Meet Me at the Summit

by Mandi Lynn

  “But your trip was good?” Aunt Cora asks.

  I nod. “Ups and downs, but mostly good.”

  “And the boy?” she asks, sounding like my mom now.

  I blush, wondering what kind of conclusions she’s jumping to. “He’s good too.”

  She smiles. “If he’s the reason you’re happy, then I’m happy. And I’m glad you enjoyed the trip. I hope it doesn’t stop here,” she says, brushing her hand over my arm.

  “He’s hiking Mount Washington with me,” I say.

  My aunt’s face lights up, and she smiles in a way I haven’t seen from her in months. “Your dad would love that,” she says.

  I nod, my gaze on the floor. Cora pulls me into a hug. I’ve never been a hugger. Even during my parents’ funeral, I shied away from hugs. But when Cora hugs me, I feel like I can breathe a little easier.

  “It’s so good to see you here,” she says, pulling away to look at my face. I’m not crying. It feels like maybe in the past I would have cried, but now I feel stronger, even if it’s only a little.

  “It still hurts to think about them,” I finally say. I’ve spent months hiding from that fact. Throughout the funeral and the memorial, I never talked to anyone about my parents. Everyone talked to me so much that it felt like I was a sounding board, hearing how much they hurt, and it was all I could do to push it all away. Why now, after so much time, is it impossible to push those feelings away?

  “I know, sweetie, me too,” she says, running her hand over my hair. “But you are doing so well.”

  “Dylan wants to get photos of them,” I say, the key in my pocket feeling heavy and hard to ignore. “I think he plans on using them for the hike as a memorial or something.” I draw in a breath, the reality of the hike becoming apparent, knowing now just how hard it’s going to be. “I haven’t gone through the photo albums since the funeral.”

  Cora frowns and pulls me in for a hug again.

  “I look at a photo of your dad every day,” she whispers. “It helps me remember the good times. Just because there won’t be new memories of him doesn’t mean you can’t relive the memories from the past. Same goes for your mom. They both loved you so much. They wouldn’t want this to hurt you.”

  I start crying without thinking. Every day I hope that maybe tomorrow will be easier, but it never feels that way. Each day I reset, waking up to the reality of my parents being gone again.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Cora whispers, rubbing my back as I clutch onto her. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but each day it gets easier, even if you don’t notice.”

  I cry in a way that I haven’t in a long time. Not because of a panic attack or because I had a nightmare, but purely because I miss my parents, and there’s nothing I can do to bring them back. I struggle to grasp the finality of death, how someone can be alive and smiling one day, and then gone forever the next. How can I imagine a future without them when they were in every memory of my past?

  “What about that boy out there?” Cora asks. She pulls away to see my face. “He treats you well?” I think of the fight we had and how angry I was that he didn’t bring me home. At the same time, I’m left to wonder if I would have regretted missing those wild horses. All I know is I’m glad we stayed in North Carolina.

  “He does,” I say, and Cora’s smile widens. She walks me to the door, opening it for me.

  “I want to meet him soon,” she says.

  “You will,” I say, stepping through the door.

  “Enjoy the hike, Marly. Be safe,” Cora says, saying the same words my mom would before every hike. The words hit differently now, like opening an old wound that was in the process of healing. I swallow and let myself remember all the times my mom wished me luck before I went on a hike.

  “You okay?” Dylan asks, watching me as I climb back into the bus. I glance over, and Cora is standing at her door, watching us with a smile across her face.

  “I will be,” I say, and this time the words feel true.

  Chapter 28

  Cora has been taking care of my parents’ house all year, which mostly means winterizing it in the cold months and mowing the lawn in the warm months. The house looks frozen in time when we pull into the driveway, which makes it all that much harder. If they were alive, two cars would be sitting out in the driveway, or perhaps my mom would be waiting in the doorway. But other than that, it all seems too normal.

  Dylan doesn’t say anything as we pull in. He looks over every now and then, but he lets me lead the way. Our house is a two-story Cape Cod painted green with brown shingles, and a small front porch. The garden leading to the front porch is perfectly maintained, all credit to Aunt Cora for that.

  I step out of the bus, with Dylan following close behind as I walk to the front door. There’s a weird sense of déjà vu as I slip the key into the lock. How many times have I done this exact thing when getting home before my parents? Or better yet, the handful of times I snuck in past curfew.

  I turn the handle and step in, and what hits me is the smell. Or maybe lack thereof. My mom loved candles, and she always had at least one burning. One of our favorite trips every year was to go to Yankee Candle Village in Deerfield, Massachusetts, where they celebrate Christmas all year long. We’d always make our own candles and bring home new ornaments for Christmas. The house doesn’t feel right without the smell of candles burning.

  Everything is perfectly in its place, which feels odd. My parents weren’t messy exactly, but they also weren’t neat. There were always pillows and blankets thrown around in the living room. Now they’re folded perfectly in a basket in the corner under the light switch.

  I avoid the kitchen, which I already know must be bare since Cora cleaned all the food out when I moved in with Lori. Dylan follows me as I make my way upstairs; my room is the first one on the right. It’s the only room Cora didn’t touch. She asked me over and over if I wanted her to clean it, but I always refused. My room is a mess. The last time I was here, I was packing up in a fit of crying. It was the day after my parents’ funeral. I decided to move out before I knew where I was going to live. Lori and I still had our dorm room, but I’d already done the paperwork to drop out, so my housing was gone. I packed my room, having no idea where I was going, just knowing that I couldn’t stay here.

  I pulled every drawer open, grabbing my clothes by the handful and stuffing them into bags. Most of my things were back at the dorm, but I didn’t want to come back. I packed away almost every inch of the room, leaving only the furniture, small mementos, and trash behind.

  I stand in the doorway now, afraid to walk in. My bed is bare, leaving the mattress exposed. The shelves of my bookcase are empty and covered in dust. Empty boxes and blank copy paper that must have fallen from my desk coat the floor. The desk itself contains nothing but piles of trash, and the corkboard above my desk is bare except for a few tacks. I used to have a wall of photos, but I tore it all down in a fit of rage that I barely remember now. The photos are scattered across the floor; some of them are facing upward, glinting back at me, while others are face down in a crumpled mess.

  “Are those the photos?” Dylan asks, his voice quiet behind me.

  It’s eerie having him here with me, like I’m exposing the worst part of myself to him. The part of me that released emotions through anger rather than tears.

  “No, I have an album with the photos of my parents,” I say, my voice rough. I walk into the room, kicking trash, photos, and random items out of my way as I walk over to the closet door that’s wide open because there’s too much on the floor to close the door. Dylan follows wordlessly. The album is on the floor of the closet from the time I had thrown it there. A corner of the album is dented from when it had hit the wall. I pick it up, forgetting how heavy it is. It’s probably as large as photo albums come. Each page has six photos on one side. I remember buying it and being excited because I could fit
so many photos on each page. I stuffed it full almost immediately, filling it with memories from middle school and high school. There aren’t nearly enough photos of my parents.

  “Is that it?” Dylan asks, taking the album from me and flipping through some of the pages.

  “There’s more in my parents’ room,” I say, walking out to the hallway.

  “Marly, you don’t have to get it,” he says, following me.

  “Their photo albums were better than mine,” I say, leading the way down the hall, away from the photos scattered across the floor of my room.

  My parents’ room is nothing grand. In fact, it’s barely bigger than my own room, but they had a bookshelf where they kept all their photos from when they first started dating until… well, I guess until they died.

  The room feels like a ghost of what it had once been. The bed is made, and everything is too perfect and arranged. My mom’s vanity is in the corner, but all her makeup and perfume that’s normally sitting out is missing.

  I bee-line for the bookshelf that’s full of nothing but photo albums. Some of them have already been picked through. Before the funeral, a bunch of family members came over to pick out photos to make a collage. They made copies of the photos so they could leave the originals for me, but I never touched the albums. At least, not until now.

  “These are all of them,” I say, pointing to the bookshelf. Dylan steps forward, taking an album off the shelf. I back up until I’m sitting on my parents’ bed. I used to sleep in their bed all the time when I was a kid. Whenever I was sick, I’d curl up between them, and then in the morning, they’d let me stay there, bringing me soup to make me feel better.

  I reach for a pillow and pull it to my face. It’s an odd thing to do, but I hold the pillow to my chest, inhaling the scent, trying to remember what my mom or dad smelled like. All I can smell is that fresh linen scent.

  Dylan turns around from sorting through the albums and sees me sitting on the bed. He doesn’t say a word as he sits next to me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. I don’t let go of the pillow, clutching it like it’s the only thing I have left of them.

  Dylan wipes his thumb across my face to catch the tears.

  I didn’t realize I was crying.

  “There’s nothing left here,” I say, mumbling into the pillow.

  I gaze around the room, feeling lost and overwhelmed all at once. I let the sob burst from my chest, closing my eyes as I give in. I’m shaking as I cry, but Dylan doesn’t let go. He holds me together in ways I can’t.

  “I thought I’d be able to feel them here,” I say when I can catch my breath, but my head spins, unable to focus on anything.

  “They’re here with you,” he says softly. “And they’re right there in those books.” He points to the albums. There are a few on the floor, pages open to memories that I thought were long forgotten. Dylan gets off the bed to pick up a picture and returns with it. “Tell me about this photo.”

  I grip it with shaky fingers. The picture is an old one. It’s my preschool graduation, and I’m wearing an awful dress from the ’90s with a floral pattern and a lot of ruffles. My hair is blonde and curly, much lighter than it is now. I’m wearing a red graduation cap that’s far too big for my head and holding a paper scroll tied with a red ribbon. My dad is holding me, and my mom is standing beside him, her arm on my back. I’m grinning, which only shows off my missing teeth.

  “That’s my preschool graduation,” I say, laughing a bit at my face.

  “You had a graduation ceremony?” Dylan asks.

  “Yeah, I know, it’s weird,” I say.

  “It’s adorable,” he assures me.

  “We did an entire little performance. Our teacher had us sing all the songs we’d learned, and then each of us had to memorize something to say. I might have done part of the alphabet or something. The whole thing is caught on some old home movie, I think,” I say, handing the photo back. Dylan takes it and puts it on the bed beside him. He turns back and looks at me, a smile on his face.

  “What?” I ask, watching him.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” he says, never letting his gaze leave my face.

  I blink, letting my eyes wander to the photo album that’s open on the floor—photos from a vacation to the beach staring back at me. I look back at Dylan, whose eyes are still on me.

  “Thank you for coming,” I say.

  He kisses me then. A kiss that feels more vulnerable than others in our past. I feel as if I’ve just cut myself open, and he’s here to put me back together. The kiss is soft, and I melt into him in a way that makes me never want to come up for air again.

  He pulls away, still holding my face in one hand. He watches me, leaving his face just inches away from mine. I’m sure my eyes are red-rimmed with deep circles underneath; whatever he sees, he never looks away.

  He opens his mouth to speak and then pauses, rethinking whatever it is he was about to say. The corner of his mouth twitches so slightly that any other time I don’t think I would have noticed.

  “What?” I ask, the word just a whisper.

  He doesn’t respond at first. He only smiles a little, looking at me. “I’m trying to figure out how to say something without it sounding cheesy,” he finally says.

  I laugh a little, the emotion filling my chest. There are still tears at the corners of my eyes, and my body is tired, but here in Dylan’s arms, I feel free.

  “Cheesy is okay,” I say, but I don’t let him speak. Instead, I lean forward until his lips meet mine, and I let my laughter fill that kiss until I feel alive again.

  Chapter 29

  We start hiking at 4 p.m. I try not to think about what we’re doing. Mount Washington is a place I consider home. It’s a place I came back to every year, but this year Dylan’s the one who leads the way instead of my dad. I know this trail like the back of my hand. There are spots my dad and I always stopped for a water or snack break, but I pass by those points without giving them another glance.

  The plan is to hike about three miles in, until we reach the Lakes of the Clouds Hut that resides in Washington’s alpine zone. Dylan and I have a reservation to sleep in one of the bunks of the hut so we can wake up early to catch the sunrise without needing to hike too many miles in the dark. Catching the sunrise is Dylan’s idea. We could get sentimental about it and say it’s because the beauty of it will make the entire trip more emotional, but the fact of the matter is there are fewer people in the morning, and I don’t want to make a scene if I have a mental breakdown.

  Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail is a hard hike, but compared to the other trail options to summit Washington, it’s a piece of cake. We make the climb, pulling ourselves over boulders and crossing rivers. Our backpacks are both somewhere under twenty pounds, including water and food. We didn’t have to bring a tent since we’ll be in the hut, but we still have to pack just about everything else needed for overnights.

  My body is exhausted from lack of sleep, but I power through, letting myself concentrate on Dylan. My only comfort is that my dad and I never slept in the Lakes of the Clouds Hut. We always stopped there to use the bathroom and refill on water, but we’ve never actually stepped foot in the room with all the beds. That, at least, will make it easier to sleep tonight.

  We’re getting closer to the alpine zone as we hike. The trees get shorter and shorter until they disappear altogether and are replaced with stone and alpine vegetation. When we break through the trees, I lean forward, my hands resting on my knees for support. I focus my eyes on my shoes and try to count my breaths. I tell myself I’m just out of shape, that I’m having a hard time catching my breath because it’s a steep incline, but the panic is there at the back of my mind, inching closer.

  Forty-five minutes later, we reach the hut right as the sky is starting to glow in preparation for sunset. Dylan checks in to claim our bunks while I find a table to sit
at in the building. The hut is crowded, typical for the summer, but most people here are staying the night like us.

  “I put our bags on our bunks,” Dylan says, coming to sit beside me at the table. The seating area is lined with windows on all sides. It’s one of my favorite huts hosted by the Appalachian Mountain Club, mostly due to the location but also because of all the windows. You can be inside and warm, while still enjoying the view outside.

  The Presidential Range stretches out on both sides of us, with Mount Washington looming in the foreground. The sky is turning a bright yellow and orange, but the sun itself is setting behind us out of view.

  I grabbed food for the both of us, courtesy of the Appalachian Mountain Club. Our bunk reservation comes with dinner, and tonight the meal is chicken with a side of veggies. We eat in silence, both of us staring out the window as the sun sets and the sky shifts from orange back to blue, and then slowly into black. Dylan wraps an arm around me, as we watch the last of the day disappear.

  “This is where me and my dad used to sit to eat lunch,” I say. Dylan turns to look at me, waiting for more. “He said this is the best place in the hut because it’s the center window seat.”

  “What do you think?” Dylan asks.

  “I think my dad was a stubborn man who enjoyed traditions too much and always made us wait for this seat to open up before we were allowed to eat,” I say, laughing at how silly it sounds now. It used to make me mad that he insisted on sitting in this specific spot, because I wanted to eat so we could keep hiking. But tradition was tradition. When Dylan and I got here, I was hoping the seat was taken as an excuse to avoid it, but when we walked in, the table was wide open despite all the other tables being occupied. Almost like my dad was saving the seat for me. Tradition is tradition.

  Hikers are coming into the hut now and piling into the room full of bunk beds. I can hear a few people talk about their plans for hiking the Presidential Traverse, and some are catching the sunrise on Monroe and Washington in the morning.