Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

  “Yeah … that sounds pretty good.”

  “Pretty good? Ali, come one, it’s awesome!”

  “Okay, awesome.”

  “But you wanna know the really great news?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m this close to closing a deal for a bigger condo for us. Same building, but penthouse this time.” He turns to me proudly.

  “Penthouse?”

  “The views are … To. Die. For.”

  “But the place you have now is fine. And what about the contractors, all the work you’re having done?”

  “Oh, they’ll still complete the work. I’ll just sell it when they’re finished. And anyway, it’s a great investment,” he says, tapping away at his phone again.

  “Rich—”

  “Ho … Hold on,” he says, raising his finger. His phone vibrates again and he looks at the screen. “Let me just answer this one quick.”

  I reach over and switch on the radio. Hitting the scanner, my finger hovers over the preselect button. The channels scroll through … classical, jazz, alternative rock … There! I press the button for three seconds, ensuring the channel is now permanently programmed.

  Rich looks over to me during his conversation, turning his hands up and mouthing, “What’s this?” And his expression? Like he just drank sour milk.

  “It’s country music.”

  “Since when do you listen to country music?” he asks, holding his hand over the phone.

  “Since … I don’t know. Just since I’ve been here.”

  He gives me a funny look before returning his focus to his phone call. And me? I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling when the next song starts. Who else but Randy Travis, singing the song I heard at Jack’s house, “Better Class of Losers.” I listen to the lyrics closely, vaguely aware that I’m nodding. Randy begins his lament about socializing with the uppity-ups in the penthouse suite, before making the choice to hang out with more down-to-earth folks.

  Rich’s hand shoots out to grasp the handle above the passenger door, as I turn onto the four-wheel-drive-only road, my 4Runner bumping and jumping.

  “Whoa!” he shouts. “What? No, dude, not you. Listen, I’ll call you back. Right. Yeah later.”

  He fumbles to stuff his phone back in his pocket, but finally gets it in.

  “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” he asks, now hanging on to the handle with both hands.

  “Yes. I’ve been here before. And trust me, it’s worth it.”

  As I navigate to the springs, I revel in the sight of fresh snow from Monday’s storm, blanketing the rocks, the sage, and a weathered wooden fence. Other than a few animal tracks—tiny paw prints disappearing into unknown hiding places—there’s no indication that anything has moved out here since Monday.

  But the sky is unsettled. Today—unlike yesterday, which carried that post-storm stillness and a clear sky—the clouds have moved in again. And they look different somehow. Alien. Horse-tailed, iron gray, and thick. But the disquieting thing is their speed. Slow and methodical, this new weather system crosses the Sierra like a storm god pulling a veil over the Owens River Valley.

  I push away the ominous feelings, berating myself for being so melodramatic, and focus on the hot springs instead. “See! You can see them there.”

  “How did you ever learn about this?”

  “A local,” I say, clearing my throat, “showed us. Our entire crew came, along with the search-and-rescue guys from Mono County.”

  Rich looks ahead and to the sides. “Where are the … I don’t see any buildings or facilities.”

  “There aren’t any. These are just natural springs. It makes it better, too.”

  I glance at Rich, observing him taking in his new surroundings, filled with a strange exuberance, something I haven’t felt in what seems like forever with him. Finally, finally, he will understand.

  I pull to the side of the road, thrilled that it’s just the two of us. I had worried we might have company.

  “So this is it!” I say, opening my door, and stepping out.

  I meet Rich on his side. “What do you think?”

  “Well, I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He pulls his jacket tighter around him.

  “You have a choice,” I say, removing my jacket, and lifting my fleece sweater, then shirt, over my head. “One hundred five degrees here or one hundred degrees over there.”

  “How are you doing that? It’s flippin’ freezing out here!”

  “No, it’s not that bad, really. Especially once you get in,” I say, removing my boots, followed by my mountaineering pants. I stand now, clothed in only my swimsuit, next to Rich, who hasn’t moved.

  “Well, I’m not waiting. I’m going to the one-hundred-degree pool.” I open the back hatch of the truck, throw my clothes in, and make a beeline for the spring.

  I was shocked by the cold two weeks ago, so it seems natural for Rich to react the same way when he finally takes his shirt off. I hear him, though I can’t see him, from behind the snow-covered mounds of earth. “Shit, that’s cold!”

  His voice grows louder as he nears. “Shit! Ow!” The rocks rumble as they move beneath him. “Shit, shit, shit, this is cold!” he says, rounding the bend.

  I smile as he approaches, unsteady in his bare feet, knowing his grimace will morph into a relaxed smile once he slides into the water.

  “Almost there,” I say. “The water is so nice!”

  “Do they treat it out here or anything?” he asks, head down, stepping carefully here, cautiously there.

  “Do they what?”

  “You know, treat the water? For whatever, bacteria?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so. These are natural, so … But it’s fine. Look,” I say, ducking under.

  “If you say so,” he says, before finally stepping in. “Oh … that is nice.”

  “Told you,” I say, proudly.

  Rich slips lower, the water rising to his neck as he leans back against the rock. We sit across from each other, so it’s easy to observe him. Just like last night, I feel like I’m getting to know him all over again. Fine black hair, trimmed neatly, slightly rounded face, smooth, pale skin—a victim of far too many office hours indoors—wide-set brown/black eyes, and a jaw that sits just this side of an underbite. Most would say he’s nice-looking, but I’d have to add that it all seems to work better when he’s in a suit. He just has that put-together look when he’s well dressed.

  “What do you think?” I raise my arms in the air and motion to the view. “Is this place incredible or what?”

  “It’s nice, yeah,” he says with not quite the amount of enthusiasm I was hoping for.

  “Soooo, this is it.” I sweep my arms around in a wide arc. “This is where we fly all the time. Remember the rescue on Mount Morrison? You can see it from here,” I say, pointing. “And then, Palisade Glacier, well, you can’t see it from here. It’s further south. And there’s—”

  He finds my hand underwater, pulls me toward him, and his mouth is on mine. It happens so fast—my head was turned—I never saw it coming. Our lips move together in an odd way—this getting-reacquainted period that feels a little off—but it’s more aggressive on his end, and I find myself leaning back.

  “Whoa,” I say, pulling away for air.

  “I have definitely missed that,” he says.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, smoothing back my hair.

  Last night, it was the same. This weirdness, going through the motions, like sharing a bed with a stranger. It was familiar, yet it was mechanical … I guess. But then, I don’t know how it’s supposed to feel when you haven’t seen someone in so long.

  When I was gone for my long deployments overseas, I hadn’t met Rich yet. No one to miss or come home to. These last ten weeks have been the longest stretch so far for us, and I’ll be the first to admit that this readjustment period is lasting longer than I would have thought. But of course, with what happened yesterday morning …


  “Did you know on Bimini Island—you know, in the Bahamas—they have a natural spring?” he says. “It’s not hot like this, but they advertise it as the Fountain of Youth, and it’s totally gorgeous. I’ve already hired a guide to take us there—in kayaks! It’s gonna be great.”

  “You’ve packed in quite a bit for our honeymoon.”

  “Well, once you get going … There’s just so much to do down there.”

  “Yeah—”

  “And it’s warm,” he says as he scans the snowy landscape. “I cannot wait to hit the beaches there.”

  Maybe I’m imagining it, but he seems sort of done here. “Did you want to stay here longer or go on or…?”

  “Sure, what’s next?”

  “I wanted to show you Mount Morrison up close, and then, drive down to Bishop—”

  At the mention of the town, his expression takes a turn south.

  “Just to go to the bakery, the one I’ve been telling you about.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He rises and steps out, moving out of my sight, while I remain in the spring, a little stunned. I know he would prefer not to have any reminders of what happened in Bishop, but I did want him to experience Schat’s Bakkerÿ, having raved about it yesterday. And then, I guess I thought he would have liked to hang out at the springs a while longer.

  I duck my head underwater, and stay there, running my fingers through my hair, feeling how slippery and smooth it is, the water chock-full of healthy minerals. Surfacing, I remember someone else who “washed” his hair, and that someone was not concerned about bacteria or facilities.

  By the time I reach the car, Rich is clothed and sitting in the passenger seat. His head is down, and he scrolls through something on his cell phone.

  I pass him, moving to the back of the car, then stop, turning a circle. I do so in my suit and bare feet, not bothered at the moment by the cold. Of course, with what I experienced Monday, this is tame by comparison.

  Around me, the mountains are—to borrow a word my mom used—resplendent. The Sierra Nevada and the White Mountains, both blanketed in snow, just like the valley. A black hawk with a red tail soars overhead, its wingspan pushing four feet, at least. The bird is resolutely unfazed by the striated black and gray clouds that threaten, dropping lower by the minute. And it is blessedly quiet.

  I shudder, reacting to the artificial clicking noises that stab the silence as Rich taps on his phone. It’s the thirteenth time he’s checked his phone since we left Fallon three hours ago. Not that I’m counting.

  I peel down my wet swimsuit, wondering about my own habits with a phone. Do I check it that often? Maybe I do.

  I dry myself and dress, then walk to the passenger door and open it.

  “Did you wanna see Mount Morrison?” I ask. “We could drive there.…”

  He finishes tapping. Slots the phone back in his pocket.

  “Or … I could just point out stuff. I just wanted to show you, you know, the site of that rescue I told you about.”

  “The Death Couloir,” he says. He opens the door wider and slides out. “I remember that.”

  “Yes,” I say, straightening. “So that’s it, that black corridor of snow.” I point to the couloir, which is once again hidden in shadow by the steep rock surrounding it. “See the ice wall on the bottom part? That’s where the climbers were stuck.”

  “That is seriously steep.” He brings his hand over his eyes and squints. “And you hovered there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Most impressive, Alison Malone-soon-to-be-Gordon,” he says with a grin.

  He puts his hand on my elbow, turning me away from the mountain, before pulling out his phone and stretching out his arm. “Selfie with the Death Couloir!” He aims the phone and snaps.

  I look over his shoulder as he checks the screen. In the photo, his smile is bright, mine a little awkward, the couloir cutting a sharp, shadowed line between us in the background.

  “So, anyway, when we got there, we—” I start.

  “Hold on a sec, I wanna post this on Instagram.”

  “Oh … okay.” While his head is down, I stare at the couloir, seeing it as clearly as I saw it that day, a bright yellow jacket moving steadily upward, methodical, sure.

  Yes, I admit it; I did slip once in the days after the party at Jack’s house. I searched for Will on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, thinking surely he had photos posted of his exploits. But—and maybe I shouldn’t be surprised—I came up empty. Will is so modest and self-deprecating, one would never guess what he’s accomplished. Which, based on the pictures I saw on Jack’s wall, would amount to an impressive mountaineering résumé.

  “Okay, the photo’s up,” Rich says, reseating himself. “So what’s next?”

  “Did you want to see anything else here? Maybe take a walk or something?”

  “Nah, I think I’m good.”

  I bite my lip. “Okay.”

  I close his door and shuffle to the back of the car, my eyes stinging. He’s so not into this. I plop myself in the cargo area, letting my legs dangle over the tailgate, and wipe my eyes. But how can you not be into this? Look at this place! I peek up at the hawk again, still floating in the updrafts overhead. That’s the problem, Ali. He’s not even looking.

  When I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, my fingers move across a scattering of pointed pine needles. How this elicits a smile, I’ll never know, but I pull them out, and breathe in their glorious Jeffrey pine scent—more like butterscotch this time. I sit for a good five minutes, completely uninterrupted, by the way, taking deep, pine-infused breaths, composing myself.

  The light dims as the alien clouds continue to drop, pressing ever lower into the valley. But my eyes continue to be drawn upward, especially now that the first dollop-sized raindrops—rain?—begin to plunk on the roof.

  I shove the needles in my pocket, close the back door, and rush to the driver’s seat.

  “Ready to go?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says without looking up. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Whatever you want.”

  I buckle myself in. Turn the key.

  Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

  I check the temperature display. Forty degrees. No wonder.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Rich, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where do you see us in twenty years?”

  He stops, lowering the phone, an invisible vacuum sucking the air from the front seat.

  “What do you mean? You’re sounding all serious.”

  “Well, I was just wondering, do you think we’ll still be in San Diego? Will you be doing the same job?”

  “I hope I’m doing the same job. Two more promotions, and I’m a partner! And why would I want to live anywhere but San Diego? The weather’s great. It works perfectly for you, and we’d be livin’ large.”

  His head turns down, but mine turns up. To the Sierra. My vision blurs, replaced by a memory. A mountain buried in white. A mine tunnel.

  Two days ago, two souls spent the night tucked inside a mountain.

  And one of them has no future plans.

  26

  Beep. “You’ve reached Will Cavanaugh. Sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.” Beep.

  “Will … this is Alison. I just … well, I just wanted to apologize for … I’m sorry about what happened with Rich. He was wrong to do that and I just—”

  “Alison?” Will says, picking up.

  “Will! You answered!”

  “I thought I probably should,” he says, the words distinctly distant. “I’m leaving on Saturday at noon. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Oh.” It hits me with the force of a blunt object, although it shouldn’t, because he told me this. He said there was another flight on Saturday. “Well … when will you be back?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

 
“You don’t…”

  “I have to go. Take care, all right?”

  “I … okay…” The phone clicks and he’s gone.

  * * *

  I sit on my covered balcony, still in my pajamas, observing night give way to day, the sun not yet having peeked over the horizon. Rain continues to fall, just as it did yesterday, when I called Will after dropping Rich off at the airport.

  By the time I arrived home, I felt sick, raw, and wrong. I ran a hot bath and stayed there until the water grew cold, my future life flashing before my eyes. And the really hard thing is that it’s a good life. Mrs. Richard Gordon is going to live comfortably, no surprises, with someone who treats her well, doesn’t take unnecessary risks, and is committed to a lifelong, stable partner ’til death do us part.

  Lifting my cat-poster mug to my lips, I blow across the surface of newly steeped tea, made from the Jeffrey pine needles Jack gave me.

  Currently, not a breath of wind stirs the rain. It cascades in sheets, heavy enough that flight ops for the carrier air wing were canceled last night. The plan is to resume this evening if the storm lightens. Whatever system this is with the alien clouds hasn’t budged since it arrived, and it’s been raining without letup ever since.

  I take a warming sip of tea, smiling as I swallow. Remembering when Jack gave the needles to me. Remembering Will—

  My cell rings. It should be my mom. We were talking just a moment ago, when her phone started acting up, so she was going to hang up and call me from her land line.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, honey. Sorry about that. I don’t know what’s going on with my phone, but anyway, where were we?”

  “I had to take Danny’s duty over the weekend in order to get Thanksgiving off, so I won’t be able to see you then.”

  “Oh … Well, that’s okay,” she says.

  The words gnaw. It’s not okay. I wanted alone time with her. I really did.

  “Cee’s been bugging me to go with her to the lodge early, anyway,” my mom says. “She’s leaving tomorrow, so I’ll just go ahead and go with her. And actually, this will be great. We’ll have everything ready for you this way. And when you get here, you and I can sneak off for some alone time. How does that sound?”