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  Jane had been stoic as she stood before the West Virginian, while Ding wept great heaving sobs into her handkerchief, rivaling the women around them saying goodbye to husbands and boyfriends setting off for the war.

  “But why are you going?” she asked for the hundredth time. “Now that you’ve . . .”

  “Lost the baby,” Jane finished for her. “That’s the story.”

  “Morning glory,” Ding said through loud sniffs.

  It was hard to tell what was worse, Jane thought—having an illegitimate baby or not having one after all. She couldn’t face the capital any longer now that it had had its way with her.

  “I need a fresh start,” Jane said, as she had all the other times Ding had pressed her on it. “I can’t look anyone here in the eye.” Behind her the train sweated and puffed and Jane could feel it like a magnet, both pulling and repelling her.

  Ding sighed and kissed her cheek. “Write me,” she said.

  “All aboard!” the porter shouted.

  “I promise.”

  Arzella and Philip met Jane in Clarksburg, and Jane was amazed at how quaint the station seemed. She’d been gone only a few months, and yet everything appeared to have shrunk. Her parents, too, seemed bumbling, impossibly attached to each other, embarrassingly provincial.

  “With this behind you, maybe you can find a good boy to marry and be happy with,” Arzella chirped as they set off for home.

  “Maybe.” Jane watched out the window at the farmhouses and cattle. Blue stars hung in curtainless windows.

  “Of course, losing a baby is a tragedy. I lost my share, myself, between the seven of you. But I think God was looking out for you, Janey.”

  Philip changed the subject. “Wait till you see the house,” he said. “We got lights!”

  The poles loomed tall as the Ford arrived back at the farm—stilted statues, arms outstretched, the wires reaching between them like tightropes at the circus. They seemed out of place—imposing. Jane had learned to take electricity for granted in Washington, but flipping a switch to illuminate her childhood home still felt like magic.

  It reminded Jane of going to the movies. Inevitably, she would drink her Coke too quickly, wiggle in her seat for a bit, and then rush out to the lobby for the restroom. Though it never took more than a few minutes, she always felt disoriented for a time when she returned, as if she’d come back to a completely different picture. Back in Buckhannon, Jane was the only one around who had missed a bit of the story, and she felt herself scrambling to catch up.

  She collapsed into her small bed, the familiar surroundings both comforting and stifling, equal parts womb and tomb. She slept, unaware that she had, in fact, been left out of an important bit of her own story.

  “Jane, darling, you’ve got a visitor,” Arzella called, rousing her from sleep.

  Jane’s heart fluttered. Owen, her dream-drunk state told her. He’d come to whisk her back to Washington, and no one would dare say a word with her on his arm.

  But no, of course it was not Owen.

  Maxine Potter, an old classmate of Jane’s, sat at the kitchen table, her face as tiny and scrunched as always, her big surprised eyes taking up half of it. She wore a blouse two sizes too big.

  “Jane, dear!” Maxine said, standing and scurrying toward her. “Ding told me all about your husband and your baby. I had to come see you. Is there anything I can do?”

  Jane gaped. “What exactly did Ding tell you?”

  “Oh, all about the boy you met in Washington, how you eloped before he went overseas, how you planned to do a big wedding when he came home. She said he was a big hero—what’s that about him saving two of his friends? And how you heard he’d been killed the same day you found out you were expecting, and the grief of it all . . .” She trailed off. “Oh, I feel so awful, you poor thing.”

  “I . . .I, uh,” Jane stuttered. When had Ding talked to Maxine? Who else had she fed this story to?

  As the weeks passed, it became clear that word had gotten around. Everywhere, folks consoled Jane about the loss of her hero husband and poor baby—folks who really had lost husbands, brothers, sons. She almost began to believe the tale herself.

  Ding, of course, had been trying to help. What Ding wouldn’t have counted on, Jane thought, was the shame that overtook her whenever she remembered the truth. It stopped her in her tracks. One particularly bad day, Jane slunk to the orchard, eager to quell her shame with a golden delicious. When she arrived at her favorite tree, she smiled and greeted it like an old friend. “Hello there, girl,” she said, reaching up to pick a fruit. She could enjoy simple pleasures, at least. The world could not take that from her. The apple, though, was covered in sooty blotches, its thin yellow skin marred by scabs and pits. Jane tossed it to the ground and tried another, only to find this apple more ruined by fungus than the last. She picked another and another, throwing each fruit to the ground as she saw its deformity. The tree was spoiled, just as she was spoiled. There would be no apple harvest this year.

  Neither Philip nor Arzella said an unkind word. Jane, though, knew she was a criminal—a fugitive from justice. The G-men may not have known to flag her file, Jane thought, but God certainly did.

  “Are you hungry?” Paloma’s voice cut into her memories. “We could stop.”

  “No, no. Keep driving.”

  Paloma put a hand on Jane’s leg, and they drove on in silence.

  Cassidy

  “You look adorable,” Cassidy said as Noeli helped shove her things into the Accord’s small trunk.

  “Always.” Noeli winked and struck an exaggerated model pose. She had cut her hair and somehow looked even cooler than usual. It reminded Cassidy of the way characters seemed more attractive in the first episode of new TV show seasons because they looked a little different.

  In the car, Noeli started the engine and nudged Cassidy’s elbow with her own. When Cassidy looked at her, she smiled.

  “Hey,” Noeli said.

  “Hey,” Cassidy said back.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m actually really good.”

  “How’s the creatura?” She looked toward Cassidy’s stomach.

  “Good, too.” Cassidy smiled. She’d forgotten what Cassidy/Noeli-world felt like.

  Noeli turned the stereo all the way down and stretched her small frame as high as it could go, as if it would help her navigate the airport’s confusing layout.

  “My mom said SoCal is a joke,” Cassidy said, once they’d figured out how to exit. She peeled off the hoodie she’d worn on the plane. Noeli had put her own hood up, and her sleeves were pulled down over her palms. She had repainted her fingernails, red this time. Cassidy had never seen her wear red before.

  “It kind of is,” Noeli said, undisturbed. “I mean, it’s a funny joke?” Cassidy laughed. “But really.” Noeli grew serious. “A couple years ago I went to this Zen retreat for young adults.”

  “I didn’t know you were into Buddhism.”

  “Yeah,” Noeli continued. “I just went because it sounded cool. I don’t even remember how I heard about it. I think Lupe was on their mailing list or something.”

  “Lupe was on a mailing list for a Zen center?” Cassidy asked. “On purpose?”

  Noeli ignored this. “I remember one of the descriptions of Buddhist cosmology. There’s this idea that there are all these different stages or cycles of the universe, and right now we’re in the lowest—as bad as it gets.” Cassidy listened. “So someone . . . a monk maybe? Someone was asking why he’d ended up here and not in a better time or place. I don’t remember how he learned it, but he basically figured out he was here in the worst of the worlds to make it better.”

  Cassidy watched Noeli as she drove, tapping the steering wheel with her fingers, drumming to a song that wasn’t playing.

  “I don’t think this is the lowest of the
low,” Noeli went on. “I mean, I know there are harder places to be. This place is definitely a dream for my grandma.” Cassidy nodded and thought again of the little girl at the health department. “But sometimes I feel like that about here. I feel like of all the places in the world to be, why is this the one life led me to—like, seriously, with these freeways and the concrete and shit? And the fucking air quality? I don’t know.” Noeli shook her head. “I think I’m here to learn from it and try to make it better.”

  Cassidy was amazed at how similar Noeli’s ramblings were to the interior monologue she’d been having in West Virginia. “Even if the dandelions are strange,” she said. Noeli tilted her head and smiled a little but didn’t ask what she meant.

  “Do you think we’ll remember how this felt? When I first got here to stay?” Cassidy asked.

  “I hope so,” Noeli said. “I missed you.”

  It was so easy to fall back into their friendship. “I missed you too,” she said.

  “Come on, don’t get sappy on me. Do you want to go home or should we do something?” The hairs on Cassidy’s arms bristled at the word home, and her stomach fluttered.

  “Like what?” she asked. After a nap on the plane and half a cup of coffee, she was feeling antsy and ready to start her new life.

  “I dunno,” Noeli said. “Want to drive around?”

  Cassidy shrugged and turned the speakers up. The Weakerthans were on. “Hey, it’s our band!” Cassidy said. “It’s fate!”

  “It definitely is. Oh!” Noeli perked up. “You haven’t been to Amoeba yet!”

  “Amoeba?”

  “Yeah. It’s the big famous record store in LA. I saw Sasha Grey there once. We should go while we’re out here.”

  “Ooooh, now we have to go.”

  Amoeba’s storefront had a funky retro California feel. A weird cylindrical something protruded from the top.

  “This looks like what people in the sixties imagined the future would be like,” Cassidy said.

  Rows and rows of records from every possible genre sat between poster-plastered walls. The other shoppers were busy and purposeful—experienced record store people doing record store things.

  “Do you even have a record player?” Cassidy asked, sifting through some albums and trying to look like she, too, knew what she was doing.

  “Abuela does,” Noeli said.

  “Should I get this John K. Samson solo album?”

  “I have that, actually!”

  “Oh, awesome.” Cassidy put it back and they kept browsing, drifting from aisle to aisle.

  “Look at this.” Noeli shoved a record under Cassidy’s nose.

  “Plastic People of the Universe,” Cassidy read.

  “They’re from Prague, before the revolution. That’s where your mom was, right? I just googled them—they used to get arrested by the regime.”

  “Wow.” Cassidy took the record and flipped it over to study the back. “Should I get it? It might be cool to listen to stuff my mom and her friends there might have liked. It might make me feel a little less guilty.”

  “That would be pretty cool. Did you find anything?”

  Cassidy showed Noeli the Bleachers album she’d been looking at. “He looks like a Jewish Buddy Holly,” she said. “I’m kind of into it.”

  “You get that and I’ll get this,” Noeli said, taking the Plastic People album back and walking to the register.

  Cassidy followed. These bands would be the soundtrack of this era, pregnant and living with Noeli. Cassidy was going to pay attention this time.

  After checking out, they went back to the car. As they passed Pasadena, Cassidy felt herself slipping back to other old habits. All the chats she’d let idle between shows, all the men she’d dismissed by saying, Sorry! Awful wifi here, she pulled up now. Back in Cali! she told them. Almost instantly, she had several responses. They’d missed her. They were feeling frisky. They couldn’t wait to see her in a thong. What was she wearing now? Was she horny? Had she had any naughty fun lately?

  “There’s something else I want to show you.” Cassidy looked up and realized they were almost back to Rancho.

  “Yeah, sure. Where?”

  “We’re going hiking,” Noeli said.

  “Hiking?” Cassidy laughed. “You realize I’m pregnant and we’re both wearing Chucks, right?”

  “You’re barely pregnant. It’s a little steep but not for very long. I’m definitely not a hiker and I’ve done it.”

  Cassidy groaned. “We’ll see.”

  Noeli exited on Haven and turned the car north, driving past Cassidy’s old apartment complex, Tio’s Mexican Food, and the community college with its tiered parking lots and brutalist architecture. When the buildings began to thin and they were in the foothills, Noeli parked and they got out. The air was wild here, all sage smell and chaparral; a lizard darted across their path as an eagle circled overhead. The mountains stood before them, enormous and dusty, snow powdering the very top. It was so different from the green of West Virginia’s hills. These mountains were mean, but they were still beautiful.

  “Is this an actual trail?” Cassidy asked.

  “I think it might belong to the rich people who live up there.” Noeli walked ahead.

  Cassidy shrugged and jogged to catch up.

  A hundred yards in and both women were panting. Noeli pulled a bottle of water from her messenger bag and offered it to Cassidy, who took a long swig.

  “Thanks,” she huffed. “Okay . . .” She blew a long breath out and willed herself to keep moving up the wide dusty path, but could not help stopping every few yards. “Okay, phew,” she said again, when the incline began to level off. She leaned forward and rested her hands on her knees.

  “Are you okay?” Noeli put a hand on Cassidy’s back, breathing heavily, too. “I guess I underestimated that. And how out of shape I am.”

  “Yeah, barely pregnant is still pregnant,” Cassidy said. “But also, I never exercise.”

  The women laughed but stopped quickly as they realized the amount of oxygen it required. Cassidy stood up and rested her hands on her lower back.

  “Oh my God, you are such a pregnant lady with that pose,” Noeli said, and Cassidy dropped her arms. She’d have to be conscious about how she moved so she could hide her pregnancy on cam as long as possible.

  When they turned to face the side of the path, they found themselves looking out over a broad expanse of desert shrubs and trees. It was not the Rancho Cucamonga that Cassidy knew. It was green and peaceful. It was quiet. Farther down beyond the tangled flora was a wide panorama—a 180-degree view of the houses below. The whole Inland Empire was cradled here, held in the foothills like toys in a toy box, and Cassidy felt a tenderness creep into her chest.

  She sat on the side of the trail, staring out over the bowl of houses and freeways beyond. Noeli sat beside her and rested her arms on her knees. “So this used to be Mexico,” she said, extending one arm out toward the view. “In the 1800s, there was the Mexican–American War and California became part of the US. Classic settler colonialism. The US thought it could expand indefinitely and—surprise, surprise—people don’t like being kicked out of their homes. So, of course, the US just killed people to get their way. Like the Wampanoag and the Pilgrims. It seems like West Virginia had lots of different tribes, all pushed out by settlers.”

  “You were reading about West Virginia history?” Cassidy asked.

  “I was reading the Wikipedia page.” Noeli laughed. “And you know all the warehouses around here? The Ports of Long Beach and LA are two of the biggest ways stuff gets to the United States from overseas, but land there is so expensive that they house the goods here. Two-day shipping is basically why the Inland Empire is such a shithole. It’s political. Fontana used to be rural. It was a citrus farming area.”

  Cassidy listened quietly and wond
ered where this history lesson was heading.

  Noeli paused and stared past the valley, out to the smoggy horizon. “I want you to know it’s a real place. It’s not this, like . . . pretend place.”

  “I know,” Cassidy said quietly.

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “I know.”

  Noeli bit her lower lip and ran her fingers through her curls.

  “I think I’ll always be a person from there looking at here,” Cassidy said, finally.

  “You can be both,” Noeli said. “You can be from there and from here.”

  “I don’t know.” Cassidy leaned back on her hands and looked up at the cloudless sky above. Even the sky was strange here—a hazy, milky blue rather than the piercing clear robin’s egg she knew from West Virginia. “I feel like I’m in the hero’s journey but without the return. Not that I’m a hero. Far from it.” She thought again about her conversation with Simon. “But it’s the one thing I remember from my freshman English seminar. All these great stories work the same way—Star Wars, Lord of the Rings. Going home after the big adventure is supposed to be the climax of the whole thing.”

  “First of all, the climax is the Resurrection in the hero’s journey—the last big test before the return,” Noeli said.

  “Okay, Ms. English Major.” Cassidy rolled her eyes and smiled at her friend.

  Noeli grinned. “Also, Lord of the Rings and Star Wars are both boring bro nerd shit that try too hard to be deep.”

  “Fair,” Cassidy said, and the women sat for a while in silence.

  “I think there are other ways to return,” Noeli said. “You don’t have to actually go back.”

  “Like how?” Cassidy asked.

  “So in the hero’s journey, it’s the Return with the Elixir, right? You bring what you found back to everyone at home. Like how my mom sends money back to my aunts and uncles in Mexico. Or think about scholars who go away to school but write about their home and send that knowledge back.”

  “Like you did.” Cassidy looked at her friend. “What was your big paper on again?”