Above All Else

by Dana Alison Levy

  Chapter Thirty-Eight:

  Rose

  May 18–22

  Everest Base Camp to Kathmandu

  17,600–4,600 feet above sea level

  The trek down from Base Camp to Lukla passes by in a fog. Whole days disappear as we walk in silence, our footsteps barely registering on the dusty earth. The mountains are behind us now, and I don’t turn to look at them. I don’t want to see them. We cover the distance slowly, my body aching and weak. It should be getting easier. We are heading down into oxygen and warmer climates, down to fields starting to bud out in a coat of green fuzz, alive with new crops. There is no more snow, no ice, just an ever-increasing warmth from the sun as the days lengthen.

  No one talks much. Jordan and Paul watch me nervously, anxious for proof that the same girl who went up the mountain came back down. Occasionally they bring up subjects from home: questions about dorms at Yale or whether I’ll come home for Thanksgiving. The words are low and soothing, but I can’t make myself concentrate on the meaning. My schedule—my famous plan that Tate used to tease me about—is gone. I can’t even pretend, anymore, that I have any control. All of the details and facts that make up my life feel so far away from who I am now. Everyone seems to understand. At least, they don’t push for answers but let their questions hang in the air.

  Jordan is shrunken, still skinny and weak from his altitude sickness. He walks even more slowly than me, and sometimes he calls for Tate to come walk with him, to stay close. And Tate, who can read the panic in his father’s face, slows his pace and stays with him for a while. Then he returns and takes my hand, holding it tight.

  * * *

  —

  Asha and Finjo walk in front of us. Like always, Finjo is on his cell phone, madly talking as he walks, making plans for his next trip. I almost smile at the familiar sight. Asha was successful in her summit, which means that she will be a senior guide the next time she climbs. It makes me shudder. Next time. She will go back up, up through the Icefall, up past the dead bodies. She will climb again and again.

  I try not to think about Luc, still up in the snow on the mountain, or his parents, who are in Kathmandu. I try not to think of Dawa, his sly smile when playing Uno, his easy grace as he crossed the bridges of the Icefall, or the funeral that took place in Lukla, his widow and kids stone-faced and silent as we tried to stammer out our condolences. I try not to think of Everest at all.

  But the mountain won’t let go that easily. Night after night I wake up screaming, nightmares of bodies and ice and endless darkness invading my brain.

  Night after night Tate pulls me close, holding me in his arms and whispering softly in my ear, “It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re right here.”

  My breathing slows, and the sweat on my neck and face dries. I blink, disoriented, in the tiny lodge beds. We’re okay. We’re right here.

  Outside my window, the sunrise hits the peaks and turns them a glorious, blazing orange. I turn away from the view and let my eyes close, my back pressed tight against Tate’s chest.

  * * *

  —

  When we arrive at the airport back in Kathmandu, after another gut-churning flight on the tiny bouncing plane, I am unprepared. Unprepared for the smog, for the crowds, for the French and Korean media crews there to get footage and quotes from those of us who were with Luc and Yoon Su. Most of all, I am unprepared for Mami and Dad, who had jumped on the first possible flight after getting the news. They are standing right outside the restricted area, their faces tight and drawn, scanning the crowds until they see us.

  “ROSE! ROSALITA!” Mami shouts, catching sight of us.

  At the sound of her voice, something inside me breaks, cracking open like a crevasse on the Icefall, deep and endless. The Dread that I thought I could climb away from claws over me, and I pitch forward, nearly knocking them over as I try to get to them. Sobs pull out of the broken place, so hard and painful that I cannot catch my breath, even with all the oxygen in the air.

  Mami holds me tight, so tight that my chest is crushed against the backpack straps, but I don’t care. There is no amount of closeness to her that feels close enough, and the Dread rears up again and again, reminding me that it will never go away, that it will loom over me forever.

  “Sweet girl, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay, my Rosalita, my baby,” Mami whispers into my hair, but I can’t stop, can’t slow the sobs tearing out of me.

  She is here, holding me, but she is still sick, and even after I did it, after climbing the tallest mountain in the world, even after training myself to fall asleep at the edge of the earth, I cannot bear it. I want her to make everything better; I want to feel safe, compared to the senseless death all around me on Everest, but instead everything feels so fragile.

  “It’s over. It’s all over. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” she repeats, and I try to catch my breath, try to slow my sobs. But I can’t.

  Somehow I know that even with the climb behind me, it’s not over. The tears stream down my face, and I can’t stop them, can’t do anything but cling to her.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine:

  Rose

  July 19

  Palo Alto, California

  30 feet above sea level

  I glance at my watch and slurp my iced coffee. Tate’s running late, as usual, but I don’t really care. It’s warm, and, even after two months back home, I’m still aware enough to be grateful: grateful for hot, sunny days; for my feet in flip-flops; for being hungry and eating my fill of cherries and burritos and fish tacos; for taking a run and having so much oxygen. I slide down the wall and turn my face to the sun, basking in the warmth.

  I’m waiting outside my therapist’s office, happy for a few minutes to collect my thoughts before Tate arrives. He doesn’t ask me what I talk about with Dr. Nathan, and I don’t bring it up, not because it’s uncomfortable but because my thoughts are messy and fragile and tenuous, still too weak to hold up to the light. But they help, these visits.

  It’s not like Tate doesn’t know that something inside me is broken. It was Tate who watched me, after we got home, and told me that I needed to get some help. He talked about trauma and about PTSD, and it was hard to hear, hard to see myself in what he was describing about his own terrors. I was angry at first, but he was right. The tears that started in the Kathmandu airport never really stopped.

  Even now, thinking about those days in Kathmandu makes my chest tighten. Seeing Yoon Su in the hospital, unable to talk or move; meeting Yoon Su’s parents and her sister Min Seo, and watching them try to grapple with the fact that, yes, she had survived but would lose toes, fingers, possibly part of her foot. Meeting Luc’s parents and trying to hold on to his mother as she fell to the ground, sobbing…

  Even after we got home and I texted with Yoon Su, the nightmares were constant, and I would wake up with my pillow soaked with tears every night. It was like a dam had burst within me, and the Dread that I’d been working to contain for months flooded out ready to drown me. Nightmares about Luc, nightmares about Mami falling off a cliff and dying…Night after night I fought sleep, trying to stay out of the dark recesses of my own head.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, focusing on the sun, on the smells of coffee, ocean breezes, faint food scents from the restaurant next door.

  I am here.

  Dr. Nathan and I talk a lot about climbing and why I do it. We talk about the risks and the motivation—attempting to control something in a world that often feels out of control. We talk about Dawa and Luc and how wrong their deaths feel, how unfair. We talk about my guilt in choosing to become one of the many Western tourists who pay huge sums to climb a mountain in a country where poverty looms and Sherpas risk their lives for our dreams. We talk about the summit and how I can be proud of what I did, even with all that happened after.

  And we talk about Mami. Mami and how guilty I feel that
I got to climb and she didn’t, especially since she was the one who pushed me to be able to do it. Mami, who endured my bad moods and complaints about training because she knows me and knew what that summit would mean.

  Mami—and how terrified I am of losing her.

  At first talking about it felt like touching electric wire, painful and shocking every time. But the more we talk, the less it hurts. Slowly I’m realizing that the Dread isn’t going anywhere, no matter where I climb. Mami is sick, but she’s okay for now. And I have to find a way to be okay with that. I have to find a way to walk alongside her with this illness, to keep walking, even when she has a bad day and my thoughts spiral to an image of her in a wheelchair, unable to hold me up, to be my rock the way she always has been.

  Sometimes it seems impossible, like the Dread will always own me. But other days I think I can get a glimpse of how it could be different. I’ll tell Tate about it, but not yet.

  The beep of a horn startles me, and my eyes fly open. Tate’s in front of me, his longboard strapped onto the top of the car, his windows down. He looks like a postcard of a California surfer dude. His smile is gentle as I get in.

  “I talked to Paul,” he says. “He’s freaking out because, according to the agency, they’re now next on the list for adoption. Could be months of waiting, or they could get a call tomorrow. He’s losing his shit, and Drew is apparently buying out the entire baby department of Target ‘just in case.’ But Paul says they’ll still be at Rockface on time, even if he has to pry Drew out of the Snugli section.”

  I grin. The thought of Drew and Paul as dads makes every single thing better. Ever since Nepal, Paul’s been…not a father figure, and not exactly a brother, but family. We shared something that ties us together forever. And the idea of him with a baby feels hopeful in a way that few things do right now.

  “I can’t wait to be an auntie,” I say to Tate. “I’m in charge of all hats.” Baby hats are the cutest thing in the world.

  Tate rolls his eyes. “You may need to fight Drew,” he says, then leans over and kisses me.

  It is still a small miracle, kissing Tate. Kissing him in the California sunshine, in warm summer rain, in our houses when our parents are out, in the back of the car when there’s nowhere else to go…It’s the one thing that has returned home from the mountains miraculously intact.

  “How are you feeling? Ready for this?” he asks finally.

  I lean back in the passenger seat, smoothing my hair, trying to catch my breath. “I’m ready. Or at least I’m glad we’re doing it. I’m glad there will be something—I don’t know—permanent to remember them.” My eyes fill up with tears, but it’s sadness, not panic or Dread. Only sadness.

  We are on our way to Rockface for the first annual Lucien Cartier and Dawa Sherpa Memorial Fundraiser and Yoon Su Rhee Climbing Scholarship. It was Mami’s idea, or at least the idea of a fundraiser was, and Tate and I decided to see if Rockface would let us do something there. So yes, I am ready to do it, except that I know it will hurt.

  Tate’s hand squeezes mine. “It’s going to be fine. Better than fine. You’ll dazzle them.” He glances at me. “I have a surprise for you when we get there. Not a huge one!” he adds quickly, knowing full well how I feel about surprises when I am in full-on planning mode. “But I think you’ll like it.”

  I raise one eyebrow. “As long as it’s not a schedule-changing surprise. Because I’m already nervous enough about speaking in front of everyone.” I sigh. I want to do this, I really do. But walking willingly back into the sadness is so very hard.

  As we drive, Tate talks about the surf report, Jordan’s plans to visit him in Rhode Island for a father-son hiking weekend during foliage season, a recent text from his roommate, a fabric artist named Jorge from Pittsburgh. Jordan’s back to his usual healthy self after getting down from the altitude, but he’s changed, like the rest of us. He’s quieter and less quick to make jokes or lead the conversation. He sometimes trails Tate around the house like he doesn’t want to let him out of his sight, and Tate is more patient than usual. They go out paddleboarding together or walk Zizu the dog, which they haven’t done since Tate hit puberty.

  If I came home from Everest broken apart, Tate came home stronger than ever. Not climbing seemed to answer some question in him that he desperately needed answered. I’m so proud and happy to see him like this, even though I can’t help feeling even more damaged in comparison.

  * * *

  —

  When we get to Rockface, there’s already a big crowd milling around outside: all the climbing gym regulars, a ton of friends from high school, local media outlets, and our parents, of course. Tate pushes through the doors into the lobby, which is usually empty except for whoever’s working the desk. But there’s a crowd in there too. Tate moves toward the front, where the doors lead to the climbing space.

  “There,” he says, gesturing to the wall by the door. “My surprise. I told you it was nothing too crazy.”

  I stare. The wall has always been covered in mostly outdated climbing-event posters, used-gear-for-sale signs, and lost-and-found notes. But now it’s repainted a clean white, with a giant framed photo of our Everest group: Luc in front, head thrown back laughing; Dawa with his hand on Finjo’s shoulder; Yoon Su grinning wide. And in beautiful lettering that I recognize immediately as Tate’s work is a quote: “The challenges here are tremendous, and the risks are sobering. But there is no place I would rather be than in the mountains.”—Lucien Cartier

  I let the tears fall. Yoon Su had shared the blog posts and notes Luc wrote to her students, and he had written this in her last post, the day before they left Base Camp. I think back to that day, the wind-scoured Base Camp, the desolation and emptiness of the summit climb. Luc had loved it there. That has to count for something.

  Grabbing Tate’s hand, I stand there, thinking back to our climb until the crowd around us quiets and I realize we have to begin. I turn to face everyone, the climbers and friends and family who have all come to help us launch this scholarship. Yoon Su and I have been texting since I got home, and she loved the thought of Luc and Dawa being remembered this way. We talked to Finjo and decided: we would put half the money toward an academic scholarship for Sherpa kids from Dawa’s village of Lukla and half to support Dawa’s family. If they don’t want to, Dawa’s kids will not have to climb. Then Rockface agreed to donate an annual Yoon Su Rhee Accessibility Scholarship at the climbing gym to sponsor a gym membership and classes for a disabled climber in the community who otherwise couldn’t afford to climb. When I asked Yoon Su how she felt about it being named for her, she didn’t text back for days, and I was so afraid I’d offended her. Everything felt dangerous and unsure, even sending a text.

  But then she answered, attaching a video of herself in the physical therapy gym, asking that I make sure and share it today. “Whoever wins this scholarship, just know this: I’m not here to be some inspiration poster you hang on your door,” she says in the video, staring at the camera. And there’s her quick smile: a flash, then gone. “I’m here to work, and you’d better be too. Because someday I’ll come to California, and we’ll climb together. And you’ll want to keep up.”

  I think of her now, fighting so hard to reclaim her strength and her power. And I look out at all these people who will make sure Luc’s and Dawa’s names are known for years to come. It still feels so horribly unfair. This is not what I wanted, any of this. But it’s what we have. And it’s what we do next that counts.

  Tate squeezes my hand, then steps back into the crowd. Yoon Su’s video is almost over. It is time for me to speak. I take a deep breath, then another. The air is generous here, unlike on top of Everest. I can breathe here. One more breath, and I begin.

  It is not the mountains we conquer but ourselves.

  —Sir Edmund Hillary

  Epilogue:

  Tate

  (Six Months Later)
January 5

  Providence, Rhode Island

  75 feet above sea level

  So what’s it like to summit Mount Everest? I’ll never know, and Rose doesn’t talk about it. Not yet, anyway. Does it change you to know you’ve succeeded in something that only a few thousand people have ever done? Make you braver? Maybe. I have no idea. But I do know there’s no talk of other peaks. We road trip to hike gnarly ridgelines in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and rope in to hit a technical route sometimes. But she doesn’t talk about far-off summits in far-off lands. And neither do I.

  And I don’t miss it, that drive for the next big mountain. Walking away from the summit of Everest was like letting go of a rope I’d been clinging to and realizing I’ll float instead of fall.

  Honestly, it was a little like a drug, saying no like that. And I keep going for the high. Since then I’ve said no to taking a full load of classes first semester because I know I’d only get overwhelmed and fuck it up. I’ve said no to getting a single dorm room because if I don’t have roommates, I’ll spend every minute driving down to see Rose. No is my superpower, and amazingly, it hasn’t blown up anything. Not Dad. Not Rose. Not me. We’re all still standing.

  Sometimes we talk about the others. Rose texts constantly with Yoon Su, who had to amputate one foot completely, all the toes on the other foot, and several fingers on her left hand. But being Yoon Su, she hasn’t slowed down that much. She stayed pretty quiet for the first months of recovery but recently wrote to say she’s going back to teaching and plans to take up adaptive ski racing. Rose says we should keep an eye out for wherever the Paralympic Games are going to be held in eight years, and knowing Yoon Su, that’s probably a good bet.