Clear to Lift (24 page)

“You've packed in quite a bit for our honeymoon.”

“Well, once you get going … There's just so much to do down there.”

“Yeah—”

“And it's
warm,
” he says as he scans the snowy landscape. “I cannot
wait
to hit the beaches there.”

Maybe I'm imagining it, but he seems sort of done here. “Did you want to stay here longer or go on or…?”

“Sure, what's next?”

“I wanted to show you Mount Morrison up close, and then, drive down to Bishop—”

At the mention of the town, his expression takes a turn south.

“Just to go to the bakery, the one I've been telling you about.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He rises and steps out, moving out of my sight, while I remain in the spring, a little stunned. I know he would prefer not to have any reminders of what happened in Bishop, but I did want him to experience Schat's Bakkerÿ, having raved about it yesterday. And then, I guess I thought he would have liked to hang out at the springs a while longer.

I duck my head underwater, and stay there, running my fingers through my hair, feeling how slippery and smooth it is, the water chock-f of healthy minerals. Surfacing, I remember someone else who “washed” his hair, and that someone was not concerned about bacteria or facilities.

By the time I reach the car, Rich is clothed and sitting in the passenger seat. His head is down, and he scrolls through something on his cell phone.

I pass him, moving to the back of the car, then stop, turning a circle. I do so in my suit and bare feet, not bothered at the moment by the cold. Of course, with what I experienced Monday, this is tame by comparison.

Around me, the mountains are—to borrow a word my mom used—resplendent. The Sierra Nevada and the White Mountains, both blanketed in snow, just like the valley. A black hawk with a red tail soars overhead, its wingspan pushing four feet, at least. The bird is resolutely unfazed by the striated black and gray clouds that threaten, dropping lower by the minute. And it is blessedly quiet.

I shudder, reacting to the artificial clicking noises that stab the silence as Rich taps on his phone. It's the thirteenth time he's checked his phone since we left Fallon three hours ago. Not that I'm counting.

I peel down my wet swimsuit, wondering about my own habits with a phone. Do I check it that often? Maybe I do.

I dry myself and dress, then walk to the passenger door and open it.

“Did you wanna see Mount Morrison?” I ask. “We could drive there.…”

He finishes tapping. Slots the phone back in his pocket.

“Or … I could just point out stuff. I just wanted to show you, you know, the site of that rescue I told you about.”

“The Death Couloir,” he says. He opens the door wider and slides out. “I remember that.”

“Yes,” I say, straightening. “So that's it, that black corridor of snow.” I point to the couloir, which is once again hidden in shadow by the steep rock surrounding it. “See the ice wall on the bottom part? That's where the climbers were stuck.”

“That is seriously steep.” He brings his hand over his eyes and squints. “And you hovered there?”

“Yeah.”

“Most impressive, Alison Malone-soon-to-be-Gordon,” he says with a grin.

He puts his hand on my elbow, turning me away from the mountain, before pulling out his phone and stretching out his arm. “Selfie with the Death Couloir!” He aims the phone and snaps.

I look over his shoulder as he checks the screen. In the photo, his smile is bright, mine a little awkward, the couloir cutting a sharp, shadowed line between us in the background.

“So, anyway, when we got there, we—” I start.

“Hold on a sec, I wanna post this on Instagram.”

“Oh … okay.” While his head is down, I stare at the couloir, seeing it as clearly as I saw it that day, a bright yellow jacket moving steadily upward, methodical, sure.

Yes, I admit it; I did slip once in the days after the party at Jack's house. I searched for Will on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, thinking surely he had photos posted of his exploits. But—and maybe I shouldn't be surprised—I came up empty. Will is so modest and self-deprecating, one would never guess what he's accomplished. Which, based on the pictures I saw on Jack's wall, would amount to an impressive mountaineering résumé.

“Okay, the photo's up,” Rich says, reseating himself. “So what's next?”

“Did you want to see anything else here? Maybe take a walk or something?”

“Nah, I think I'm good.”

I bite my lip. “Okay.”

I close his door and shuffle to the back of the car, my eyes stinging.
He's so not into this.
I plop myself in the cargo area, letting my legs dangle over the tailgate, and wipe my eyes.
But how can you
not
be into this? Look at this place!
I peek up at the hawk again, still floating in the updrafts overhead.
That's the problem, Ali. He's not even looking.

When I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, my fingers move across a scattering of pointed pine needles. How this elicits a smile, I'll never know, but I pull them out, and breathe in their glorious Jeffrey pine scent—more like butterscotch this time. I sit for a good five minutes, completely uninterrupted, by the way, taking deep, pine-infused breaths, composing myself.

The light dims as the alien clouds continue to drop, pressing ever lower into the valley. But my eyes continue to be drawn upward, especially now that the first dollop-sized raindrops—
rain?
—begin to plunk on the roof.

I shove the needles in my pocket, close the back door, and rush to the driver's seat.

“Ready to go?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says without looking up. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Whatever you want.”

I buckle myself in. Turn the key.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

I check the temperature display. Forty degrees. No wonder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Rich, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Where do you see us in twenty years?”

He stops, lowering the phone, an invisible vacuum sucking the air from the front seat.

“What do you mean? You're sounding all serious.”

“Well, I was just wondering, do you think we'll still be in San Diego? Will you be doing the same job?”

“I
hope
I'm doing the same job. Two more promotions, and I'm a partner! And why would I want to live anywhere but San Diego? The weather's great. It works perfectly for you, and we'd be livin' large.”

His head turns down, but mine turns up. To the Sierra. My vision blurs, replaced by a memory. A mountain buried in white. A mine tunnel.

Two days ago, two souls spent the night tucked inside a mountain.

And one of them has no future plans.

 

26

Beep. “You've reached Will Cavanaugh. Sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.” Beep.

“Will … this is Alison. I just … well, I just wanted to apologize for … I'm sorry about what happened with Rich. He was wrong to do that and I just—”

“Alison?” Will says, picking up.

“Will! You answered!”

“I thought I probably should,” he says, the words distinctly distant. “I'm leaving on Saturday at noon. I just wanted you to know.”

“Oh.” It hits me with the force of a blunt object, although it shouldn't, because he told me this. He said there was another flight on Saturday. “Well … when will you be back?”

“I don't know yet.”

“You don't…”

“I have to go. Take care, all right?”

“I … okay…” The phone clicks and he's gone.

*   *   *

I sit on my covered balcony, still in my pajamas, observing night give way to day, the sun not yet having peeked over the horizon. Rain continues to fall, just as it did yesterday, when I called Will after dropping Rich off at the airport.

By the time I arrived home, I felt sick, raw, and wrong. I ran a hot bath and stayed there until the water grew cold, my future life flashing before my eyes. And the really hard thing is that it's a good life. Mrs. Richard Gordon is going to live comfortably, no surprises, with someone who treats her well, doesn't take unnecessary risks, and is committed to a lifelong, stable partner 'til death do us part.

Lifting my cat-poster mug to my lips, I blow across the surface of newly steeped tea, made from the Jeffrey pine needles Jack gave me.

Currently, not a breath of wind stirs the rain. It cascades in sheets, heavy enough that flight ops for the carrier air wing were canceled last night. The plan is to resume this evening
if
the storm lightens. Whatever system this is with the alien clouds hasn't budged since it arrived, and it's been raining without letup ever since.

I take a warming sip of tea, smiling as I swallow. Remembering when Jack gave the needles to me. Remembering Will—

My cell rings. It should be my mom. We were talking just a moment ago, when her phone started acting up, so she was going to hang up and call me from her land line.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey. Sorry about that. I don't know what's going on with my phone, but anyway, where were we?”

“I had to take Danny's duty over the weekend in order to get Thanksgiving off, so I won't be able to see you then.”

“Oh … Well, that's okay,” she says.

The words gnaw. It's not okay. I wanted alone time with her. I really did.

“Cee's been bugging me to go with her to the lodge early, anyway,” my mom says. “She's leaving tomorrow, so I'll just go ahead and go with her. And actually, this will be great. We'll have everything ready for you this way. And when you get here, you and I can sneak off for some alone time. How does that sound?”

So upbeat. Maybe Celia's right about the lodge. My mom really seems to want to go back.

“It sounds fine,” I say.

“Really?”

“Yeah … yeah, really. That'd be great.”

“Are you okay? You don't sound right.”

“I'm all right.”

“Ali…,” she says, waiting.

“What?”

“What's the matter? You just had three days with Rich. You should be bouncing off the walls.”

Bouncing? Definitely not.

“It was a good visit.”

“Just good?”

“Well, it was—Mom, am I doing the right thing?”

“What?”

“Am I doing the right thing, marrying Rich?”

“Of course you are. How many times do you need reassurances?”

“But that's just the thing. Why do I need reassurance? I should just know, right? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?”

“Not necessarily,” she says, her voice lowering, the words ringing false almost as soon as they're spoken. “No one can see the future, Ali, so I think we're all a bit timid when stepping into something like this. It's only normal.”

“But what if I'm wrong? What if Rich isn't the one for me?”

“Nonsense,” she says. “He's a good man. He'll treat you well, give you a nice home. It's a smart choice, Ali.”

Smart
 … I blow on the smooth surface of my tea, ripples forming, shuddering, disappearing.

“Mom, do you think he loves me?”

“Of course he does. It's obvious.” She answers without hesitation, in her standard, no-nonsense way, as she does whenever Rich is the topic of discussion.

“Do you think I love
him?
”

“What? You're asking me?”

I stand, slip my feet into my clogs, and walk through the sliding patio doors, returning to the warmth of the living room. “Well, I just…”

“I think you love him enough.”

What?
I almost trip, because I stop so suddenly.

“Enough? What does
that
mean?”

“Ali, we should probably save this conversation until I see you in person.”

“No!” I say, startling myself with the emphatic volume. “What are you saying? Enough? Enough what?”

I start pacing in the protracted silence. Why do I always pace with my mother? This can't be normal. But she's not answering. She's holding something back. What?

“Mom, please answer me. Enough? What do you mean?”

Wait. Wait. Pace. Pace.

“Mom!” I shout, the frustration boiling over. “Enough what—”

Her response is rendered too quietly. “Enough for your marriage to work, but not enough that he can break you.”

My throat constricts, as if she's reached her hand through the phone and clamped her fingers around it.

That's it. I look furtively around my living room. That's it! Nick couldn't hurt my mom.… She never let him in. Not to that deepest place.

As a couple, they treated each other with respect, consideration, all the niceties—they coexisted well. However, it was her reaction when he died that seemed really off. She grieved, yes, but she moved on. Just like that.

But my mother has not moved on from my father, wallowing in her garden of larkspur, suffering, broken.

She knows Rich poses no danger. He can't hurt me. Why? Because I only love him
enough.
Somehow, she knows this, and therefore, it's a
smart
choice.

But is this true? Do I love Rich just enough or do I
really
love him?

Or do I love him at all…?

“Alison? Are you there?”

“I'm here,” I say dully.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm sure you love Rich just fine. It's not my place to suppose anything about your feelings for him. It was uncalled-for, and I'm sorry.”

“But I asked you,” I say, pacing my way into the kitchen. I place my mug in the sink and lean heavily on the counter. “No, I yelled at you. I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to raise my voice.”