Halfway to the Sky

by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

  “You have to call him,” she said. “He misses you.”

  I missed him, too. I missed him being home with us, with Mom and Springer and me, the way our family used to be. I didn't miss the version of my father that sat in some new house watching TV with his new wife, or hanging wallpaper in the new bedroom for his replacement child. “Whatever,” I said. “I'll do it tomorrow.”

  I didn't. We were at the Laundromat and I asked for change to use the pay phone outside. I went to the phone and pretended to dial and talk.

  “How was he?” Mom asked.

  “Fine.”

  Heading out of Hot Springs, we ran into Trailhead, who'd stayed at the Jesuit hostel. He told us he'd been there a few days, resting his left knee, which had started to hurt and swell. Now he hiked with it wrapped in a dirty Ace bandage, and he'd slowed down a bit so he was moving at about our speed. We had a fairly easy day, but dark came early, helped along by a bank of black storm clouds.

  Lightning began shooting out of them and we could smell the rain coming. We had just passed the summit of Rich Mountain. It would have been a good night for a shelter, but we were two miles from the closest one. We pitched our tents near a spring recommended in the guidebooks, making sure they were as secure as possible. We hurried dinner and finished as rain began to fall in driving sheets. I started to duck into my tent.

  Vivi grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “Come on,” she said. “Susan, you too.”

  “Where?” Mom asked.

  “Trailhead?” shouted Vivi.

  “Forget it,” he yelled from inside his tent.

  We'd seen him limping the last mile. Mom shook her head, and Vivi called to him, “We'll be back in a bit.”

  She led us back along the trail we'd just come down. Rain poured upon us, and the trail became a stream, but Vivi bent her shoulders and walked fast, and we followed. After a bit she dodged onto a side trail I'd seen earlier, and not too much farther along we reached the base of a fire tower—a tower used by rangers to look for forest fires. Lightning flashed; thunder boomed. Vivi started climbing.

  I thought first that in a thunderstorm you were supposed to stay low; I thought second that the fire tower probably had lightning rods or something, was probably safer than the trees. The storm grew fiercer as we reached the top. We were high enough that we probably could have seen for miles if we'd been able to see anything at all. It would have been neat in daylight. I was wet to the skin.

  Lightning illuminated our faces; Mom was smiling, and Vivi's eyes were wide and happy.

  “This might not be the smartest place to be right now,” Mom said.

  “It's my anniversary!” Vivi said, almost shouting as the wind picked up and rain blasted the tower.

  “Of what?” Mom shouted back.

  “Of living!” Vivi said. “I've been cancer-free for exactly two years!”

  She hadn't ever mentioned cancer before. I'd felt reasonably happy, but now my mood crashed to earth like a kite caught in the storm. Geez, I was sick of people dying. Or nearly dying, or thinking about dying, or probably dying.

  “Hooray!” Mom shouted. She caught Vivi up in a hug, the rain crashed around us, and she and Vivi danced a wild jig on the mountaintop while I stood and watched them, soaking wet.

  The only good thing I could think about the whole excursion was that I had been wearing my sandals, not my hiking boots, so my boots stayed dry. I was so drenched by the time we got back to our tents that the only thing I could think of to do was strip naked, fling the clothes I was wearing over a bush, and crawl into my tent. Trailhead was in his tent, and anyway it was so dark no one could see me. I toweled off with part of my sleeping bag. I stretched out on my Thermarest pad, pulled the damp bag over me, and thought about getting a dry T-shirt out of my pack. Before I could finish the thought, I fell asleep.

  At breakfast Vivi sat next to me. Trailhed was still in his tent, and Mom had gone off to pee. “You look upset,” Vivi said quietly.

  The campsite had some logs where we were sitting. It was chilly and overcast, and my clothes were damp. A stiff wind kept blowing my granola off my spoon. Finally I gave up and ate it with my hands. “That's just the way I look,” I said.

  “I've learned that the word cancer can scare a lot of people,” she said.

  “It's not that.” I tipped the bowl up and drank the milk out of it—nasty stuff, made from powdered milk and water. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to be rude. I'm just really sick of hearing about people dying. I've had a whole year full of it, and I don't want to think about it anymore.”

  Vivi looked at me earnestly. Her entire face seemed to shine. I noticed the deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, the way her hair was mostly gray. “It's not about dying,” she said urgently, as though it really mattered. “Look around you. Everyone is dying, every single person that you see. It's about living.”

  I made a noise that came out more like a snort than I had intended.

  “It's a tough world,” Vivi said, not seeming put off. “It's got to be hard to be your age, too, and have to think about these things. Most kids don't have to. Most kids think they'll live forever, and you know better. So make your life count. Enjoy it. Don't spend time doing things you hate.”

  “My mom did,” I said.

  “Because she had to,” Vivi said. “She didn't have a choice. But now she does, and you see what she's doing.”

  “Walking.”

  “It's nice that you two are so much alike,” she went on. “What you both need most is right here. Your mom can take care of you and herself at the same time.”

  I had never once thought of myself as like my mother, not in any way. Nor did I think she was actually taking care of me. I hiked with my own feet, didn't I? I asked, “Did she tell you about Springer?” I sure never had.

  “Some,” Vivi said. “It's still hard for me to get a picture of him as a person.” She paused. “What was he like?”

  It took me a moment to find the words. “He was really funny, but most people didn't realize it because he was so quiet about it,” I said. I set my bowl down and plucked a piece of grass. “He'd say something in a completely serious voice, and then later, when you weren't even around him anymore, you'd realize he meant it as a joke, and it was funny. He was good at art and he liked bright colors.” I twisted the grass in my fingers. “He used to say that if he had muscles, he'd be a cowboy, a real one that roped cattle.”

  Suddenly I could remember his voice, the way he said “roped cattle” so seriously. We had been watching rodeo on TV. His voice had deepened in the months before he died.

  “When I was little,” I continued, not looking at Vivi, “I used to be scared of thunderstorms. Really scared. I'd wake up crying and couldn't go back to sleep. Dad didn't like it that I was afraid, he'd tell me there was nothing to be scared of and I should go back to bed. So once I took my pillow and my blanket and I went down to Springer's room.

  “I stood in the doorway, crying. He turned his head and said, ‘What's wrong, Sissy? Are you afraid?' I told him I was. He told me to lie right down on the floor next to his bed. ‘There,' he said. ‘Now you're with me. Now you're safe.' ”

  “And you were,” Mom said. I hadn't noticed that she'd come up behind me.

  I nodded. “And I was.”

  We were all quiet a moment and then Vivi said, “I notice you're not afraid of thunderstorms anymore.”

  “Why bother?” I said.

  She smiled. “I agree.”

  “Is your cancer why you're hiking the Trail?” I asked.

  “Probably,” she said. “I'm in remission, but I'll never take time for granted again. I've gotten sharpened up. I realized I always wanted to do this, and I'm not waiting anymore.”

  April 8

  Unicoi County Memorial Hospital, Erwin, Tennessee

  Miles hiked today:-4

  Total miles hiked on the Appalachian Trail: 341

  Weather: normal

  We walked on. At No Busin
ess Knob Shelter, which we passed through Friday morning on our way to the Nolichucky River, Beagle had written, only three days before, Sometimes I think I have No Business being out here. Good night, Katahdin, wherever you are. I didn't know what got into Beagle sometimes. I wrote, Mostly I know we have No Business being anywhere else. Katahdin.

  We hitched into Erwin, Tennesee, for supplies. Mom and Vivi and Trailhead and I ate a monster dinner at the Kentucky Fried Chicken's All-You-Can-Eat Buffet. (“They must turn pale when they see hikers coming,” Trailhead said, licking his lips.) Then Mom and Vivi and I wanted to stay in a hotel, but Trailhead decided to go back to the Trail. He had taken a semester off from teaching, but he had to be home for the start of classes the last week in August. He knew exactly how many miles per day he needed to average to make it, and he was getting worried because he'd fallen behind. Mom told him not to worry, he'd hike farther later on when his body was stronger. But I think we were all worried, because his knee was getting worse. Anyway, Trailhead left and we went to sleep.

  In the morning Mom pointed out that the Nolichucky River had white-water rafting. I said, “Why would we want to do that?” She looked like she wanted to argue with me about it, and to be honest I probably would have let her win—I was tired of hearing about it and the day was pretty warm—but for some reason she kept quiet and we moved on.

  Down by the river it was nice and flat, but then we started climbing, and after a few miles we came to one of the steepest slopes we'd climbed so far. It was a real lung-buster, and the fact that the weather had suddenly gotten hot didn't help at all. We all had hiking poles by now, and so we grabbed hold, dug in, and kept climbing. By the time we reached Curley Maple Gap Shelter, four miles from the river, we were bushed.

  “Lunch,” I said.

  We took off our packs and our boots and ate some real bread with some lovely fresh cheese. Bread doesn't keep well in backpacks, so a few days after a grocery stop we were always down to stale bagels and crackers. Cheese doesn't last long, either, but that's partly because I eat it all up.

  Mom reached into the top of her pack with a big smile. “Here,” she said. She opened a little plastic box of strawberries. They shone like red jewels. I put one in my mouth.

  “Oh, my,” I said.

  Vivi took one next, and then Mom, and then me again. We ate them one by one until they were gone. Beagle, I thought, I wish you could be here for this.

  We started walking again. The Trail was flat for nearly half a mile, along the ridgeline of a mountain, and then it started up again. We had only gone a little way when we found Trailhead, doubled over in agony on the side of the Trail, clutching his knee.

  It was his right knee, his good knee, and he'd done something horrible to it. He told us he'd tripped and thrown his weight sideways to try to save his sore knee, and instead his other knee had twisted beneath him as he went down. He'd hurt himself a few hours ago and had come a quarter mile back down the Trail on his own, little by little, dragging his pack. “I was afraid to dump it,” he said, “I didn't know when someone would come. I thought I might be out here all night.”

  We gave Trailhead a pole and helped him to his feet. He couldn't put any weight on his leg at all. His muscles were shaking and tears ran down his cheeks. Mom supported him. “Can you hop?” she asked.

  “Have to,” he said. He hopped and she held him up. He hopped again. I thought of that treacherous uphill climb—it would be worse going back down.

  Mom had taken off her pack. Counting Trailhead's, that left Vivi and me with two each. Trailhead's was heavy. “Suggestions?” asked Vivi.

  I couldn't see leaving any of the packs unless we had to. Who knew what we would end up needing? Who knew how long Trailhead could hop? “Drag them,” I said.

  We used our hiking poles to extend the frames into travois. I took some of our bungee cords and turned them into handles. We dragged the extra packs behind us. It dug up the Trail, which I hated to do, but I didn't see we had much choice. I really didn't think I could carry seventy-five pounds.

  Hop, stagger. Hop. Hop, stagger. Hop. Mom and Trailhead kept going. The hot sun beat through the thinly leaved trees. Hop, stagger. We made it back to the flat part, but the going didn't seem any easier. Hop. Hop. Trailhead's face was turning gray. We stopped and drank water.

  Hop, stagger. Back to the shelter now. “Should I run ahead for help?” I asked. “Do you want to wait here?” It was midafternoon.

  “No,” said Trailhead. “Let's keep going.” Mom looked at him. “Picture your average ambulance crew,” he said. “Do you think for a minute they're going to be able to carry me down this mountain?”

  “If it gets to be too much, say so,” said Mom. She was sweating and grimy.

  Hop, stagger. Hop. Hop, stagger, fall. At the start of the steep section, Mom and Trailhead went down. I couldn't tell who fell first. Trailhead screamed. Mom held him, helped him up. She looked so unsteady that Vivi traded places with her for a while.

  Hop. Stagger. Hop. We had to be so slow, so careful. Hop. Stagger. I tried to take a turn with Trailhead, but I was so much shorter than he was that I couldn't support him. Mom took over. Hop. Stagger.

  The pack I was pulling kept clipping my heels. I had to lean backward to stay upright, and my toes jammed against the fronts of my boots. I could feel blisters starting where I'd never had blisters before.

  Then I saw the most welcome thing, a group of three other hikers coming toward us through the woods. I thought I recognized one of them. “Beagle!” I shouted. Below us, they looked up. Three men, but not Beagle. I swallowed my disappointment. “Help!” I yelled instead. “We need some help!”

  They were stronger. They supported Trailhead more easily and could move him a little faster. They helped us pick up and carry the packs. When we got to the road, they helped flag down a car and told the driver to call an ambulance. They stayed right with us until the ambulance guy said he didn't have room to take us all to the hospital. “We'll handle it,” Mom told them.

  The men grasped Trailhead's hands and hugged the rest of us, and stood on the road watching as the ambulance pulled away. Out the window I saw them putting on their packs. I realized I'd never even asked their names, Trail or otherwise.

  At the hospital emergency room they whisked Trailhead into a room and gave him some pain medicine right away. He was so exhausted he fell asleep. A nurse brought some paperwork to Mom. “I'm not his wife,” Mom said. “I can't do that.” The nurse suggested Mom just fill out what she knew. Mom said, “I don't even know his real name.”

  We waited and waited for news. Hospitals always made me nervous, especially emergency rooms, with their air of tragedy. I hated to wait for bad news surrounded by strangers all waiting for their own bad news. I hated the plastic chairs. I hated the bad magazines.

  Mom reached over and took my hand. Vivi looked like she'd fallen asleep. I said, “Do you remember the day Springer broke his arm?”

  “Yes,” she said. He'd been eight years old. He'd just gotten his new wheelchair. He'd shot too fast down our driveway and the chair tipped when it hit the curb at the end. He wasn't wearing a seat belt, and he landed on his outflung arm.

  “I pushed him,” I whispered. “Down the driveway. I made him fall.”

  “I know,” Mom said. “I remember.” She stroked my hair. “You didn't know any better. You and he were playing. You both thought it would be fun.”

  “I didn't mean to hurt him,” I said. That had been the first day I really understood that I could—the first day I realized that I was stronger than Springer, and always would be.

  “He knew that,” Mom said.

  We sat for another hour, and someone came out and said Trailhead was asking to see us. He was wearing a light blue hospital gown and looked very dirty, very tired, and very, very brave. “I blew my ACL,” he said. Mom winced. I must have looked confused, because Trailhead took my hand and explained that it was one of the ligaments in his knee. He said, “Time for surger
y. I'm done.” He took off the religious medal he always wore around his neck and handed it to Vivi. “Take that to Katahdin for me, will you?” He sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes. “Thanks. Thanks for everything. Don't worry, now. I'll be fine.”

  Mom said, “Your family?”

  Trailhead didn't open his eyes. “Wife'll be here in a few hours. I'll be okay.” As we started to walk out, he called, “Dani?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for letting me get to know you. I've enjoyed it.”

  “Okay.”

  We took up our packs and walked out into the cool night. Vivi said, “Got to be a motel near here somewhere.”

  Mom stopped suddenly and smacked her forehead. “What day is it?”

  “April eighth.” Vivi checked her watch. “Yep. About ten P.M. Why?”

  Mom shook her head. “Taxes. I forgot all about the taxes.”

  April 9

  3326 Holston Drive, Bristol, Tennessee

  Miles hiked today: 0

  Total miles hiked on the Appalachian Trail: 341

  Weather: warm, raining

  Vivi seemed to understand what taxes meant in a way that I did not. “Shoot,” she said. “You didn't finish that before you left?”

  Mom shook her head.

  “It can wait a few weeks,” I said. “Can't it?”

  “Of course it can't, Dani,” Mom snapped. “The federal government expects to be paid on time. And your father and I have to file together, we were married all of last year. I can't mess him up, too.” She heaved a sigh. “Didn't Dad ever mention this when you talked to him?”

  “Um,” I said. I'd never talked to him, though I'd pretended to several times. We walked down the sidewalk, Mom muttering to herself and Vivi looking for a taxi as though there might be such a thing in Erwin, Tennessee, late at night.

  “Dani,” Mom said, “why are you limping?”

  “I think I messed my feet up pretty bad.”

  I'd had blisters already, of course, but they had been the sort you could rub with alcohol, put some tape over, and ignore. Mom marched me back to the emergency room. When I took off my boots, all ten toes were cracked open and bleeding.