Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

  “Where?” I ask.

  “The hot springs!”

  “Hot springs?”

  Prior to briefing, Boomer told us to wear our swimsuits under our flight gear, but without telling us why. I’ve dreaded this moment all day, thinking surely he’s cooked up some crazy polar-bearing, let’s-jump-in-a-frozen-lake kind of deal. So I’m beyond happy as I look through the rising steam to … Will?

  And not just Will. Will in swim trunks. A man sculpted like an honest-to-goodness, no-I’m-not-exaggerating Renaissance statue.

  Oh … my.

  Boomer flies out of the truck and has his flight suit pulled down to his waist before Tito and I even open the door. “Look out, I’m comin’ through!” he says, stripping off the last of his clothes. Which is when I realize that Boomer will probably take up an entire hot spring on his own. Fortunately, there are several to choose from.

  “They’re all running about a hundred and five degrees,” Will says, walking up to me. “So you can have your pick.”

  The rest of the group swarms around us, removing their clothing, kicking off their shoes, but Will looks only at me, that overpowering energy directed in only one place. And I’m reacting, flushed from head to toe.

  “Come on,” he says, grinning, before disappearing into the steam again.

  I remove my flight suit and boots, instantly shivering in the sub-ten-degree temperatures. But … what’s this? I stand on glossy black, bare rocks, and they’re not cold. Actually, they’re quite warm.

  “Well, get in, Vanilla!” Boomer says. He’s already fully submerged, head lying back on the rock rim. And there’s room for others—he picked one of the largest springs.

  I dip my toe in, gently lowering myself, oohing and aahing all the way.

  “Tell me this is not fine,” Boomer says, peeking one eye open.

  “Yes, this is very fine.”

  He gives a forceful “harrumph.”

  “But, sir, how is this training again?”

  He speaks with his eyes closed. “As potential rescuers, we must be intimately familiar with this terrain. Someone could get scalded out here, and we would need to know how to find them expeditiously. As someone who believes in careful preparation, I’m sure you can appreciate the importance of the matter.”

  As I give Boomer the requisite roll of the eyes, Will steps in next to me. “Mind if I sit here?”

  “No … no, not at all,” I say.

  “So what do you think?” he asks.

  Holy crap. I can’t think.

  “This is great,” I say, my voice squeaking. Oh, god. Not squeaking! Okay, Ali. Head together. “How do you guys know about this place?” I say, proud that I delivered a clear, coherent sentence.

  “Locals’ secret.”

  “Just glad you let us in on it,” Boomer says, eyes remaining closed. He’s the picture of bliss, arms behind his head now.

  “Is there room for us?”

  I look up, thankful for the distraction, as Kevin and Thomas drop in, followed closely by two women. I recognize one of them—Kelly, the hiker with the pink shirt and ponytail.

  Freckle-faced, like Beanie, and with that red hair I remember, she slides in and sits next to me. I take advantage, and shift, hopefully discreetly, away from Will, and turn to her.

  “Hi,” I say. “Kelly, isn’t it?”

  She nods.

  “I’m Alison. I saw you on Palisade Glacier.”

  “Hi,” she says, putting out her hand. “Nice to meet you, officially.” She points a thumb to her left. “This is my husband, Kevin.” Then she points across from us. “And Thomas and Tawny.”

  I remember Kevin and Thomas from Schat’s Bakkerÿ and, of course, from the rescue.

  “Nice to meet you all,” I say. “It’s a good thing you guys were up there when Jack fell.”

  “It was an even better thing you were flying that day,” Kelly says. “You rocked that rescue, girlfriend.”

  I smile, inside, outside, everywhere. How genuinely nice of her to say that.

  “Girl power, yeah?” Tawny says. She gives me a fist bump as Thomas slips his arm around her and pulls her close.

  Kevin shifts his position to sit nearer Kelly, and she moves over to give him room, forcing me to slide right. I’m able to stop before running into Will, but I have to turn my body toward him to avoid contact. We may as well be touching, though. There’s only half an inch between us, if that.

  “So will you be coming to the party?” Will asks.

  “What party?”

  “My bad,” Boomer says, sitting up a bit. “Will invited us to a party at Jack’s house to celebrate Jack’s release from the hospital. The Mono County SAR Team is going, and he’s invited us, too.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “Friday,” Boomer says.

  My heart sinks. Sinks…? Rich is coming on Friday. Okay, so this isn’t right. I’ve been looking forward to Rich’s visit for weeks.

  “… and has been at home resting since,” Will says.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “Drifting again, Vanilla?” Boomer says, chuckling.

  “I said, he was released from the hospital two days after the accident and has been at home resting since. The doctors can’t believe his rate of recovery.” Will shifts slightly to face me, which thankfully brings more separation. “He can’t wait to thank you, by the way. Will you be coming, then?”

  “Um, no,” I say. “I won’t be able to make it, unfortunately.”

  “I see. Well, some other time then.”

  He leans back against the edge of the spring at the same time Kelly scooches over, and wham, Will and I are pressed together. My leg flush against his. Our arms touching, too.

  But what causes me to freeze, causes him to freeze, is that his hand now rests on top of mine—something inadvertent, yes, but unmistakably intimate. Much different than just being smashed up next to someone in a crowded place.

  He looks down at me, and under that steady gaze, my heart beats faster.

  I don’t look away, either, and a sizzling jolt of something zings straight through me. Holy shit …

  I pull my hand out from under his, bringing it to my lap, trying to cover up whatever that “exchange” was. And it was an exchange. A heated one. And that something that zipped through me, remains. Humming, burning …

  Okay, Ali. This is ridiculous. Get it together.

  “So, how did these get here?” I ask, sweeping my arm around to indicate the hot springs.

  Will clears his throat, then obligingly launches into a discussion of the geology of the area, the system of lava domes that surrounds us, how Mammoth Mountain was created by a series of eruptions fifty-six thousand years ago, and the hydrothermal activity that still occurs below us.

  But his geology lesson is lost on me as I attempt to recover. To reconcile what’s happening here. Which ultimately leads to thinking about Rich.

  I consider my phone calls with him, the ones I’ve had since moving here that have left me … wanting? Hollow? Something?

  It will be good to see him. I need to see him. It’s been two months since we were together last. And I know absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder, but it doesn’t seem like the phone calls, the e-mails, the texts are enough. Which must explain why, when I spend just a few minutes with Will, I’m full to exploding. It must be a physical nearness thing. And we are indeed near right now.

  I start fanning myself.

  “Too hot?” Will asks.

  “Yeah, I’m uh, I’m not sure what’s going on. Normally, I’m fine in a hot tub.”

  “Here, let me show you another spring. The ones around the corner are cooler than these.” He stands, climbing out of the pool, and lowers his hand to me, which I take.

  He may as well have touched me with a lightning rod.

  He pulls me up and out, and we stand there, steam swirling around us, obscuring the fact that our hands remain together a moment longer than necessary. The air tha
t was like an icebox minutes ago, doesn’t sting anymore. He finally lets my hand drop before turning to lead me to the cooler pools.

  Yes, cooler. You need to cool off, Ali!

  “Try this one,” he says, pointing to a spring in the far corner, roomy enough for at least eight people. He walks with sure footing over an uneven spread of rocks and sagebrush, and steps in, moving across to the other side. “It runs more around a hundred here.”

  He watches me get in. And by watching, I mean, really watching. Not hiding that he’s looking.

  I step in, sitting opposite him. “This is much better. Thanks. I don’t know what that was.”

  “Just wait, I bet we have the whole group over here in a few minutes.”

  I think of the zap I received when he took my hand to help me out of the other pool, and that same charge is here, the water, electric.

  Will dunks underwater, running his hands across his hair, like you do when shampooing. When he surfaces, he shakes his head from side to side. “Poor man’s bathtub,” he says, grinning. “We come here often after climbing.”

  “I can see why.” I pry my eyes away from him to take in my surroundings. The White Mountains rise in front of me, the snowcapped Sierra behind.

  “You know the best time to come, though?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “At night. It’s a star show unlike any other.”

  “I can imagine.”

  No light pollution out here. Probably much like the starry nights I viewed when on a ship on deployment in my last command. A ship … a navy ship … on deployment. I couldn’t be farther from that world right now.

  I continue to look around, feeling his eyes on me. God, I feel it.

  “Boomer says you’re unhappy here,” he says.

  The shock that registers is genuine. But his statement shouldn’t shock at all, because it’s true. I mean, it was true.

  Is true.

  Was true.

  “You never seem unhappy to me,” he says. “So I find that curious.”

  “When did he tell you this?”

  “At the hospital. I wanted to let him know how much I appreciated him and you and the crew going the extra mile to get Jack and that you were a natural at this. That’s when he told me. Said you even wanted to leave. Is that true?”

  My mouth opens. Stays there. “Well … yeah. That’s true,” I say, suddenly not wanting it to be true.

  “Why would you want to leave?”

  “Well, I … I…” All those ironclad reasons for an early transfer seem to evaporate before I can give them voice. Looking into Will’s eyes, I can’t seem to find a single one.

  “Maybe you could rethink it,” he says.

  The laughs and conversation grow louder as people begin to emerge from around the bend.

  “See, what did I tell you?” he says.

  Once again, spell broken.

  Beanie, Hap, and Sky jump in next to us—actually jump, splashing all of us.

  I take this as an opportunity to duck away, and I submerge. Once underwater, I do the motions like Will did, shampooing my hair, and it feels divine. The mineral water is soft, and when I surface, smoothing my hair back, the strands are slipperier than normal.

  “That feels so good,” I say, erupting into a smile. “Guys, we should definitely do this more often.”

  “Hell, you don’t have to sell me,” Sky says.

  “Looks like it’s good for you, too, ma’am,” Beanie says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much.”

  I flush right to the roots as Will looks on, beaming.

  “Nah, it’s not the hot springs. It’s probably because her fiancé’s comin’ to visit,” Hap says.

  How did Hap remember that? I put in for leave weeks ago.

  The light dims on Will’s face, almost imperceptibly, but it’s there. And to be truthful, my internal lighting systems just flickered, as well.

  “Is that why you can’t come to the party?” Will asks.

  “No … I mean…”

  “You’re welcome to bring him,” Will says, noticeably swallowing. “The invitation’s open to both of you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, something withering inside. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

  He smiles, a sad smile, before standing and hopping out of the pool. He walks away without looking back.

  I watch him go, while at the same time, envisioning Rich striding through the airport to greet me.

  I duck underwater again as my insides twist, facing the monumental task of righting a listing ship.

  15

  Please pick up, Mom. Please. I need to talk.

  At home in my apartment, tucked in a bathrobe, and nursing a mug of apple cider, I blow my nose again into a tissue. I was supposed to have left two hours ago to pick Rich up at the airport, but he called and canceled.

  “I know it’s lousy timing, but Brian needs me at a work retreat in Santa Barbara,” Rich said. “I can’t not go.”

  Knowing Rich’s I-don’t-take-no-for-an-answer boss, Brian, I can understand. But this time I don’t want to understand. It’s the fifth time he’s canceled a trip to see me. The fifth. On the previous four occasions, I flew back to San Diego instead.

  “But I can come next weekend and stay even longer,” Rich said. “Or you could always come here.”

  My pouty self put my foot down on principle. I want him to come here. I want him to see this place, so he can make sense of it. So he’ll know what the heck I’m talking about when I call.

  I hung up the phone in a daze, undressed, took a shower, and curled up in my bathrobe. The few tears I’ve shed have been born from frustration mostly, and have done more to piss me off than anything else, because now my nose is clogged.

  “Hello?” my mom says.

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Yes, honey, of course. What’s wrong?”

  How do moms do that? Amazing how they know.

  “Rich canceled his trip to see me.”

  “But you were supposed to pick him up today.”

  “Supposed to … He got pulled into a last-minute work retreat.”

  I draw my legs up, sitting crisscross-applesauce, just like I did as a kid, when I would sit close to my mom on the couch to talk.

  “Oh … well, that’s not his fault.”

  It’s exactly what I expected her to say. No matter the issue or the complaint, she has staunchly defended him. Not that I’ve had much to complain about. Rich is hardworking, successful, he treats me nicely. It’s all been there. But no matter how great the guy, I think all girls still want assurances that the man they’ve chosen to marry is indeed the right one. Am I making the right choice? So I’ve asked my mom and she’s always been ready with the “yes” before I’ve even finished asking the question.

  She’s met him on two occasions and they’ve gotten along just fine. “Smart choice, Ali,” she said. “Smart choice.” It’s what she always says. But I’ve always wondered, does “smart” equal “right”?

  “Ali? Ali, honey, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Mom, did you love Nick?”

  “What? Of course I did.”

  A defensive answer to a subject I haven’t broached with her in ages. A practiced response that always begins with a question—What?—spoken with strident incredulity. As in, How could you ask such a thing? Followed by a decidedly vehement Of course I do, or Of course I did, depending on when I ask. Answers rendered with finality to prevent further questioning.

  Sometimes I’ll push it, selfishly asking the follow-on question, knowing the hurt to her that will inevitably result. Most times, though, to spare her this, I back off. But this time, I have to know. I need an answer. I need confirmation.

  “Did you love my father? My real father?”

  “Nick was your father.”

  Boom. Standard. Pavlovian.

  “Mom, please.
Please, for once don’t say that.”

  “Ali, I don’t—”

  “Please don’t say you don’t want to talk about it. Please, can you just answer me this? Just this once. I’m about to marry Rich. And if he can cancel on me like this—again—maybe he’s just like my father. Maybe he’s capable of leaving, too.”

  No answer, no answer …

  “I’m not asking for much, Mom. I just want to know if you loved him. That’s all.”

  Her breathing slows, and after an interminable silence, there’s an unmistakable hitch. “Yes.”

  Whoa. She actually confirmed it. What I’ve known in my heart, because she sat with “him” all those years in her garden of larkspur, but something she’s never openly admitted.

  “But after he left? You still—?”

  “I’ve never stopped loving him.”

  “But … how?” I ask, a knot lodging in my throat. “He left us, Mom. He left us.” I reach my unsteady hand to the end table to deposit my cup of cider before it spills. “Why did he leave? Was it someone else? Was it—”

  “No, it wasn’t someone else. He loved me equally as much, if not more.”

  “But … I’ve spent my entire life hating this man for what he did to us. To you.”

  “You don’t understand, Alison.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense!”

  I pop to a stand. Years of frustration, so many unanswered questions, and finally, finally, my mom has opened the door. Just a crack. But when I see the opening, I can’t help it. I burst through. Why? Why leave? For what? And does it matter anyway? How could you leave a young mother—especially one you loved—and her four-year-old? How? What was so pressing? Did they have an argument? Did he ever come back? Has she talked to him since? Did he ever ask about me? “Why?” I say, my voice finally kicking in. “Why would he leave? That bastard! Why—”

  “Alison!” she shouts, stopping my ranting cold. “Don’t ever speak about him in that manner! Ever!”

  The laser-sharp rebuke thunders in my ears.

  “He was a good man, Alison. A good man…” She has to stop to compose herself, and frankly, I’m doing the same. Because she never told me anything, I’ve had to fill in the blanks, concocting tales of a vile person, so callous he would abandon his wife and child when he was needed most.