The Longest Way Home

by Andrew McCarthy

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So I know you’re not exactly sure who’s coming yet,” he says gingerly, “but how’s the wedding shaping up? All set?”

  “Nothing’s set.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Yeah, just that, what I said.”

  “Oh, well. I’m sure it’ll be an amazing day.”

  “Nothing is decided. There are a bunch of ideas, including a ceili, but nothing is decided.”

  “Irish dancing? Great.”

  “Well, if it happens, it’ll all be done the day before.”

  Perhaps it’s the result of running their own hotel for so long, but D’s family operates in crisis-management mode as normal procedure. It is something they have passed down to their daughter. D’s ability to create last-minute magic out of chaos is as impressive as it is maddening.

  “I’m just glad it’s in Ireland. I’m just going to show up,” I say.

  Seve moves from treading lightly to his usual more matter-of-fact tone. “Dude, you never just show up.” He means I always have a lot to say about what happens in my own life and how it happens. Then Seve looks at me for a minute, puffing away on his hookah pipe.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Let me tell you something, my friend.” He blows a big puff of apple-scented smoke and continues very slowly. “The best thing that you could do is show up.”

  And Seve has put his finger on it.

  Once again, he has tapped into something bigger than the mere topic at hand. My hesitation. My remaining ambivalence. It all centers around this. Can I show up? Not literally—of course I’ll be there, on the appropriate date. That is not the issue and never has been. But can I bring all of myself to this marriage? Am I strong enough to be the kind of person that I know I want to be, the kind of man I’ve felt myself to be at certain moments—when self-interest is left behind for investment in others, when responsibility usurps blame, and humor diffuses tension, instead of fearful ego asserting itself for dominance? Am I willing to live in a generous way? Can I be patient with my kids, encouraging them to go out into the world but ensuring their backs are covered, so they have the security and confidence to reach for big things, knowing that someone is there to catch them if they fall short? Am I willing to be interested?

  Isn’t that what marriage is, a commitment to become the best version of ourselves, a pledge to continually grow toward that ideal, on a daily basis? And then recommitting again when I fail, owning that failure, yet not living in it, but moving through it and stepping farther into partnership. That’s what I’ve been afraid of all these years, that level of investment. Suddenly there is a loud crack of thunder, and then it’s pouring. The rain is bouncing off the hood of the pickup truck outside and we watch people running back and forth on the sidewalk, scurrying for cover. The pressure that has been building all day is suddenly and mercifully released. The temperature drops noticeably and the air has a welcome coolness as the clouds free their burden. Just show up. Be the best version of myself every day for the rest of my life. That’s what I’m committing to. Easy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KILIMANJARO

  “What Do You Say We Get the Hell Off This Rock?”

  A very quick scan of the Internet reveals hundreds of mountain-climbing quotes, many heavy with metaphor. From the likes of Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to reach the summit of Mount Everest (“It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves”) to German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (“On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain”) and even Theodor Geisel—a.k.a. Dr. Seuss (“Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So . . . get on your way”), scaling a mountain has always been synonymous with man’s struggle and need to overcome obstacles, both physical and emotional.

  My own struggle in coming to terms with this marriage has been long, my progress often elusive, traveling two steps forward, only to fall one step back—sometimes more. As Seve so astutely pointed out, I need to be able to “show up.” Yet there is a lingering doubt—one I wouldn’t even discuss with him—a doubt that’s easy to deflect and blame on circumstances, or a partner, or on work, a doubt that looks for blame anywhere but where it belongs. This insistent nagging is telling me I lack the internal strength required to make marriage work. Perhaps it’s the failure of my first marriage, and my inability to be fully present in it, that still hangs over me. Perhaps this doubt in my own strength stems from having too close a relationship with my mother when I was very young, or from being physically small for my age as a boy, or because I was late to enter puberty, or maybe the sensitivity I traded on in Hollywood somehow stunted me, or not knowing how to change the oil in a car engine—whatever the reason, it’s here, and it lingers, and I need to get over it.

  While climbing a mountain may not solve all my issues, there is no denying that it takes a certain strength, both physical and mental, to get to the top. And I need to test myself, to prove myself; I need an achievement I can point to, something that reflects my abilities and willingness to persevere. I need something I can hold on to as I move forward toward the big day and beyond.

  While Mount Kilimanjaro, at 19,336 feet, is no Everest, it is still the highest mountain in Africa. My pack is by the door; I’ll leave in the morning.

  When D and I come home after dinner, my mother, who has been babysitting, walks in from the living room. She’s been watching the news.

  “You know, there are thousands of refugees fleeing Libya and flooding into Tanzania. It’s very unstable,” she says. Then she drives her point home. “If you die, your children’s life will never be the same.”

  “Actually, Mom, it’s Tunisia they’re flooding into, not Tanzania. But thanks for your concern, that’s very helpful. Come on, let me get you a cab. Do you have a coat?”

  “No, it’s a hundred degrees. I don’t have a coat. And why is your air conditioner blowing hot air?”

  When I return from putting my mother in a taxi, D is in the kitchen. The sight of my waiting backpack, coupled with my mother’s remarks, has triggered her anxiety. She’s a different person than she was just a few minutes ago.

  “You’re always coming and going, leaving and coming, you have no time to love me,” she blurts out. “We can’t even get more than an hour. We never spend any real time together.” We have just returned from a long, romantic dinner, after having spent the afternoon together.

  “Well it doesn’t seem as if you like me that much, that you’d even want to spend time with me anyway,” I say, trying to tease out a smile and counter this sudden mood shift.

  “True,” she replies without a trace of a grin. And now the tears come.

  We go back and forth and eventually I promise not to fall off the mountain and die. Like she always does, D responds instantly when I am able to pinpoint the fear that has been motivating her reactions, and her mood softens.

  “And when I get back, we have to get our rings,” I remind her.

  “I don’t think so, luv.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” And she’s back in charge of herself.

  “No rings?”

  “I don’t really want to wear one; you don’t want to wear a ring, do you? Although you’d look good in a ring.”

  “Oh, well, okay, no rings. That was easy.”

  “I was thinking we should tie the knot,” she says.

  “What knot?”

  “The old pagan tradition. That’s where the saying comes from. Our hands are tied together and then something happens, a blessing or something, I don’t remember what.”

  “Sure, sounds good. We’ll tie the knot,” I say in agreement. “We need to figure out how we do it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” D dismisses my practical concern. She’s already on to the next topic. “Should we have some music?”

  “Yeah, that would be helpful, I guess.”

  “Not ‘Yeah, that would be helpful,’ like it’s some chore. We’re talking about our wedding. Where’s the
romance?”

  “That’s what I mean. Music will be good.”

  “Uilleann pipes?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they’re beautiful.”

  “Aren’t they kind of shrill? Do you know someone who plays them?”

  “I do. Although he’s a liar and a cheater,” D says.

  “Not one of your exes?”

  “No, not one of my exes. And my brother’s going to roast a lamb on a spit.”

  “He is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s going to dig a hole in the park and roast a lamb on a spit?” I ask.

  “He’s not, but he’s going to get someone to do it.”

  “Do we need an extra permit for that?”

  “We don’t have a permit.”

  “We don’t have a permit to get married in the park? What if they kick us out?”

  “They’re not going to kick us out, they won’t even know we’re there.”

  “There are going to be a few hundred people.”

  “You’re right, maybe we should have a second lamb. He was going do a pig, but I’m not having pig at my wedding.”

  “I thought everyone was just going to bring a picnic,” I remind her. “We weren’t going to feed them, remember?”

  She continues, ignoring me. “I don’t know what the vegetarians are going to do.”

  I open the refrigerator and swig some grapefruit juice. “Maybe I will fall off the mountain after all,” I say.

  “Look, you shouldn’t even be going, not with your knee. What are you going to do if it gives out halfway up? Are they going to send a helicopter?”

  “Don’t laugh, I think Martina Navratilova recently had to be carried off Kilimanjaro.”

  “She’s in very good shape,” D warns.

  “I know.”

  “Seriously, luv. You’ve been hobbling around for six months. And how are you going to dance at our wedding? Because you are dancing at our wedding.”

  I ignore this second threat and concentrate on the first. “It’s Kilimanjaro, not K2. I’ll be fine.”

  But I have no idea if I’ll be fine. The thought of not making it to the top occupies a prominent place in my mind with every hobbling step I take. I tore my knee up over the winter while skiing—or rather, falling. I should have gone to an orthopedist right away, had the surgery, and been done. I didn’t. Instead I went to an osteopath, who had helped other injuries I’d had over the years. He made great progress with my knee over several months but admitted finally, “There’s no doubt you tore the meniscus, it’s just a matter of how little healing can you live with.” The knee is better, to a large degree; it’s just not the same as it was. And it’s not trustworthy.

  “But it’s very interesting,” my osteopath said, “that you hurt your left knee as you were about to get married. There are some people who would associate the knees with ego and commitment and relationships.”

  “What are you trying to say, that I don’t have the flexibility and strength for the relationship?”

  “I’m just pointing out the correlation, what some people say. It’s for you to decide what it means.”

  Since my skiing accident, I’ve hiked over the tundra in Patagonia and through the jungle of Costa Rica without incident, but there is no way of knowing when my knee will go. Just a few weeks ago, in Baltimore with Seve, I stepped off a curb and heard a pop that set my healing progress back a few months. When he saw me limp down a steep incline, Seve asked, “What the hell happened to you? I’ve never seen you move like that. If you were a horse I’d shoot you.”

  “Headaches are normal. So are gas, diarrhea, and nausea. Vomiting is common. And pulmonary edema can happen very quickly. The fluid can build up in your lungs and in twenty minutes, if you don’t descend, you could be dead.” The man telling me and five others this in a garden, under an African tulip tree at a hotel outside Arusha in Tanzania, is the one responsible for getting us to the top of Kilimanjaro and back down in one piece. His name is Zadock Mosha, and he’s thirty-three, with chocolate-brown skin and a round, shaved head. A member of the Chagga tribe, he grew up in the shadow of the “white mountain” and has been to its summit 161 times. So I guess he knows what he’s talking about.

  Still, I think he’s overselling the danger. After all, thousands have gotten to the top of Kilimanjaro. I’ve always possessed a silent confidence in my physical agility that isn’t immediately obvious—I often adopt the position that I don’t really know how to do anything physically strenuous, only to step into whatever it is, from stunt fighting in movies to white-water kayaking, and manage fairly easily. But this knee worries me. And Zadock isn’t helping. His attitude is offhanded—almost hostile. He regards us with slight contempt as he pulls out what will become the bane of my hike up the mountain—his pulse oximeter, which measures pulse and oxygen-saturation levels in the blood.

  “You want your blood oxygen level over ninety and your pulse below it,” Zadock tells us, and then he tosses me the small black contraption that clips onto the end of a finger. “Let’s just get a baseline on everyone.”

  My blood oxygen level is ninety-five and my pulse is sixty-four. I announce my numbers to Zadock with detached casualness and pass the meter to the lone woman in our group, a neurosurgeon from India who now lives in Virginia. She’s in her mid to late thirties and has an open, fleshy face with a mole on her cheek and long black hair. Her name is Eila. She sits quietly and is motionless until Zadock removes the device from her finger and tosses it to the youngest member of our group, a soft-bodied, chatty college student named Tim, who is here through the largesse of a wealthy uncle. Then Roberto and Bob, a father-and-son team from Puerto Rico, each clip the pulse oximeter on for a minute. Finally, a hard-toned mortgage broker and Ironman triathlete named Hank knocks out a number right at a hundred and flips the oximeter back to our leader.

  Zadock shows us our route up the mountain on a tourist map, but the red line on the paper means nothing to me. All the map really shows is that Kilimanjaro sits in north central Tanzania, not far from the border with Kenya. A visit—if not an attempt at the summit—is often included in itineraries to some of Tanzania’s other “greatest hits,” like the Serengeti or the Ngorongoro Crater. I first became aware of Kilimanjaro when I was a child. My oldest brother brought home a book from school, Hemingway’s famous The Snows of Kilimanjaro. On the cover was a painting of the famous, snowcapped conical mountain.

  “Where’s that?” I asked my brother.

  “Africa,” he told me.

  “I’m going to go there,” I declared. I don’t know why I said it, and I don’t remember what my brother said in reply, but the idea stuck. Over the years, whenever I heard Kilimanjaro mentioned, I knew that one day I would go—this is a date I’ve had with myself since I was ten.

  When the meeting breaks up, the itinerary says we’re to have a welcome dinner, but when no one mentions it, I slip off to the dining room at the hotel and eat alone.

  While I’m finishing up, Eila comes in and sits across from me.

  I ask if she found Zadock’s talk of all the potential dangers stressful.

  “ ‘Stress.’ ‘Depression.’ I don’t understand these terms. I never heard them till I came to America. I don’t believe in them. Then you people take pills for it. You’re stressed about something, but why, what are you feeling? If you’re upset about something, do something about it. You people take pills for everything.”

  What Eila says makes good sense, and I agree with her, but something in the way she says it is disquieting. She pours her tea and looks off dreamily. There’s a strange detachment to both her words and actions. Her lack of investment in what she’s saying makes me question her conviction, and her vague physicality makes me wonder if perhaps she’s not heavily medicated herself. I drink my tea.

  “Do you do a lot of hiking?” I ask.

  “One day before.”

  “One day?”

  “I was in Patagonia—in Chile�
��at a conference and I went hiking for a day. I liked it, so I came here next.” I’m glad she’s not operating on my brain.

  The father-and-son team from Puerto Rico comes into the dining room. Roberto, an estate lawyer with rounded shoulders and a heavy walk, is close to sixty; his son, Bob, in his late twenties, works at a hedge fund in New York. He looks like his father must have before thirty extra years of life burdened him. They wave as they take seats in the corner and talk softly between themselves.

  In the middle of the night, jet lag wakes me and I call D. When she answers, she is surrounded by so much noise I can hardly hear her.

  “I’m at Dean’s birthday, in Brooklyn. I’m totally in the wrong outfit,” she shouts into the phone. “I should have borrowed one of your checked shirts and be wearing big disc earrings. But who knew?” She sounds happy, carefree. “And you, my love, I’m sure you’re probably dealing with something very similar in the heart of Africa.”

  “Just talking brain hemorrhages and blisters.”

  “See? I knew it.”

  I tell her that Zadock said I should have cell service all the way up the mountain, so we’ll talk soon.

  “Really? You’ll have cell service on Kilimanjaro? That’s weird.”

  The next morning I have an e-mail from D suggesting we move to Williamsburg. “You’ll fit right in. You can wear plaid 24/7.”

  We’ve been driving for over an hour and I’m in a jet-lagged daze, staring out the window. Tall men swing long machetes in high grass. Women stride along the side of the road carrying containers of water or baskets on their heads. Occasionally someone pedals by on a rusting bicycle, hauling charcoal.

  Tim, the college student, has been pestering Zadock with questions, about people we see, trees, and weather cycles. Eila is listening to music on her headphones. Hank, the triathlete, is bouncing his knee up and down, while Bob and Roberto occasionally whisper to each other. The midmorning African light is bright but hazy. We come out of a bend in the road and suddenly there are murmurs from the front of the van.