by Lori Lansens
We headed northeast to Michigan, and took over the old boarded-up Victorian house where Byrd had lived as a boy, and we reopened Brodski’s Polish Deli, and bought you ice skates, and raised you to love winter. Kriket and Yago and Tin Town and the desert, and the mountain, and most importantly Frankie, were worlds away.
No one ever questioned your paternity, including you, I know. From time to time your mother and I discussed the right moment to make the disclosure, but each time the subject came up I was sure you weren’t ready. Your mother wasn’t eager to explain the circumstances of your conception either, and she even wondered if it was too cruel a blow to discover you have a biological father whose name you’ll never know.
I guess I waited this long because I didn’t want Frankie to ruin our paradise in Hamtramck. I did try to tell you, I wanted to tell you, and I almost told you, but then I’d picture the prison visits, imagine the look on your face as you’re running to the mailbox, looking for a letter from jail. I thought about you crying at night because Frankie’d disappointed you again, and worse, I knew that one day he’d get out of prison. What if he somehow found out the truth? What if he wanted to take you from me? I always thought it was easier to say nothing. Now I’m wondering if my silence was the real burden all along.
I’m relieved you finally know about Bridget. It’s time your mother knew the truth too—all of it. Her mother was a hero. You should feel proud that you carry her blood. There should be a plaque honouring her at the tram station, a monument to her in Wide Valley. People should hear about what Bridget Devine did for love.
I remember one day, Danny, when you were six, about to start first grade. You came down to the basement to help me sort through some of your baby stuff for our yard sale, and while I was digging out the high chair, you found some old boxes.
“Look here,” you said.
I nearly lost my knees when I turned to see you holding the yellow canteen. I hadn’t seen that canteen since I was eighteen years old. I’d packed it up in the aftermath of our mountain ordeal and stored it away, I guess.
“I haven’t seen that in a while,” I whispered. I didn’t want your mother to hear.
“It’s a canteen,” you said. Then you turned the thing around in your wondering hands, brushing bits of dried mud from the dented yellow face, exposing the letters etched into the tin.
You sounded out the words, “No-la. Brid-get. Vonn. Wolf.”
“Good,” I said.
“You didn’t wash it.”
“I just wanted to put it away.”
“You wanted to keep it, you just didn’t want to clean it.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s from when you were lost on the mountain.”
“It is.”
“It’s not neat writing.”
“We were tired.”
“And hungry.” You pretended to eat your own arm and I laughed.
“Yes, Danny. Hungry and thirsty and all of those things.”
“How did you get lost on the mountain?”
“I got lost the way everybody gets lost,” I said.
“You went the wrong way?”
“I did.”
“Were you scared?”
“Sometimes. I was scared sometimes.”
“Of what?”
“There were a lot of things to be scared of.”
“You said you’d tell me.”
“Not today.”
“Tonight?”
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“When you’re older. When you’ve lived a little.”
“How old?”
“When you’re ready for it.”
“Ten?”
“Twelve.”
“Will you take me to the mountain someday?”
“No.” I was emphatic.
“Do you wish you never got lost?”
If I hadn’t crossed paths with the Devines on that November day I wouldn’t be at all. If we hadn’t lost our way in the wilderness, I wouldn’t have been your proud father. I wouldn’t have met Nola, who I’m still in the habit of thinking is alive. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with your beautiful mother, and I wouldn’t have witnessed Bridget’s brave act.
I said I’d never return, but over the past few weeks I’ve decided I have to go back, ride the tram again, smell the butterscotch pines in Wide Valley, stroke the cool speckled granite, listen to the warblers, feel the tectonic shifts.
Maybe you’ll come with me, Danny. We could hike all the way to the peak and look out over the dry, white desert, see the orchards of wind turbines and Tin Town shimmering in the distance. Frankie was right when he said that a father should see it with his son. It’s a hell of a view.
Always,
Dad
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I understand how people fall in love over the Internet. I fell for my Knopf Canada editor, Anne Collins, over the “scribbles” on the numerous drafts we passed back and forth. I loved every query, savoured each remark, concurred with all of the slashed paragraphs, adored the arrows. Anne never tired of making the climb—never even seemed out of breath—bringing insight and clarity to each page, every step of the way. She has been a gift to me and to this novel.
I’m thankful to Alison Callahan, my editor at Simon & Schuster, who came to the novel later with a fresh perspective that was vital to the final story. Her keen observations and perfectly timed comments made the book better and her enthusiasm inspired me. I’m also grateful to Alison, and Simon & Schuster, for their warm welcome and their stellar efforts in all departments. Thanks to Lisa Litwack for the beautiful cover.
And thank you, as ever, to Knopf Canada who launched my first novel, and its successors. Your collective faith, and your efforts are deeply appreciated. My gratitude to Louise Dennys, Brad Martin, Marion Garner, Sharon Klein, Deirdre Molina, Michelle Roper and all of the other dedicated and talented people under that very tall roof. Thank you, Diane Martin, for guiding my first three novels, and for being a bright and generous light.
I’m also most grateful to Arve Juritzen, my Norwegian publisher, for his extraordinary efforts on behalf of my books. I will never forget my trip to Oslo, all the wonderful people my husband and I met at Juritzen Forlag, the Norwegian booksellers, journalists and readers. It’s one of the highlights of my career and in many ways emboldened me to write this novel.
Thank you to Jo Dickinson and Suzanne Baboneau at Simon & Schuster UK. I’m honoured to be part of your tribe and look forward to a long relationship.
Denise Bukowski has been my book agent and friend since I became an author. She’s a warrior and I admire the hell out of her. I’m indebted to Denise for her faith in my first novel, Rush Home Road, and for ever being on the first line among the large assemblage of dynamic women and men who make my books better. Denise was the earliest reader of The Mountain Story and gave me notes that helped shape the narrative, just as she’s done with all of my novels. I appreciate our long phone conversations, her wise counsel, her candour and her sense of humour.
Bill Hamilton, my UK agent, has worked doggedly on my behalf for years and I’m so thankful for all he does. Bill was an early reader, too, and I very much appreciated his perspective.
Claire Cameron, author of the beautifully tense novel The Bear, took the time to read that long first draft and emailed me a lovely note—just the sort that one author would appreciate from another. Her comments, coming from a skilled outdoors-person, not to mention a talented writer, were valuable and enormously appreciated.
The copy editors on both sides of the border brought their clear eyes and narrative skills to the novel. Thank you to Doris Cowan in Canada and particular thanks to Erica Ferguson who made a number of great saves and didn’t miss a single detail.
With fondness and respect, thank you Michael and Judy and Lennie.
Before I wrote the first sentence of this novel, I spent time on Mount San Jacinto with my husband and children, and then more time alone whil
e I worked out the story. Wolf Truly and the others had been waiting in the character queue for some time, but the narrative came in chapters, more vivid with each trip up in the tram. When I had the story in broad strokes I needed to consult someone familiar with the mountain and surrounding area of Palm Springs and the Coachella Valley. I found Matt Jordon, a member of the Riverside Mountain Rescue Unit. He was my guide on a number of mountain hikes, patient with my questions: “Would it be possible to …? Would it be accurate to say …? Is it believable that …?” I thank Matt for sharing his knowledge and for keeping me safe on the mountain—even in darkness, and deep snow. I’m also thankful to Matt, and to his wife and fellow outdoors enthusiast, Kim, for reading and making important comments about the final draft. Their thumbs up meant a lot to me.
Search and Rescue teams all over the world: these extraordinary people, many of whom are volunteers, risk their lives to save lost, imperilled, and stranded strangers and are heroes in every sense. Go to RMRU.org to read about real mountain rescues on Mount San Jacinto and learn more about safe wilderness practices.
Mount San Jacinto. The unnamed mountain in the novel is a fictional projection of the real mountain that overlooks Palm Springs. I changed the mountain’s geography slightly, and created Santa Sophia and Tin Town within view of it.
I have a great affection for nature, the mountain, Palm Springs and the surrounding desert. While doing research for this book I became interested in the Cahuilla, who inhabited the desert and foothills, and enjoyed reading Mukat’s People by Lowell John Bean, and Not for Innocent Ears by Ruby Modesto and Guy Mount, and learning from Temalpakh by Katherine Siva Saubel and Lowell John Bean, among many books about Cahuilla culture and history. I’m grateful to the Cahuilla for what I learned about their people. In mysterious ways they influenced my voice in the telling of The Mountain Story.
Thanks to my mother and father, two of my favourite humans on the planet, whose humour and compassion continue to inspire me, and to my brothers, Todd and Curt, my sisters-in-law, Kelly and Erin, and my extended family of Loyers and Rowlands, and Stielers and Gecelovskys, for their love and support.
It can’t be easy to be friends with an author. We disappear for months at a time and don’t answer the phone. Thank you to my dear friends; the ones I walk the hills and laugh with, the ones who dance with me at birthday parties, and the ones who keep inviting me even though I can never come, and the ones who call and email from far away. I’m blessed to have such generous women in my life, and so grateful to know they’ll be there when I emerge from underground.
It took me three years to write The Mountain Story. Our son, Max, was entering middle school when I began, and our daughter, Tashi, was eight. I wrote. They grew. Max just graduated and Tashi will soon be twelve. In between? There was sway. My family is folded into the pages of this book. Their love sustains me and their tenacity inspires.
Milan. My partner in life. You.
LORI LANSENS was a successful screenwriter before writing her first novel, Rush Home Road. Translated into twelve languages and published in fifteen countries, Rush Home Road received rave reviews around the world. Her follow-up novel, The Girls, was an international success and was featured as a bookclub pick by Richard & Judy in the UK, selling 300,000 copies. Her next book was The Wife’s Tale, which was a national bestseller. Born and raised in Chatham, Ontario, Lori Lansens now makes her home in the Santa Monica Mountains with her husband and two children.