Clear to Lift Page 13

  * * *

  Beanie accompanies Snoopy, but I remain, “guarding” the helicopter. I’m glad for the alone time, as it gives me an opportunity to phone my mother again. Her voice-mail greeting over the weekend said she was “off hiking.” This new activity cropped up after she started her therapy sessions, and when I speak to her after one of these outings, she breathes life again. Energetic, positive, vibrant.

  I wait for some time before calling, mulling over how to approach this conversation. During the last call, she admitted she still loves my real father, has always loved him, and that he was a good man. But why did he leave? Finally, I pull out my phone, relieved to see I have two antenna bars.

  “South Land Park Realty, Candice Malone speaking,” my mom answers, all business.

  “Mom?”

  “Oh, it’s you. The caller ID didn’t show for some reason. Sorry, honey. I was expecting a call from the title company.”

  “That’s okay. So how was hiking this weekend?”

  “Oh,” she says, and I hear it when she plops into her high-backed leather office chair, the one that lets out a large whoosh every time you sit in it. “It was a dream, Ali. Just a dream. Sequoia National Park was resplendent! The trees were on fire. Quaking aspen, god, the yellows and golds! The maples, the oaks, red and orange! It takes your breath away, it really does.”

  I lean back in the helicopter cabin, propping my head against the rescue litter, and offer a silent thank-you to Celia and Dr. Grant for helping my mom get to this place—a good place.

  But it’s a new place, too. She never liked the outdoors before now, and when I was growing up, she was pragmatic with a capital “P.” Why would you go on vacation when you could stay home and relax just fine, saving money in the process. And traveling somewhere to look at leaves? The very notion would have been preposterous.

  “It was just like the Pyrenees. God, the colors in autumn there!”

  “Wait. The Pyrenees? When were you in the Pyrenees?”

  “Oh…” Her voice falls, enthusiasm evaporating into the ether. “It was before you were born.”

  “But … you never told me that. I thought you hadn’t traveled. That you—”

  “That was a long time ago,” she says with finality. Topic shuttered.

  “Um … that sounds amazing.…”

  The prolonged silence is awkward. Like our conversation on Friday. She must know I’ll want to follow up on what we talked about, and now that she’s just hinted at the past again, that’s exactly where my brain goes. I’m about to bring it up—which she senses—so she dodges.

  “Have you found out anything about Thanksgiving?” she asks. “Will you be able to come to the lodge?”

  That’s weird. She’s must be pretty desperate to keep me off the subject of my father, if she’s bringing up the lodge.

  “Um, no. No, I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to ask. But um, the lodge … you’re okay with that?”

  “I think so,” she says. “I think so.…”

  Wow. She’s okay with it. Going to the lodge. That’s new.

  I breathe in, set to speak, ready to broach the subject of our last phone call, and darn it if she doesn’t sense it again. She launches another preemptive strike.

  “Have you spoken with Rich this weekend?”

  Okay, later.

  “I did. Twice.” My left hand reaches for the zipper on the pant leg of my flight suit. I zip and unzip, zip and unzip. “He seemed really sorry.”

  “Of course he is. I’m sure you two will have a great time this weekend.”

  Zip, unzip. Zip, unzip.

  “Mom, can we—”

  “Will you tour him around Reno?”

  “No … no, I don’t think so. I’d rather show him the mountains.”

  “The mountains? You?”

  A comment like this from me probably surprises her as much as her comment about hiking surprised me. Given the option—a tour of the city or a trip to the wilderness—in the past, I would have chosen the city every time.

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “We fly to them a lot. And they’re really something. High. Rugged. Snowy.”

  “I’d have bet money you’d have preferred dinner in a penthouse restaurant with a view.”

  “Well … that would be nice, too, I guess.”

  “I’m sure Rich would like that.”

  “Probably … yeah … so, Mom, I really need to talk … that last phone call—”

  “Alison. Please. I need time.”

  “But … but, Mom. You can’t leave me hanging like that! Why? Why did he leave?”

  It wouldn’t surprise me if a tumbleweed blew by in this moment of strained silence. It would fit, though. The helicopter cabin frames a view like a picture window—a desert so still, so remote, hawks lazily riding the updrafts above the staunchly rugged foothills of the Desatoya Mountains. And there is no sound here. Like literally, no sound. No cars. No humming of motors or generators. No conversation. No birdcall. The wind in my ears is about all that registers. And oddly, I find it overwhelmingly beautiful.

  “He loved you so much,” she whispers.

  I jump to attention. What did she just say? What—?

  The statement is so out-of-the-blue, so shocking, I almost drop the phone.

  “What? What did you—? How could he—”

  “You should know that, Alison. It’s something I should have told you a long time ago. But at the time … well, at the time, I couldn’t afford to think that way.”

  “Mom…” My eyes glass up and my throat chokes with … hope … frustration … irritation? “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? This would have been nice to know,” I say, not able to keep the anger out of my voice. As a kid, it’s natural to blame yourself. You’re the reason a parent would leave, right? Too much trouble. Too much whining. Too much crying, needy, needy, needy.

  But you can’t walk away from your kid. You just can’t. Not if you love her. So since he did walk away, I assumed he didn’t love me. Hated me even.

  “I was selfish,” she says. “So much was my fault. I didn’t want to hurt anymore. Better to just shut him out.”

  I stand, unable to keep my place, leaping out of the cabin onto the barren desert floor. How is this conversation happening? Out-of-body experience? Are you kidding?

  “Oh, Ali, that’s the other line. I have to get this.”

  “No! No, Mom. I need to talk with you!”

  “I’m not ready yet, Alison. I don’t want to hide this anymore, but I need time. Do you understand? Please, I need time.”

  I stumble, catching myself before I faceplant. Ali, think about what she’s saying. She’s not refusing to talk about it. There’s still an opening here. I blow away my anger in a long, exaggerated exhale.

  “I understand,” I say.

  “I love you, honey. We’ll talk soon.” Click. And she’s gone.

  I hit END, and my hand drops to my side. Hamster mode kicks in, and I begin doing circles around the aircraft. I’m walking around a helicopter in the middle of freaking nowhere surrounded by dirt and dust and sage and … my father loved me.

  Oh, god. I bend over, hands on my knees. It’s what I’ve wanted to believe. I’ve wanted it so badly.…

  “We’re back!” Beanie calls.

  I look up, world still spinning. Snoopy and Beanie are walking toward me.

  I stand upright and drag myself back into the cockpit, donning my helmet and sliding the visor down so they can’t see my watering eyes.

  “He loved you…”

  Why, if it’s something I’ve wanted so badly, does it hurt so much?

  19

  “Next, I’ll demonstrate how to use the figure-eight knot to secure a rope to a climber’s harness,” Will says. “I just need a volunteer.”

  Now almost a week since Jack’s party, it hasn’t gotten any easier—Will still fixed in my thoughts. But I’ve worked to get my mind right, to focus on reality. I’ve decided that, yes, I can acknowledge my physical at
traction to Will, but I don’t have to act on it. How could I possibly jeopardize what I have with Rich for some passing fancy?

  But then this came up. Rock-climbing training. Led by Will. And we’ve had a rough start this morning.…

  “Alison would love to volunteer!” Jack pipes up.

  “No. She wouldn’t,” Will says flatly.

  What? Sure, Will wasn’t satisfied with the outcome of our last conversation, but to have him answer for me…?

  “Yes. She would,” I say, stepping forward.

  Our aircrewmen shuffle their feet. Tito and Danny clear their throats. Kelly, Tawny, and the rest turn their heads, looking at the sky, the dirt.

  I step closer, right in front of him. “I’m ready.”

  Will holds my eyes a moment longer—not happy—before getting back to the business of training. It doesn’t take long to figure out why Jack so readily offered me up as a volunteer, because Will has to stand so close to demonstrate what he was talking about.

  He threads the rope through my harness—yank—then rethreads the rope through the figure-eight pattern—yank and yank—never meeting my eyes as he speaks to the group.

  “After you tie the figure-eight,” Will says, stepping away, “you’re set to climb.”

  Will picks up the other end of the rope, runs it through the belay device on his harness, and pulls in the slack.

  “You’re on belay,” he says. No inflection. Nothing.

  “I am? Wait! How am I first?” I ask, turning to Jack, to my aircrewmen.

  “Well, you’re tied in, ma’am,” Beanie says. “Only makes sense.”

  Jack offers a too-cheery smile.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say, with a scowl in his direction. It only makes him smile wider.

  “After I say, ‘You’re on belay,’ you say, ‘Climbing,’” Will reminds.

  Will did cover all of this, the proper communication phrases between climber and belayer, and I actually did pay attention. I just didn’t think I’d be first.

  “Climbing,” I say.

  “Climb on.”

  I face the granite slab and look fifty feet up to the top, where the anchor system holds the rope in place. Schoolhouse Rock is supposed to be the beginner area on Donner Summit, but you could have fooled me.

  Oh, boy.

  “You’ve got this, Alison,” Jack says. “Remember, keep the weight on your feet.”

  I study the rock, with its microscopic indentations, where I’m supposed to place my feet, then look at my running shoes, which seem to grow in front of my eyes, as large and bulbous as Mickey Mouse’s. No way this is going to work.

  I chance a quick peek at Kelly, who wears slim, rubber-soled, sticky-bottomed rock shoes, understanding registering in a flash of the need for proper gear.

  Clark leans in next to me. “You know the deal,” he says in his comforting way. “Relax, and you’ll be fine.”

  Deep breath.

  Will must sense my nervousness, because he adjusts the tension on the rope, a reassuring gesture to let me know he’s got me. I’m not going far, if I slip.

  And so, I start up. Reaching for handholds, placing my feet with care, slowly, surely, not wanting to do anything rash or spastic, especially not in front of an audience. Jack offers hints—put this hand here, stand on that nub there, pull your hips into the rock, and up I go. Every reach, every step, every movement is performed with greater confidence the higher I climb. I am concentrated. Focused. Only the next hold. Only the next placement. Up and up and up.

  What a bizarre, crazy, wonderful thing. Muscles enervated, small beads of sweat trickling at my neck, loose strands of hair lifted by a crisp, soft breeze, eyes wide, looking for the next hold, stretching, flexing, breathing, exhilarating—and in one of those fast-forward, time-warp moments, my hand touches the carabiner that anchors the rope at the top.

  To my right, Donner Lake glistens turquoise in the midmorning sun, and ten miles beyond is the deep sapphire blue of Lake Tahoe. I breathe it in, the scents, the sights, the silence, filling my lungs, filling my soul. And in one long, satisfied exhale, I’m able to purge the stresses and tension of the morning, feeling fresh and new.

  Will’s voice startles.

  “Ready to take?” Will says.

  Take? Wait a second—

  “Lean back! Let the rope take your weight!”

  Lean back?

  He covered this earlier—get to the top, lean back, make an L shape with your body, straighten your legs, plant your feet on the rock, and let go of the rope. But now, fifty feet above the ground, the instructions don’t seem that simple anymore.

  My forearms tighten, my fingers squeezing harder on their holds, secure in my perch.

  “Alison, lean back!”

  I look down, meeting Will’s tiny eyes. I feel the rope tighten as he pulls it in. “I’ve got you!”

  Will’s voice is no longer so remote. Clearly, he’s concerned.

  I start to lean back, but stop. I can’t let go. There’s no control in this. I look below me, lowering my foot. Maybe I can just climb down?

  “Alison, I’ve got you! You have to lean back!”

  My calves, tiring from where I cling, begin to quiver. My fingers are numb, heavy. I can’t hold here. Shit!

  “He’s got you, Alison!” Clark yells up. “You have to relax and lean back! You can do it!”

  I feel the last bit of strength ebbing from my fingers. Please let there be another way. I look down again. Just start down-climbing, Alison! But it’s too late, my fingers start to slip off the rock. Out of options, I grab on to the rope.

  “That’s it! Now lean back!” Will says.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I lean back, at the mercy of Will and the rope, yet still clinging to it for all I’m worth.

  “Let go of the rope!”

  Let go? Every molecule in me screams, No!

  “Let go, Alison! You gotta let go!”

  I stare fixedly at the twisted nylon strands, a blue and yellow mix. Will has done this a thousand times. The rope will hold. It’ll hold, Alison. You have to trust him.

  I close my eyes as he lowers me, surely only moments away from plunging to my demise. But as my feet touch bottom, the switch flips, and the exhilaration returns. I’ve cheated death! Every over-the-top emotion I felt at the top washes over me in a torrent. I put my hands to my face. Yes, that’s a smile I’m feeling. A big one.

  “Off belay,” Will says.

  Bursting and bubbling, a five-year-old at Disneyland, I turn to Will. “That was awesome! I want to go again!”

  The look in his eyes rocks me to the core—something so deep, so sad—like he’s had the rug pulled out from under him.

  “You should probably let the others have a turn first, though, don’t you think?” Jack says, completely upbeat.

  “Yeah, no hoggin’, ma’am,” Sky says.

  I clear my throat. “Um, yeah. I mean, after everyone else, of course.”

  Clark arrives with a fist bump. “Nice work.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  As Clark walks away, I look down at the knot, unsure how to proceed. Undo the whole thing? Untie it partway for the next person? “Now, how do I—?”

  “Like this,” Will says, moving close. He begins to unthread the rope from its twisted figure-eight configuration, but unlike earlier, no yanking this time.

  “Have you ever climbed before?” he asks.

  “No, never.”

  Will looks to Jack, and they shake their heads.

  “What is it?” I say.

  “You’re just…” He lowers his head, and pulls the rope through and out of my harness, leaving the skeleton of the figure-eight knot still twisted into the rope.

  “What?” I ask.

  He hesitates, focusing on the knot, pulling it out a bit to loosen it.

  “A natural.”

  “I am? But with what I just— With the down part—”

  “You are.” He returns his gaze to me, and just for an insta
nt, his eyes burn a line straight through my soul.

  My breath catches. Holy shit.

  Will breaks away, quickly turning his head. “Okay, who’s next?”

  * * *

  Under a cobalt-blue sky and in “balmy” fifty-degree temperatures, members of our aircrew and the SAR team rotate through, and we climb for most of the day. I’ve found the “up” part of climbing to be exciting, energizing, and flat-out thrilling. But the “down” part? That’s going to take some getting used to.

  Will has belayed me several times this afternoon, and I’ve tried to keep that emotional distance, but the tension that strained our interactions this morning is gone. Probably because it’s been hard to hide the joy I feel when climbing. Hard not to share it. Especially seeing the spark in Will’s eyes when he lowers me to the ground after I’ve finished a route. The spark he tries to hide. The spark I pretend not to notice.

  Jack has belayed me several times, too, but now we enjoy a break, sitting under the shade of a Jeffrey pine. I know the tree is a Jeffrey pine because Jack just told me. Tree trivia seems to be his thing, and I’ve learned more about these coniferous evergreens in the last few minutes than I thought I’d ever want to learn.

  “Did you know Jeffrey pines can live to be five hundred years old?” Jack says.

  “I had no idea.”

  “They’re strong trees, too. The roots penetrate deep.” He points to the more mature trees upslope of where we sit, ones that must be at least 150 feet tall. “The root systems for trees like those are massive. You’ll find roots two inches in diameter more than eighty feet from the trunk.”

  “No wonder they live for five hundred years.”

  “Yep. It’s one hearty tree. Even better, they smell good.” He opens his hand, showing me what he’s holding.

  “What are these?”

  “Jeffrey pine needles. I just crushed ’em up. Go ahead. Smell.”

  I bring my nose to his palm and take a whiff, a pleased smile spreading across my face. “It’s like … vanilla? Can that be right?”

  “Yeah. Or they can smell like apples or even butterscotch. I can’t get enough of this smell.”

  He dumps the needles into my palm. “You keep these. They’re great for tea, you know.”