Rising Abruptly (4 page)

I almost gave birth to you, Alex, in a similar chimney. To the eleventh hour, I climbed with you in my belly. And then, we had to race down to the hospital. A sight we looked, dirty and smelly after four days in the hills. The nurses removed my harness, clanking with gear, but I gave birth with my climbing boots on. To hell with hygiene, I remember shouting. That kid nearly popped out on the rocks. Besides, the boots would give me great traction. I demanded to rope up, anchored to pegs driven into the delivery room wall. Your father reassured the staff I wasn't as crazy as I sounded and, despite himself looking like Mr. Sasquatch, he helped me climb down from my frenzy. Still, I insisted: With my boots on!

I clip in to a couple of pitons on an exposed ledge where I will remain until dawn. Day turned to dusk before I could stand on my elusive summit. In the shadows at my feet, I notice embedded into the rock a metal cross bearing the name and age of a climber. He was so young when he died. Had he, at least, made it to the top, before the fall? I stare at the void. Hundreds of metres of air. I stare and stare until I feel nothing. Only then do I take off my pack, clip it to the pitons and phone Sam to let him know I won't be home tonight.

His demeanour is breezy, but even with the poor signal, I detect concern in his voice; the one at home always bears the brunt of the worry.

How's Alex?

She's fine. Cut her hands on some glass.

He tells me more, something about a contest and Cossack dancing, but we're about to lose the connection.

See you later tomorrow, Sam.

Say hello to our jagged little peak. And take care.

From my perch so high up, I watch the void fill with darkness and the surrounding rock lose its definition in the grainy greyness of dusk, while the sky above will remain full of light for hours. Alex's diary is like rock and evening sky. Darkness and brilliance.

So, Mom grounded me for sneaking out to the party of the year. She's been showing me how to survive ever since I was a kid. And
now what? Pretending to be a typical mother. Understanding nothing.
She's never been like that. And I'm no fool. I deserve her trust.

Ah, she did learn my survival lessons too well.

Look, Mom! No hands.

And I recall a page, crowded with silver stars she glued in the margins and around the last sentence.

Climbers don't stop climbing just because they have kids. They're hooked. One more fix. And it's that last fix…

The rough stone grinds into the small of my back. I shift position. When I try to talk to her, she slinks away. Sam fares better. From time to time, I find them sitting side by side on the back stairs, recalling climbing moments. She never lambastes him for keeping up his mountain pursuit. Alex, a mystery to me at the moment. Alex, wild, stubborn, but not a delinquent. An achiever in the classroom, she discovered early that if you do well in school, you could get away with eccentric behaviour. Even though she's popular, she spends hours alone behind closed doors. I leave her be.

I blame myself for setting her off on her dubious course. Cowardice, I swore, would never plague my daughter. She was five when we fitted her with a full-body climbing harness, and on her eighth birthday, we gave her her first mountaineering axe. She scampered up anything vertical with the surefootedness of a mountain goat. However proud of Alex's climbing abilities, Sam reminded her that a healthy dose of fear separates the courageous from the foolhardy, preserves life and elevates the spirit. We argued the point while I crushed in her any manifestation of the bashful, the timorous, the pusillanimous. I'd have none of it. Wild land is not your enemy, Alex. Learn the climbing techniques well. Learn to assess risks. Wild nature became my daughter's second nature.

Six months ago, she gave up climbing and took up running.

The wild doesn't scare me one bit. Never has. Now, pitting myself against human violence. Anything more terrifying than that? Will I ever know, what she feels, my mother?

Dawn. In spite of clinging to an exposed, impossibly smooth slab, but this being the crux, I am climbing with rare confidence. After the crux, one has only to scramble up on the easy summit ridge. I'll make it. I'll make it for Sam, for her. For all of us. But, oh, no…

The face retracts from under me. I fall. Not far. Maybe ten metres. I land hard on my back. Red flashes shoot across my eyes. I count on my pack to have softened the blow to my vertebrae. High above, the raven glides in morning light. The young dead climber whispers: Did you make the summit, at least? My daughter screams on the wind, her hands dripping with thick blood. At least, let it be her own. Don't let me read in her diary about a man with a knife, a struggle, Alex defending herself, the man lying on the ground, his throat cut. On the wind, I sniff the scent of dead animals; hear Alex's voice distorted by distance. Don't let me hear her say she tried to close the slit with her hands, begging for my help in stitching up the man's throat, she didn't mean to. My mind is swimming in and out of consciousness and I wish for my daughter the same sudden raw release of fear as with the young man brandishing his father's rifle at that party. The raven croaks. Leaves my field of vision.

I check the stone under my buttocks. Feel nothing, as if the impact had knocked the terror right out of me. I must get up. Reach that summit. I lie here, waiting. We must resume our tango danced a thousand times with high steps and careful dips over the void. I will dance with you again, Sam.

I unclip the cell from my harness. Dial in a daze. Will it connect? Last night, what did he tell me about her hands? Something about Cossacks and glass…

Alex?

Mom!

Your dad home?

He left early. Did you make it?

I hear a tremolo in her voice. I'd hoped Sam had not gone to work yet, the morning so young, so bright.

As calmly as possible, I explain. Listen to me, Alex. I'll try to rappel. It'll be slow. Once I'm down, I'll have the hike back to the car. It'll take all day.

Mom, I'm losing you.

The signal is weakening.

Mom, don't move. Do you hear? Stay where you are. They won't find you otherwise. Where are you? Describe it. Mom?

Now, finally, Sam's words filter through, the things he said yesterday. Some kids were having a bottle-smashing contest. Glass everywhere. Alex slipped and broke her fall with both hands flat on the ground. In the stance of a Cossack dancer. Broke her fall. I exhale, close my eyes. Her own blood on her hands. She is yelling in my ear.

Mom? Are you there?

Not going anywhere.

Mom? Mom?

You have a pen?

I describe where I fell. The signal is getting spotty. Gaps between our words.

Alex, I'm losing the connection.

Okay, I got it. Hang on. I know what to do.

Although the pain in my lower back is searing now, I'm reassured when I can move fingers and toes. Alex alone in the house. Will she phone the wardens' office right away? Try to reach her dad at work and let him take charge? Tears run down the side of my face.

Oh, Alex, to this day, I don't understand my distraction. Pregnant, I mean. I looked at my belly in disbelief the day I strained to buckle up my harness over you. The thing growing inside me that took control. I could no longer self-arrest. An internal rope tied us together, a rope that you would cut only at the time of impact. You birthed yourself, a puzzle that had nothing to do with me. Sam, on this clear, clear morning, you, so intimately tied to me, seem all of a sudden too far to reach. I'm thirsty. At an incredible distance from my head, I glimpse my feet shod in scuffed boots.

Boots! So that's what made me peel off. I think back to last night, switching from rock shoes to hiking boots for warmth and comfort. And this morning, forgot to switch back again. Holy scree! How distracted am I?

I can only laugh. The nurses assumed it was maternal happiness that made me giggly. It wasn't that. It was thinking I had just given birth to twin cracked-leather boots. Staring at my feet through tears of mirth, failing to understand how I could have been allowed to deliver a child, in a hospital, with my boots on, I formed the notion that I had, at last, expelled my congenital fear.

Not so. It had never left me. This morning acknowledging my distraction, it's all too clear. Forever, I'll climb, fall and climb again, pushing before me the rock of my dread. If there is one consolation, it is that, in the delivery room, I didn't pass that damn emotion on to my daughter. My only wish now is for her to stop trying so hard to experience it. Staring at the sky, I imagine Sam up on the ridge above, egging me on, both of us clinging to our jagged little peak, and, despite the sharp pain across my ribs forcing me to shallow my breathing, I can't stop laughing. Here I come, love. Here I come.

I swallow dryness, my tears distorting Sam's face and the light.

Benighted on Mighty Mount Royal

AS IF RACHEL WANTED to go tobogganing. The cold, the snow. Her father died in the cold in the snow. In those distant mountains. The wool sweaters that make you itchy. The tuque that makes you look ugly. The mitts that make you clumsy. His tuque and mitts and itchy sweaters did not keep him from turning into a snowman. The slushy streets, the boots always damp. Damp. As if Rachel wanted to go tobogganing.

But the game, Rachel! We must play the game.

Yes, Jeanne. The game.

Rachel understands that she and her cousin must play the sacred game. And this afternoon, Jeanne wants to go tobogganing, so that they can play the game. And when Jeanne wants something…

Don't worry so much, Rach. On Mount Royal, the snow will be friendly. Nothing like the snow on those giant mountains. So very far away. Jeanne also reminds her cousin that, once back home, Rachel always says she loved the game. The
aftermath
, the power.

The aftermath. A word Rachel's mom had taught the cousins. Sounds like after the math. Homework done, problem solved. The reward, out of the cold, safe from the snow, Rachel slurping a hot chocolate, her feet toasty in her slippers. Rachel dissecting the game. One thing she loves above all else is dissecting. In the coziness of aftermath, she keeps adding to the game events of epic proportion. So as usual, she yields to Jeanne's persuasion.

When they reach the foot of Mount Royal, the December afternoon is already drawing to a close, the temperature dropping quickly, and forecasting a frigid night. In the fading light of day, Jeanne notices dark clouds forming over the mountain.

Her mouth hidden behind her wool scarf, she curses her cousin and her crazy ideas: Let's go home, Jeanne. Before my toes turn into hard candies.

Come on, Rach, don't be a crybaby. We're eleven. Not two. Make yourself tough. You'll see. When we start sliding, we'll warm up and you'll love it. Let's run to the bus stop.

Pulling the toboggan, they run against the wind. The sharp air brings tears to their eyes. Under their feet, the snow cracks like caramelized sugar. With each breath, their nostrils stick together and the glacial air pinches their lungs. At the bus stop, they stamp their feet, endure the cold knocking on their foreheads. And the bus fails to appear. Jeanne suggests that they play the game of hiking the trail that climbs to the summit. Soon, the paved road that parallels the trail disappears behind fir trees loaded with snow. Between the trees, the cousins glimpse several buses driving back to the city.

Jeanne climbs the trail with much energy. Rachel follows more slowly, pulling the toboggan tied to its red cord. In the snow between the stems of the naked shrubs, sparrows' tracks have left exclamation marks.

Jeanne waits for her cousin: Come on, Rach. My turn to pull the toboggan.

No, no. I can do this. Walk!

They resume the hike, watching the city lights below, a scene straight out of a Christmas card. 'Tis the twelfth month, Christmas is very much on their minds.

When they reach the lake, not quite at the summit, Jeanne looks around: Eh, Rach! See that? The place's deserted. Where's everybody?

That's right. The snowy slopes have been abandoned. On frozen lac des Castors, not one soul is skating. And, out of the loudspeakers, not one note of a waltz streams into the cold air. The girls don't understand this anomaly, since in the glittery season, the place crawls with winter-loving people, even on weeknights. The parking lot lies empty and the windows of the lodge are dark.

Rachel feels all funny inside, disoriented and uneasy. As if a giant hand had dropped her in a strange land.

Let's go back down, Jeanne. I'm really, really cold.

Oh, Rach, this is great! How often do we get to have the entire mountain to ourselves!

Jeanne's right. A tiny part of Rachel wants this adventure. But how she wishes it was already over. How she wishes she was back home, dissecting. Still pulling the narrow sled, which seems heavier now, she follows her cousin, leading the way toward the summit.

Jeanne searches for the deepest powder, the girls sinking in up to their knees. Giggling, Jeanne kneels on the toboggan and remains afloat: Look, Rach! Like a magic carpet!