when her daughter started talking.
“The couple in Wyoming. The ones who told us to come here.”
“Me too,” Charlie agreed. “We’ve met some pretty great people so far.” But a prickle of unease made her pull the blankets tighter.
“Do you think everyone will be so nice?” Eva whispered into the darkness.
So Eva had overheard. At least, a little.
“Maybe not,” Charlie admitted. “But we can handle whatever—and whoever—the road throws at us.”
It wasn’t false bravado. Charlie was no Pollyanna—her life with Rosie had made sure of that—and she felt prepared to face pretty much anything. She had planned ahead. In addition to a new, heavy-duty Keeler lock, she had outfitted Sebastian with a bolt barrel slide lock that they secured every night. Charlie had signed up for Platinum AAA, and their phones had unlimited coverage all over the United States. They carried an emergency survival kit on long hikes, equipped with everything from a small hatchet to a fire starter and a thermal blanket. There was pepper spray within easy reach in the truck, trailer, and affixed to Charlie’s key chain. And they hiked with bear whistles and mini GPS radios in case they were separated from each other—which hadn’t happened yet. All in all, Charlie felt they were doing everything they could to stay safe as they adventured.
Still.
“Why did Crew give you a baseball bat?” Eva pressed.
Charlie took a deep breath. “An overabundance of caution. And pure and simple kindness.”
“But, you don’t think we’ll need it, do you?”
Charlie sat up and crawled to the end of the bed to smooth the errant curls that always tickled Eva’s cheeks. “No,” she said, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s warm temple. “Definitely not. But if we did, you need to know that I once hit a home run in PE.”
Eva giggled. “You did? How old were you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“How old?”
Charlie sighed. “Fine. I was ten and it was only a home run because Mickey Erikson fumbled the ball when it bounced and hit him in the chin. He started to cry instead of chasing the ball.”
“That’s tragic,” Eva moaned. “Poor Mickey.”
“Not: poor Mickey! Try: yay, Mom! You’re supposed to be impressed by my skills. Awed by my strength and prowess.”
“Because you hit a home run in fourth grade? Whatever. Go to sleep, Mom.”
“Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, Evangeline Rose.”
“ ’Night, Mom.”
Charlie shuffled back under the covers, grateful that Eva’s breathing was already starting to slow. She was grateful for the heavy locks on the door and the hum of the heater as it beat back the chill in the autumn air. But most of all, she was grateful that Eva was asleep when the wolves started to howl, an eerie cry that echoed through the canyon and made the hair on Charlie’s arms stand up. She listened for a while, torn between loving the sound and fearing it: she felt so unrestrained out here, wild and resonant, elemental and alive. Whole and fully present on a swiftly tilting planet beneath an infinite sky. In stripping away the trappings of a life that hadn’t been very joyful anyway—Charlie was a single mom working a miserable job and living in a crappy apartment with a daughter who was bullied—she was starting to become her essential self. So was Eva. They were connected to the world and to each other. Unconcerned about the expectations of a culture and community that had more or less forgotten them. Charlie wasn’t sure she had ever felt happier.
But as she rolled over to smooth her cheek into the pillow, she reached with one hand to feel for the baseball bat that she had secreted away at the head of her bed. She rubbed the smooth wood with her thumb until she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 5
SUNDAY
Charlie understands that she is under a sort of house arrest. No charges have been filed, and no one has told her as much, but the officers stationed outside of the lakeside home and the fact that Detective James won’t answer her calls is evidence enough. Presumably, Officers Grady and Martinez are here because they know what’s coming—a tidal wave of attention that will swell and grow as the news of Eva’s disappearance spreads—but they also suspect that Charlie should not be going. Anywhere. The marina is off-limits, as is the police station. Not that heading there would change much of anything—nearly half of Landing’s small force is mere yards away from where she stands peering out from behind closed curtains.
The invisible shackles are unsettling.
She paces the main floor, rounding the chair where Frank is alternating between watching her and watching TV. Before they were forced back off the property, Fox 21 got what they wanted: Charlie looking like a deer in the headlights and guilty of something as she turns tail and runs into the house. The clip is played over and over again, and made all the more incriminating because, in her haste, Charlie slams the door on Scout and leaves her faithful companion standing alone on the porch. He turns to the eager reporters and growls. The sound underscores the scant brief: Local “Celebrity” Missing. The quotes around celebrity feel at once patronizing and accurate.
“I’m going outside,” she announces when the news goes to commercial.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Frank says, holding up the remote control as evidence. His meaning is clear: Don’t give the armchair detectives any more fodder. Don’t give them another clip to play.
“I just need a little fresh air.”
Frank looks skeptical, but he pushes himself out of the recliner and clicks off the TV. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
It’s midmorning, less than fifteen hours after Eva went missing, and neither of them has thought to eat or drink anything besides coffee—and that’s pure necessity. They feel trapped and helpless, indifferent to food. Still, it will be good for Frank to have something to do, even if she can’t stomach a bite.
The back door is through the laundry room. It opens on two wide steps and a patch of hard-packed dirt that is perpetually damp and mossy because it’s on the north side of the house. A thicket of trees separates the Morrows’ property from their neighbors, the Greenes, but a narrow path through the underbrush has made borrowing eggs or a cup of sugar a simple endeavor for more than fifty years. It’s quiet here, brisk in the shade and completely separate from the bedlam that is the driveway. Charlie could almost lean against the clapboard siding and forget that her world is unraveling. That on the other side of the house, cops and reporters and concerned citizens wait anxiously for the smallest scrap of news or a fleeting glimpse of Eva’s mom. Eva’s bad mom. Her terrible, irresponsible, negligent mom. Charlie knows that whatever happened, the world will believe that it’s all her fault. She doesn’t think they’re wrong.
