“What do you think?” He gestures with his hand at me.
“I’d rather not. I don’t want to become dependent on them. But I am sensitive to the fact that my mom needed them once. So, I wonder if I do, too.” I focus on the wall behind him.
“You seem to have a good sense of self. I don’t think you need anti-depressants.” He scribbles instructions for my health leave on a piece of paper.
I exhale and thank him.
When I relay the conversation to my good friend, she says, “Good grief, you’re guiding people up mountains. I’m sure he thinks you’re doing great compared to lots of normal people! Not that you’re not normal … you know what I mean.” We laugh.
PART 3
HEALING
Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you.
—MAORI PROVERB
THIRTY-TWO
BEGINNING A YEAR TO HEAL
In February 2001, the first month of my health leave, the sun shines 25 of the 28 days. Habby and I cross-country ski from our front door, around frozen Alta Lake and the Rainbow Trail and back to the house. It is 90 minutes of crisp air, calming mountains, the freedom of gliding, the smell of snow and Habby romping like there will be no tomorrow. Sometimes the wind blows, and I come back with red cheeks, huffing and close to tears. I thank the universe for sending sun.
My heart feels peaceful for the first time since Jim was killed, because I have made a conscious choice to care for it. I try to make myself a meal every day, exercise, stay connected with loved ones, write, meditate and stretch. Some days I don’t get up until noon. Other days I eat only chocolate. Every day I go outside, if only for a few minutes with Habby.
When I feel darkest, I let the phone ring.
I listen to the voices of my friends and family on the answering machine. Three or four calls a day. If I feel able to keep myself from crying, I answer.
“I feel that I reached my summit with Jim, I reached my highest mountain, and that the only way to go from here is down. I mean, you don’t tell Romeo and Juliet to buck up because they’ll find another love. I feel like that. The only way to go is down.”
There is a pause on the other end of the line and then Terri sighs and says, “Let me think about that one. I’ll get back to you.”
I sob to my sister on the phone, “I feel completely in love with Jim. How will I ever love someone else?”
“It’s safe for you to love Jim.”
“What do you mean?”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” she replies softly.
Oh, God, I think to myself, she’s right.
I’ve feared what would happen if Jim fell out of love with me but it never occurred to me the repercussions of not being able to fall out of love with him.
One evening, I sit alone on the couch. A force presses against the inside of my skin and tears are not enough relief. I rock back and forth, grip my hands together and moan. My ribs ache, my lungs burn and my gut spasms. The energy presses hard to get out. My eyes and mouth open wide because I cannot hold back forever. I fall to my knees and suck in air and vomit it out. I gasp, moan and push animal sounds from deep within my belly. A hot energy rushes around my body and pushes out of every pore. I bang my fists on the table, shout. I fall back onto the couch, cradle my head and sob so hard my shoulders ache.
I lift my head and corral my breath into a strong regular rhythm. I grit my teeth, stare at nothing and clench my fists. A voice surges. You left me. How could you leave me? How could you be so selfish? I am so angry with you for dying.
The books say it is normal to feel anger. That it will pass. Is it normal to feel such strong rage that I pummel myself from the inside out?
The skin on my face relaxes and I stare at the floor. I sleep for six hours straight and in the morning get dressed at first light, have breakfast and take Habby for a walk up the trail. I spend the rest of the day writing, drawing and ticking things off of my to-do list.
I have cried every day for almost two years. But, that night in bed I wait for sleep and it strikes me that I have not cried all day. I feel guilty and relieved. It is comforting to see progress.
Friends invite me for dinner and when I arrive, Scott, one of Jim’s colleagues, is there. He is a full mountain guide and lives in Whistler. He hunches his tall frame to wrap me in a hug and watches me quietly with his dark brown eyes. After dinner, I drive him to his car, which is parked at a nearby trailhead because he has just completed a solo two-day traverse from Wedge Mountain to Blackcomb Mountain. As he reaches for the door handle, he asks, “How are you doing?”
I give him my standard answer. But the reality is that I feel alone. He says goodnight, shuts the car door and I heave a sigh of relief.
That night I dream of the devil. He is tall, dark and alluring, but his features are blurred. If I give my soul to the devil, he will bring Jim back to me.
Scott invites me to ski into a backcountry hut. My jacket clings to me while I pack the car in the pouring rain. The sun rises behind bruised clouds, and I switch on the headlights to make my way to Scott’s house. When he answers the door, he smiles with his eyes and says, “If it were anyone else but you, I would cancel.” I chuckle, avoid his steady gaze and busy myself with transferring my gear to his car. I chew on his words. Does he mean he wouldn’t cancel because I am a grieving widow and he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings? Or is he really looking forward to our spending time together?
As we drive, the air between us feels light, as if my body would float through it to brush against him. I squeeze my arms against my sides.
As we ski away from the car, my skin prickles. I stop.
“I’m feeling weird,” I stutter.
“What is it?” Scott stops behind me.
“This is the sort of thing that Jim and I would have done…” My voice trails off.
Scott lowers his head and then raises his deep brown gaze to mine.
“You could ski ahead a bit and just pretend that you are on your own, and I’ll be here for backup,” Scott offers.
“Okay.” I look to the sky so that emotion won’t pour out of my face.
That night at the hut, the moon is full and Scott, Habby and I go for a ski before bed. We plod uphill toward the ridge. The wind starts to howl and snow swirls around my face. I pull the drawstring on my hood and burrow into the collar. Scott’s hunched frame twists to peer back at me. My lungs suck harder, my heart beats faster and my body balloons with oxygen and blood. But it isn’t enough. I need more air. More. I need warmth to fill the emptiness inside of me. But the pain does not ease. I let out a cry and then crumple to one knee and sob into my gloved hands. Habby nudges his wet nose between my fingers and draws his tongue over my cheeks and nostrils.
Scott’s black mass turns and gets closer. He lowers his face to where I can feel the heat of his breath.
“Are you all right?” he shouts over the wind.
I raise my wet face to his and choke, “I can’t do it.”
He looks at me, says nothing and leads the way back to the cabin. I wonder if he thinks I am weak. I slow my pace so that the storm veils my grief and watch Scott’s figure get smaller in front of me. With each stride I throw out a fresh wail of anguish. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Jim, I need your help. I feel you. Are you here? Have you sent Scott to guide me, to look after me like you did? I stoop lower with this thought. Before I enter the hut, I swipe my glove across my eyes and take a deep breath.
That night, I curl up with Habby on the main floor because dogs are not permitted in the loft sleeping area.
I call my friend Andrea and tell her about Scott.
She asks, “How do you think it will be for you getting into another relationship? Do you think you will be able to love more strongly now?”
“Yes, because my worst fear has been realized. Now I will be able to love more strongly because the fear of the unknown, what it would be like to have your mate die, is no longer unknown.”
&n
bsp; “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
My psychiatrist’s voice echoes, “You seem to be confused about what you think you should feel and what you actually do feel.”
A month later, Scott invites me to a party at a trendy club. I buy a short dress. Scott holds the door of the taxi for me.
“I’m a bit nervous.” I pull my dress down to cover more of my thighs. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date.”
“Oh, is this a date?” Scott smirks and shifts in his seat. His expression becomes serious, “I think you’re being very brave.” Scott refills my wine glass promptly all night. When another fellow asks me to dance, Scott leans against the wall and watches.
After the party, I invite Scott back to my place for tea. He slumps low in the couch while I stumble around the room preparing and serving. Several times he opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is “Um.”
“What is it?” I slump down beside him and let my dress slide up my legs.
“Nothing.” But he avoids my gaze. For once I do not feel responsible for the discomfort of others. The wine has thickened my skin and I am light and giggly. We talk until late and he takes a cab home.
I check my e-mail first thing the next morning and there is a message from him. He had a great time. He did want to tell me something. He is going to Brunei to visit a woman he met while working on Eco-Challenge. He worries that he gave me the wrong idea. I e-mail him back, wish him luck and reassure him. I ask him if he is bringing home a wife. He responds, “Good question.”
I go back to being Jim’s widow.
THIRTY-THREE
MOVING THROUGH SPRING
Today is my birthday and I hardly slept last night. My fingers drummed the same pattern over and over on my chest; my mind raced from topic to topic, from fear to fear. Fear of turning 35, fear of lying alone in my bed, fear of having a wound in my heart so grave that it will never heal, fear of spending my birthday without Jim. I miss waking up with Jim and having him say, “Happy Birthday, Susie,” and giving me a kiss and one of his romantic cards.
A friend meets me on the mountain and we ski the morning away under blue skies. It was supposed to be cloudy. From bump to bump, I jump and yahoo, pushing my skis as fast as I dare, so fast my eyes tear. I choke on the air rushing past and giggle with the excitement of flying. In the afternoon Habby and I cross-country ski around the lake for two hours. Friends and family phone to wish me well. I put one foot in front of the other. I shed layers like a snake, looking for that deeper core and the deep calm of an ocean beneath a pounding surf.
My chore today is to sort through all the e-mails people sent after Jim was killed. It’s difficult to delete them. Many I print out and put into the third scrapbook I have made of condolence letters. I don’t know what I would have done without the compassion of others to buoy me.
Valentine’s Day arrives. I ski with a bachelor friend, go out for dinner and invite him home to my place. We have sex. I lie very still afterward, shell-shocked. “These are experimental times,” I tell him. “Don’t take any of my reactions personally.” I feel awful about who I am and try to tell myself I am light and love. It doesn’t wash.
I call Terri and tell her I’ve had sex with someone I do not love. She says, “Shake it off.” I want to go away from everyone who might judge me, go away by myself to heal and come back. And I am desperate to make love with someone the way Jim and I made love.
The next day I ski for hours up the snowy hill to the summit of Whirlwind behind Whistler. Surrounded by mountains and blue sky, Jim flows through my body and I tingle with the intimacy. I power to the top and sit on the rock, inhale deeply and pull Jim right into my core. My ski buddies are specks below. For half an hour I enjoy being with Jim alone. Being in the mountains is the closest I feel to the Divine, that and being in love. My insides settle; the world makes sense. I don’t miss Jim, because I feel his sweet, gentle essence. With nothing but giant snow pillows in front of me, I ski short slalom turns until my quads ache. When I stop to catch my breath partway down, a bald eagle soars over me and glides effortlessly down the glacier. If I get any lighter, I will take off like that eagle.
Full of energy and confidence, I launch into organizing Jim’s books in the office. I agonize over every decision: what to keep, what to give away, what to throw out. Within an hour, I crave the feeling of being on top of the mountain with Jim, free. I want another high. I call my bachelor friend with no strings attached. But I get cold feet and when he arrives I will not fool around with him unless he can commit. I know I ask for the impossible. He asks, “Are you lonely?” I bite my lip and look away.
“I think it’s going to be really difficult for the first guy you have a relationship with.” He slaps his hands on his thighs.
“Why do you say that?”
“I mean, look at this place.” He swings his arm to encompass the living room and my gaze follows to the framed photos crowding every surface. “It’s a shrine in here.” His words try to flatten the photos as a gale bends a sapling. He pauses, “And you’re still wearing your wedding ring.”
I push my ring around my finger with my thumb. “Yes, hmm.” The photos and my ring link together and tug at my heart, creating a circle of desire to live in the past, when Jim and I laughed and hugged and kissed and planned for the future. What’s wrong with that? It’s natural to want to live in the past. Why wouldn’t I want to go back to where I was happy? I lower my head and cover my ring with my other hand.
I do not ask him to spend the night.
For two weeks I do not write in my journal. On Wednesday, March 21, almost two years after Jim was killed, I climb the stairs to my bedroom, wiggle my wedding ring off of my finger and lay it in a jewelry box. Like a robot, I appear back in the living room, my arms collect all of the framed pictures of Jim and me; I reappear in my bedroom where my hands place the photos on the bookshelf. I move back to the living room, almost brushing my hands together as if to say, “Well, that’s that.” I dare to look at the empty places left by the photos and my legs go numb and I lose peripheral vision. I grip the edge of the sideboard, sink to my knees and suck the truth into my heart in fitful sobs.
The subdivision I live in organizes a multi-house garage sale. For several hours I sort through buckets and buckets of Jim’s outdoor gear: eight tents, five pairs of skis, nine backpacks. Touching his clothing makes me feel the worst.
“It would be better if someone could just do it for you. Then it would be done,” my stepmom says.
But my counsellor disagrees. “I think it’s an important step for you to sort through Jim’s stuff yourself.” I want help but I don’t want it done for me. Mom Haberl comes up to sort through papers and photos with me.
Surrounded by boxes and accounts, she says, “You can't keep all of this stuff. You just can’t.” I am so relieved.
One day I turn on Jim’s computer to try to deal with all of his files. The screen goes blank as the hard drive crashes. At first I panic that I’ve lost something incredibly important, and then I laugh and look to the sky and say, “Thanks, Jim.”
I read Jim’s journal account of his trip to ski the Haute Route in France and Switzerland and I feel restless. On the second anniversary of his death, I fly to Europe and follow the same route with other guides for six days. Mom Haberl and several friends telephone the little mountain hut where I’m staying on April 29 to send love. After the ski trip, two of us drive south in France and rock climb. Back home in May, I ice climb for the first time using Jim’s tools. Then Habby and I jump in the car, drive for four days to meet Terri at a tennis camp in Utah and rock climb at Red Rocks, Nevada. On each adventure, I push myself and dare the hand of fate to snatch me. I want my old life back.
THIRTY-FOUR
SCOTT RETURNS
In May Scott returns from Brunei alone. It did not work out with the other woman.
He invites me to bike to Logger’s Lake. My clothes are sticking to me by the time we reach the lake. We s
tretch out on the dock and heat up even more in the low-slung sun.
“Are you going to swim?” Scott dips his fingers in the dark mountain water.
“It’s pretty cold. I don’t think I’ve been in the lake this early in the season.” I’ll go in if he does, and maybe even if he doesn’t, to show how tough I am. I turn away when Scott peels off his bike clothes and lies on his back. Sitting up, I wrestle mine off and try to dive into the water without revealing my nakedness. Scott rolls onto his stomach, crouches and dives into the water. I wonder why he all of a sudden seems bashful and then the ball drops, and I dip my face in the water to hide my smile.
“It’s cold, but nice. This is the earliest I’ve ever swum in Logger’s Lake.” He spurts water my way.
Afterward, we lie on the dock beside one another, naked. I feel heat radiating from his body and lie very stiff and still. We pretend we are just friends, but the energy between us has shifted.
A short time later Scott and I go to a party together. On the way home he pulls over by the side of the road. “Would you like to come to my place?” he asks.
“Sure,” I answer nonchalantly.
Lying by the fire in his living room, Scott looks at me and says, “I think we should have a serious talk.”
“Okay.” I sit up. I feel like I am in elementary school: there is no way I’ll divulge my feelings. The best I can do is pass him a note in gym class. I get that caged animal feeling again, the urge to run with nowhere to go. I just want him to kiss me and get it over with.
“I’m single, you know, and I’m really enjoying the time we’re spending together. I could easily phone you all the time and bug you to do stuff.” He smiles. I feel more relaxed and stop looking at the door. I take a deep breath.
“I’ve been with unavailable men since Jim was killed because that’s all my heart could handle. But with you I sense it would be different. I feel a connection with you. Opening my heart to you would be a real acknowledgement that Jim is dead.” I look down nervously.
Finding Jim Page 19