Part 2 (2/2)

After Navajo Bridge, the gorge began to deepen, with blotchy maroon cliffs rising straight out of the river. Jill found herself mesmerized by the bubbling current, by the little whirlpools that spun out from her paddle at the end of each stroke. At some point, she heard Abo telling a story about two young men who swam the canyon with nothing but a kickboard to hold a few supplies. Sam didn't believe him and asked Jill if it was true.

”Honey, if the guide says it's true, then it must be true,” Jill replied.

Other than that, she kept to herself, her senses tuned to the dry heat, the s.h.i.+mmering water, the brilliant blue sky, and the stark canyon walls. So lost was she that it came as a shock when Abo abruptly steered the boat toward the right side of the river, where JT had already beached his raft. ”Looks like lunch, folks,” Abo told them, and Jill suddenly remembered that the last thing she'd eaten was a crumbly m.u.f.fin from the hotel breakfast bar at five thirty that morning.

”Forward!” yelled Abo suddenly. ”Come on, paddlers, we got a meal to prepare! Sam! Matthew! Lets see a little mojo in those strokes, you want me to starve to death back here?”

The first sign of trouble came when Sam complained for the fifth time about being hot. The guides had set up a table in the small bit of shade and were fixing lunch while all the guests were hanging around in the hot sun with not much to do.

”Well, you know what I said earlier,” JT told him as he scooped out an avocado. ”If you're hot, you're stupid. Go take a dunk. Keep your life jacket on.”

”I'm going in the river,” Sam told his father.

”Don't go too far. Do you think it's okay?” Mark asked Jill.

”If the guide says it's okay, it's okay,” Jill replied.

So Sam waded into the water up to his hips, and with a great deal of shrieking, he hopped up and down and finally dipped below the surface, but only for the briefest of seconds, during which there was a moment of silence, broken by the boy's explosive burst as he shot back up, screaming. It looked like so much fun that soon everyone was dunking themselves, much to the guides' approval, and there wouldn't have been a problem at all but for the fact that when Sam got out of the water, he somehow managed to trap a fire ant between his toes, and he started screaming and hollering again and threw himself on the beach in a frenzy and pulled off his sandal and flung it into the river, where it promptly sailed away.

JT made a dash, but by the time he reached the water's edge, the sandal was gone.

Jill was mad because it was a good pair of Tevas, brand-new, and Mark was mad because it showed such a lack of foresight, and Matthew was mad because Sam was getting all the attention, and Sam rolled about in agony, kicking sand in everyone's faces as they tried to determine just where he'd been bitten so that JT could dab the bite with the stick of ammonia they kept in the first aid box for just that purpose.

”Right there, I think,” Jill said, splaying the boys toes. ”Sam, be still!”

JT poked the ammonia stick between Sam's toes. Sam screamed and kicked.

”For G.o.d's sake, Sam,” Mark said.

”Try it again,” said Jill, but JT held back.

”What happens if you don't use it?” she asked.

”Not much, at this point,” said JT. ”You have to get it on in the first minute.”

People stood around them in a circle, peering down.

”I got bit by a fire ant in Africa once,” said Mitch.e.l.l. ”It's no fun.”

Matthew dug in the sand, mumbling about how it was just an ant and he didn't see what the problem was.

”Go stick it in the water, kiddo,” JT told Sam.

”I'm cold now,” said Sam.

Matthew remarked that it was only like two hundred degrees out.

”Just your foot,” said JT. ”Come on.” And he helped the boy up by the arm. With great drama, Sam hobbled over to the water's edge and dipped his foot into the water, his face breaking into a silent scream.

Mark watched with his arms crossed. ”Please tell me you brought an extra pair of sandals,” he said to Jill.

”Flip-flops.”

”Nothing with straps?”

”No.”

”Oh cripe,” said Mark. ”Darn him. He has no sense of responsibility.”

”He's twelve, Mark.”

”When I was twelve, I had a job.”

Jill walked away. Mark's job at the age of twelve was scooping leaves from his neighbor's pool for five minutes every morning. Fortunately, before she could dwell on this, the other guides called out that lunch was ready, and they all shuffled over to the lunch table, where the crew had laid out a glorious banquet.

There were two kinds of bread, and ham, and turkey; slices of Muenster and cheddar cheese, tomatoes, red onions, avocados, cuc.u.mbers, pickles, and jalapenos; peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly; wedges of cantaloupe and watermelon; chocolate-chip cookies and nuts and Jolly Ranchers and M&Ms. Many had pooh-poohed the notion of lunch, certain they'd lost their appet.i.te in this heat, but they suddenly found themselves ravenous and ended up packing as much between two slices of bread as they possibly could, then adding a little more for good measure. Susan tried jalapenos with peanut b.u.t.ter; Amy made herself a diet sandwich with turkey and lettuce leaves; Mitch.e.l.l ate spoonfuls of jam straight from the jar; the boys squirreled away Jolly Ranchers in their pockets. Peter, of course, ate as much watermelon as he could without appearing gluttonous.

Meanwhile, the river flowed on, swiftly, quietly; constant and alive.

7.

Day One.

Miles 68.

At the lunch buffet that day, Susan Van Doren was so conscious of people staring at her daughter that she almost confronted them head-on. Had none of them ever been fat? Had a fat friend? Watched the scales go up up up regardless of what they ate?

Get over it, Susan, said the Mother b.i.t.c.h. Face it; your daughter's fat because she eats like a horse. And she eats like a horse because you're neurotic about your weight. You drink diet everything. You weigh yourself every-morning. For seventeen years, you've communicated your own obsession to her, and now look: two hundred and fifty pounds of maternal fault Face it; your daughter's fat because she eats like a horse. And she eats like a horse because you're neurotic about your weight. You drink diet everything. You weigh yourself every-morning. For seventeen years, you've communicated your own obsession to her, and now look: two hundred and fifty pounds of maternal fault.

Susan watched her daughter lumber away from the lunch table with nothing but a slice of turkey rolled up in a lettuce leaf. It broke her heart to see Amy making an effort, on this first day, to set some dietary standards for herself. Susan wished for all the world that the Mother b.i.t.c.h would go into hibernation and allow her to feel like any other well-adjusted forty-three-year-old woman with a lot to be thankful for: a good job, a nice house, a sweetheart of a daughter. But the Mother b.i.t.c.h was always there, yap yap yap, making her feel self-conscious about Amy. If she could, she would crush the Mother b.i.t.c.h to a pulp.

On her personal information form, Susan had written that her goal for the trip was to learn something new about herself. Amy, she'd noted before mailing off the packet, had written that her goal was ”to meet people who share a pa.s.sion for the wilderness and anything out-doorsy and to see the Grand Canyon and above all to have fun .” .”

Who could find fault with a girl like that?

Susan carried her sandwich across the beach to join Amy, who had already finished eating. What an awkward situation this must be for her, Susan thought, and a sudden pang of remorse tore through her. Why had she planned this vacation? What kind of mother brought an overweight teenage girl on a trip where you lived in a bathing suit?

”Isn't it gorgeous?” she said cheerfully.

”It's hot.”

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