Maria S. North.
It meant nothing. But it felt like something. The word north always felt like something. Marigold wondered when that would stop, when the stilted female voice on Google Maps wouldn’t crush her spirit every time it told her to turn north onto the interstate.
This is why you’re here, she reminded herself. To stop this sadness and guilt.
Still, Marigold left the museum and hurried into the gift shop next door. A carved wooden bear with a WELCOME sign greeted her at its threshold. The smell of Christmas grew stronger, to the point of being overpowering.
Does this mean Christmas is ruined forever, too?
The shop was also one room, and a self-inflicted browse revealed the usual trinkets—souvenir postcards, magnets, pins, books, puzzles, T-shirts, and sweatshirts, all featuring the mountain or the Blue Ridge Parkway. A girl about her age stood behind the counter in a powder-blue polo and matching powder-blue pants. In an organized row in front of her register were a dozen tiny brown bottles with eyedroppers. Marigold picked one up. Pure balsam fir oil.
“It’s what you’re smelling right now,” the girl explained.
“Mmm, it’s nice.” But as the lie tumbled from her lips, it evolved into the truth. Marigold wanted one of these tiny bottles. She needed one.
She bought one.
Outside the spell of the shop, her regret was instantaneous. She’d already spent too much on the funicular and the trail mix, not to mention the gas it took to drive here. But she was too embarrassed to return it. She’d just have to replace a few more meals next week with ramen. Marigold was already eating a lot of ramen. She had two jobs in Atlanta: an internship at an animation studio, which was what she hoped to be paid for doing some day, and a serving gig at an Outback Steakhouse. That was where the rest of her meals came from—the cheapest menu items, purchased with her employee discount. Sometimes her grandparents, who ran a popular Chinese restaurant in nearby Decatur, would leave food on her doorstep while she was at work. It always made her cry.
Marigold checked her phone and was dismayed to see only forty-five minutes had passed. The screen showed two bars on a 1x signal—it might as well be dead—so she couldn’t even call her mom or go online. Her eyes rested on the funicular tracks as another green car crested the mountain. After some quick math, she realized it wasn’t North. His car was at the bottom.
She shivered and rubbed her bare arms. Now that her body had cooled, the air seemed chilly and autumnal. Most of the park’s visitors were wearing pants or jackets, as if they’d known—duh—they’d be going on top of a mountain today.
To be fair, I did not know I’d be going on top of a mountain today.
The only thing remaining was the summit itself, so Marigold trudged onto the pathway. It was even colder under the trees, but it was also more tranquil. The air tasted clean and newly born, and as she brought it deeper into her lungs, she discovered she’d been holding her breath. But here there was lichen-covered bark and moss-covered logs, pinky-purple wildflowers and spiky-soft bee balm, and even a chirping bird with fluffy blue feathers. It wouldn’t have looked out of place on Snow White’s finger.
A spotted dog in a bandana bounded past, followed by an older woman with a large backpack and walking sticks that looked like ski poles. It was the first actual hiker that Marigold had seen here. But the closer she got to the summit, the more crowded it was. The shelter of the trees disappeared, and the peaceful nature sounds grew into clamorous playground noises. Children laughed and cried and screamed with the freedom of summer vacation. A peculiar stone structure emerged. It resembled a stumpy castle tower, and it was packed with tourists.
Marigold wove through the throng, across a bridge, and around the packed observation deck. The 360-degree view was undeniably beautiful—if she were in a happy mental space, she might describe it as stunning, or even breathtaking—but she wasn’t in a happy mental space. The wind whistled and nipped at her exposed skin, so she left after only a minute. She ducked beneath the bridge. Leaning against one of its concrete pillars, she slid down into the dirt. The gravel sparkled with flecks of mica, and the patches of grass were spotted with yellow dandelion flowers. Marigold hugged her knees against her chest.
It’s not so bad, she told herself.
Ahead of her were rolling ridges and mountain ranges cloaked in mist. Below her, the twin cars of the funicular rose and fell. And behind her, inside the ground, was Dr. Elisha Mitchell. His tomb didn’t look like much—a pile of flat rocks inside a rectangular wall made out of similar rocks—but she knew what it was, because people kept asking what it was and then reading the plaque out loud.
Marigold redid the calculations. North’s car would make one more full trip before she saw him again. She rifled through her purse, searching for paper and a distraction, but could only find the receipt for the balsam oil. Slowly, perhaps unconsciously, she drew her favorite character onto the back of it, a cantankerous but lovable sloth named South.
South was North, of course. But … he actually was.
North had recorded the voice of the character. Marigold made comedic animated short films for YouTube, but she wanted to make them for television. It’s why she had moved; Atlanta was home to several animation studios. She’d been fortunate—and talented enough—to score the internship, even though the grunt work often sucked. She trusted it would get better.
A boy with dirt on his nose appeared behind her. “I can see my echo.”
Marigold wasn’t in the mood, but she smiled anyway to be polite. “Oh, yeah?”
“Watch this.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Mountain, mountain, mountain, mountain.”
She nodded.
“Awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome.”
She smiled again, for real this time.
He pointed at her drawing. “Can I have that?”
“I’m sorry.” His mother, a harried-looking woman with stress between her brows and giant silver hoops in her ears, rushed up and grabbed his hand. “Emiliano Navarro Castellanos. What have I told you about bothering strangers?”
“It’s okay. He’s not bothering me.” Marigold added a marigold into the sloth’s hands and then held out the drawing for Emiliano. “His name is South. He only eats orange flowers and heirloom tomatoes.”
Emiliano looked up at his mother. She nodded, and he eagerly accepted the drawing. “Thank you. Gracias!” His mother thanked her, too, but Emiliano was already skipping away and pulling her along with him.
Marigold felt inexplicably sad to see them go—a general, misdirected stirring of loneliness and fear. She didn’t know how long she’d been staring at Dr. Mitchell’s tomb when her heart compressed with a sudden and knowing panic. She checked her phone. And then she scrambled to her feet. Racing down the peak, she dodged strollers and a tour group in matching neon T-shirts. It was exactly four o’clock. Railways were punctual. He would be punctual. What if he left, thinking she’d changed her mind?