I helped her sit on the edge and lowered her in. The water came up over her shoulders. Slowly, she bent her left knee, laying it flat across the prep area of the sink. She leaned her head back on the built-in dish drainer, closed her eyes, and held out a hand, her finger hooked where the mug would be.
I brought her tea and she said, “I’ll be with you in a little while.”
It’s amazing how a bath can improve your disposition.
I walked off, turning just before I reached the fireplace, hollering back toward the kitchen. “Oh, and you’ll never believe the name of the national forest we’re in.”
“Try me.”
“It’s called the Ashley National Forest.”
She was laughing as I stepped out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ashley’s in the bath. I’m standing outside. The wind’s picking up. I don’t know if things are getting better or if we’re just prolonging the inevitable.
So then you were four and a half months. You were lying on the table, and the nurse came in and squeezed the goo, as you liked to call it, on your stomach and started rubbing it in with the wand.
I handed her an envelope and said, “We’d rather you not tell us right now. We’ve got a date tonight, so if you don’t mind, just write whether it’s a boy or girl, and then seal it. We’ll open it at dinner.”
She nodded and began showing us the head, the legs, even a hand. It was the most magical thing. I’d seen dozens, but none had ever affected me like that one.
Then she started laughing.
We should have picked up on it, but we didn’t. I asked her, “What?” She just shook her head, wrote on the card, licked the envelope, and handed it to me saying, “Congrats. Mom and baby are healthy. You all have a fun dinner.”
So we did. I drove you home. You kept asking me, “What do you think? Boy or girl?”
I said, “Boy. Definitely a boy.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“Okay. Girl, it’s definitely a girl.”
“I thought you just said it was a boy.”
I laughed. “Honey, I have no idea. I don’t care. I’ll take whatever kid comes out of the oven.”
Our favorite restaurant. Matthew’s. Catty-cornered to San Marco Square. They seated us in a booth in the back. You were glowing. I don’t know if I’d ever seen you like that.
Ever.
I don’t remember what we ordered. I guess it was the chef’s special, ’cause Matthew came out of the back, said hello, and sent us some champagne when he left. We sat there, champagne bubbles bubbling, candlelight flickering off your eyes, and the envelope lying on the table. You pushed it to me. I pushed it back to you. You pushed it back. I pushed it back and kept my hand on top.
“You do it. Honey, you’ve earned it.”
You picked it up, slid your finger beneath the seal, pulled out the note, and pressed it to your chest. Laughing. Neither one of us could talk. Then you slowly opened the card and read it.
I guess you read it two or three times, because it was about three weeks before you said anything to me. “Well…” I asked. “What is it?”
You laid the card on the table and grabbed my hands. “It’s both.”
“Honey, come on. Quit kidding. It can only be one.” Then it hit me.
I stared at you. Tears were streaming down. “Really?”
You nodded.
“Twins?”
You nodded and buried your face in your napkin.
I stood, grabbed my champagne glass, banged it with my knife, and spoke to the other fifteen couples in the restaurant. “Ladies and gentlemen, excuse me, folks…I’d just like to announce that my wife…is giving me twins for Christmas.”
We bought champagne for the entire restaurant, and Matthew made his signature apple cobbler thing that just absolutely melts in your mouth. Everybody in the restaurant had some.
Driving home, you didn’t say a word. Your head was spinning with nurseries, colors, a second crib, a second of everything. We walked in the door, and you disappeared to the bathroom. Seconds later, you called me. “Honey?”
“Yeah.”
“I need help.”
I walked in to find you standing in your underwear and bra staring in the mirror and holding a bottle of vitamin E oil. One hand on your hip. You handed me the bottle. “Your job from here to Christmas is to make sure I’m not swallowed up in stretch marks and that my belly doesn’t sag to my knees. So, get pouring.”
You lay on the bed, and I dumped the whole bottle over your stomach. You screamed. “Gross!”
“Honey…I’m just trying to cover every square inch.”
“Ben Payne!”
I rubbed it on your stomach, your back, legs, pretty much anyplace there was skin. You shook your head. “I feel like a greased pig.”
“You do smell kind of funny.”
I remember the laughter that followed, and I remember sliding around.
We had fun, didn’t we?
Somewhere in the hours that followed, you stared at the ceiling, one foot bouncing on a knee, and said, “You thought about names?”
“Not really. Still getting over the sticker shock.”
You crossed your hands over your stomach, crossed the other ankle over the other knee, your foot dancing up and down, and said, “Michael and Hannah.”
The moment you said it, it clicked. Like pieces of a puzzle snapping together.
I rolled over, pressed my lips to your tightening stomach, and whispered their names. A soccer kick followed by a punch settled it. From then on, it became the four of us.
Maybe that was the moment. Maybe if I could go back and start over, bathed in laughter, warmth, the crazy thought of two of everything and the slide and smell of vitamin E oil, I’d go there.
Because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t go much beyond that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Napoleon had been gone awhile, which had me a bit worried. When my clothes dried, I grabbed the bow, zipped up my jacket, and stepped outside. The wind was blowing over my back, out across the lake. I whistled, but heard nothing. I pulled my collar up and followed his footprints up a hill, then along a ridgeline overlooking the lake. The zigzag pattern told me he’d been chasing something. His tracks were hard to follow, as the snow was filling them. I crossed a second hill and saw him down near the lake, lying still in a red section of snow. I walked closer and realized the snow wasn’t the only thing red. I nocked an arrow and walked slowly up behind him. When I got close enough for him to hear me, he growled, but didn’t look. I walked around in a wide circle so he could see me. I checked the trees around us and over my shoulder. I spoke softly, “Hey, boy. It’s just me. You okay?”
He quit growling, but lay hunkered over what looked like a once-white-now-red ball of fuzz. I knelt, several feet in front of him.
Napoleon had not been attacked, but rather was the attacker. Part of a rabbit lay beneath him. A couple of feet and a few bones were all that was left. I nodded, checking over my shoulders. “Good job, boy. How would you feel about finding two more just like that and dropping them off at the big house up there.”
He looked at me, ripped, chewed, swallowed, snorted, and licked the sides of his face and nose.
“I don’t blame you. I’m hungry, too.” I stood up. “Can you find your way back?”
Apparently feeling like I was too close, he picked up what was left of the rabbit and carried it further from me.
“Suit yourself.”
Walking back gave me time to think. While we were warm, dry, and protected from the elements, we needed food—and a way out. Now more than ever. If I thinned it, the soup might last a day more. Beyond that, all we’d done was find a warm, dry place to die.
I took a different route back. Away from the lake. Several times I crossed moose tracks. More than one moose. And one larger than the other. Many times I crossed rabbit tracks, which are easy to spot because they hop, making a distinctive pattern. Moose are
easy to spot because they are so big and press deep into the snow.
I needed practice with the bow, but if I missed the target, the arrow would penetrate several feet down into the snow and I’d never find it. Wouldn’t take me long to lose all the arrows.
I returned to the A-frame, stoked the fireplace, and checked on Ashley, who was frolicking about like a dolphin and told me to go away. I went to one of the other cabins and pulled up a piece of carpet. Back at our place, I folded it once, then folded it again, and then again. I laid that over the top of one of the pews and tacked a paper plate to the center of it. In the center of the plate, I cut a hole about the size of a dime.
The A-frame room was more than forty yards long. I only needed about fifteen. I counted off the steps, backed up, and drew a line in the dust with my toe. I nocked an arrow, drew, settled the site, told myself, “Front sight, front sight, front sight” and then, “Press.” I gently squeezed the release, sending the arrow toward the target. It struck the paper about three inches above the hole. I nocked another and followed the same slow, easy movement. The second arrow struck just a hair to the right of the first. I shot a third arrow with the same result.
I needed to make an adjustment, so I pushed the peep site down. The peep site was the little circle inside the string through which your eye looked. It required you to look from the same spot every time, making the release the same every time. At least, in theory. Pushing it down would bring the arrow’s impact down.
It did. Just not far enough. I adjusted it again, bringing the impact too far. I readjusted, and brought the arrow up. Within thirty minutes, I could hit the hole from fifteen yards. Not every time, I’m not that steady, but every third or fourth shot, if I held true and still, I could hit the hole.
Ashley had heard the commotion. “What’s all that racket?”
“Just me trying to improve our chances at getting some dinner.”
“How about helping me out of here.”
She’d washed her T-shirt and underwear and spread them across the dish drainer grooves behind her head. She reached out her hands, and I helped her climb out. She wrapped a towel around herself and tucked it in the front like women do. Then she closed her eyes and reached for my shoulders. “I’m dizzy.”
She leaned against me, trying to regain her balance. She spoke with her eyes closed. “I’m told that guys are visual. Seeing naked women excites them. So, how’re you doing with all this?”
I turned her and started leading her toward the fire. “I’m still your doctor.”
“You sure? Doctors are human too.” She was smiling. Acknowledging the elephant in the room. “I can’t get much more naked.”
Her hands and feet were pruny, but she too was clean and smelled better. She toweled off, and I lifted her arm around my shoulder and allowed her to use me as a crutch. This time I got her to the reclining chair, which by its very design would elevate her leg, taking the pressure off it. I’d fed the fire too much, and the room was actually hot. I cracked the door to cool it off, which also didn’t take long.
She raised a finger. “Ben? You didn’t answer my question.”
“Ashley, I’m not blind. You’re beautiful, but you’re not mine.” I fed the fire. “And…I do still love my wife.”
She raised a finger. “I’m half naked and have been inside this bag since you put me here. I’ve seen you naked a half dozen times. Every time I go to the bathroom, you’re literally right here. So…how are you doing with all this? Is being this close to me difficult for you?”
I shrugged. “Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
“No.”
She looked surprised. Almost deflated. “So, you’re not excited by me at all?”
“Didn’t say that. I can be plenty excited by you.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“We’ve all seen movies where two strangers are lost in some vast wilderness. And then just like An Officer and a Gentleman, they end up rolling on the beach. Mad, passionate love that solves all their problems. Movie ends, and they walk off into the sunset. Weak-kneed and googly-eyed. But this is real life. I really want to get out of here and back home. And I want to do it with my heart intact. The part of my heart that needs to be filled with that has already been filled. By Rachel. It’s got nothing to do with whether you could or couldn’t. Do or don’t.”
“So in the all this time, from airport to plane crash to here, you haven’t once thought about having sex with me?”
“Sure I have.”
“You’re confusing me.”
“Being tempted and doing it are two different things. Ashley, don’t get me wrong. You’re remarkable. Incredibly good-looking. You’ve got the body of a Greek goddess—although I really wish you’d shave your legs—and you’re certainly smarter than me. Every time we talk I end up tongue-twisted and sounding stupid, but somewhere out there is a guy named Vince who, when I do meet him, is going to wish I’d treated you a certain way. And after I meet him, I’m going to wish I had. I’d like to be able to look him the eye and hide nothing. Because, trust me, hiding stuff hurts.” I stared at her.
“When we get out of here, you and I are going to look back on this, and we’re both going to wish I’d treated you a certain way. I want to be able to look back and know I did.” I fumbled with my thumbs. Nervous. “I’m separated from my wife because of something I did. Or, put another way, didn’t do. I’m living with that. Sex with you, or anyone else, would further that separation. And as good as that sex could or might be, it can’t hold a candle to the pain of being separated. I try to remind myself of that whenever…”
“Whenever what?”
“Whenever…I think something that your doctor ought not to be thinking.”
“So you are human.”
“Very much.”
She was quiet a minute. “I envy her.”
“You remind me of her.”
“How so?”
“Well…physically, you’re lean, athletic, muscular. I imagine you could knock me out with one kick.”
She laughed.
“Intellectually, I don’t want to argue with you. Emotionally, you don’t hide from anything. You put stuff on the table rather than dance around it—tend to face what’s facing you. And you have a deep reservoir of strength, evidenced by your sense of humor.”
“What’s her greatest weakness?”
I didn’t want to answer.
“Okay, don’t answer that. What was her greatest weakness prior to the separation?”
“The thing that’s also her greatest strength.”
“Which is?”
“Her love…for me and the twins.”
“How so?”
“She put us first. Always. Making herself a distant third.”
“And that’s a weakness?”
“Can be.”
“Is that the reason you guys separated?”
“No, but it didn’t help.”
“What would you prefer?”
I chose my words. “I’d prefer she was selfish like me.”
I grabbed a piece of plywood, three feet square, dusted it off, laid it flat across her lap, and handed her the box containing the jigsaw puzzle. “Found this. The picture’s worn off, so I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, but…might help occupy you.”
She wiggled off the lid and dumped out the pieces, immediately flipping them over and separating those with straight edges. She said, “You want to help?”
“Not a chance. Makes me dizzy just looking at it.”
“It’s not that bad.” Her fingers smoothly flipped the pieces. “Just take your time. Eventually, it’ll come together.”
I stared at the mess dumped in front of her. “What if it doesn’t?”
She shrugged. “It will. Maybe not like you think, but it will.”
“I don’t have the patience.”
“I doubt that.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
GIVEN THE CON
TINUING SNOW, the light outside stayed dim and gray and the temperature changed little. High in the A-frame, ice crystals formed on the window, spreading like spiderwebs across the glass.
The size of Ashley’s leg did not encourage me. She shook her head. “You might as well start calling me Thunder Thigh.”
I carried our large pot outside, made a dozen tightly packed snowballs about the size of softballs, and then sat down next to her left leg. I set the puzzle aside, folded a towel and set it beneath her leg, then began gently rubbing one snowball at a time in circles around the break.
She squirmed, her hands behind her head. “I don’t like this.”
“Just give it a few minutes. Once it turns numb, it’ll be better.”
“Yeah, but right now it’s not fun.”
Four snowballs later and she’d quit complaining. She lay back and turned her head, staring up through the window. I iced her leg for close to thirty minutes. Other than turning her skin bright red, the effect on her leg was minimal.
“Every hour on the hour. Got it?”
She nodded. She still didn’t look good. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her face looked flushed. It could have been the bath, but I had a feeling it wasn’t.
“Any idea where we are?” she asked.
I spread out the “map” and showed her the X that marked our spot.
About then Napoleon scratched at the door, pushed his way through, and sauntered over like he owned the place. He walked over to his corner of the mattress, circled, flopped down, curled up, tucked his face beneath one paw, and closed his eyes. The sides of his muzzle were still red, and his stomach was rounded and full.
“Where’s he been?”
“Eating breakfast.”
“He save any for us?”
“I talked to him about that, but he wasn’t having any.”
“Couldn’t you have taken a little bit? Snuck a piece out the side?”
“You want to put your hand anywhere near his mouth when he’s eating?” I shook my head. “Probably draw back a nub.”
The Mountain Between Us Page 20