The Mountain Between Us

by Charles Martin

  I started back after dark. I was tired, and all I wanted to do was lie down and sleep, but the thought of Ashley wide-eyed and worried kept me putting one foot in front of the other. No matter how much I tried to prepare her for my late arrival, I knew as soon as the sun went down she’d started listening for my return. And every minute that passed would feel like an hour. Waiting for somebody does that. It turns minutes to hours, hours to days, and days to several lifetimes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For a minute I thought we’d had our last conversation. This thing wouldn’t turn on. No green light. No red light. No nothing. For the last five minutes I’ve been pressing every button it has. Jiggled the batteries, even pulled them out and turned them around. Finally I slid it inside my shirt and pressed it to my chest for several minutes. Warming it slowly.

  If this thing had quit…I don’t know. Not sure how I’d react. In football they call it “piling on.” In track we called it “hitting the wall.”

  I remember calling the track coach and asking him to look at your tapes and your times. He didn’t skip a beat. “Would that influence your decision to attend this institution?”

  “Yes…it would.”

  I heard some papers shuffling.

  “Funny. I just happen to have an extra scholarship lying on my desk.”

  Just like that.

  I look back on college, and I think those were some of the best of days. My dad was out of the picture, and we were free to be us. To grow together. To laugh together. And you found your rhythm and became the runner I knew you could be. I was just glad to have a hand in it.

  Our final year in school. Med school on the horizon. My track career coming to a close. Medals hanging on the wall or stuffed in a drawer somewhere. To my knowledge Dad never came to see me run. But, inside me, running had changed. It was no longer my thing. It was our thing. I liked it better that way.

  You’re the best training partner I’ve ever had.

  Plus, we’d found the Rockies, and that gave us an outlet. Became our thing too.

  You’d been quiet a few days. I thought you were busy. Distracted with school or exams or…I didn’t know you were thinking about us. You and me. Honey, I can’t read your mind. Couldn’t then. Can’t now.

  We were home for spring break. Your folks were glad to have you back in the house. Dad had moved to Connecticut to run another firm. Kept the condo in Florida to maintain residency. I had it all to myself. We’d just finished running. The sun was going down. Breeze was picking up. Sweat trickled down your arms. One bead was hanging off the lobe of your left ear.

  You sat down, took off your shoes, and let the water roll over your feet. Finally you turned to me. A wrinkle between your eyes. A vein throbbing in your neck and one on your temple. You stiffened. “What’s your problem?”

  I looked around. “Didn’t know I had one.”

  “Well…you do.”

  “Honey…I’m…”

  You turned away. Rested your elbows on your knees and shook your head. “What have I got to do?”

  I tried sitting next to you, and you pushed me away. “What are you talking about?”

  You started to cry. “I’m talking about us.” You poked me in the chest. “You and me.”

  “I like us just the way we are. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “That’s just it.” You shook your head. “You’re about as dumb as a bag of hammers.”

  “Rachel…what are you talking about?”

  Tears were pouring down. You stood up, hands on your hips, and stepped back. “I want to get married. You and me. I want you all to myself…forever.”

  “Well, I do too. I mean, I want you.”

  You crossed your arms. “Ben…you got to ask first.”

  That’s when it hit me. “Is that what this is all about?”

  You palmed a tear and looked away.

  “Honey…” I knelt. Held your hand. Waves rolling over my shins.

  You started to smile. The minnows were nibbling on your toes. Tiny shells stuck to your skin. Laughter bubbled up. I tried to get the words out, but my tears got in the way.

  “Rachel Hunt…”

  The smile spread across your face.

  “I hurt when I’m not with you. I ache in places I didn’t know my heart went. I don’t know what kind of man I’ll be or doctor or husband, and I know I seldom say the words you need to hear, but I know I love you. With all of me. You’re the glue that holds me together. Spend forever with me. Marry me? Please…”

  You wrapped your arms around me, and we fell. The sand and water and foam swallowed us, and you kissed me. Tears and salt and laughter and you were nodding.

  That was a good day.

  A good memory.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was midnight by the time I got back to the plane. Napoleon heard me, poked his head out, and then disappeared again. The temperature had dropped back down to single digits, which meant my pant legs were frozen. I was cold down to my bones. I snapped off some dead limbs, shook off the snow, and carried them back into the hole. The snow was starting again. I’d only peed once the entire day, and even then not much, which told me I’d not had enough fluid. I had some catching up to do.

  Standing there, I watched Napoleon disappear and noticed how his covered feet made small indentations in the snow. Only then did I notice the larger tracks alongside his leading to and from our cave. I’m no expert on tracks, but my first thought was mountain lion. The tracks came out of some rocks above us, wound down a snowdrift and up to the entrance where I’d been crawling in and out. I also noticed a small, burrowed area where it looked like something had been sitting or lying down. As in ‘lying in wait.’ Didn’t take me long to make sense of it. Dead people smell. Even frozen dead people. So do injured people and little dogs.

  I had to get out of my wet clothes, so I stoked the fire, stripped, spread out my clothes, and climbed naked but for my underwear inside my bag. I was shivering, and my fingers were stiff, as though they’d been dipped in wax. I dropped some snow in the Jetboil and clicked it on.

  Ashley watched me. Her eyes betrayed anxiety. I curled up in my bag and let myself shiver, trying to create some heat. “Hey.”

  Her eyes were tired. She was suffering, and it showed in her eyes. She took a deep breath. “Hi.” Her voice was weak.

  “Taken anything lately?”

  She shook her head.

  I placed a Percocet on her tongue, and she sipped the last of her water. “You don’t look too good,” she offered. “Why don’t you take some of the Advil?”

  I knew if I didn’t I might not get out of my bag tomorrow. “Okay.” I held up two Popsicle-ish fingers. “Two.”

  She poured them into my hand, and I swallowed.

  “What’d you see?”

  “There’s a level one trauma center just a few hundred meters from here. I flagged down the EMTs. They’re pulling a gurney down here now. I talked to the hospital administrator and secured a private room for you. Should have you up, showered, warm, and pumped full of IV pain medication in ten minutes or less. Oh, and I talked to Vince. He’ll be waiting on you when you get there.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  I slid down further into my bag. “Nothing but snow, ice, rock, and mountain as far as I can see.”

  “And the GPS?”

  “Same picture.”

  She lay back and let out a deep breath. The one she’d been holding all day. I poured some warm water and started sipping.

  “Got any ideas?”

  “There are some lakes down below us. A few streams. I’m sure they’re all frozen, but I thought I’d see if I could I’d make my way down tomorrow and find some fish. Tomorrow makes five days since the crash, and four with no food.”

  She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.

  “How’s the leg feeling?”

  “Hurts.”

  I slid over, packed snow around it, and saw that while the swelling had gone down, he
r skin was a deep purple from the top of her knee to the side of her hip. I clicked on my flashlight, checked her stitches and then her pupils—for responsiveness. They were slow and fatigued quickly. Which meant her body was weak and the elevation was starting to take a toll.

  I fed the fire and felt her toes. They were cold. Which was bad. Circulation was becoming a problem. By treating the leg with constant ice, I was compromising the foot or toes. I had to get some blood flow in that foot.

  I turned so we were face to toes. I unzipped my bag, and without moving her leg, sat pressing my chest and stomach to the bottom of her foot. Then I wrapped us both in the bag.

  She focused on her breathing. Staring up through the tarp and tree limbs. Large flakes weighted everything and muted the world.

  “…I was scheduled for a pedicure yesterday. Or was it the day before?”

  “Sorry. Fresh out of polish.”

  “Rain check?”

  I wrapped my palm across the top of her foot. “When we get out of here, and you’re warm in some hospital bed and not lying on a bed of ice, provided you don’t sue me for putting you in danger the day before your wedding, I’ll paint your toenails whatever color you like.”

  “Funny you should mention that. I’ve been lying here since you left, drafting my attorney’s opening argument. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…’”

  “How’s it coming together?”

  She shrugged. “If I were you, I’d hire a very good lawyer, and even then I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  “That bad?”

  Her head fell to one side. “Let’s see…you started with good intentions, then saved my life, and despite the fact that I’ve seen you cough up blood at least twice, you set my leg and really haven’t left my side.”

  “You saw that?”

  “Blood on snow…hard to miss.”

  “We’ll both get better when we lose a few thousand feet.”

  Ashley stared at the compass hanging from my neck. “When did she give you that?”

  “Loggerhead turtles lay their eggs along our beach, leaving these big mounds up in the dunes. Years ago Rachel nominated herself the Turtle Patrol. She’d circle the mounds with stakes and pink surveyor tape, and then mark off the days on a calendar. She was amazed every time the turtles hatched and knew, somehow, to head for the water. I’ve always been pretty good with directions. Can find my way around most anywhere. She gave it to me one year after watching a particular nest hatch.”

  “Why not just get a GPS like Grover’s?”

  “The problem with a GPS is that batteries run dead and they don’t like cold weather. Most times, on long hikes, I’ll walk with a GPS clipped to one strap and my compass hung around my neck.”

  “This may sound stupid, but how does a compass know which way to point?”

  “Actually, it only points one way. Magnetic north. We find what we need off of that.”

  “Magnetic north?”

  Her foot was starting to warm. “You didn’t do Girl Scouts, did you?”

  She shook her head. “Too busy kicking people.”

  “The earth is magnetized. The source of that is up near the North Pole. That’s why it’s called magnetic north.”

  “So?”

  “True north and magnetic north are not the same thing. Down here that doesn’t matter much. But try to use a compass near the pole and it’ll mess with your head. I use it mainly to walk point-to-point.”

  “Point-to-point?”

  “A compass can’t tell you where you are. Only the direction you are headed, or have come from. A right-handed person, like me, will walk in a right-turning circle if given enough time without a compass. To walk in a straight line, you pick a direction, a degree on the compass, say 110 degrees or 270 or 30 or whatever, then pick a visual marker somewhere in front of you that lines up with that point on the compass. A tree, mountaintop, lake, bush, whatever. Once you get there, you pick another, but this time you also use the point behind you as a reference point—double-checking yourself. Hence, point-to-point. Not difficult, but takes patience. And some practice.”

  “Will that compass help us get out of here?” Her tone suggested something I’d not heard. The first outward sign of fear.

  “Yes.”

  “Make sure you don’t lose it.”

  “Check.”

  I lay awake until Ashley started snoring. The drugs did that. When I couldn’t sleep, I slid out from underneath my bag, pulled on my long underwear, jacket, and boots, and walked outside. I opened the compass and let the needle settle beneath the moonlight.

  Remember how elated we were to get that job offer in Jacksonville? We jumped at it. Back to the beach. The ocean. The smell of salt. Taste of sunrise. Sound of sunset. We were moving back home, closer to your parents.

  But you were the activities coordinator at the children’s hospital and couldn’t stand the thought of leaving a week before your replacement arrived. So driving the moving truck—Denver to Jacksonville, from the Rockies to the beach—fell to me. All 1,919 miles.

  I told you I’d buy you a condo, any house you wanted, but you said you liked the one I already had.

  You hung on the truck door, swinging on squeaky hinges, left heel in the air, and pointed to the floorboard. “I left you a present. But you can’t open it until you get out of the driveway.”

  On the floor in front of the passenger seat sat a cardboard box. A silver handheld tape recorder was taped to the lid. Attached to it was a piece of paper that read PRESS PLAY.

  I backed out of the drive, put the stick into DRIVE, and pressed PLAY. Your voice rose up out of the tiny machine. I could hear your smile.

  “Hey, it’s me. Thought you’d like some company.” You licked your lips like you do when you’re nervous or being mischievous. “Here’s the deal, I’m…I’m worried about losing you to the hospital. About being a doctor’s widow, sitting on the couch, a spoonful of Rocky Road in one hand, the remote in the other, flipping through the plastic surgery catalog. I gave you this thing so I can be with you even when I’m not. Because I miss the sound of your voice when you’re away. And…I want you to miss mine. Miss me. I’ll keep it a day or two, tell you what I’m thinking, then give it to you. We can pass it back and forth. Sort of like a baton. Besides, I’ve got to compete with all those pretty nurses who will be swooning over you. I’ll have to beat them off you with a stick. Or stethoscope. Ben…” Your tone of voice changed. From serious to playful. “If you need to hear someone swoon, get weak in the knees, flushed in the face…play doctor…just press PLAY. Deal?”

  I nodded in the rearview mirror. “Deal.”

  You laughed. “There are a couple of things in this box that will help you on your trip. You’re holding the first. The others are marked with numbers, and you can’t open them until I say so. Deal? No kidding. If you don’t agree, I’m clicking off. No more me. Got it?…Good. Glad we got that settled. I guess you can go ahead and open the second now.”

  I pulled out a small envelope containing a CD and slid it into my player.

  Your voice continued. “Our songs.”

  You had little trouble communicating what you felt. You wore your heart on your sleeve, and what your heart felt your mouth could say. And did. Your folks had spent a lifetime teaching you to do that. My dad had spent a lifetime browbeating me whenever I tried to tell him how I felt. He said any expression of emotion was a weakness that needed to be ripped out. Douse it with gasoline and throw a match on it. The result made me a decent ER surgeon. I could act without feeling.

  Over the next twenty-four hours, you held the recorder to your mouth and took me with you everywhere you went. Babbling with every step. You always had a thing with kids, so first thing, we drove to work—the children’s ward—where you walked me into each room, called each child by name, snuggled with each or took them a teddy bear or played a video game or played dress-up. You never hesitated to get on their level. And in truth, much of what I know about bedside manner,
you taught me. They saw the recorder and asked you what you were doing. You held the recorder, and each one talked to me. Their little voices exploding with laughter and hope. I didn’t know much about their conditions or their doctors, but I could hear it in their voices. The effect of you on them was palpable, and they would miss you.

  We went to the grocery store, checking off items on your list. To the mall to find some shoes and a gift for some party. To get your hair cut, where the stylist talked about her boyfriend’s body odor problem. When the stylist walked to the register to welcome another client, you whispered into the recorder, “If she thinks her boyfriend stinks, maybe she ought to run with you.” You then took me to get a pedicure where the lady told you that you had too many calluses on your feet and you ought to run less. Then to a matinee where you crunched popcorn in my ear and told me to close my eyes ’cause the guy was kissing the girl. “Just kidding. You kiss better than him. He’s gross. You ask me how I know about such things. Oh…” I could hear more smiling. “I know.” After the movie, you walked me to the bathroom door where you said, “You can’t come in here. Girls only.”

  As I drove through Alabama, you took me to our favorite diner where you smacked key lime pie in my ear and said, “Sounds good, doesn’t it.” It did, too. Then you said, “Look in the box and pull out the big one that says DESSERT.” I did. “Now open it, but be careful.” I lifted the lid and found a piece of key lime pie. “Thought I forgot about you, didn’t you?” I pulled into a rest area, and we all ate key lime pie together. You took me to our room, lay down, where I was already asleep. Dead to the world. You lay next to me. Running your fingers through my hair. Scratching my back. “I’m going to sleep now. Next to you. But you can’t go to sleep until you get to our condo by the sea. I’m wrapping my arms around your waist. You’re skinny. You need to gain some weight. You’ve been working too much.” Then you paused. You were quiet several minutes. I only knew you were still there ’cause I could hear you breathing. You whispered, “Ben…somewhere in miles gone by…somewhere between way back there and here…I gave you my heart…and I don’t want it back. Ever. You hear me?”