by Jill Barnett
My world had stopped.
So I sat in brittle isolation, high on a glorious hill in my beloved, heterogeneous city surrounded by bays spanned with bridges and the Great Pacific Ocean. There was a reason why crooners sang about her, and I believed I had run to that exact spot looking for my own heart.
A twisted cypress tree with thready bark was at my back, and the cool wind off the water hit me in the face. It was too early for spring. There were no lush velvet pansies in the beds and no scrabbly dandelions or the bright yellow mustard poking through the grass yet. But it was a blue-sky, blue-water California day, with the wind coming in off the Pacific to gently beat the bay into soft white peaks, like meringue pies and whipping cream.
Cookbook language. Do not over beat. I had been doing that lately, unconsciously hitting my leg with my fist when I sat still for too long. Molly was the one who pointed it out to me, with a look that made me question how well I was doing at my big plan of not giving my children anything to worry over. Even as a child my daughter could zero in on the more obscure things in the landscape: the owl up in the tallest tree; a single whole sand dollar lost in bed of broken ones; a satellite looking like a star moving across the clear Sierra mountain night sky. I knew early my daughter was destined to be behind a camera, something that could capture her view of the world.
She had told me once there were three hundred and sixty-four mistakes in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I suspect she watched every episode and found them all. She usually won the family film pool of who-could-find-the-most-movie-mistakes, a Cantrell family tradition, which said a lot about the kinds of films we went to. Her skill came directly from Mike, who was such a film buff he had walked around whistling for most of the day when they released Star Wars on DVD and had added a loud thump sound when a storm trooper accidentally hit his head on the doorway.
That Lucas could poke fun at his mistake made Mike’s day—he could laugh at himself like that—but in a family of clowns, Molly took herself much too seriously. She was the one who had always sought something so much deeper than the rest of us. I like to think of myself as a smart woman. But my mind did not easily travel down the same thoughtlines as my daughter. We locked horns often, and to my great frustration I never could see our battles coming.
The Sunday before she had been talking to Phillip when they didn’t know I could hear them from the next room. I’m a mother, of course I stopped outside the room and listened.
“Why?” Molly said.
“Why what?”
“How many times had Dad driven down that same street? Why then? Why him? Don’t you ask yourself why?”
“No, Midget. And I don’t want to know anymore than we already do. He was driving home. Some truck jackknifes, turns over, a car turns the wrong way to miss it and Dad’s dead.” Phil paused and his voice dropped a little. “You can’t keep rehashing what happened.”
“I have to.”
“Well, I can’t go there.” Phillip sounded upset.
“I need to find some sense in it. Some reason.”
“There is no sense in death. There’s probably none in life either.” Phil said and I hated the bitterness I heard in my son’s voice. He left Molly alone to go to his wife. I hoped Keely could give him what he needed at that moment.
I had my back to the wall and I waited, trying to decide if I could go in there. When I wasn’t weak and grieving, Molly was not easy to talk to or confront. That day, I was shaky, so I chickened out and didn’t go to her. Molly had sat there for the longest time, and I believe now it was a mistake for me to leave her alone then, because although I made an attempt to talk to her later—before she left and when I felt more in control—she wouldn’t talk to me about her father. A dark cloak of despondency had settled over her. She’d brusquely changed the subject, and afterward I couldn’t help feeling if because of my own weakness, I’d lost my only opportunity for the two of us to grieve together.
The night of Mike’s death, the police told me he had died instantly, a clichéd choice of words that were supposed to give me some sense of peace. He died instantly. I never repeated those words to our children, true or not. The images they brought to mind were more cruel than the news itself.
So now, today, on this hillside, what answers was I looking for? I picked at the grass beneath me and looked out from the park at the water beyond, wondering why I had come there, why I had really run there?
Because it was a weekday (Tuesday? Wednesday? Whateverday) there were only as many boats in the bay as fingers on my left hand, where I wore a wedding ring that after more than three decades no longer had a matching one. “Now” had no relevance. The views from that hill were panoramic and unobstructed, but I couldn’t see any future.
I was perfectly aware of one thing: I had just lived through a week and half that would change the course of my life and even in one of my favorite places in the world, I found it difficult to hide. No matter how hard I tried, I still didn’t feel much of anything, so I finally stood up, and the wind washed over me, cool, a little damper and at least there. And then the same wind was at my back, pushing me home, because there was really no place to hide.
It took time before I began to feel my skin again, days longer until I could taste or smell anything. I could have eaten a lemon without flinching, held a wild skunk in my arms, or opened my refrigerator door without even a whiff of what was rotting inside. After all I was only doing the same.
Days passed and I didn’t remember much. My children had to repeat things to me. I watched them closely so I wouldn’t have to look too closely at my own grief, moving forward in a semblance of normal living. I went through every day, every hour and minute like a character in a play written with invisible ink.
This wasn’t happening to me. This wasn’t reality.
But the truth was: this was my new reality. Michael David Cantrell was dead, and for a long time afterward I wanted to be.
Chapter Ten
As those passing days turned into weeks, I found myself comforting others when they called, Mike’s friends and brother. It was amazing how easily I slipped into the role of pacifier, taking on the job to try to make their loss easier to cope with. Funny how I would be doing alright just before they called to check on me, then we would spiral into discussion of what Mike had meant to them, something they needed to tell me, and some part of me probably needed to hear what they said. But I did keep answering the phone.
But eventually I would say goodbye, hang up and find I felt lost all over again, swallowed by a bleak cloud that seemed to hover over me, and just when there had been some modicum of normalcy creeping back into the misery of the day.
Sometimes, I would hang up and get into my car and go shopping. But the only things I seemed to ever buy were expensive leather handbags. I had tired of trying to soothe those people who loved Mike, I had to escape, do something mindless, like shopping, because then for a little while I could ignore the dismal place where I kept trying to be normal when nothing would ever be normal again. I foolishly believed I could find something to make me happy.
Those who knew Mike, worked with him and respected him, wanted to have a commemoration ceremony at a major annual circuit event in Heavenly Valley. His business associates and the winter sports industry needed to do something for Michael Cantrell. So that was how I ended up outside the East Peak Lodge in Tahoe on a cold Friday afternoon in early February. None of us had been back up to the lake since Mike’s death.
Traditionally, the south shore was where the family spent most weekends in the winter months. I can’t explain why we hadn’t gone to the mountains. Before this ceremony came up, we never talked about it. We just somehow knew. Maybe we each were afraid to mention Tahoe. But hanging over us was the knowledge that there was still something the kids and I needed to do for Mike. So because of the snowboarding event, a weekend trip seemed the right timing for the family to privately celebrate Mike’s life, too.
Before me stood the lift and a whole mo
untain of snow and ice, with sharp dark peaks sawing across a brilliant but fading cyan sky, and I was reminded of my place now, too small and inconsequential in this big wide world that was suddenly so unfamiliar. I was facing the massive climb of life ahead of me, my first journey in decades without my husband.
I did not know the road ahead, and the unknown was treacherous and overwhelming. A real and horrific fear had seeded itself deep down into my bones. Mike didn’t have my back anymore. To hide that fear, I had cultivated a fragile mask of normalcy. I had become paper-thin crystal, and with the wrong touch or right note I could easily shatter into a million pieces.
Today I felt no thrill or excitement in the sport that was so much a part of our lives. Yet I did love this sport. Mike had loved this sport. I couldn’t bear to lose my love of it. But the last time any of us had been on boards was over the holidays, and Mike had been there.
Rationally, I told myself I had stood in this same spot and boarded down that same mountain ahead of me too many times to count over the years, sometimes with my kids or grandkids cradled in my arms. This time I carried a wood box that contained all that was left of my husband.
The wooden box. I laughed then, because our choice of that wooden box had been just the kind of thing Mike would have found pretty damned funny. In the somber days after his death, the kids and I had to go to the funeral home (a family necessity that really should be performed by anyone but the family). A tall man dressed in a crisp white shirt, a dark suit and dull matching tie handled all the details, then placed a couple of thick plastic notebooks in front of us and asked in a deep and gentle voice if we would please select a crematory ash container. He left us to our decision, and the door clicked shut loudly in the room’s heavy silence, trapping us, a family who normally couldn’t shut up and talked all over each other.
None of us wanted to be there. It was almost as if we collectively forgot to breathe. Then Phillip had turned in his chair, picked up a photo of the man and his wife that was sitting on the desk. He examined it for a few seconds and held it up. “Look at this. Did any of you notice that he looks like Lurch?”
The other two boys laughed quietly.
“Phillip!” I said.
“Well, hell, Mom. What is he? Six foot eight?”
“What if he hears you?” I said in a hushed voice.
“He left us alone. If he hears me, he shouldn’t be listening.”
“You’re such an ass, Phil,” Molly said. “This is no time for your stupid jokes. Please don’t upset Mom.”
But I wasn’t upset. I realized I needed Phil’s humor right then. I understood that we all desperately needed to laugh again, because for those few silly seconds we didn’t hurt so much.
“Here.” I handed Phil the other book. “Make yourself useful and look through this one.”
We leaned over the heavy binders, Scott and Molly and I with one, Phil and Mickey with the other, turning the plastic pages and having no idea what we were looking for.
“This one has a dog on top of it,” Mickey said, clearly baffled.
“You’re in the pet section, numb nuts,” Phil said. “That’s why you start from front to back. How did you score so high on the SATs?”
Mickey’s expression was priceless. “They have urns for dogs?”
“And cats and birds and horses.” Phil went back to the catalog. “Hey, look at the size of these horse containers.”
Mickey frowned down at the page. “It says at the bottom you can add a music box to any container. There’s even a song list. And here’s a whole section called ‘motor-cycles.’ ”
“You’re kidding?”
Mickey looked up at me, uneasy and protective, then said, “Let’s skip it.”
“No. Wait. I want to see them.” Phil flipped through the pages and mumbled something about gas tanks and orange flames.
“Keep turning the pages, Scott,” I said, hating the choices in our book. It was like looking at cast bronze Hummel figurines.
“Sorry, Mom. These bronze angels are pretty bad. There are pages and pages of them.” Scott looked up at me. “Do you really think they sell that many? Who buys these? This one has an angel holding an American flag.”
Phillip leaned over. “Look at the one next it. The angel’s holding a Confederate flag. Might as well put a white hood on it.”
I sank my head in my hand and groaned,. “Oh my God . . . ”
“See? You upset Mom,” Molly said testily.
Phil leaned over. “Are you crying, Mom?”
“Of course she’s crying,” Molly said, disgusted. “You are such a toad.”
Scott slipped his arm around me. “Mom?”
I tried to keep control, but I wanted to laugh and was afraid if I started laughing it would be hysterical, flooding out of me, uncontrolled and unnatural. I was afraid Molly would get even more upset. When I thought I wouldn’t break into laughter or tears, I took a deep breath and looked up at Molly. “I’m okay.”
“Here’s one that looks just like the lamp in the TV room,” Mickey said brightly, turning the book sideways so we could see it.
“Let’s get that one, Mom,” Phil said, running with it. “It’s better than that bronze angel with the flag. We’ll put a fancy shade on it and keep dad in front of the big screen.”
Scott burst out laughing. “Then he won’t miss a game.”
“Maybe we can get one of those leather flap things for it to hold the remote. You know, those things they sell in the airline magazines? Dad was always losing the remote.”
My husband was infamous for ordering gadgets from the airline magazines: portable clothing steamers; gadgets that held CDs onto your car visor; digital recorders; and even an electrical outlet device that shut on and off when you clapped your hands together.
“Maybe we can get a clapper to turn it off and on.”
I put my hand over my mouth. I had to stop myself. Even during the worst moments, my sons’ banter could make me laugh.
“I hate you all,” Molly said, turning to the book indignantly and thumbing through the pages with a too-serious look, while my sons made faces at each other and commented on containers shaped like golf bags, airplanes and train engines.
“Oh my God . . . ” She slammed the book shut and turned away.
“Molly?” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder. It was shaking.
Scott leaned over. “What is it?”
“Let me see it, Midget,” Phillip said
“This.” Molly opened the book. Elvis’ profile was carved out of pinkish skin-toned alabaster and his hair and features were painted in glossy black.
Phil looked up at us, straight-faced. “Wanna bet it plays In the Ghetto?”
We all lost it, and from the expression on the funeral director’s face when he came back in, he must have thought we were crazy, unholy, and completely irreverent.
So Mike ended up in a highly polished rosewood box with a rich grain that flowed across the top like rivers of time and life. It was perfect.
I ran my hand over the top of it now and hugged it a little tighter to my chest. Behind me, my children were gathered near the base of the run, dressed for the trail, setting their gear, and stepping into their boards. I turned back to the face of the mountain and leaned down close to the box. “I know you wanted this, my darling. And we’ll do it for you. I know I have to let go. But please don’t blame me if I don’t let go easily.”
“Hey, Mom. You okay?” Scott skidded his board to a stop next to me.
“Just talking to myself.”
“Rob’s on his way. He was waiting for the mountain to clear out. It closed down fifteen minutes ago.”
“Good. We won’t have to wait much longer then.” It was cold but I wasn’t certain if I was shivering from the air or my state of mind.
“There he is,” Scott said. “I’ll go get the others together.”
I turned around and watched Rob jump off the lift and board over to me. He was now Vice President and Di
rector of Operations for Heavenly Valley, a far cry from his days of running a grooming machine on a small ski area between Truckee and Tahoe City.
Where had the time gone? As I watched him walk toward me, I longed to be back there, to that first day on the slopes, back when we all were young and free and believed in the impossible.
His wild Abby Hoffman black hair was now clipped short and his face was tanned and lined from the weather, but his smile was the same. When Rob Cantrell turned his attention on you, you appreciated the manner of the man.
“Hey, Gorgeous.” He gave me a huge hug and then pulled back and looked down at me. “You okay?”
“I am. Thank you so much for this.”
“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Mike and for you. You know that.”
“Even let us on the mountain to do something completely illegal?”
“Illegal? What’re you talking about?” He laughed, his arm still slung around my shoulders. “What could you possibly do that’s illegal? Besides, sweetheart, when illegal battles with moral humanity, humanity’s gonna win in my book. And I don’t know of anything illegal. We opened the mountain for private skiing after hours.” He stepped back as Scott, Mickey, Phil and Molly joined us. “Take the quad up to the top. I can open the gates on the bowl runs, but this time of day it’s hard to see and probably icy on that side of the hill. You decide.”
“We won’t need the bowl runs,” I told him and looked at Scott, who nodded.
“We’ll stay on the main face,” he assured Rob, then turned to me. “You and Molly ride with Phil, and Mickey and I will take the next chair. Right, Squirt?” Scott patted Mickey on the head like a pet dog, something Mickey usually hated but today he just laughed Scott off.
It had not missed my notice that my youngest had grown closer to his older brothers lately and less willing to pick fights with them or let their teasing affect him. But he was too quiet sometimes. We all were.
