“How…?” I start.
“He can climb because he is still on the permit. He can reach Camp Two because he’s a strong climber. He’s staying with him because…well, because he’s Tate.” Paul puts his arms around me, but I shrug him off.
“I’m going,” I say. “I’m going to them. Now.”
* * *
—
Moving down Lhotse Face toward Camp Two, every part of me hurts in a frightening way, as though the pain is drilling out from my bones. Even though there’s more oxygen here, I can’t catch my breath. But even worse is the Dread, thicker and stronger than ever. I am terrified of what I am walking toward. Asha is in front of me, but I feel so totally alone. Once we got to the fixed ropes, Paul rushed down to Camp Two to offer medical help. I want him to come with me, to help Luc, but of course there is no point. A doctor won’t help him. If I’m honest, I don’t want Paul to help Luc. I want him to help me. I don’t want to see Luc dying. But Tate is there. Tate, loyal and brave to his core, has climbed anyway, to be there. Down the rope we move, every step a painful challenge.
It is late by the time we get off the Face and onto the gentler slope, and the sun is low in the sky.
“We start looking now,” Asha says. She has waited for me, her radio in hand. “Finjo says he and Paul are down at Camp Two, and Paul helps a lot. But he says Luc will be somewhere near here.”
My heart is thick with fear and a kind of horrible anticipation. This is the Dread, every single moment that I have feared since Mami got sick. Everything I traveled around the world to conquer, and it was lying here the whole time, waiting for me.
I scan the edges of the trail but see nothing, so we keep walking. I have been using oxygen at a reduced flow, but now I take the mask off.
“TATE!” I scream into the wind. My voice is pulled away so fast I can barely hear it myself. But I can’t help it. I scream his name again.
Asha puts a hand on my arm. “We will see them. I have directions. We will see a big rock on the left, then a cornice. They are near there.”
I nod, barely able to believe what we will find. Barely able to believe the Dread is so real.
But soon enough there’s a huge jutting rock on the edge of the path and a wind-blown snow cornice beyond it. I move faster now, too afraid, like a kid who throws open the closet door rather than waiting for the monsters to come and find her. But the monster is real, and I’m running as fast as I can to meet it.
“Tate? Are you here?” I cry. “Tate!”
“Rose? Jesus, is that you?”
The voice is so close I scream in surprise. They are a little above me, pressed against another smaller rock in a pathetic attempt to shield themselves from the wind. Tate is on his knees in his down suit, a figure slumped half on his lap and half in the snow. Luc.
Tate looks up at me, and his face, oh, his face is so lost. And Luc…
My voice cracks, and I am crying, trying to talk but crying too hard to make sense. “Oh, Luc! No…No! Is he…? Tate, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to be here, to do this. Luc wouldn’t…I’m so sorry—”
He cuts me off. “Rose. You didn’t do anything. It was my choice. My choice to come. To be here with Luc.” His voice breaks, and he reaches out a hand to me. “But you’re safe. You left, and I didn’t say goodbye. I wasn’t there.”
I grab his hand and hold it tight. I want to run into his arms, to hold him until I am warm and safe, but we are 22,000 feet in the air, and there is a dying man already there.
I move to his side and kneel next to him. Luc is still and silent in his lap. He is so large, draped across Tate’s lap, but he’s not moving.
“Is he—?” I don’t want to say it.
Tate shrugs, then shakes his head. “He lost consciousness around thirty minutes ago. Before that he was…I guess ‘awake’ is the best word. I talked, and he kind of responded. That was before, though. He’s still breathing. But barely.”
I close my eyes for a second, trying to control the rising hysteria. The tears have been pouring down my cheeks since I saw them, and I have to bite down to keep big racking sobs from tearing out of me. I try to think of Luc, of what he might still be hearing.
“You are such an amazing climber,” I say softly. “I’m so glad I got to climb with you.” I move my head slightly so my tears won’t drip on his frozen face. “You worked so hard for this, and you made it to the summit. I hope by now you’re feeling okay. I mean, I think you might be feeling warm….” I break off.
“God, Tate, how are you doing this? How can you sit here and not scream? I’m sorry, Luc! I’m so sorry! I wish we had been together. I wish we could have saved you.” I stop, trying to control the racking sobs that shake my body. “I promise I’ll tell everyone how amazing you were—how brave and funny—how you looked out for me whenever we were doing practice climbs and always shared your chocolate bars, even though you pretended to be mad about it. And I’ll find Amelie. I’ll show her our photos.” Here my sobs threaten to choke me. “If she wants I’ll take her climbing someday. Not Everest. But somewhere. Somewhere else…”
I can’t talk anymore. Putting my face in my palms, I sob for long, awful minutes.
Tate puts an arm around me. “He’s gone, Rosie. He’s gone.”
I open my eyes. Tate’s eyes are dry, but dark circles ring them and he looks ancient and broken. Looking down at Luc, I want more than anything to see him look at peace or released or some kind of pretty little lie that will let me stand up and walk away from him. But he looks exactly the same—bluish skin, eyes half-open, ice frozen over his forehead and into his hair.
“We go down now,” Asha says, scaring me. I had honestly forgotten she was there, my guide and friend who has been watching two American teenagers hold a dying French man on the side of her mountain. I wonder what she thinks of this, if she is thinking of her brother and whether anyone held him as he died. I wonder what she thinks of us paying enormous sums of money to stomp up and down the mountain they thought of as a god.
I nod. “Let’s go,” I say.
Tate gently lays Luc’s head on the ground, then lifts it again and places his own pack under it like a pillow. I don’t say anything, just watch, while the tears fall like rain down my cheeks. The air is colder now, and they start to freeze against my skin. I wipe them away with the back of my mitten.
He picks up Luc’s pack and stands, slinging it over his shoulder. “For his family,” he says.
I slip my mitten into Tate’s and lean against him, but he is tired and off-balance and stumbles with my weight.
There is no comfort to be had anywhere. I start to walk.
“Rose,” Tate calls.
I turn, and he holds his arms out to me, and I am in them, trying to hold him as tight as I can with my exhausted, pathetic grip because it seems so important to hold on to him, to make sure he knows I’m here.
“I couldn’t save him, Rose,” he whispers. “I couldn’t fucking save him. He was a hero, and he kept Yoon Su alive, and I told her I’d try, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” He repeats the words over and over, until the words turn into sobs, and we hold each other until Asha tells us we have to go.
Chapter Thirty-Seven:
Tate
May 17–18
Everest Base Camp
17,600 feet above sea level
We’re halfway through the Icefall before I even notice where we are. This whole nightmare’s almost over.
Except for the part where we get to wake up.
Rose and I, along with Asha, limped into Camp Two, where Paul gave us the news. Bishal had been found by some Adventure Consultant climbers and brought down to Camp Two this morning. He had severe frostbite and would probably lose several fingers, but he and Yoon Su had already been picked up by a helicopter.
Ang Dorji had found Dawa’s body, 500 feet from Ca
mp Two. Frozen to death.
This is the one that floods me with so much rage that I want to tear the mountain apart. Five hundred feet. So fucking close, and he couldn’t get there. Dawa had summated Everest before; he knew this mountain as well as anyone in the world. He was smart and strong and knew everything he needed to survive, and still the mountain killed him. I think about his daughter, close to our age, and sons who are already climbing as support Sherpas. And now they’ll live the rest of their lives without their dad.
He was close enough to camp that they were able to get his body down in the helicopter, so at least he won’t be left on the mountain, like Luc. Like hundreds of others. I hate this place more than I ever knew I could hate something.
Jopsang Sherpa, the last support staff at the campsite, wanted us to stay the night at Camp Two and rest, but there was no fucking way I was staying on this mountain another minute more than I had to. So we headed down to Base Camp, even though it was getting dark, and now we’re almost there.
“Last ladder. Last time,” Rose says. We’re so close we’re practically bumping into each other, but neither of us has said anything in hours. Her voice is croaky and weak.
I try to smile. “You’re an expert by now.”
She shakes her head. “They scare me every single time.” She’s silent for a second, then speaks again. “I get it now, I really do. This climb…No one should be here who doesn’t really, really want it.” Her voice catches. “And I wanted it, so badly. More than I even realized. And maybe that makes me selfish, maybe only someone really terrible would push so hard for something like this. But you…You climbed for Luc, even though you didn’t want to. You are so brave, and I’m sorry for what I said!” She bites back a sob and starts to turn away.
I grab her before she can start on the ladder. Grab her and hold her because I need her to hear.
“No! Rosie, no. You’re not selfish. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m so fucking sorry I’m not as brave as you, that I didn’t tell you what was going on with me. I didn’t want to disappoint you! I wanted to be there for you.” I make myself breathe—in, out. Candle, flower.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you. But I’m not sorry I came. And I’m not sorry I kissed you. I’m so fucking grateful that I was brave enough to do that.” I wrap my arms around her, and even with all our gear and exhaustion and sadness, I have a sense of rightness, of RoseAndTate, fitting together where we belong.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I wish I could have done this for you. I wish I could have saved Luc. But I love you so much, Rosie.”
Her eyes meet mine, and they’re shadowed and bloodshot and exhausted, but still they shine out at me. “I love you,” she says, her voice a ghost in the icy silence. “I love you, I love you.”
For one beautiful second, everything else in the world disappears.
* * *
—
Finally we’re on the gray, gravelly moraine, crossing the endless and empty stretch that leads to the tents. It’s almost dark. Ahead, headlamps bob around, and in the domed nylon of the tents, lights like ships drift in an ocean of snow and ice. I’m numb, inside and out. The darker it gets, the more I think about Luc, lying alone in the dark, my backpack under his head.
We’re still a ways from the tents when a headlamp veers up and starts moving toward us. It’s coming fast.
“Please don’t let it be Luc’s family,” I whisper. “They couldn’t get here yet, could they?”
Before Rose can answer, there’s a shout that cracks through the cold air.
“TATE!” a voice screams. “Tate! Is that you?”
It’s Dad. Dad’s voice, except it isn’t, really; it’s a panicked, crazy-sounding thing unlike his usual loud laugh and laid back California drawl.
“Rose? Tate? Who’s there? Do you have him? Is that my son? Jesus, can someone tell me if that’s my son?” He’s screaming, and he’s moving closer in the darkness until the glare of his lamp is shining right in my face.
“Dad, it’s me! It’s okay! It’s me and Rose. We’re both here; we’re fine. I’m fine, Dad. I’m okay. I’m fine.” I keep repeating the words as he barrels into us, nearly knocking me down as he grabs me.
His arms are wrapped around me like a strap, and I can’t move, can’t hug him back, can’t do anything but stand there, still holding Rose’s hand. He lets go and opens his arms wider, trying to grab us both. I reach out and hold on to both of them, not caring if it’s too hard. I cling as tight as I can. We’re holding each other up, and I don’t know who’s sobbing, who’s talking, who’s repeating my name again and again.
* * *
—
The next morning when I wake up, there’s a moment of normal before everything rushes back. I’m alone in my tent, since Dr. Celina had Dad back in the infirmary the minute we got into camp. I never even got to talk to him before she had him hooked up to oxygen and had sent me and Rose away, each with a sleeping pill. Shaking off the grogginess, I head over to the infirmary. The day’s bright and clear, and a few groups have already left for their summit push. The business of Everest, still churning away.
When I get there, Dad’s lying down but wide awake, staring at the open door. He sits up, groaning slightly, when I come in.
“Hey.” I take a step forward, then stop. I don’t know what to say. Looming over him makes it worse.
He pats the edge of the bed, an IV line taped to his hand, which looks like it belongs to an eighty-year-old. “Hey, T-Man. Have a seat.”
All the fire and strength that makes him Jordan Russo—former college baseball player, peak bagger, extreme marathoner—is gone. And I feel like I’m sitting next to a stranger. Without a live current of competition and frustration and energy crackling between us, I don’t know what we are.
“Do you know that when you were tiny, just a newborn, I used to do all the night feedings? Your mom was exhausted after the C-section, and so the first month, the nights were mine. She’d pump so I’d have bottles, and I’d lie on the couch and you’d stare at me with your big brown eyes. I’d tell you about work, about what Hillary was up to, about how tired we were, but mostly about how much we loved you.” He smiles faintly. “Back then you loved listening to me talk. As soon as I shut up, you’d start crying, so I’d start up again, babbling about anything I could think of until you fell asleep. My voice was hoarse for weeks.”
I perch on the edge of the bed, my weight bending the mattress. “I don’t think I ever knew that,” I say.
He shrugs, then winces.
I want so badly not to say the wrong thing, not to spark yet another argument. It’s like walking on the Icefall, taking tiny, tentative steps and hoping the ground holds. “I’m sorry you couldn’t climb, Dad,” I say finally, feeling the stupid, pathetic inadequacy of these words.
He shakes his head, not like he’s disagreeing but in confusion. “What are you sorry for? Did you sabotage my lungs without my knowing it? If so, you might want to look for a job in the Special Forces or Secret Service or something.”
I try to smile at his joke, but it feels more like a grimace. “No, but I fucked this up. I know that.”
He shifts so that he’s sitting up. “You don’t need to apologize, son. But I want to understand.” He sighs. “I want to know what’s going on with you. What happened?”
I swallow. “I don’t know exactly. I mean, that fall on Rainier was scary, and I was freaked out, for sure. We never really talked about it. And…” I pause, unsure how to tell him what Dr. Celina had said. It feels too dramatic, calling it PTSD.
“Dr. Celina was saying when something like that happens, it can be traumatic. And yeah, maybe that sounds stupid, but the panic attacks were bad. Really bad.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Dad asks, but he doesn’t sound exasperated.
“Because I didn’t want to let you down! Any o
f you! You were so pumped, and it was the one thing we still did together. I—I didn’t want to ruin it. Then Maya got sick, and the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint Rose. I figured it would get better. But it didn’t.”
I let my gaze fall to the floor so I don’t have to see him pretending he’s not disappointed, pretending like he doesn’t think it’s laziness or weakness.
“Tate. My son,” he says, and his voice is rough, from coughing or maybe something else. “I don’t know why anyone wants to do this. I wanted it, and God, if I’m honest, I still do, but it’s not the kind of thing anyone should take lightly. And I’m sorry—” He breaks into a cough that turns into a sob. “I’m goddamn sorry that I pushed you. What kind of a father…What kind of man…?” He stops, turning away from me.
Panic floods my chest. I’ve made Dad cry. “Hey. HEY. I wanted to! Or at least I thought I wanted to. And I’m not even sorry I came,” I say. “Dad, I swear—” And now I’m crying too, tears and snot running down my face. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I could have said something. I should have. I know that.”
We’re silent for a minute, and I wipe my face on my sleeve, taking a deep breath. Next to me, Dad coughs again, then quiets. He moves over, shoving his own body against the wall.
“I’m exhausted, buddy,” he says, patting the spot next to him. “How about keeping me company until I conk out?”
I wriggle next to him until I’m lying down, my filthy trekking pants and boots on top of the blanket. He closes his eyes. “Talk to me, T-Man. Tell me something I don’t know.”
I smile a little. “Well. Rose and I—”
“I said something I don’t already know,” he mutters, his mouth curving into a grin. “What do you think, I’m an idiot? Nice job, by the way. Russo men always hit above their weight when it comes to amazing women.”
I laugh a little, shaking my head. I guess we weren’t as subtle as I thought. “Okay, then, let me tell you about the kind of lightweight plastic I think could work if we’re ever going to make flying cars,” I start and talk and talk until his breathing evens out and he starts to snore.
Above All Else Page 23