“Tate! Behold! I’m back and better than ever,” he says, making pretend muscles.
I force a grin, all thoughts of college basketball gone. “That’s great. So…the infection’s gone?”
He nods. “Lungs seem clear, I gained back a pound, thanks to Bo’s secret stash of high-calorie foodstuff…I’m ready.” He looks at me. “What about you? The good doctor gave you a green light, yeah?”
Bo gives a thumbs up. “Tate’s in great shape,” he says. “If we could replicate his vitals for everyone who wants to summit, the percentage of successful climbs would go way up!”
I swallow and look down.
My dad grins. “Tate got lucky with his strength and stamina. Though you know we call him the Master of Disaster, right? He’s a bull in a china shop sometimes. You need to be incredibly careful on this climb, buddy. There’s no way to be safe in the Icefall if you rush, and we’re going through it at least six or seven more times—”
“No.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“What’s that?”
I’m trying, trying to keep the words from coming, but they burst out, ignoring the DISTRESS! AVOID! DISTRESS! calls my brain’s sending.
“I said no. I’m not going to go through the Icefall six or seven more times. I’m just…not.”
Dad’s mouth is open, and if it weren’t so awful, it would be funny how confused, completely and utterly fucking baffled, he looks. “I don’t understand. Bud, there are no shortcuts—”
“I don’t want a shortcut. I want out. I’m sorry, but I’m not doing this. I’m not going through the Icefall or the Western Cwm or the Balcony or trying for the summit.”
Now Bo and Dad are staring at me. I need to get out of here. I start to push by them, heading for the door.
“I can’t. I’m out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasted a shit ton of your money and that I’m not going to be there for the big father-son moment you’ve been dreaming of. But I can’t do this.” I am nearly at the door by now, nearly out in the fast-approaching darkness and gloom, and I want to go, to move, to get the hell out of here and walk until my legs give out. My chest hurts and my palms are sweating and I need to move, but Dad puts out a hand and hauls me back. I shrug, hard, but he won’t let go; he holds on, staring at me.
Silence.
“Well now—” Bo starts to talk, his face worried. Dimly, in the back of my mind, I feel bad for the guy, but mostly I want to get away.
But Dad interrupts before he can go on. “Why?” One word, almost whispered.
It’s the shock and hurt in his face that undoes me. Like I’m doing this to him, like this is breaking his fucking heart.
All my shame and guilt get buried under a wave of rage, pure and energizing. I want to stab my thoughts right into his brain—let him thrash around in my nightmares, feel tightness in my ribs, which still ache from the fall in Rainier, relive my memory of falling and the loop of panic and terror that hit me whenever I let my guard down.
“Why would I?” I yell. “Who ever said that ‘Hey, Tate, just because you’re strong and have good lung capacity, you should break yourself to pieces climbing the world’s deadliest mountains?’ Did you ever think, ever, that me almost dying again and again—being the Master of Disaster, as you call it—is a reason for me to rethink this? Did you even think about that?”
“Climbing is all you wanted to do! You pushed for this!” Dad starts.
But I keep going, like a faucet’s been turned on and I’m powerless to stop it. “Did I? I don’t know about that! Did I want this? Or did I just want to be decent at something so I didn’t disappoint you yet again? I fucking tried, I really did! I know you think I’m a fuckup and a loser and a failure, but I tried. And I. Cannot. Do this.”
“That’s bull! You can quit if you want to—I can hardly make you climb—but don’t try to pin this on anyone else!” Dad says, and he’s yelling too. “Christ, Tate, what else are you going to quit? College? If you even get in?” He flings his hands up in the air. “You are so smart. So damn smart. Smarter than me, smarter than your mother…but you won’t work for anything! What the hell is your life going to be? I’m worried about you! I am really, really worried about you!”
He swallows, coughs. “I swear if you quit this, you’re going to feel like such a goddamn failure. Don’t do that to yourself, son. You need this climb. You need to do this!”
The words feel like rocks hitting my gut, and my vision narrows. For all his nagging and bitching, he has never said this before. He’s never told me exactly how pathetic he thinks I am, how big a fuckup he thinks I’m going to make of my life.
He takes a breath, his chest rattling, ready to keep going. “Now listen,” he starts, and I can tell he’s trying to calm down, trying to be the helpful parent who will help me pull the right tool out of the toolbox to fix my fuckup self. But I don’t want to listen.
Cold, clean anger takes over.
“NO. I don’t want to hear it. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I could do this if I really tried. Maybe I’m one big failure after another. But I. Don’t. Fucking. Want to.”
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Rose
April 28–May 7
Everest Base Camp
17,600 feet above sea level
He is not coming.
He is not going to climb.
It’s like vertigo, hearing the news, like being back in the hospital with Mami, like free-falling before the rope catches.
Tate will not be here with me.
Jordan handed me a letter Tate wrote, but the words mean nothing. He can’t. He’s so sorry. He wants to be there for me but. I crumple it up and drop it. Only maybe I throw it. There’s a sharp craaack, and I realize my phone was in the same hand as the letter. And it’s now on the ground, smashed.
I race away from Jordan, whose face is tight and angry as he tries to explain how Tate needs some time. I push past Paul, whose eyes are too kind. I need to get away from all of them. In our tent I curl up as tightly as I can, trying to protect myself from the Dread and hurt and fear that want to attack. Rose Unplugged, losing power by the minute. A noise I barely recognize as my own sob squeaks out before I silence it. The tents are thin, and today the wind is quiet.
No one. I have no one.
Like the low, terrifying rumble of an avalanche, a wall of desolation so huge I fear it will bury me threatens to break free. Who am I without Mami? Without Tate? Will I really hang my life off a rope 8,000 miles from home without the people who keep me safe?
I bite down on my cheek till I taste blood, then force myself to breathe, coughing in the thin air. I count my breaths, stare at the pile of gear in the corner, quiet my mind. I retrace our climbing route, think about our upcoming trips to Camp Two and above. I picture the glory of the peaks in the blazing morning sun. I don’t know how long I stay there, eyes closed, picturing the rock and ice above me.
This is Mount Everest, the mountain we have trained for and dreamed about for over half my life. It started with Mami, with Tate, with our group, like a little family, but that was then.
And now I’m here, and I’ve trained, and I’ve spent days climbing through the most jaw-droppingly beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen. I am here to climb.
I am ready.
No. I am eager.
I want this more than I have ever wanted anything.
I force the Dread back. I am not afraid, not this time. I am fucking furious. Tate might be having a tantrum, or he might be freaking out, or he might want to hang out and watch basketball with Dr. Bo at the clinic.
I don’t care. Because his path no longer has anything to do with mine.
I stay in the tent as the sky darkens. I don’t want dinner, and I definitely don’t want to sit around the table with Paul and Jordan and Luc and Yoon Su and discuss why Tate’s not here, what he might be thinking and how
he might change his mind. The Dread claws at me, but I push it back.
Alone. Alone. Alone. I make it a threat, a drumbeat, a promise. A fierce self-righteous anger warms me, and alone in my tent, I go over Tate’s transgressions: he kissed me even knowing this trip is a knife-edge of challenge and focus; he’s quitting, despite the fact that Mami would literally give anything to be here. He’s leaving me alone after swearing he wants to be with me. The anger feels good. Strong. Like building a wall, brick after brick, that will keep the Dread away and keep me fueled and powerful.
* * *
—
The next morning I’m staring at the dead remains of my phone, which won’t even turn on, when Paul corners me. “Do you know what’s going on here? Jordan’s barely coherent on the subject. Why is Tate not climbing? Did he talk to you about this?”
I shake my head, ignoring the pounding headache that has been constant since we arrived. The wind is quiet, and all around the noises of Base Camp buzz and clatter. “No. I had no idea.”
Paul looks worried. “I hope he’s okay. This is…unlike him. He’s been so excited about this for so long.”
I nod, the anger right below the surface. “Yeah, well, apparently not.”
Paul shoots me a look, but all he says is, “Though if I think back more recently, when we all talked about the climb, Tate’s been pretty quiet. Those last few months, he didn’t seem too interested in talking about it. Mostly it was Maya. And you.”
“That’s because we did all the organizing, like we do for all our trips!” I burst out. “Tate never thinks about anything unless it’s right in front of his face.”
Paul doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are a little too understanding.
“Not that we minded,” I say, trying to sound more casual. “We loved planning and researching. It’s just that Tate’s never been one to plan much beyond his next surf session or video game.” I try to keep my voice steady. “What did Bishal say?” Bishal, who went down with two Russos and returned with one. Bishal, who liked to bet Tate he could win his favorite ball cap from him in our Uno games. Bishal, who is Tate’s friend.
Paul shrugs. “He told Finjo that Tate would be staying in Pheriche for now. Jordan keeps talking like he thinks Tate is having a tantrum and will show up when he gets over it.” He shakes his head. “But I don’t know. So much of this climb is in the mindset, in how we mentally prepare for what’s ahead. If he’s not in that headspace, if he doesn’t think he can do it, well, I think it’s brave of him to admit it. This isn’t a place to fake it and hope for the best.”
Paul looks at me for a long moment, and I imagine he can see everything: Tate’s panicked face at Namche, right before he kissed me; our first astonished kisses; the way he curled around me in our tiny beds along the trail like I was something infinitely precious; his promises that we belong together.
I keep my face blank, not letting the anger show. Tate has left me here. Brave isn’t the word that comes to mind. “Sure,” I say finally. “If he doesn’t want to be here, it’s better that he’s not.”
“Rosie, can I ask a nosy question that you can refuse to answer? Are you and Tate…Did things change between you on this trip?” Paul asks. “Because I know he’s your best friend, and that’s hard enough, but—”
I interrupt. “There’s nothing between me and Tate,” I say. The lie—is it a lie?—feels thick and sour and painful in my mouth.
Paul holds my gaze, and I force myself to look back. I trust Paul, I do, and his honesty about him and Drew echoes in my head, but this is different. Whatever there might have been between me and Tate is over, and I am here alone.
I push down at the Dread that wants to surface. I remind myself that this is MY climb, not Tate’s. Not Paul’s or Jordan’s. Mine. There’s a reason people are selfish on Everest, because they have to be. I think about Yoon Su and her relentless training. She is here alone, pursuing her dream. For a second my mind flickers to Mami, but I push it away. She can’t be here, but I can, and I will climb. For her, yes, but also for myself. I touch the folded photo of me and Mami that’s been in my jacket pocket since we left California, the one I’ll hold up at the summit. I imagine telling her about it, curled up under blankets on the couch, Dad leaning over to see the photos as I describe every detail.
I try not to think about the fact that Tate could be right next to me. And he chose not to be. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want me enough to be here.
My climb.
Paul looks at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? I think Tate should do what he feels he has to. But I know you were counting on him. Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off. Try to smile, a real smile. “No, seriously, I am. This is exactly where I want to be.” With or without Tate.
* * *
—
We are in our last weeks of training, moving our bodies up the mountain and back down again to acclimatize. Then it will be time to cross our fingers and hope that the weather window opens to let us attempt the summit. We are so close. Life at Base Camp is semi-hideous, semi-awesome. The hideousness comes from how hard it is to breathe, how frozen I am as soon as the sun goes behind the peaks in midafternoon, how dirty I am using only a semi-functional solar shower. The awesome is just that. The mountains are awe-inspiring. They are jagged and ghostly and vast and oh-so-beautiful. The ice on the glacier cracks and sings songs that echo through the tents, and the wind bites down on us and reminds us that even as we drink coffee and watch DVDs, we are far, so very far, from home. It’s glorious.
I can barely make myself eat. The altitude kills my appetite as thoroughly as the endless coughing, caused by the dry air and cold, kills my sleep. We are all hacking, and I now know why high-altitude coughing is called the Khumbu cough. I love it, but really, humans don’t belong here. And we are barely at the edge of Everest, with so much farther to go.
We’re going back up the Icefall again today. Jordan moves slowly, but he is moving, coughing less and keeping pace with me and Paul.
“God. This still scares the crap out of me,” I say to Paul, staring out at the deadly and beautiful seracs of blue ice. The first ladders are right ahead.
“Well, scared is probably about right.” Paul looks ahead at Luc, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking: that Luc isn’t scared enough. He’s strong—probably the strongest climber I know, other than Tate—but he’s fast to the point of recklessness. I’ve thought of Luc’s words in Namche again and again—that climbing drives away all unimportant questions—but if he’s noticed that we’re walking side by side with death, he doesn’t show it. Yoon Su of course is nowhere in sight. She was, like every day, the first person up the ice. Despite her early starts, we usually catch up with her toward the end of the climb. There’s only so fast she can move at this altitude without having to eventually slow down.
“You feel okay?” Asha asks. She is behind us, matching our pace.
I nod without saying anything. I’m approaching another ladder, actually three ladders strapped together and laid horizontally across a chasm.
“Not much like a ladder at home, is it?” I say to no one in particular.
“No. Can’t hold on unless you want to crawl, and that seems a little undignified.” Paul isn’t looking up either. Luc has gone on ahead with Finjo and another guide.
“No crawling,” I vow and put my foot on the first rung of the ladder. The metal spikes of my crampons clatter against the metal rung. It is not a reassuring sound, nothing like the solid crunch of crampon into snowpack or ice. I steady myself and keep walking, slow, deliberate steps that slide and clink on the swaying, bouncing ladder. I try not to look down, to look only ahead to where the ladder lands on the far side. But my eyes drop downward, as though to spite me.
I stop moving. The colors are mesmerizing, every shade of blue, from the most delicate barely-th
ere turquoise to the bottomless near-black of a night sky. The crevasse is wide enough for sunlight to dance through the ice along the side, sending out glittering prisms of color, before narrowing to endless darkness. I am transfixed.
“Rose. ROSE! You need to keep moving!” Paul’s voice, ahead of me on the ice, startles me back into movement, and I lurch, almost losing my balance.
“Sorry,” I say and quickly start walking again, keeping my eyes up as though my life depends on it.
When I get to the other side, Asha hops on, light as a fox, and moves quickly to meet us.
“That was good!” she says, and I’m glad my hood and goggles hide the sweat dripping down my cheek. “It is easier each time, right? There are many ladders, and we cross them many times. Lots of time to get good.”
I try to swallow past the fear in my throat. She’s right. There is no way up the mountain except through the Icefall, through the beautiful, terrible skyscrapers of ice. We are here, in this beautiful alien place, and home is a distant pinprick in my memory. The most frightening part is that some sliver of me wants to stay here forever.
* * *
—
Time seems to repeat and fold back on itself. Climb high, sleep low: this is our mantra, our one guiding principle. Every day we push through the Icefall, and it never gets easy. In the afternoons, when we are done climbing for the day, we listen for the crash of collapsing ice, wondering what crevasse opened up since our last visit. We climb back to Camp One at almost 20,000 feet and then turn around to come down. A few days later, we climb up again and spend the night there. We repeat this process with Camp Two, which is farther up the mountain at 21,000 feet. From there we can stare up the vertical wall of blue ice of Lhotse Face. We will need to climb it to reach Camp Three and, of course, when we do our final summit push. It looks like a playground for gods. It looks endless. My body is tired, so tired, all the time. I make deals with myself to keep walking, promise myself sleep and rest and sips of water if I can go ten more steps, then another ten. I dream about the summit.
Above All Else Page 15
