But…this place out here is quiet. The silence has a ring to it. Even the snow makes a sound if you listen close enough. Somewhere a few days back, maybe when I first met him on the plane, I was attracted to this man I now know as Ben Payne. Sure, he’s good-looking, but what attracted me was something else. Something…I wanted to touch, or be touched by, something tender and warm and whole. I don’t know what to call it, but I know it when I hear it…and I hear it when he speaks to you in this recorder. I’ve listened many nights when he thought I was sleeping, but I stayed up just to hear his tone of voice and how he talked to and with you.
I’ve never had anyone talk to me like that. My fiancé doesn’t. Sure he’s kind, but in Ben, there’s this palpable thing that is rich and I just want to sink my hands into it, bathe, and paint myself in it. I know I’m talking about your husband, so you need to know that in all the time we’ve been here, he has treated me like a gentleman. Truly. At first my feelings were hurt, but then I saw that it had to do with this thing I’m talking about, with you…and it’s deep-wired into his DNA…like you’d have to kill him to get it out. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever sensed. Movies don’t depict it, books don’t narrate it, columns can’t poke fun at it. I have lain awake at night, listening to him talk to you, share his heart, apologize for what I don’t know and found myself aching and crying and wanting a man to hold me in his heart the way Ben holds you.
I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, but he says you two are separated…I guess I’m just wanting to go on the record for him to say that he can’t love you any more than he already does. I didn’t even think a love like this existed, but now I’ve heard it, seen it, felt it, slept alongside it, and if you won’t have him, then what does he do with a love like this?
I’ve written a thousand columns where I’ve laughed at love, dared anyone to show me a love like Ben’s existed, because, in truth, that’s why I write. To build a wall around me, protect me from the hurts I’ve suffered, and dare anyone to show me a true love that’s worth dying for. More than that, one that’s worth living for.
He won’t tell me the details. Plays his cards close to his chest, but he said you two argued. Said he said some things. I’ve thought a lot about that. What? What terrible words were spoken? What could he possibly have said that caused this? What thing? What act did he commit? What did he do to lose your love? If a love like Ben’s can be had, if it’s real, if a heart like Ben’s exists and can be offered to another, then…I’m left wondering. What can’t be forgiven?…What can’t be forgiven?
Live or die…I want a love like this.
The recording ended and I rose, ready to leave, but Rachel beckoned me to stay. She had never wanted me to leave in the first place. I told her that many times I’d wanted to come back, return to her, but forgiving myself had turned out to be easier said than done.
Maybe there was something different in me. Maybe something different in her. I’m not really sure, but for the first time since our argument, I lay down, my tears dripping onto her face, and slept with my wife.
CHAPTER FIFTY
I tightened my cummerbund, straightened my bow tie, buttoned my jacket, then unbuttoned it and walked around back of the country club. One of Atlanta’s finest and most private. Lots of stone and grand timbers. I showed the guard my invitation, he opened the gate, and I walked up the winding walk. Designer lights lit the trees, giving the place a domed feel. A throng of people stood inside. Sparkly women. Powerful men. Much laughter. Drinks. The rehearsal dinner party. The night before the wedding. A happy occasion.
It had been three months. I had returned to work, put on a few pounds, told bits and pieces of the story, and deflected the attention. I had not contacted Ashley since I left the hospital. Figured it best. But it seemed strange to be so close for a month, so dependent upon one another, and then, in a second’s time, end that. Cut that tie. It seemed unnatural.
I fell back into a routine, still working my way through the separation. Up before the sun, a long run on the beach, breakfast with Rachel and the kids, punch the clock at work, sometimes dinner with Rachel and the kids, then home, maybe another run or filter through the sand looking for sharks’ teeth.
Putting one foot in front of the other.
ASHLEY STOOD ON THE FAR SIDE. The invitation had included a handwritten note along with a gift. The note read Please come. We’d love to see you. Both of you.
She went on to say that her leg had mended well and she’d been jogging. Even working out at the tae kwon do dojo and teaching youth classes, though she was only kicking at about 75 percent.
The gift enclosed was a new watch. A climbing watch made by Suunto. Called the Core. Her letter continued.
The guys at the store told me this is what all the climbers wear. Gives you temperature, barometric pressure, elevation. Even has a compass. You’ve earned it. Deserve it more than any.
I found myself staring at the letter. The we bothered me.
I stood staring from a distance. Her posture said her confidence had returned and that the pain was gone. She was beautiful. And for the first time in a long time, I felt okay thinking that.
Vince stood alongside. Seemed happy. He looked like a stand-up guy. In the wilderness, I’d conjured my own idea of what he looked like, how he held himself. I was off by a good bit. She’d make it. He got a good one in her. Were it not for her, Vince and I could have been friends.
I stood in the shadows, just outside, staring in the windows. I glanced at my new watch. I was late. Nervous, I turned the plastic package in my hands. I’d bought two new recorders. One for her. One for me. The latest technology, these contained a digital card with twice as much memory and battery life. At one time, that was appealing. Now, not so much. I removed them from the plastic packaging, inserted the batteries into one, and clicked it on.
Hey…it’s me. Ben. I received your invitation. Thanks for thinking about me. Including me. Uh…us. I know you’ve been busy…. It’s good to see you on your feet. Looks like the leg healed well. I’m glad. There are a lot of people here. All here to celebrate with you.
Just so you know, I kept my promise. I went to see Rachel. Took her an orchid, number 258, and a bottle of wine. I told her about the trip. Talked long into the night. I played her the tape. The whole thing. I slept with her. It’d been a long time.
It was also the last time.
I had to let her go. She’s not coming back. The distance is too great. The mountain between us is the one mountain I cannot climb.
I thought you should know.
I’ve been spending a lot of time lately trying to figure out how to start over. The single life is different than I thought. Been taking a few notes off this website called “Flying Solo.” Ironic, don’t you think?
But it’s tough. Rachel was my first love. My only love. I’ve never dated anyone else. Never been with anyone else.
I never told you this because it just felt wrong, but…even at your worst, no makeup, broken leg, sitting over a Nalgene bottle, stitches lining your face…well…being lost with you is better than being found and alone.
I wanted to thank you for that.
If Vince doesn’t tell you that, doesn’t put you on a pedestal, he should. If he forgets, call me and I’ll remind him. I’m an expert on what a husband should have said.
After Rachel…I didn’t know what to do, how to live, so I gathered all the broken pieces of me, shoved them into a bag, and hefted it over my shoulder like a bag of rocks. Years passed, dragging myself around in a bag behind me, buckled into my harness and leaning into the weight of the sled, the history of me slicing into my shoulders.
Then I went to this conference, found myself in Salt Lake, and for reasons I don’t understand, you sat down. I heard the sound of your voice, and something emptied the bag, scattering the pieces of me. And there, laid bare and broken, I wondered, even hoped, that there might be an ending to the story of my
life that I had not told. One not etched in pain, recorded in regret…echoing through eternity.
But here, hidden in the trees, I am torn. The pieces of me no longer fit together. I am reminded of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. I cannot put me back together.
…Funny, I have loved two women in my life, and now I can’t have either. Wonder what that says about me? I wanted to give you a gift, but what could I give you that would equal what you have given me?
Ashley…for that alone…I wish you…every happiness.
I STARED AROUND the dogwood tree and through the glass. She was laughing. A single diamond hanging around her neck. A wedding gift from Vince. She looked good in diamonds. She looked good in anything.
I left the recorder running, recording, emptied my pockets of my last two spare batteries, wrapped a rubber band around them, put all that in the box, closed the lid, tied the bow, left no card, slipped through the back doors, and slid it beneath the mound of a hundred other gifts. In thirty-six hours they’d be on a plane for two weeks in Italy. She’d find my gift upon their return.
I walked out through the unlit garden, started my car, and pointed the wheel south down I-75. The night was warm, and I drove home with the windows down. Sweating. Which was okay with me.
When I got home, I changed clothes, grabbed the second of my new recorders, and walked out onto the beach, stopping at the ocean’s edge. I stood there a long time. Linus and his blanket. While the waves and foam washed over my feet, I turned the thing in my hands and wrestled with what to say, where to begin.
With the sun breaking the horizon, I clicked RECORD, took three steps, and threw the recorder as far as I could. It spun through the air and disappeared into the daylight and the foam of a receding wave and an outgoing tide.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
I woke to the sound of cats on my porch. They had returned in force. Bringing friends. A beautiful black cat with white feet. I named him Socks. The second was playful, always purring in my face. Long tail, long whiskers, quick ears. Kept brushing along my leg and hopping into my lap. I named her Ashley.
I took the day off. Spent it at home. Leaning on the railing, cupping a warm mug, staring out over the ocean, listening to the waves, talking to the cats. Listening for the sound of laughter. Ashley was never far away. Neither the cat nor the memory. I thought back through the wilderness and drifted off to sleep sometime after dark. I dreamed of her sitting in a gondola with Vince somewhere beneath an afternoon sun in Venice. She was tucked up alongside him, his arm around her. They were tan, and she looked happy.
I didn’t like the picture.
I crawled off the couch a few hours before daylight. The moon was full and hung low on the horizon, glittering on the crest of each wave, quietly casting my shadow across the beach. I laced up my shoes beneath a warm breeze. Pelicans in V-formation flew silently overhead, riding the updrafts, dragging their shadows across mine.
I turned into the wind, taking me south. Low tide, I had the beach to myself. I ran an hour, then two, weaving along the ridgeline edge of the water. A single path of turtle tracks led from the water to the dunes. She was laying her eggs.
When St. Augustine came into view, I turned around, slid my Oakleys down over my eyes, and turned for home. The sun was coming up, and the wind pressed against my back. Absent were the cold, the penetrating snow, the sight of white, the feel of snow, the taste of hunger, the weight of the sled, and, maybe most noticeable, the sound of Ashley’s voice.
Halfway back, I intersected the mother turtle. Exhausted from her night’s work. She was big, old, cutting deep grooves in her push to the water. The first wave reached her, she submerged, rinsed herself, then floated and began skimming the surface of the water. Her shell glistened. After a few minutes, she was gone. Loggerheads can live to be nearly two hundred years old. I let myself think she was the same one.
I watched her disappear, witnessing both sunset and sunrise.
Strange. I had not expected that.
I passed the entrance to Guana River State Park, and the condo came into view. I slowed, jogged, and finally walked. My ribs had healed. I could breathe deeply. I was healthy again. The July sun had climbed, harsh and bright. The water was blue, rolling glass. A few bottlenose dolphins were trolling near shore, but there was no sign of the mother loggerhead. But there would be. In the weeks ahead, the beach would be crawling with sign.
I DID NOT HEAR THE FOOTSTEPS. Only felt the hand on my shoulder. I recognized the veins, the freckles where she did not wear a watch.
I turned, and Ashley stood facing me. A windbreaker, running shorts, Nikes. Her eyes were red, wet. She looked as though she hadn’t slept. She shook her head, pointed behind her, toward Atlanta.
“I was hopeful you would show. But when you didn’t, I…I couldn’t sleep, so I started picking through our presents, opening the ones that looked interesting. Anything to take my mind off…today.” She held my hands in hers, then pounded me softly in the chest with her fist. Her left hand was naked. No ring. “My doctor says I should start running again.”
“Be a good idea.”
“I don’t like running alone.”
“Me either.”
She picked at the sand with the toe of her shoe. She folded her arms, squinted against the rising sun, and said, “I’d like to meet Rachel. Will you introduce me?”
I nodded.
“Now?”
We turned and walked down the beach. Two miles. The house I’d built her sat up on the dunes, framed in scrub oaks and wire grass.
Since I’d returned, I’d marked ten turtle nests along the dunes with pink surveyor’s tape. Ashley eyed it. “Turtle nests?”
I nodded.
We wound up through the dune and up the walkway. The sand was soft. A lot like snow. I pulled the key from around my neck, unlocked the door, lifted the Confederate jasmine vine I had yet to trim, and opened the door.
To combat the summer heat, the entire house, walls, floor, sides, everything was lined with or made of marble. The solarium above thrived in summer. Many of the orchids were in bloom.
I led Ashley through the door.
Rachel lay on my left. Michael and Hannah on my right.
Ashley put her hands to her mouth.
I waved my hand. “Ashley, meet Rachel. Rachel, meet Ashley.”
Ashley knelt, brushing the marble with her fingertips. She ran her fingers through the grooves of Rachel’s name and the dates. On top of the marble lid, about where Rachel’s hands would be folded atop her chest, sat seven digital recorders. All covered in dust. All but one. The one I’d carried in the mountains. Ashley touched it, turned it in her hand, and then returned it to its place among the others. On top, about where Rachel’s face would be, lay my jacket, rolled up like a pillow.
I sat down, my back against Rachel, my feet resting against the twins. I stared up through the blooms and the glass above.
“Rachel was pregnant…with the twins. She had what’s called a partial abruption. It’s when the placenta begins tearing away from the uterine wall. We put her on bed rest for a month, hoping we could stop it, but due to no fault of her own, it worsened. She was a walking time bomb.
“I tried to reason with her, telling her that when it ruptured completely, it would kill the twins and her. Her doctor and I wanted to take the twins. She stared at us like we’d lost our minds and said, ‘Where are you taking them?’
“I wanted Rachel, and if it meant the kids had to go to keep her, then the kids had to go. Send them to God. She and I, we could make more. I wanted us to grow old, laugh at our wrinkles. She wanted that too, but the problem was that there was a chance…a very slim chance…that, if we did nothing, the kids would make it. That they’d all be fine.
“She might have had better chances at a roulette table, but because it existed, she took a chance on the twins. I said, ‘Give them to God. Let him sort it out.’ She just shook her head. ‘This is the chance we took.’ I got angry, quest
ioned her love, screamed, yelled, even threw stuff around the house, but she’d made up her mind. One of the very things I loved the most about her was now the very thing I was fighting.
“I shouted, ‘How could God mind? How could he ever blame you? Surely he would understand.’ She wouldn’t hear it. She just patted her stomach and said, ‘Ben, I love you, but I’m not living the rest of my life looking at Michael and Hannah on the back of my eyelids. Knowing they might have made it. Knowing there was a chance, and I didn’t take it.’
“So I tied on my shoes, ran out the door. A midnight run on the beach to clear my head. When my cell phone rang, I…sent it to voice mail. I can’t tell you the number of times I…”
I shifted, running my fingertips along the lettering of Michael’s name. Then Hannah’s.
“As best I can piece together, moments after I left, she ruptured. She managed to dial 911, but they were too late. Not that they could have done anything. Two hours later, I returned. Flashing lights. Police in my kitchen, talking into radios. The phone ringing. A call from the hospital. Strange people stood in my kitchen…. They drove me to the morgue. Asked me to identify her. In trying to save Rachel, they had performed an emergency C-section, delivering the kids. They had laid them out next to her. Kind of tucked them up alongside her. The voice mail you heard on the plane is the one she left me, just before everything went bad. I’ve saved it and resaved it so I could send it to myself. Most every day. To remind me that despite myself, she loved me.”
The Mountain Between Us Page 27