H nods at Caulfield with newfound respect.
The second platter arrives. They douse their fries in ketchup and laugh as L tells them all the funny nicknames he’s given his pregnant wife.
H shares how his wife locked his favorite skis in a utility closet at the hospital, so he’d have to spend tomorrow with her instead of Copper Mountain.
Then Aspen tells how she had a heart-to-heart with her intern about the importance of commas in design copy, after a poster advertising a family fun day/ASPCA bake sale nearly went to print reading:
Join us if you love
Baking
Your Family and Your Pets!
She jots it down on a napkin and their laughter roars.
Caulfield recognizes his cue—the ritualistic ‘sharing of inside jokes’ that informs him he’s now inner circle. Frankly, he would rather scrub gas station bathrooms than spend another Saturday immersed in machismo conversation with H and his sidekick. But he loves Aspen, so he launches into his story. “Ever hear what happens when someone puts powdered milk under your bed sheets? Lemme tell you about this one time my wife…”
Sam—Out of curiosity, do guys really swap inside jokes as some male sign of respect?— K
Kaye—Don’t question the bro code. Trust me, there are three ways into the inner circle.
1. Buy them a beer.
2. Tell them a story about your woman (sorry), kids, family.
3. Laugh at their jokes.
Sam—This “bro code” sounds suspiciously like something from a Judd Apatow movie.
Thank you, by the way, for bagging Elbert with me. It speaks volumes.
I’ll always bag Elbert with you—that’s how much I love you. Let’s not put it on a bumper sticker, though.
Mount Elbert
November
Perhaps the wildcat I saw on our return from the Denver airport was Colorado’s version of a harbinger of doom, warning us to turn the Subaru around and head back to the airport or face certain death. Drama worthy of Dr. Phil hit us from all directions the minute our tires found foothill blacktop.
The media circus surrounding Samuel’s blockbuster premiere left him social-weary as we sat down to a Thanksgiving turkey with my mother, father, and Audrey. It left me with a string of high-profile gossip stories to account for, namely to parents who wondered How in the Name of Jack they’d raised a daughter whose fictional alter-ego inspired fanboys to worship her in effigy…er, blow-up doll. Poor Dad. He couldn’t even meet my eyes. I was amazed he hadn’t run Samuel out of town with a baseball bat.
Mom, on the other hand, hadn’t been this tickled since Dad accidentally left his car in neutral after weekend drop-off, and it rolled down the hill and into Mom’s koi pond.
“Tom, can you please pass the quinoa corn bake you made? It’s absolutely delicious.” Wait. Did Mom just smirk at my dad?
“Not as delicious as your tomato pie. Cherokee Purples, are they?” Flipping hamster balls, did Dad wink at my mother?
Something was not right. Audrey prattled about how my hair had gleamed against the red carpet in the premiere photos. I widened my eyes at Samuel. He widened his back and gave a quick shake of his head. I narrowed my eyes at him. Of course I wasn’t stupid enough to call them out at our Thanksgiving table, but I swear to the Almighty, my mother and father were flirting. Which wasn’t unusual for most people’s parents, but I couldn’t remember a time when my parents hadn’t been frosty toward each other.
“So flower, you and Hector are heading up Mount Elbert Saturday? He was in The Market stocking up on fruit leather.”
“Ah, yeah,” I stuttered. “Samuel and Luca Guzman, too.”
“Good for you, baby girl,” said my mother as she held out a Corning Ware dish. “More carrots?”
Just like that, it was as if the exchange had never happened.
“I’m not imagining things, right? You saw it too? My folks’ flirting?” I asked the next day, as Sam and I huffed along the East Ridge approach of Mount Elbert, the next fourteener on Hector’s to-do list. Somewhere ahead of us, Hector and Luca’s laughter bounced over ice and snow and I looked around, hunting for prognostic signs of an avalanche.
At fourteen thousand, four hundred and thirty-three feet, Mount Elbert was the highest peak in Colorado, but also one of the easiest climbs. It was a good route to tackle in winter because the snow was packed from high traffic and summiting was entirely possible, as long as the wind was minimal. The cusp of winter brought with it a biting breeze. Sweat on my neck and back prickled like drops of ice. I zipped my fleece to my chin and yanked down my stocking hat.
“Once upon a time, they were in love,” Samuel theorized. “I don’t know if that ever, one hundred percent goes away. Most people just don’t act on that sliver of love.”
“And they have a child—me. They can never be rid of each other entirely.”
“If you want to put a negative spin on it. I think it’s more likely they appreciate the life they’ve created together. While their relationship didn’t pan out, the evidence of the love they shared still exists in you. Sadly, that evidence is currently the butt of late night television jokes.”
I groaned. The Tonight Show even hash tagged “#MyNightmareDoll” in Nellie Nympho’s honor. It was a trending topic within fifteen minutes.
Conversation died as we ascended into higher elevations. The climb had challenged my long-distance stamina, but in terms of difficulty, it was a Class 1. We stuck to the ridge proper, navigated rocks and tundra, and only needed snowshoes to traverse slick ice slabs above the timberline. But I tensed at each crackle or far-away boom, which may have been, but most likely wasn’t, an avalanche. Samuel watched me closely, gripped my hand whenever I’d start to panic.
There were no avalanches on our climb, and the wind died down to a gasp once we reached fourteen thousand feet. By the time we summited, that familiar high raced through my body like a shot of pure oxygen, lost to me for three years. How could I have forgotten this feeling?
Compared to Himalayan peaks, our Colorado fourteeners were babies. But as I discovered this unearthly corner of the earth, washed in indigo and ice, over the clouds and into the sun, I was struck with the thought: this is what it’s like to stand on a different planet.
“She’s baaack,” Hector smirked. I rolled my eyes—yes, I enjoyed the climb. I turned my grin to Samuel, but it fell from my face as I assessed his health. He pressed his fingers to his temples and swayed. I caught his arm and guided him down to a rock.
“Whoa there. Have you been drinking enough water?”
“Nearly a liter.”
That should have been plenty. Worry pounded in my chest. “Headache? Nausea?”
“Yes to both.”
Crud, not good. Hector slung his pack from his shoulders and rummaged through it.
“Altitude sickness, man. Here’s a couple of Tylenols. Take those and if you start feeling really bad, like you’re going to pass out, let us know.
I agreed and helped Samuel to his feet. “Sounds mild, but we better start the descent before it gets worse.”
It did get worse, but not the sickness. Samuel had ankles as strong as sequoias from all of his running and strength training. Seriously, even a chainsaw couldn’t bring down those things. But toss in the dizziness of altitude sickness and uneven ground, and his ankle rolled like a rock star. He splinted it and we helped him limp the rest of the way down Mount Elbert.
Altitude sickness and sprained ankles aside, we had our first fourteener in the bag (Hector said we couldn’t count Pikes Peak because we took the tram). It was ugly, but it counted.
I thought of my mother as I steered the Subaru around black, mountain curves, while Samuel rested in the back with his foot propped on the counsel. She’d been on my mind since Thanksgiving. I’d never believed that every woman’s destiny was to be a mommy. Take my mom, for example. She could nurture the blight off of a tomato, but she’d been lost when it came to hugging her own daughter. I was
eternally grateful my mother decided to have me, and she taught me how to be strong in the face of adversity. She was a pillar when we’d hunted for Samuel in Boston during his manic episode—practical in the face of panic. “Wipe your eyes and walk it off, Aspen Kaye.” I told myself this was how she said, “I love you.” But in the deepest recesses of her heart, I wondered if she regretted becoming a mom.
For so long, I’d assumed I was like her. Spectacular auntie material, but a mother? Not so much. But now there were moments…
When I saw a mom clasp her daughter’s hand as they sauntered down Pearl Street, arms swinging.
Or the mother in the grocery store line ahead of me, leaning over her cart so her sticky-fingered son could wrap small arms around her neck and kiss her cheek.
When my nephew instinctively grabbed my index finger as we inched closer to a group of twitchy-eared mule deer browsing the forest line.
Each time, I was swamped with love. I didn’t know what to do with this love. Tears burned behind my eyes and this…unanswered yearning to be some little person’s protector welled inside of me.
I left Samuel and his injured ankle at home Sunday morning to drive to Lyons and attend church with the Cabrals. He had said nothing more about this mysterious woman he’d known in Tamaulipas. Perhaps there was nothing to know. But if there was nothing to know, why didn’t Samuel simply tell me about her? (And for that matter, why did I have such a hard time trusting my own husband? No one could deny we’d messed up royally a decade ago, but since we’d remarried, Samuel hadn’t once given me reason to question him.)
Over lunch at the Lyons Café, I subtly fished for information about the Cabral hacienda in Mexico but came up with little more than what Lucia had offered. Still, what Alonso shared was fascinating.
“We spent many a summer climbing in the hacienda’s fruit trees, eating mangos and oranges. ‘Lita would chase us because we’d knock the fruit down before it had ripened. She made the best mango pie.”
“The same pie I make,” Sofia smiled. “I’ll have to give you the recipe. Samuel loves it.”
I returned her smile, acknowledging the momentous gesture. The Cabral mango pie recipe had more security detail than the POTUS; Sofia didn’t hand it out to just anyone.
Afterward, I drove out to my mom’s farmhouse. When I pulled into the driveway, I saw that my dad’s Prius was parked on the far side of the shed, peeping around the corner as if it was in the middle of a vehicular game of hide-and-seek. Odd. Mom had asked me to swing by and grab extra pumpkins that hadn’t sold. Maybe she’d asked Dad over, also. I jogged up the stairs, empty crates in hand, but froze before I pushed open the screen door. Giggling. Schoolgirl giggling, but not a school girl. My mother.
Then my father’s laugh joined hers, and in retrospect I should have known better than to enter that kitchen because I might learn things I shouldn’t learn, but dammit she’d asked me over, so it was her own fault. At the time, I assumed they were playing a hilarious game of Parcheesi. I entered.
Dad had Mom pressed against the counter, his body (still partially clothed, thank heavens) covering hers. Her farmer tanned arms were wrapped around his back and his hands were doing something in between them that I couldn’t see, and never did see because they jumped apart when the screen door slammed shut behind me. Oops.
I dropped my crates and covered my eyes. “Arrrgh! No no, I did not see that. Did. Not. See. That.”
Mom cleared her throat. “Sorry ‘bout that, Aspen Kaye. I forgot you were coming over.”
There were the rustles and zips of clothing being put back into place, but I refused to open my eyes until I received a verbal “all clear.” I’d have to tell Samuel he was wrong. My parents were definitely acting on that “sliver of love” left between them.
“You want to explain what’s going on?” I asked my mother later, after Dad took the lily-livered route and hauled tail.
“Honestly Aspen? You really need to ask?” I arched an eyebrow. She gave me a flustered “hmph” as we filled another crate with small pie pumpkins. “We haven’t been doing…that…for long. We started talking again, oh, a few months after your wedding. Going for walks, gardening. We found we missed each other’s company, the stories we used to tell, interests we shared. You know that much.”
Yes, I’d caught them elbow deep in potting soil on more than one occasion, but gardening was a far cry from what they’d been doing against that counter. Ugh, Audrey would be heartbroken. I wondered if she knew what (who) her “common law husband” was doing when she worked shifts at her organic grocery store. She was either a very good actress, or she trusted Dad so much, she hadn’t a clue. Gah, I wanted to tie them up and force them to watch Unfaithful a dozen times.
“Friendship is one thing,” I spat. “Boinking behind Audrey’s back is another.”
“Aspen Kaye, watch your tongue. My sex life is none of your business.”
We heaved up the pumpkin crates and tottered toward my jeep. “Really, Mom? Have you thought about Audrey in all of this, or are you too self-interested to care about her feelings?”
“Audrey Wexler has done quite well for herself and will continue to do so. She loves that grocery store of hers more than anything or anyone.”
“Whether or not that’s true, it doesn’t give you and Dad the right to treat her like trash. That poor woman! She has tried for over a decade to be a part of our dysfunctional family, and here you are, having an affair right under her nose while we all sit around the dinner table.”
“That’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” She shoved the crate into the back of my jeep and slammed down the back door, then tried to storm to the house. I grabbed her sleeve and forced her to meet my eyes.
“Are you talking about Samuel and Caroline? Because Sam was upfront with her from the beginning. And you two need to be honest with Audrey before she catches you in the act, like I did.”
Mom sighed. “Baby, I know. Believe me, I know we’re in the wrong, here.” Her eyes looked old and tired. Even her hair kerchief drooped. I remembered when Dad and Audrey first started seeing each other when I was a teenager, and how it broke Mom. She loved him after all these years and had hoped one day they’d find their way back to each other. It wasn’t in me to stomp out her hope.
I softened. “May I ask why Dad hasn’t ended his relationship with Audrey?”
“We haven’t talked about it yet. This is too new.”
“Mom…what if he’s not planning to end it with Audrey? What then?”
Her kerchief drooped even further. “Then I’ll have played a fool a second time.”
I called my father twice, but he sent me to voicemail. I calmed down after my initial shock and decided it was best if I distanced myself from this ticking time bomb, but not until Dad received a clear “if you hurt my mother again, I’ll caponize you” warning. Words a woman should never have to say to her father.
Samuel was holed up in our apartment when I returned from the Love Shack, hopping around our kitchen and tossing kale and blueberries into a blender. Bleh. His ankle had puffed up to the size of a butternut squash and I gave him a death glare as I hauled one of the pumpkin crates onto the counter.
“Okay, okay, I’m on my way to the couch.” Smoothie held high, he hobbled to the living room, crashed atop the sofa and swung his leg onto the ottoman.
I handed him a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. Just as I finished scrubbing the first batch of pumpkins and prepping them on my cutting board, there was a knock on our door. Nothing good ever comes from late-night knocks on your door. I checked the peephole—Molly.
Her face was blotchy and makeup-less, and her eyes were red and puffy behind her glasses. I ushered her out of the cold night air. Samuel’s smoothie cup froze halfway to his mouth. She gave him a small wave, barely composed.
“Molly?” I steered her into the big leather chair. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you in Breckenridge?”
“I need to talk to you.
I need to do it now, in person, before I lose the nerve.” And then she burst into tears.
“He wants to live in a cabin. It doesn’t even have indoor plumbing!” she wailed. “What is a composting toilet, anyway?”
“It won’t smell as bad if you add peat moss after…” Samuel’s words died as he caught my stink-eye.
“What cabin? Where?” I asked, baffled.
“Alaska!” she wailed, and my heart sank.
What was happening to the strong women in my life? (To be fair, I also had my hang-ups, and to claim otherwise would smack of self-righteousness. Words straight out of a therapist’s mouth: my own insecurities caused me to hold others to unrealistic expectations.) Still, my structure of female solidarity was shaken, and not in a “shattering glass ceilings” kind of way. My no-nonsense mother was my dad’s secret on-the-side honey. Dani was so exhausted by her strong-willed toddler, she hadn’t picked up a blow torch in ages. If I could count Caroline as “in my life,” her career was shellacked for a man who had no intention of kicking his drug habit. And now Molly. Oh Molly. Moving to Clam Gulch, Alaska to harvest razor clams was not her dream. It was Cassady’s dream (until three years from now, when his dream would probably be to herd cattle in Montana or wrestle gators in Florida).
Later that week, I tried not to glare at Cassady as he hugged friends he hadn’t seen in months, swapped trail condition reports with Luca and Hector. Instead, I watched two tourists comb the aisles of Paddler’s Outdoors Adventures and stop between the snow shoes and ski poles. (In a small town, everybody knows everybody, so if I didn’t know them, they were tourists.) Judging by their flimsy shorts (in December) and sparkly pink phones, which they strategically positioned over their shoulders for ‘candid shots,’ I didn’t think they were in Lyons for the mountains. Maybe I was a prejudiced old hag and they were visiting family for winter break. Or maybe they were the new stars of the next Warren Miller ski film. But my gut (or their Nixie tee shirts) told me they were here for Samuel.
Fourteeners Page 11
