Driving alone through the Sahara blew Sarah-Beth’s mind. She woke up in the back of the Jeep, smoked a joint, popped a Black Beauty, and revved her engine full of thoughts and plans. She’d imagined driving with her head empty, like she’d thought the desert would be, but everything was full: palm trees, all sorts of scrub brush she couldn’t identify. Not the sea of dunes she’d imagined, something different and far more alive. Like she was, even under the eyeball-blistering sun.
The first tire went flat a hundred miles out of Algiers. She busted out the jack, put on the janky-looking spare, and threw the useless old tube to the side of the road before driving on. Just like life with Emmy: even when the wheels came off, they’d kept going. Even when it was a bad idea, like driving alone through the desert, the weed and speed had kept them trucking.
The only way out is through: that’s what Emmy always said. Quoting someone, Sarah-Beth never asked who, but Emmy said it with such conviction that she’d made it her own. Nobody could stand up to her when she was like that.
• • • •
Eight hundred miles later, only a hundred miles short of Tamanrasset, the spare blew. Sarah-Beth heard the pop, the slow hiss of air. The car shimmied as she pounded the brake, but there wasn’t much to hit. She felt everything, and she had it all under control. She’d felt that way with Emmy too. Look where that had gotten them.
On her own, Sarah-Beth couldn’t even boost a car. If they’d had that fight right away, she’d never have left Spain, except maybe to go back home. Her parents didn’t approve. They might buy the ticket if she promised they’d never see Emmy again, that Sarah-Beth would go back to school. Right now, she was okay with that. It had never gotten physical before Casablanca. She couldn’t remember who’d taken the first swing. It might’ve been her. It didn’t matter.
Sarah-Beth took inventory: low on water, hot as hell, and all alone. Nobody likely to drive by. No pay phones, ha ha. Whichever way was out, it didn’t involve the Jeep.
Just beyond a stand of palms, Sarah-Beth saw something. Black and glittering in the endless sunlight, some obelisk left in the desert by some long-forgotten civilization, like something out of one of those terrible poems Emmy made her read.
Wasn’t much to do but go and take a look, not unless she could walk a hundred miles without water or someone should just happen to drive by. Lotta luck with that. Might as well check it out. Probably just the drugs, but you never knew. Maybe there was a pay phone she could use. Maybe there was some fellow with a—what was it, a souk?—who could sell her water and snacks and maybe even a camel to get her out of here. A regular tourist trap. Could be.
It wasn’t as close as it looked—not just over the next bump, or the one after that. The black granite monolith grew and grew as she approached. Was that writing on its face, carvings glittering under the mid-day sun, or just a trick of the light? The air crackled and all Sarah-Beth’s hair stood tingling on end. She didn’t see any canvas or silks yet, indicating market stalls, but perhaps they were still concealed by the undulating sand.
She felt drawn to the obelisk, the way she’d been to Emmy the first time she’d seen her. Sarah-Beth had never been into girls, not like that, but one glance of Emmy, silk scarf tied around her neck as she picked away at that guitar, and she was hooked but good.
Her throat cracked. Sarah-Beth tasted blood. Her skin blistered. If she died here, Emmy would feel like hell, at least until she popped her next pill. But no, Emmy would never find out. Nobody would. They’d find an abandoned Jeep by the side of the road, stolen in Jerez six weeks prior, no identifying information.
If they found her body, they’d have her passport—but why would they search so far away? No, Emmy would never know. Everything Emmy touched turned to dust, but it never really touched her. Everything Sarah-Beth touched turned to shit, and with her hand still stuck in it she couldn’t help but smell the stink.
• • • •
By the time she reached the obelisk, Sarah-Beth wasn’t sweating anymore. Heatstroke. No doubt the handful of pills she’d dry-swallowed hadn’t helped, but she couldn’t have made it without a little bit of help from her friends.
The obelisk stood alone. No market, no tourist booth. No water, no food, no camel, and certainly no tires. She was fucked, well and truly fucked. So close to the road—hard to believe nobody had set up shop here. So many tourists going by to squeeze a quick buck out of. Sarah-Beth turned her head and peered toward the silent road. She couldn’t see the Jeep from here.
But the obelisk! It did not appear to be black granite as she’d believed. Maybe it was just the drugs, but it seemed to be made from some kind of dark energy. It had form, yet she could stick her hand straight into it like it wasn’t even there. She’d always felt as though she’d never been quite real to Emmy, and now she wasn’t any more real to this massive tombstone in the desert.
Her hand inside it felt cool, like dipping a finger into a stream, but it came out dry. At the corner, she could stick her hand through and watch it come out unchanged on the other side.
It was too hot. She was overcome with the certainty she couldn’t make it another hour out here. What if she stepped on in?
Sarah-Beth hadn’t ever been a coward. Cowards didn’t quit college to run off with women, or make love to them. Cowards didn’t live on the ragged edge, popping pills and stealing cars. Still, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and she got goose-pimples all up and down her arms when she thought about stepping inside that cool, strange obelisk. Dying out here under the sun felt safer.
The only way out is through. Even now, Sarah-Beth couldn’t resist. Even if she wasn’t here to deliver the message herself, Emmy was right. There wasn’t any water. Even if she could find her Jeep, make it back—then what? Pray to God that someone else drove by, stopped, gave her water, or fixed her car? He’d never answered her prayers before, and she didn’t imagine he’d start now. There wasn’t any other way out.
The risk of death had never stopped her before, not since she’d hooked up with Emmy. Staying out here, under the white-hot searing sun, wasn’t risk of death. It was the certainty of it. That fucking monolith could be Death Itself, but not any more than a hundred and ten degrees and no shade or water.
Through. She whispered the word, and felt her heart jump. Too many pills. The only way out was through death. Not dying—punching right through to the other side, whatever was there. Something waited for her, not across the river in the Land of the Dead, if there was one, but on the far side of that country, the other river. There had to be one: when the dead died, where did they go?
Maybe that’s where Sarah-Beth was headed. Maybe not, but wherever she was going, it was somewhere Death couldn’t hold her. That wasn’t the drugs talking. Her body trembled but her mind was clear. Break on through, like in the song. The only way out.
She put her hand in again. Held it till her arm shook. It ached to swallow. Sunstroke or terror? Did it matter? It didn’t: the only way out was in. One foot, then the other. They tingled in the cold. She kept her head out till the last, like she was at a party trying out the limbo, but she couldn’t keep it out forever. The cool air felt delicious as it crawled across her legs and up her trunk. She closed her eyes and pulled her head forward until everything was cold and electric.
• • • •
Cold pricked her scalp like winter raindrops. Sarah-Beth strained to see, but all inside the obelisk was dark. She stood, waiting for her eyes to adjust, then sat, then lay down to rest. She closed her eyes, though it wasn’t any darker that way.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It was the pills that did it. The comedown was brutal. What she wouldn’t have given for a bottle of red wine. Half a bottle. A glass. She hadn’t any stashed in the Jeep, and it was too late to go back there anyway.
How long had she been out? Coming off of those beauties, she’d often crashed for a day, a day and a half. This felt like it might have been longer than that, though in the continuing darkness it was hard to say.
What Sarah-Beth needed now was another pill, to get her going again. She dug the pill bottle out of her pocket and shook it. Empty. Fuck. She’d taken the small bottle, because it fit in the stupid pockets of her jeans. Should’ve worn men’s jeans, like Emmy, that could fit a grown-up-sized pill bottle in them. Fuck women’s jeans, fuck empty pill bottles, and fuck Emmy.
The darkness seemed splotchier now, like maybe there was a little bit of light. Or maybe that was her eyes going crazy from the lack of stimulation. Maybe she was hallucinating. Once she’d seen a friend of Emmy’s, a real pillhead named Woody something, Woody Hollis, come down from an eight-day jag. It had almost been enough to scare her off the pills. But not quite. Sarah-Beth didn’t believe in God, who had never answered her prayers, not even once, but if this was anything like Woody, she’d be praying to Him before everything was out. Praying? Shit, she’d be seeing Him face-to-face, probably cussing him out.
Stop it, Chickadee. Emmy’s voice, clear as if she was standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder. Be here now. Stop worrying about all that shit you can’t control. Breathe. Where are you?
Was she a memory? A hallucination? A dream? In the dark and silent cenotaph, it was hard to tell the difference. Whatever it was—psychic contact from across the Sahara, a psychological model come to life—Sarah-Beth was thankful. Her heart slowed. Her fingers stilled. She could make it through the hangover. She still had a chance to get out of here alive. Only—
Maybe she was dead already. Was this what death was like? Shit, her heart banged against her chest again and again like a sparrow trapped within her ribcage.
You’re doing it again, Chickadee. So what if you’re dead? You’re still kicking. Break on through, like you said you would. Stand up. There, you can do it. What’s that feel like? Like you’re dead?
“How would I know?” Sarah-Beth said aloud. “I’ve never been dead before.”
Neither had I until now.
“You’re—” It made sense, if this obelisk was death. What had happened to Emmy when they’d left? It was all Sarah-Beth’s fault! She sobbed, no more in control of her tears than anything else in her life.
Hush, Chickadee. You never know who’s listening. Wouldn’t want them to think you were high. You’ve got to maintain.
Sarah-Beth nodded. Her core was still wound tight, so tight she might snap. No sense in talking to herself. There wasn’t anything to do but on with it, whatever it was.
The only way out is through.
She wasn’t sure whether that was Emmy’s voice or her own.
• • • •
Sarah-Beth shuffled one foot forward. When it encountered no obstacles, she shuffled the other one up to meet it. She slid the first foot forward again, and the second, her hands up before her face. Where was she headed?
It had never mattered before. Why should it matter now?
Because now she was in deep. This wasn’t dropping out of school and taking a job in the typing pool. This was life and death.
So what? Should she freak out? Throw a tantrum on the floor? What good would that do? Emmy was dead and speaking to her, or she’d lost her mind, and all that crying wouldn’t bring Emmy or her sanity back. She wiped her eyes, and a blanket of calm settled on her.
Maybe death kept her calm. You didn’t see corpses losing their shit in graveyards. That privilege was reserved for the living.
Her fingers touched stone. Smooth as patent leather, cold and firm. She turned the backs of her hands to the wall and pressed them down as she dragged her hands back and forth. No crevices, no joins between blocks. She slid left and felt again for seams.
Still nothing to see, nothing to hear. Her mouth felt too dry to taste anything. What did she smell? Stone and dust. Ozone, like lightning had struck. She slid left again.
Twice more and she reached the corner. She ran her fingers up and down the narrowest crevice, but still didn’t feel where or how the blocks were joined. They had to be, didn’t they?
Three more walls, three more corners. Twenty paces between them. She went around a second time, feeling up and down more this time. No buttons, no levers that she could find.
She crumpled to the ground and wiped away a solitary tear. She was still thirsty. No water to waste on crying. She wasn’t hungry yet, though that had to be coming. She had to conserve energy. At least, if she wasn’t dead. Her laugh echoed off the walls and filled the space between.
Maybe that was it: maybe there was a lever or a switch or—well, anything at all worth knowing—somewhere in the middle of the room. She walked it, shuffling her feet in a narrow back-and-forth pattern, but she came to the other end of the room and had found nothing.
Sarah-Beth flashed back to when she put her hand through the wall and into the room. It couldn’t be a one-way door, could it? Everyone thought death was a one-way door, but you just needed to know the way out. The way through.
She shivered. The cold, earlier a respite from the desert, now chilled her through. Her fingers trembled not with amphetamine certitude but with hunger, thirst, all the needs of her body. She curled up on the floor, knees to her chest.
Maybe there was another pill, one she’d forgotten, in her jeans pocket. If only she could reach it. If only her hands worked.
She cried out, though nobody else was there to hear. What if the way out from death was another death? Was this that? What should she do?
What would Emmy say? Sarah-Beth strained to listen, but Emmy had fallen silent. She closed her eyes and wept. Not for dying a second time, but for losing Emmy again.
• • • •
Sarah-Beth opened her eyes. When had she stopped crying? When had she fallen asleep? Once might’ve been the pills, but twice? Well, people slept, when they didn’t have a choice or any more beauties. This was normal-people life, a lot of sleeping and crying and shuffling around in the dark. No wonder she’d traded it away.
The cold had settled in all over. It couldn’t be as cold as she felt, bones and flesh alike; she’d be dead. (Maybe she was. Best not to think about it.)
“Hello?” she called. Her voice faded, echoless. More proof the walls weren’t real, or at least not the stone they felt like beneath her fingers. “Hello?”
Something brushed against her hand. Silk, loose, like a scarf. “Emmy?” Sarah-Beth whispered. Something warm nearby. She reached out.
Emmy took her hand. Sarah-Beth choked back a sob and closed her eyes, even though it was still dark, trying to smell Emmy. The only scent was that whisper of lightning and rainstorms. If she’d even been here, Emmy was gone again.
It had been a dream, hadn’t it? Everything was cold, everything hurt. Clearly, though. Everything hurt clearly. Last time she’d been high, or getting clean, or something. Messed-up, one way or another.
Now she was clean, clear. She was going to die, if she wasn’t dead already.
If she was, the walls of this cenotaph couldn’t hold her. Could they?
She put both hands in front of her and shuffled forward, daring the wall to stop her.
• • • •
All at once she was outside again. The sand beneath her feet warmed Sarah-Beth even through the soles of her sandals. But was it the same sand? The sun, not right above her but nearly so, felt like balm upon her skin. But was it the same sun? Soon its caresses would turn to slaps, or worse, but right now it meant that she wouldn’t be cold forever. There was something beyond that cold of death, and she had found it.
She glanced behind her, but the monolith was gone, as though it had never been there, been only a dream of death. It had been real. Emmy had been there; she hadn’t visited Sarah-Beth, Sarah-Beth had visited her. She was dead, not Sarah-Beth. Not yet, anyway.
It was strange, wasn’t it, to go to the land of death and learn nothing? Well, Death was a big nothing. There weren’t secrets to be had. No succor except the memory of loved ones. Just darkness, and cold.
There had been the touch, hadn’t there? That was behind her for now. Her stomach growled. She was hungry. Back home or on the other shore, her needs were unchanged: shelter, food, and water.
There on the horizon: water, a pond—what was it called? An oasis in the shimmering heat, glimmering as if unreal.
One sandal in front of another, Sarah-Beth trudged toward it.
