Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  My child was in my arms. His downy head was wisps of cotton against my cheek. His breath was a warm, southern breeze. His tiny body rose, sank, rose, sank against my chest. He’s mine. The cloying scent of overripe oranges permeated the room. There was movement, and my heart stopped when a woman crouched next to my rocking chair, her hand around my child’s tiny foot. My muscles bunched like a cat’s as it readied to leap, but she held a finger to her mouth.

  “Don’t wake him.” I swear her lips didn’t move, but the room was dark…only a nightlight in the corner, so it could have been a trick of the shadows. My eyes zeroed in on her hand, playing with the baby’s toes. Blue, purple, right down to the tips of her fingernails. Paint? No. I’d seen a hand like this before... It wasn’t a trick of the light, the rest of her skin was brown, as brown as my husband’s family. So familiar. Not Danita...slender face, sharp cheekbones, wide mouth, so much like Samuel’s.

  Understanding blanketed me. “I remember you.”

  She nodded to the baby in my embrace. “He is precious.” Once again, her lips didn’t move.

  “Yes.” I brushed the sleeping boy’s face, kissed his hairline.

  “He is loved.”

  “Very much.”

  She rose and turned for the door, then beckoned me to follow.

  “Where are we going?”

  “La montaña. Mi casa.”

  She slipped through the blue door, into the white.

  I followed into the white...

  The snowfield of Longs Peak was white, spotless, as if miles of sun-bleached linen had settled onto the mountaintop. Its light was so dazzling, my eyes watered. I turned to Molly, but she wasn’t there. Neither was Cassady, the other hikers, any of our gear. All was wiped clean, as if the mountain had returned to its infancy.

  Only me.

  No, not only me. A single hand rose up from the field of snow, blue to the tips of her fingernails and as frosted as the sky above. Familiar trembles seized me. Airways swelled shut and I gasped, gasped again. Not the panic, please God.

  Breathe.

  Where was the baby?

  Breathe, Kaye.

  But I can’t remember the mantra! Roll my foot? Feel the ground? Oh God, where was the baby?

  I couldn’t even find the ground, under all this snow. I sank to my knees, coughing, choking, clawing numbed fingers through piles and piles of snow, always digging but never finding.

  Kaye.

  I shot up. Peered around the snowfield. Empty, except for the macabre blue hand, reaching up to the heavens. With stunned silence, I watched as the fingers curled into a fist, stretched, and curled again. I blinked. Was she alive?

  I scrambled from the depths of the pit I’d dug and flung myself at the snow around the hand, hurled it away, scooped, dig dig dig, but the arm went on and on. Where was the woman?

  Look up.

  I shook my head and searched for the woman buried beneath the snow.

  Why are you searching below? Look up.

  “But she’s right here!” I said, flinging my arm in the direction of the hand. The hand was gone. Startled, I jumped to my feet and turned a circle. Nothing but an empty field of white.

  “Look up!” the voice shouted.

  I scanned the horizon.

  “Higher!”

  My neck stretched and I squinted into the sky, more white than blue, as white as the electrified filament of a light bulb, whiter than the sun. I couldn’t look any higher. I held up a hand to block the light, and was startled to find my own hand was a sickly, frozen blue...

  A buzzing woke me.

  I rubbed my eyes. Where was I? I patted around for the sound…my phone, vibrating in my purse. Still half-asleep, I groped through the pockets and answered.

  It was Angel, his words jumbled. “Get off the mountain!”

  “What?” I blinked away sleep. The room was thick with dark purples, blues, as dark as a bruise. Where was the snowfield? The light?

  “Floods coming down from the mountains into the foothills, washing out everything in their paths. The entire canyon is going to be washed away—cars, houses, people. Kaye, you’ll be killed. Get off that mountain!”

  Awareness rushed through me. I’d fallen asleep in the new house. Oh my God, the floods. The road...the bridge... A sob tore through my throat. “Angel, I can’t! Left Hand Creek already washed out the bridge.” He cursed.

  “There’s no way out, I already tried.”

  “Maybe there’s a back road.” But we both knew there was only one road in and one road out.

  “Samuel. Tell him that…that I love…” Oh Samuel, I’m sorry.

  I heard my brother-in-law’s heavy breath, felt his desperation. “Okay, okay. You’ve got a bit of time. Get higher, as high as you can. Is there shelter in the mountain? A cave or something?”

  The voice of my dreams echoed. Look higher, Kaye.

  Light as bright as that snowfield flashed in my memory. “Angel, the old mine entrance!” I’d walked that path countless times with Samuel to the old stone structure, as sturdy as the mountain into which it was carved. “It’s up the hill, beneath a natural overhang. The water’ll go over the top of it. Well, might.” Honestly, I had no idea if the water would bypass the little enclave or flood it to the hilt and drown me. But what choice did I have? I squared my shoulders and decided.

  “Okay Angel, I’m going to the mine entrance.” I fumbled into my cold, wet Teva boots, barely able to lace them my fingers trembled so badly. “If... if you can’t find me, it’s up a trail into the woods, to the left of the house. Or whatever’s left of the house. If you don’t remember where it’s at, ask Sa-Samuel.” My throat caught on the name of my beloved husband.

  Angel’s voice broke. “I’ll see you in a few hours, okay hermanita? Te amo mucho.” The call ended and I was alone.

  My eyes flitted over our dream home. The walls were up, the foundation was solid. Perhaps it would make it. But if I remained in the middle of its false security a moment longer, I could die here. With a last bit of affection, I patted a sturdy beam and began my treacherous climb up the hill.

  Wind and rain whipped my hair loose from my ponytail and stung my eyes, cheeks. Mud slid beneath my saturated Tevas, rocks wrenched loose and tumbled down the slope. Still I climbed. How much longer until the waters came? My hands and knees were cut from falls on the slick ground, but another scar didn’t matter. I counted them again: fourteen…fifteen…sixteen…I wouldn’t die on this land Samuel had so lovingly gifted to me.

  Samuel, somewhere high in the air on a plane above Texas, above Colorado. Had he returned?

  Was his flight in a holding pattern as the world beneath him washed away?

  I peered through the heavy curtain of rain. The forest edge. Water rose faster around my ankles…the wave was coming. Branches lashed and swayed as the storm brought trees to life in a dance of limbs and fingers. I forged through this animated army, my hands in front of my face, holding back the wind and water. Samuel and I had walked this trail numerous times, under the summer sun, the breeze warm and gentle in the trees, on my face...

  Turn left.

  My feet stumbled over the path, little more than a deer trail, through undergrowth invisible beneath the rising water, red with clay. An obscene giggle rumbled through me—the mountain was bleeding. Then I saw it behind a tangle of wild morning glories and weeds. Ripping aside the vines, I stumbled through the entrance and into sudden relief as the tempest howled behind me. I shook my frozen hands, wrung water from my hair. My phone was zipped into the lining of my rain coat, still working, thank goodness. Its battery charge sat at twenty percent, not good. I’d need to conserve its power, but before I shut it off, I had one call to make:

  Samuel.

  My signal was choppy at best and ended up dumping my call before I’d connected.

  Come on!

  I tried again. No contact.

  One last effort. With trembling fingers, I texted a message to my husband:

  Sa
muel Caulfield Cabral es mi mejor amigo.

  A thought entered my head and wouldn’t let go, as potent as my dream... La montaña. Mi casa. In a leap of faith, I added this:

  Go to Marieta’s mountain.

  Because that was her true home, wasn’t it?

  I pressed “send.” The little icon spun, spun…

  Message sent.

  With that, I settled against the dusty, dank rock wall and waited for the end.

  Cold filtered into my bones and my skin, muscles, very veins turned to icy flint as I cowered in the mine entrance. Water streamed down the rock walls, over my head, ears, between my shoulder blades. Was I becoming a part of the mountain itself? My teeth chattered and my entire body trembled, soaked as a blanket forgotten in the rain. I pressed my palms to my ears, trying unsuccessfully to draw water away from my eardrums. Unbelievable that, only three days ago, I’d wished for an end to the unbearable heat. What I wouldn’t give for that summer sun.

  Beyond me, to the west, I heard it. At first, I thought it was the rumble of thunder, but it was constant, grinding, grumbling, louder and louder, like an approaching freight train. I ducked out of my hidey-hole and shone Samuel’s flashlight through the canyon, into the west. Its beam bounced off movement—uprooted trees, huge objects churning in the distance. It really was an approaching freight train. With alarm, I examined the canyon’s topography and judged where those objects would hit. Bits of homes, tree branches, all kinds of debris... Our own home was right in their path. Tears welled.

  Nothing to do about it now. Just hold tight. I clung to one of the boards nailed over the old mine opening. Splinters burrowed into my skin, but I held fast. Water swirled around my ankles, the tops of my feet, rising slowly, then not so slow. Confused, I reached down to see where it lapped against my cold-deadened legs. It was just below my knees.

  No. Deadly realization poured through me like a poison. I’d chosen wrong.

  Sam had picked a good place for our home, alongside this peaceful creek, these towering mountains, so safe, like sentinels guarding our piece of land. Scenic, where the canyon bent and curved south…

  The canyon curved on our property. Countless times, when Hector and I skied the backcountry, we swayed side to side through paths on our way down the mountains, skimmed around tight curves that had us leaning so far into the mountain to maintain our balance, we brushed our fingers along the ground. In the winter Olympics, I recalled sleds rounding those bends so sharply, their blades crept to the edge of the pipe, on the verge of flying up and out.

  It was the same with water. If you sent it racing through a pipe and it rounded a curve, what did it do? It rose. Swept higher into the curve, up the canyon slopes.

  And I was smack dab in the middle of the bend.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as the very end of the earth rumbled closer and closer until it roared in my ears, shook the ground and forced me to cry out in the face of this apocalypse. Fear paralyzed me. Panic seized me, stole my breath one last time. I coughed, gasped for air, but what was the point? I was staring down death anyway.

  “Oh God, what do I do?” I cried.

  Go higher.

  I shook my head, pressed my palms to my ears to stifle the roar.

  Go to the top.

  “I can’t go higher, it’s too late!”

  Go now!

  Like a shot from a cannon, I hurled my body into the maelstrom outside, through the waterfall cascading over and around the mine entrance. I was not going to die in this hole, but in the open air, under the aspen trees. Like an ant scrambling for its life up the bark of a tree, washed down only to scramble up again, I scraped my way up the side of the mountain on pure adrenaline. Seconds, minutes, hours, I pushed my way up that slope as the flood debris drew near. I had nothing left. My hands had lost their grip long ago, my mind had certainly lost its grip, but still I clawed into the mud, split my fingernails open on rocks and roots, up, up, up through the trees as rain rushed down. I grunted and cried when stinging pain streaked through my palm and something heavy crashed into my rib cage, but I pushed on, my boots digging into the ground and holding fast because my feet refused to let me tumble down into the abyss below.

  I climbed until I couldn’t climb any higher, and there, on the top of my mountain, my clothing and skin shredded and bloodied, I tethered my arms around the trunk of a stumpy old tree and watched the world wash away.

  I was still alive.

  “Thank you,” I breathed. “Thank you.”

  At last, on the summit, I rested. The rain beat against my forehead and I laughed, partly from exhaustion and partly from a break with reality (if this could be called reality), but I laughed and laughed. How hilarious was it that I’d just summited a mountain?

  “I don’t suppose you’re a fourteener?” I patted solid rock as the storm swallowed my voice. “I didn’t think so. Damn.”

  My dreams were restless, if they were dreams at all. Crouched on top of the mountain, open to the elements as blood trickled and clotted...sleep was difficult. Yet my exhausted body must have slept, because I saw Samuel: young, maybe sixteen, seated in the Cabrals’ family room. He hunched over his Spanish guitar, a peaceful smile on his mouth as he strummed a haunting, beautiful acoustic version of “Silent Night.” The room twinkled with fairy lights, gold and shadow. Pine garlands twined around the stair banister, lined the mantle. Behind him, brilliant and shining with rubies, emeralds, jasper was their eight-foot-tall Christmas tree covered in glass ornaments. He hummed softly.

  Silent night, holy night.

  The mountain was as silent as the stars, void of life save for my beating heart.

  All is calm, all is bright.

  Long fingers danced over guitar strings. His wiry frame hugged his guitar, strength on the cusp of manhood, ready to burst and bloom.

  Another memory, not so long ago. Samuel, stepping out the shower, rivulets of water running down his back, swirls of hair plastered to his arms, his legs, everything. He grabbed a towel from the rack and scrubbed his hair dry. It curled and waved all over his head, damp clumps so soft and fresh-smelling, I wanted to run my hands through it, feel the dampness, the softness. I wanted to press my cheek against his back and feel his clean, clammy skin. Why hadn’t I? Every morning during this so very ordinary, so very erotic routine, why hadn’t I?

  One more vision. That’s what it had to be, this couldn’t possibly be a memory. I’d know that set of shoulders anywhere, even far away, high up this mountain. Sweep, sweep, raking leaves from the slope. His hair was thick and silver. Still so strong, graceful, even as he tended our yard. Our house was further down the slope. Bittersweet years had settled deep into the walls. He worked in rhythm; he must have had some song playing through his head. Was I in this vision, raking leaves or in the house, watching from the window? Please let me share this with him.

  I would love him forever, this boy, this man, to the day his gray head bent and his eyes closed for the last time. And beyond that, I would love him.

  Chapter 19

  Shaky at the Crux

  The crux is the most difficult portion of a climb route. Best not to be shaky.

  The ground radiated a dull orange as morning dawned over the mountain. My body was as rigid as the tree to which I still clung and I groaned, tested my icy fingers and toes. Oh mother of Tom, was I sore. If I extended my joints any further, my limbs would pop out. And my neck. I gritted my teeth as I gingerly raised my head. My clothing was in tatters, shredded by sharp rocks and sticks, crusted with blood. Pain and stiffness shot through every vertebra along my back, but nothing was broken. My wrist was a different story. It hurt, badly. As the sky lightened, I saw its swollen, bruised state, all the way to the tips of my bloodied fingernails.

  With my good hand, I pulled out my waterlogged phone, tried to turn it on. Dead as a doornail, of course.

  The sun had been up for a full hour before I mustered enough strength to haul myself off the mountain. My stomach rumbled with hunger, eve
n as pangs of nausea doubled me over. Unbelievable. Even surrounded by a world of water and nearly drowning in it the previous night, I was dehydrated. I tripped over a branch, but with sudden inspiration, it became my hiking stick as I carefully picked my way down the mountainside.

  How does one describe an aftermath? ‘Aftermath’ implies great destruction, the end of a way of life. The end of naiveté, though I’d traveled that path more than once. The things of this world never ceased to hurl my previous state of oblivion in my face.

  The lower two-thirds of the mountain had been stripped bare. Massive trees were uprooted and strewn across the slope like pick-up-sticks. Pieces of homes, a window frame here, a sofa there. The highway had buckled like a bedspread kicked out of the way by a three-ton foot. Boulders had tumbled into the bottom of the canyon. The massive ‘creek’ roared over and around them, muddy waves crashing and breaking against their rock sides. I laughed. Hector had actually wanted to navigate those waves.

  And our new home...washed away, save for a few dangling timbers. But the foundation remained, unmoved, stubborn and sturdy as the ground in which it was built. Filled with red clay water, but still there. Tears trickled down my cheeks. Not sad tears. Tears of awe, of survival. The foundation was still there. We could rebuild, maybe stone next time, but we would not be wiped off the face of this earth. I smiled. That sturdy foundation would make a great in-ground pool.

  Wind flicked debris at my raw, chapped skin as I made my way east, one cautious step at a time. Twelve flipping miles to the canyon entrance. I’d hoped the road beyond the bridge washout had been spared, but after seeing how that bulldozer-of-a-flood had flattened an entire canyon, I doubted it was drivable. No matter. The Jeep was long gone.

  In retrospect, I should have stayed close to the mine entrance, or whatever was left of it, but my weary brain told me to move. As far as I knew, I was the only thing alive in this barren place, save for the occasional bird darting up and over the canyon to whatever lay beyond.

  My ears throbbed, especially my bad ear. Waterlogged, maybe even ruptured. Still, I pushed on, matching my footsteps to each pulse behind my ears, my heart, until I could walk no farther. My boots were soddened, my feet blistered and wet with mud and blood. I’d passed the washed out bridge an hour ago, and still, nobody. My gut ached and so did my head. My legs buckled and I dropped onto my bottom, curled into the ground, soft and squishy as a foam mattress.