The Mountain Between Us

by Charles Martin

  “I do.”

  “You know, when the details of this get out, they’re going to want you two on every talk show in the country. You could be an inspiration to a lot of people.”

  “Anybody would have done what I did.”

  “Ben, you’ve been doctoring long enough to know that very few people on the planet could have done what you did. For more than a month you hauled that woman, in subfreezing temperatures, nearly seventy-five miles.”

  I stared out the window, at the whitecapped mountains in the distance. It was strange, looking at them from the other side. A month ago I had stood in the Salt Lake City Airport and wondered what was on the other side. Now I knew. I imagine prison bars are the same way. Maybe a grave.

  “I just put one foot in front of the other.”

  “I called your people at Baptist in Jacksonville. They were elated, to say the least. Glad to know you’re alive. They’d been wondering what happened to you. Said it was unlike you to just ‘fall of the face of the earth.’”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “What else? Seems like I ought to be able to do more to help you.”

  I raised one eyebrow. “In my hospital, we know our best nurses. They tend to stand out. If you could…”

  He nodded. “Already took care of it. She’s got them now and will have around the clock.”

  I turned my empty cup. “Anybody around here make a latte? Maybe a cappuccino.”

  “All you want.”

  His answer rattled around inside my head. We were now back in a world where as much coffee as we wanted was available upon request.

  The disconnect was almost audible.

  LATE MORNING, SHE STIRRED. I walked down the hall, bought what I needed, and came back. When she cracked open an eye, I leaned in, whispered, “Hey.”

  She turned, slowly opening her eyes.

  “I talked with Vince. He’s on his way. Be here in a few hours.”

  Her nose twitched. One eyebrow lifted slightly. “Do I smell coffee?”

  I pulled off the lid and held it beneath her nose.

  “Can you just drip it into my IV?”

  I held the cup to her lips. She sipped.

  “Second best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.” She laid her head back, tasting the beans.

  I sat on the rolling stainless steel stool and scooted up next to her bed. “Your surgery went well. I consulted with your doctor. We’ve actually met before, sat on a panel together at a conference. Knows his stuff. I’ll show you the X-rays when you want to see them.”

  Out the window, a jetliner was taking off from the airport in the distance. We watched it gain altitude, turn, and bank across our mountains.

  She shook her head. “I’m never flying again.”

  I laughed. “They’ll have you up and walking in about three hours. Good as new.”

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “I don’t lie about people’s medical conditions.”

  She smiled. “It’s about time you gave me some good news. I mean, how long have we been hanging out, and all you’ve had for me is one bad bit of news after another.”

  “Very true.”

  She stared at the ceiling, shuffling her legs beneath the sheets. “I really want to take a bath and shave my legs.”

  I rolled to the door and motioned for the nurse. She followed me in.

  “This kind lady’s name is Jennifer. I’ve explained to her where you’ve been the last month. She’ll help you into the shower. Get you what you need. When you get cleaned up, there’s another lady waiting outside your door. Something I promised you.”

  She stared at me out of the corner of her eyes. “What are you scheming?”

  “I made you a promise awhile back. I intend to keep it.” I patted her foot. “I’ll check on you later. Vince lands in two hours.”

  She pushed back the sheet, reached for me. She held my hand. How do you explain to other people what we’d been through? How do you articulate that? We’d just walked through hell, a hell that had frozen over, and survived. Together. I didn’t have the words. Neither did she.

  I patted her hand. “I know. It takes some getting used to. I’ll be back.”

  She squeezed tighter. “You okay?”

  I nodded and walked out. An attractive Asian lady sat in a chair, waiting patiently. A bag on her lap.

  “She’s showering. Be ready in a bit. I don’t know what color she likes, but you can ask her.” I handed her a hundred dollar bill. “This okay?”

  She shook her head and started digging in her bag. “Too much.”

  I waved her off. “Keep it. Just take your time. That lady in there has had a rough go.”

  She nodded, and I walked downstairs to the Grille.

  THE GRILLE WAS TYPICAL HOSPITAL SHORT-ORDER, but it’d have to do. I stepped to the counter. “I’d like a loaded double cheeseburger with a double order of fries. All the way.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Can you please have someone deliver it to room 316 in an hour.”

  She nodded, I paid, and then I walked to my rental car and typed the address into the dash-mounted GPS.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  It was a simple house. Not too far from town. White with green shutters. White fence. Sitting up on a hill. Flowers all around. No weeds. The mailbox was marked by one of those flags they use at airports. The hollow kind that indicate wind direction.

  She was sitting on the porch. Rocking. Snapping beans. A tall, handsome woman. I stepped out of the rental car. Napoleon jumped onto the ground, sniffed the curb, then tore up the sidewalk, flew up the stairs, and jumped into her lap, spilling beans across the porch. She laughed, hugged him while he licked her face, and said, “Tank, where on earth have you been?”

  Tank…so that’s his name.

  I climbed the steps. “Ma’am…my name’s Ben Payne. I’m a doctor from Jacksonville. I was…with your husband when his plane crashed…”

  She shook her head. Her eyes narrowed. “He didn’t crash that plane. He was too good a pilot.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He had a heart attack. Landed the plane up in the mountains. Saved our lives.” I opened a box and set it next to her. In it were his watch, his wallet, his pipe…and the lighter she’d given him.

  She touched each item. The lighter last. She held it in her lap. Her lip trembled, and tears dripped off her face.

  We talked for several hours. I told her everything I could remember, even where I’d buried him and what the view was like. She liked that. Said he would have too.

  She opened their album, or albums, and told me their story. It was filled with tenderness. Hearing it hurt.

  Several hours later, I stood to leave. What else could I say? I fumbled with the car keys. “Ma’am…I want to…”

  She shook her head. Tank perched on her lap. She inched forward on the rocker, Tank hopped off, and she stood slowly. A bad left hip. She stood at an angle, then straightened. She gave me her hand.

  I eyed her leg. “If and when you need a hip replacement, call me. I’ll come out here and do it for nothing.”

  She smiled.

  I knelt. “Tank, you’re the best. I’ll miss you.”

  He slobbered my face, then ran down into his yard and began peeing on every tree he could find.

  “I know, you’ll miss me too.”

  I gave her my card for if and when she ever needed me. I was unsure how to leave. Do I hug her, shake her hand? I mean, what’s protocol for saying good-bye to the wife of the pilot who died saving your life? Not to mention that if I hadn’t hired him to charter me to Denver, he’d have been home with her when he died, and I imagine she’d thought of that, too.

  “Young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  I scratched my head. “Ma’am…I’m…”

  She shook her head. “I’m not.”

  “You’re not?”

  Her eyes shone a clear, bright blue. “Grover didn’t just
fly anybody in that plane. He was picky. Purposeful. Turned away more clients than he accepted. If he took you flying…he had a reason. It was his gift to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She leaned on me, hugged me, and squeezed my arms with her hands. Her skin was thin, hung off her, and her hair was a fine snowy white. She shook as she hugged me.

  I kissed her on the cheek, soft with fuzz, and drove away. I glanced in the rearview mirror. She was standing on the porch, staring out across the mountain. Napoleon stood on the top step, chest out, barking at the wind.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Vince was sitting with her when I walked into the room. He stood. A warm smile, warm handshake. Even a stiff hug. “Ashley is telling me what you did.” He shook his head. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Remember”—I patted her foot—“I’m the one who invited her onto the plane. You might ought to consider pressing charges.”

  He laughed. I liked him. She’d chosen well. They’d be happy. He’d marry above himself. As would any man who married Ashley. She was one in a million.

  Color had returned to her face. Three empty coffee cups sat on the bedside table. The bladder bag hanging off the side of her bed was nearly full. And the color was good. Her new cell phone was ringing off the hook. Media crews had called. Everybody wanted the exclusive.

  She asked, “What are you going to tell them?”

  “Nothing. I’m ducking out the back door, going home.” I looked at the clock on the wall. “Leave in ninety minutes. Just came to say good-bye.”

  Her expression changed.

  “Don’t worry, you two have plenty to talk about. A wedding to plan. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.” I walked to the opposite side of the bed.

  She crossed her arms. “You called your wife yet?”

  “No…” I shook my head. “I’m going to go see her soon as I get home.”

  She nodded. “I hope it works out, Ben.”

  I nodded.

  She squeezed my hand. I kissed her forehead and turned to go. She held on and smiled. “Ben?”

  I spoke without turning. “Yes?”

  Vince patted her on the shoulder. “Be right back. I’m going to get some coffee.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you. For everything.”

  He walked out. She was still holding on to my hand. I sat on the edge of the bed. Something was tugging at my insides. It most closely resembled an ache. I tried to smile.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  “You’ve earned the right to ask me anything.”

  “Would you ever hit on a married or almost married woman?”

  “I’ve only hit on one woman in my life.”

  She smiled. “Just checking. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d you ask me to get on the plane with you?”

  I stared out the window. Thinking back. “Seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. Then…sometimes it feels like yesterday.”

  “Our wedding was one of the happier days either of us ever knew. On our own. It was a launching out. A beginning. We were free to love each other without interference. I think when two people really love each other…I mean…” My voice cracked. “…Way down deep…like where their souls sleep and dreams happen, where pain can’t live ’cause there’s nothing for it to feed on…then a wedding is a bleeding together of those two souls. Like two rivers running together. All that water becoming the same water. Mine did that.

  “When I met you, I saw in your face the hope that yours might be that too. I guess meeting you was a reminder that I knew a precious, tender love at one time. And I think…if I’m honest, I wanted to brush up alongside that. To touch it. Come face-to-face with it. In doing so I thought maybe I could remember…because…I don’t want to forget.”

  She reached up and thumbed the tear off my face.

  “I think that’s why I invited you on the plane. And for that…that selfishness…I’m both eternally sorry…and eternally grateful. Those twenty-eight days in the mountains with you reminded me that love is worth doing. No matter how much it hurts.” I stood, kissed her on the lips, and walked out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The plane landed in Jacksonville just after two p.m. Media crews were waiting. My picture had circulated. So had the story. Problem was, they were looking for a guy thirty pounds heavier.

  I had no bags, so I skirted the frenzy and walked to my car, which after more than a month and a half was still sitting there, covered in yellow pollen.

  The lady at the ticket booth told me, with little or no facial expression, “Three hundred and eighty-seven dollars.”

  I had a feeling that arguing with her would have little effect. I handed her my American Express, grateful for the chance to pay my bill and go home.

  The change in my environment was strange. Most striking were the things I was not doing: not pulling a sled, not staring out across snow, not starting a fire with a bow drill, not skinning a rabbit or moose, not dependent upon shooting an arrow to eat, not wiggling my toes or blowing on my fingers to keep them warm, not listening for the sound of Ashley’s voice…not hearing the sound of Ashley’s voice.

  I drove south down I-95. Funny, I found myself driving slowly. Everybody was passing me. I crossed the Fuller Warren Bridge and passed the hospital where I live most of my life. My partners had all called, ecstatic to hear my voice. I’d check in with them in the days ahead. There was plenty of time to tell the story.

  I turned south down Hendricks Avenue, drove through San Marco, then merged onto San Jose Boulevard and stopped at Trad’s, a garden store and flower shop. I walked into the greenhouse and was greeted by two things. The first was the smell of manure. The second was Tatyana, an attractive Russian lady in her fifties, with filthy hands and beautiful cheek lines. She shouted at me across the tops of the plumeria.

  There are a dozen flower shops in town, but Tatyana’s accent is one in a million. Reminds me of everything James Bond and Rocky IV. Her voice is deep, guttural, scarred by either years of torture or years of alcohol or both. All the Ws are turned into Vs, all the Es are long, and she double-trills all her Rs. Vodka sounds like wodka. I don’t even like the stuff, but when the word rolls off her lips, I’m ready for a Grey Goose or Absolut something.

  She was probably a spy in her former life. Might still be.

  She pushed her denim forearm across her sweaty forehead. “And just vere have you been?” The word beeeeeen echoed off the glass.

  The truth would take too long. “Vacation.”

  Whenever she walked, it looked like she was marching. Brisk, stiff, and in a hurry. She fast-footed it around the corner, holding a purple orchid with a white stripe down the middle. The purple was deep, almost black in the middle, and the stem must have been four feet tall and had thirty blooms with thirty more on the way.

  “I have joos the thing. Been saving it for you. Three people tried to buy it joos today, but I say, ‘No, you can not have.’ My boss, he think me crazy, threaten to fire me, but I say it is yours. You vill be back. And you vill vant this.”

  Rachel would love it. “It’s remarkable. Thank you. I’ll give it to her today. In just a few minutes.”

  She walked me to the cash register, looked both ways for the owner, then waved her finger in the air like a windshield wiper and said, “We have sale last veek. No sale zis veek. But, for you, sale goes on zis veek.”

  “Thank you, Tatyana.” I held up the orchid. “And thank you for this.”

  Traffic was thick, stopping me at every light. Waiting for green, I looked right. Beyond the dry cleaners sat Watson Martial Arts. The front wall was mostly glass. Inside, a class of white-uniformed people with various colored belts were kicking and punching. I’d driven by it hundreds of times, yet never noticed it.

  Until now.

  The light turned green, and I accelerated. I drove south on I-95, east on J. Turner Butler Bouleva
rd, then south on A1A. I stopped at the liquor store and bought a bottle of wine. I drove past Mickler’s Landing, past my condo at South Ponte Vedra, then to Rachel’s house. I’d fenced the property with a tall, wrought iron fence. I grabbed the orchid out of the passenger seat, walked beneath the towering live oak and up the stone steps, dug in the rocks for the hide-a-key, and unlocked the door. I had planted Confederate jasmine on both sides of the doorframe. It had grown up and filled in above the door. A few thicker vines hung down. I lifted the vines, pulled on the squeaking door, and stepped inside. To help it stay cool in the summer, I put in a marble floor. My steps echoed.

  I talked to Rachel through the night. I poured the wine, pressed PLAY on the recorder, and stared out through the glass, listening to the sound of my voice and watching the waves crawl up and down the beach. I think parts were hard for her to hear, but she heard every word.

  I gave her the orchid, placing it on a shelf along the glass where it would draw the morning sun. It’d be happy there. Once the blooms fell, I’d put it up in the solarium with the two hundred and fifty others.

  It was four in the morning when my last recording finished. I was tired and had drifted off. The silence woke me. Funny how that works. I was rising to leave when I noticed the recorder. The faceplate was flashing blue. One file remained unplayed.

  The recorder was electronic. I always recorded in the same file. I might have fifty recordings, but all under the same file number. For the first time, I noticed a third file number. One I’d not created. I pushed PLAY.

  A faint whisper appeared. There was a lot of wind in the background. A dog whining. I turned up the volume.

  Rachel, it’s Ashley. We were caught in an avalanche. Ben went for help. He’s running now. I don’t know if I’ll make it. I’m really cold.

  There was a silence.

  I wanted to tell you, actually I wanted to thank you. I know I’m a little chatty, but I’ve got to talk or I’ll go to sleep. If I do, I’m not sure I can wake up again…. I write a column for the paper. Talk a lot about love. Relationships. Which is ironic, because I’ve had my share of bad ones. Hence, I’m a bit of a skeptic. I’m headed home to marry a man who is well off, good-looking, gives me nice things…but after twenty-eight days with your husband in this cold, white-capped world, I’m left wondering if that’s enough. Im left wondering…what about love? Is it possible? Can I have it? I once thought all the good ones were gone. The guys, that is. Now, I wonder. Are there other Bens out there…? I’ve been hurt, I imagine we all have, and I think somewhere in that pain we convince ourselves that if we don’t open up and love again, we don’t have to hurt again. Take the Mercedes and the two-carat ring, the house in Buckhead, and call it a day, just give him what he wants when he wants it and everybody’s happy. Right? I have thought that a long time.