by John Shors
As her father thought about his story, Mattie continued to move her feet around the oversized sleeping bag, trying to warm them up. Somewhere in the distance, a guitar twanged to life. Mattie thought about Blake, and then her own friends back at school, wondering what they were doing. For some reason, she didn’t miss them as much as she once thought she would. A part of her didn’t want to see them. They seemed so happy. Their mothers were still alive.
Ian turned toward her. “That’s a lovely sound, isn’t it?”
“It’s nice. Blake’s nice.”
“Ready for that story?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Well, there once was a young girl who was ten years old and carried a sketch pad everywhere.”
“Was she me?”
“No, I reckon not. But she was like you. In some ways, very much like you. Though not quite as ornery.”
“How was she like me?”
“Well, drawing was her favorite thing in the world. And so she carried that sketch pad everywhere, often pausing in odd places, sitting at a corner to draw a stray dog, walking through a forest until finding just the right tree. Her sketch pad was one hundred pages thick, and almost each and every page was filled with something beautiful, something created from the inside of her heart. Some of her pictures were of people she loved, of her teachers, of her mates. She drew hearts on them and made their smiles too big.”
He paused for a moment, listening to the rise and fall of the guitar. “One day she went for a walkabout, way up into the mountains. Her father went with her. They climbed up, higher and higher, through the clouds, looking for rainbows, for something she could draw. And they finally found something just right. A green valley was filled with grazing deer, and the girl opened her backpack, eager to bring the scene to life on paper. Only she realized she’d forgotten her sketch pad at home. She’d brought some colored chalk, but no paper.”
“Oh, no,” Mattie said, pulling the sleeping bag up to her chin. “How could she have forgotten her paper? She must have been upset.”
“She was upset. She was a bloody mess, to tell the truth. And her father was too. He wanted to see her drawing. Her loss was his loss.”
“So what did she do?”
“What would any artist do? She improvised, Roo. She wiped away her tears, picked up her chalk, and walked to a nearby cliff, which was made of sandstone. Its walls were like giant red chalkboards. And so she took her chalk and drew that valley and those deer. She worked on her sketch all afternoon. She’d never done anything so big or beautiful. And when she finished, she knew that she’d drawn her first masterpiece. Nothing in her sketchbook could compare. What she’d drawn on that cliff was . . . It was like a song that a musician had summoned to life. Something that had been set free . . . rather than created. And so, her loss that day turned into a gain, into something lovely and unexpected. Like a blue jay’s feather found in the city.”
Mattie edged closer to him, even though her feet were no longer as cold. “What about the rain? Wouldn’t the rain wash away her drawing?”
Ian stroked her forehead. “She thought about that, but she didn’t mind, I reckon, because she’d created something beautiful, and beauty isn’t something that can be easily taken away. Her drawings, her chalk, would be washed into the earth by any rain. So her drawings would become a part of the earth. A part of forever.”
“What happened then?”
“She continued to climb mountains and to sketch. And sometimes she’d bring her sketch pad, and sometimes she wouldn’t. Her pad was a part of her, she knew. And it always would be. But she also drew on boulders, on cliffs, on cement. Those were her favorite drawings, because they gave her a sense of freedom. Years later, she became famous, a real beaut of an artist. People traveled from around the world to see her work, which was housed in the best galleries. And though the images she’d drawn on canvas and paper made people smile and earned her a heap of loot, she kept sketching outside too, in nature, where only her loved ones saw the beauty that she created. She would draw something lovely, and then rains would wash it away. And this happened again and again and again.”
“She was happy, wasn’t she, Daddy?”
“Yeah, luv. She was happy. Not every day, of course. No one can do that. She wasn’t a dog with a wagging tail. But she had a good life. And she always drew, even when she was an old woman, when her hands didn’t work properly. And her loved ones, those who still lived and those who had gone to heaven, they all enjoyed her work just as much as her father had loved her first drawing on the cliff.”
Mattie smiled, resting her head on his outstretched arm. “Maybe I can get some chalk, Daddy,” she said, her voice soft and shallow. “Then I could draw on a rock, like she did.”
“If you’d like to. Whatever you want.”
“Sweet dreams, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you too, Roo. I love you like that girl loved her chalk.”
Mattie closed her eyes, imagining the girl in the story, wondering what it would be like to draw on stone, and to sit back and watch water fall from the sky and wash away her creation.
AS IF PROMPTED BY MATTIE’S THOUGHTS, THE rain came early the next day, enshrouding the valley in a mist that made her feel as if she’d woken up inside a cloud. After eating breakfast, she and Ian packed, put on their purple ponchos, and stepped into the elements. Waiting for them across the muddy trail were Leslie, Blake, and Tiffany. The women also wore oversized ponchos that even covered their packs. Leslie carried a red umbrella.
“Morning, ladies,” Ian said, tipping his travel hat to them. “Ready for a little walkabout?”
Leslie smiled beneath her umbrella. “How was your night?”
“Well, we were knackered from our hike, and slept like a pair of old shoes. Roo here even snored a bit.”
“Daddy.”
“Or maybe that was me. Or maybe the snow leopard under Roo’s bed. Anyway, shall we buzz off?”
Leslie motioned to Mattie to lead. “We’ll follow you.”
Mattie tried to smile, said hello, and started up the trail. She gripped her great-grandmother’s wedding ring, sliding the ring up and down her thumb. She was glad for the rain, because she didn’t have to try to hide her tears. She’d awoken on edge after dreaming about playing soccer with her mother in Central Park. As was true in real life, her mother had let her win, even though Mattie had never been great at sports. In the dream, Mattie had been so happy, laughing with her mother, enjoying her company. When Mattie opened her eyes, she was crushed to discover that she’d been dreaming. The sun and Central Park and her mother were gone, replaced by silence and gloom. Her father had noticed her mood and asked about it, but Mattie didn’t want to talk much. Sometimes it was easier to just be quiet, to try to forget the dreams and walk on.
Because her father had worked most Saturdays, Mattie and her mother had often gone to Central Park to take walks, kick a soccer ball, or simply play in the grass and watch the day pass. While her mother had read, Mattie often sketched, trying to capture a bridge, a cloud, a leaf. She’d never been in a rush for those days to end. Sometimes they chatted while she drew. Mattie had always been aware that her mother actually listened to her, unlike so many adults. The questions her mother asked weren’t simply ways to break the silence and pass the time, but attempts to better understand her. They’d spoken about everything from Mattie’s desire to have a little sister to problems at school to how the great artists saw the world. Sometimes her mother even confided in Mattie—sharing her own desire to have another child, even though she couldn’t. It had been Mattie and her mother who had first talked about adopting a girl from another country, something her father supported but might not have actively pursued otherwise.
Now, as Tiffany and Blake walked beside Mattie and chatted about Kathmandu, she watched the trail and imagined her mother climbing up these same mountains. She missed her mother every single day, but she particularly missed her after the dreams—when she awok
e and realized that her mother was gone and wasn’t coming back, no matter how much Mattie loved her and longed to lie beside her.
The mist thinned, and Mattie caught glimpses of the mountains above, which were green and rolling. She would have liked to draw them but didn’t want to get her sketch pad damp or slow their progress. And so she sought to commit the peaks to memory, so that she might draw them later in the day. She wondered what it might be like to look down from such a high place. Can you see me, Mommy? she wondered, staring skyward. I dreamed about you last night. We were playing soccer and you let me win as usual. Oh, Mommy. I miss you so much. I know Daddy does too. We miss you and love you, and I just wish that you’d come back to us. Please come back to us. Please. I don’t like being so alone. Daddy tries his best to make me laugh, and sometimes I do, but we’re still so lonely.
The sky darkened, obscuring the peaks. Mattie continued on, breathing through her nose, feeling the moisture enter her. Thirty paces behind, Ian walked with Leslie, aware of Mattie’s mood—wanting to help her but, at the moment, not knowing how. “Might I ask you something?” he said quietly to Leslie, who was in the process of shutting her umbrella since the rain had lessened.
She hung her umbrella from the side of her pack and turned to him. “Ask away.”
“What did you think about . . . as a girl . . . when you were Mattie’s age? Reckon you can remember?”
“You know, I don’t think I thought that much about anything. I just . . . I played with my friends and went to school.”
“Do you remember being sad?”
“No, not really. I remember being hurt, by my friends, by my brothers. But that wasn’t the same as being sad.”
Ian nodded, watching Mattie, who walked beside Tiffany and Blake, but was silent. “Sometimes I worry that Mattie thinks too much,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “I just want her to be a little girl, and to do whatever little girls usually do.”
“Yesterday she acted like a little girl, when you were on the ground, tickling her.”
“I reckon so. But she had a dream last night, a lovely dream about her mum, and now I feel like everything’s starting all over, like it always does. She’s sad. She’s missing her mum. And I can’t give her everything she needs. Not by a bloody long shot.”
Leslie’s walking stick stuck between two rocks and she paused to pull it free. “You know, you shouldn’t worry because she went from laughing one day to being sad the next. If she didn’t laugh at all, then you’d worry.”
He caught the scent of burning wood and glanced around for smoke. “Would you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Would you go talk to her? She asked about you last night, before bed. She fancies you. Quite a bit.”
Leslie nodded. “She’s a sweet girl. A really sweet girl.”
“Maybe you could get her to laugh.”
“Sure. But catch up to us. She might fancy me, but it’s pretty obvious that she adores you.”
Ian thanked her, watching her move ahead. He and Kate had often met such people while traveling the world—strangers whom they soon grew to enjoy and trust. Sharing a trail or a bus somehow bound people, perhaps because the massive, overwhelming complexity of the world had been condensed, bringing strangers together to share a space and an adventure. Kate and he had often reflected on feeling that they had more in common with a pair of fellow travelers from Sweden or South Africa than with their own neighbors in Manhattan. Traveling had always made Ian feel so very human, as if by sharing a trail with a stranger he were sharing part of himself, of his own life’s journey.
The path reached a plateau, and the sound of rushing water found Ian’s ears. He couldn’t see a river but knew that one was nearby. The air, already so laden with moisture, seemed to get even heavier. He walked on, pleased to see that Mattie and Leslie were talking, that Mattie appeared to be moving faster.
After ten minutes of alternating his gaze between the trail and the Himalayas, which peeked at him through the clouds and mist, Ian realized that the women and Mattie had stopped. He saw that the path led across a three-foot-wide suspension bridge that had been somehow slung across the river. The bridge hung from two thick cables anchored into towers of rock and cement. The bottom of the bridge was composed of wooden slabs, while the sides resembled short chain-link fences.
“What a beaut,” he muttered.
The river below was gray and full, fueled by runoff from the highlands. Boulders the size of tanks slowed down the mad rush of the waterway, which might have been a hundred paces wide. Moss and ferns covered the shore, making Ian feel as if green blankets had been draped over the entire area. He’d never seen so much green.
“Shall we have a go at it?” he asked, extending his hand to Mattie, gripping her fingers as the women went ahead.
“Can I draw it on the way back?” she asked, looking from one end of the bridge to the other.
“Of course, luv. I’d like to see you do just that.”
“Is it safe?”
“You don’t fancy a swim?”
“Not in this river.”
He stepped onto the moist planks and led her forward, feeling the bridge sway slightly from side to side. “Feel like Indiana Jones?”
“I haven’t seen that movie. Remember, you thought the end would be too scary for me?”
“Oh, right. Well, never mind. It was boring anyway.”
“Daddy!”
At the center of the bridge, he paused, pointing toward where the river beat against a boulder, casting spray and froth into the air. “Think you could sketch that, Roo?”
“The water would be hard. It’s moving so fast. But I could try.”
“Maybe you could draw it for me.”
“You want another one of my sketches?”
“I’m greedy, you know. Like Captain Cook with all his islands.”
She smiled, stepping forward, now leading him. The remainder of the bridge came and went, and soon they stood on firm land. The path continued for a few minutes before turning into a series of steps that had been carved into a cliff. Mattie let go of Ian’s hand, following the women up the steps, which were worn and smooth, polished from the passage of countless sandaled feet. Ian turned around, intending to take another look at the river. At that moment Mattie fell, her muddied boot slipping beneath her, sending her tumbling forward, her right knee striking the step ahead. She whimpered as she collapsed, falling and sliding down the stairs. Ian called out her name, catching her before she reached the bottom.
Mattie tried not to cry, but her knee was bloody and bruised and felt as if it had been smashed by a hammer. Ian cradled her, dropping to his backside, keeping her on his lap. She wept and he kissed her brow, kissed her tears. She thrashed against him, wanting his attention, but unable to bear the sight of her knee or the thought of him brushing up against it.
Ian continued to cradle her as Leslie hurried down the steps. Without a word, she opened her pack and found her first-aid kit, removing a large bandage, a bottle of aspirin, and some antibiotic cream. Seeing that Mattie wasn’t ready to be attended to, Leslie opened up her umbrella and held it over the father and daughter. “You’re a brave girl,” she said, watching Ian kiss the top of Mattie’s head.
“It hurts, Daddy,” Mattie said, crying, arching against him. “It hurts so much.”
“I know, luv. I know.” He held her tight, blowing on her knee because that was what Kate had always done when Mattie had been injured. “That wasn’t a fair match,” he said. “Your little knee against that big rock.”
“Stop joking.”
“Sorry, luv. Just trying to take your mind off it. Do you want Leslie to doctor you up?”
“No, not yet. Don’t touch it.”
“No worries. Take your time, Roo. Just . . . listen to the river.”
“Please don’t touch it.”
Ian continued to cradle Mattie until she nodded, and Leslie carefully applied ointment to the wound and covered
it with a bandage. Tiffany and Blake tried to be as helpful as possible, using Leslie’s umbrella to shield Mattie from the elements. “How far is it to the next village?” Ian asked, glancing behind them.
Blake knelt lower. “Maybe another mile or two. Not far.”
“I’ll carry you, Roo, to the next hotel,” Ian said. “You can’t do much hopping on that leg. At least for now. Or we could turn around. We could head back down and—”
“No! We can’t go back. Not now.”
“Are you sure, luv? You’re cold and wet. And your knee is—”
“We can’t stop! Mommy asked us to get to the top of a mountain. She’s waiting for us there.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“No! She’s waiting!”
Ian sighed, glancing at Blake. “Another mile or two?”
“It’s not far after the bridge. At least that’s what the guidebook says.”
Leslie started to unzip her pack. “We’ll all take some of your stuff and lighten your load.”
“You’re sure?” Ian asked.
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
It took about ten minutes to redistribute most of Ian’s and Mattie’s possessions into the packs of the Peace Corps volunteers. Ian thanked them, kissed Mattie on the brow, and lifted her up into his arms. “This is just like old times,” he said, trying to smile, wounded by the sight of his little girl in so much pain.
“Old times?” Mattie asked, relieved that they would be continuing on, and holding back her tears.
Ian started to follow the women up the stone steps, careful where he placed his feet. “When you were a wee babe, you’d fall asleep downstairs, sometimes lying on a blanket, sometimes on the couch in your mum’s arms. And I’d carry you upstairs, just like I’m carrying you now.”
“Mommy didn’t carry me up?”
“Oh, sometimes she did. But usually it was me. That way I could steal a few extra kisses on the way up. There’s nothing more beautiful, you know, than kissing a sleeping baby.”
Mattie wiped away her tears, embarrassed to have cried in front of everyone. “Why is that so beautiful?”
