Meet Me at the Summit

by Mandi Lynn

  The question only bothers me because I can’t think of the answer. I see them much more than my mom’s side of the family—that’s for sure—but do I see them often? When I lived with my parents, the answer would have been yes. Almost every weekend, in fact. But ever since my parents died and I moved in with Lori? I can’t remember the last time I saw them. Maybe when my Aunt Cora helped me move into the apartment. To see my family more, I’d have to go home, and it doesn’t feel like home without my parents. That house, while surrounded by family members who live within a mile or two, is just an empty shell of memories I’m not interested in sifting through. I want to sell the house, but my Aunt Cora convinced me to wait longer and see if I wanted to live in the house after college. At the time of that conversation, she didn’t know I’d already dropped out of college.

  That’s the thing. I’m nineteen, and despite having no clue how to act like an adult, I’m considered an adult. At least legally, so when lawyers went through my parents’ will, they discovered my parents had left almost everything to me, including the house. I knew I didn’t want to live there, but I also knew I didn’t want to remove everything from inside and go through all my parents’ belongings. Even with the help of family members.

  So the house sits vacant. Cora stops by occasionally to check in on things and maintain the yard. I get a text from her at least once a month with updates that I never respond to.

  “It hasn’t been that long,” I eventually say, even though I still can’t come up with an actual answer.

  “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. I know you’re okay, and really, you do seem okay, but I just—”

  “What?” I ask.

  I look over to Lori, but her eyes are on the road, focused.

  “Marly, I haven’t seen you cry since you moved in,” she says softly.

  “I did plenty of crying before that,” I say. Lori saw most of the crying before I moved out of the dorm. I never left our dorm room, and frankly, the college didn’t know what to do with me. I think I could have gotten away with living in the dorms the entire semester without attending another class, but I started to hate the room. I was sick of seeing the yellow painted stone walls that had pictures of my parents taped up. I was sick of walking in circles on the ugly colorful carpet we bought from Walmart that was too big for the room. I was sick of being alone while Lori went to class.

  “I know, but Marly.” Lori pauses and glances over at me. Her mouth hangs open, and she looks me over. “You never talk about them.”

  She’s not wrong. Over the months, I’ve learned to talk about them less and less. You could say I talked around them. I would talk about events that surrounded them, but I never actually said their names, like saying them would make it more real. I still think about them all the time. I think about how there will never be any more adventures with my dad, and that he won’t help me renovate parts of my house when I buy one, years from now. I think about how I won’t have my mom around to help me pick out clothes when I go on dates or go on day-long shopping trips when I need to be cheered up.

  I take a deep breath before saying anything else, because Lori wouldn’t know. She wouldn’t know what it’s like to lose both your parents on the same day, and I wouldn’t want her to know what that’s like.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about them, but right now, with everything going on, it’s easier to just focus on how to do things without them. I don’t want to think about the fact that I have to learn how to do things alone because they aren’t here anymore. I know it’s not what your books recommend, but it’s what’s working for me,” I say.

  Lori is silent and the corners of her mouth turn into a frown. If I were an outsider, I’d say she was the one grieving. She clings to my parents’ deaths more than I do some days, and I wonder if her trying to help me grieve has made it harder for her to cope with the fact that she lost them too. It’s not the same as losing her own parents, but my parents loved her like she was their own daughter.

  “Lori, I promise, someday I will spill all my guts and talk about everything that makes me sad, and everything that I feel like I’m missing, but not today, and probably not tomorrow,” I say, my voice firm.

  “What if it’s like the funeral?” Lori asks, her voice quiet.

  My parents had a joint funeral which was a tribute to their lives and their love—at least that’s what everyone told me when they came to offer their condolences. But just like any funeral, there was nothing that could dull the pain from that day. I don’t remember either of those days. There are snippets in my memories, but the memories are more like I was watching from a distance and not actually there. Family members went up to speak and recall some of their favorite things about my mom and dad, but I never got up to say anything. I had meant to, of course. In my head, I had planned out this big speech for both of them to show everyone that, most of all, they were amazing parents. But when the time came, I couldn’t say a word. Instead, all I did was lean into my grandfather’s shoulder while everyone else spoke.

  I didn’t cry that day. If there was one thing I’d known for sure, it’s that I didn’t want to burst into tears, for fear of never being able to stop. But my grandfather cried at the funeral, and he held me in his arms because he lost both his son and his daughter-in-law in one swoop. Lori cried at the funeral, and I think my stone-faced reaction scared her. Maybe rightfully so.

  “The point is to have a reunion,” I say. “Reunions are happy, and everyone talks about what they’ve been up to. Who’s gotten married, had kids, gotten new jobs. Happy things.”

  “And leave the sad things unspoken?” Lori says, looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “That’s the idea,” I say, pulling my phone out to check the status of my flight. Still on time.

  “What about when they ask how you’re doing?” Lori says. She raises her eyebrows, making one of the final turns as we get closer to the airport. We’ll be at the drop-off line soon.

  “I’ll say I’m renting an apartment with my best friend, and that I’m working at a retail job that I hate, but that I’m going to figure out what I really want to do soon.” My mother’s extended family doesn’t need to know that the thought of enrolling back in college feels crippling, or that no matter how I envision my future, it seems too dark to find reason enough to look for a better job. I keep telling myself that tomorrow will be easier, and this dark cloud that floats above my head will wither away. And when that happens—when the crippling feeling of grief is gone—I’ll figure out college.

  “I will be fine,” I say, trying to avoid college talk. “I’ll even text you every day while I’m away to prove it.”

  “And call if a mental breakdown happens,” Lori says, pulling up to the side of the curb. She jumps out of the car and pulls my suitcase out of the trunk.

  “My goal is that I won’t need to call you,” I say, taking the suitcase from her.

  She pulls me into a tight hug, more dramatic than necessary, seeing as I’ll only be gone for a weekend.

  “Sounds good,” Lori says, pulling away. I give her a wave as I walk into the airport, and for once, it seems like any worry that she was harboring has slipped away.

  Chapter 3

  The plane ride is uneventful. If anything, it passes too quickly. It is a six-hour flight from Concord, New Hampshire, to Seattle. I fall asleep within the first hour and wake up when the flight attendants state we are getting ready to land.

  It’s my Uncle Ethan who’s picking me up from the airport, so when the plane lands and is taxiing, I text him that I’ll be ready shortly.

  Sounds good. I’m at door four, he responds as the very front of the plane starts to let people off.

  I follow the crowd, rolling my carry-on across the airport, following the crowd until I find door four by baggage claim. I step through the sliding doors, and I’m about to take out my phone to call
Ethan, but it rings before I get a chance to dial.

  “Hello?” I say, picking up the phone.

  “Hey, I see you. I’m a couple cars to your left, third row in,” Ethan says.

  I turn to the left. “What car are you?” I ask, taking stock of all the cars, peeking through the windows for a familiar face.

  “The VW bus,” he says. I almost laugh because once he says it, I see him there sitting in the bus, phone held to his cheek. I’ll admit it—the bus is flashy in the sea of monochrome-colored cars. It sticks out, not only because it’s a bus (although bus is a very generous term for the size, it’s still smaller than a large truck), but the vehicle is painted a deep, bright teal on the bottom half and a rich creamy white on the top half where the windows are. And let’s not forget the silver trim with the classic Volkswagen logo. It all goes together nicely.

  Ethan waves me over, throwing an arm out the window to signal me. I cut through the cars that are stopped in traffic and open the back door. I’m about to hoist my bag in when I notice a lack of back seats. Instead, I’m greeted by a small kitchen counter, mini-fridge, and one of those foldable table-couches that folds down to turn into a bed.

  “Just throw it in!” Ethan says, laughing at the shock on my face as I place my suitcase in front of the mini-fridge. I shut the door and move to the front of the bus, sliding into the seat.

  “How’re you doing, kid?” Ethan says, a chuckle coating his words as he watches my shocked reaction. Once I’m in, he pulls out and around the rest of the cars that are still picking people up.

  “Good. Uhh, this is your car?” I say, looking around at the dash. The exterior of the bus was immaculate. The VW bus looks like it just rolled out of a dealership with how perfect the paint and body are. But the interior is a whole other world. It’s freshly refurbished, and while I don’t know much about cars, I know enough to know that the detail work on the interior is bringing the VW bus back to its true roots with a touch of modern flair. All the dials have a vintage look and feel, but it looks brand new. I turn around. The inside of the bus has been converted into a camper. A cramped living space, but it’s living the high life compared to the backpacking my dad and I used to do. Granted, it doesn’t take much to make something more luxurious than sleeping in a tent.

  “It’s a bit of a long story,” Ethan says. We’re on the main road now, turning onto the highway.

  “What year is it?” I ask.

  “It’s a 1978 Volkswagen bus. It was already a camper, but I’ve been updating it to make it more modern.”

  I nod in response, turning to look at everything. The bus looks like it’s straight off of Pinterest or something. I’d seen travel bloggers who live out of camper vans, but it’s rare you find someone with a VW bus, mostly because of the smaller size. It’s hard not to fall in love with the bus instantly.

  “You live out of this or…?” I glance around. Everything looks brand new, like the bus has never even seen the light of day yet. I glance down at the floor, expecting to see some dirt hiding in the corner, but the surface is pristine.

  “No,” Ethan said, laughing again. “It’s gone on a road trip here and there, but not since I gave it a facelift. The entire interior is new. Before, it was just a bed and some storage, but I redesigned it so the bed was foldable—that way countertops could be added. There’s some storage on the doors there. A mini-fridge, cabinets, USBs for charging. Under the bed is a camping stove to make meals. The roof lifts up so when you park, you can open it, and there’s more headspace. Every inch is extra storage. I wanted this puppy to be able to do some longer trips. Before, it was just a glorified tent on wheels. Now it’s a little more useful.”

  “Wow,” I say, without realizing the words are even coming from my mouth. “Big plans?”

  “Something like that.” Ethan snickers to himself. I don’t know Uncle Ethan enough to really read him, but my mom joked how he always had a plan that no one except himself knew. My guess is he wants to travel the world in the little bus, which—if anyone could pull it off—would be him. My mom always said he was the one getting into trouble or at least skirting on the edge of trouble. He dropped out of college to open his own autobody business and hasn’t looked back since. Apparently, he put his skills to good use when he bought the bus.

  I had almost forgotten how much Ethan looked like my mom. They both had the same rounded face and brown wavy hair that was passed down to me. I remember my mom telling me stories of how he went through a hippie stage in his twenties, and while he ditched the man-bun years ago, the beard has stayed far into his forties.

  “So, is everyone else already in town?” I ask, turning my attention back to the road. If I remember correctly, my mom’s family lives about an hour away from Seattle on a lake. We used to visit in the summer when I was just a kid, but I don’t remember much other than lots of swimming and rides on the pontoon boat around the lake. It was a great way to spend a summer, but my parents got sick of long plane rides every year. Eventually, my mom’s family started coming to visit us in the summer instead, to hike, camp, swim, and anything else we could fill our time with.

  “You’re the last one to arrive,” Ethan says. “Your grandparents are hosting at their house. Whoever can’t find a bed will be camping out in their yard and sleeping on an air mattress in the basement and living room.”

  “You sleeping in this?” I point to the bed in the back.

  “Well, actually, I was going to offer it to you. The house will probably be loud, and everyone might be up all night. I’m a socialite, of course, talk of the town, so I don’t mind. I wanted to offer up the bus to anyone who likes to get a little extra shut-eye.” Ethan wagged his eyebrows at me. No doubt he’s referring to the fact that my mom always complained no one could talk to me after 9 p.m. because I was already up in my room, my face glued to the TV until I fell asleep—a habit that’s only gotten worse over time.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, but mostly because it feels rude to take away someone’s bed. In truth, having my own little private spot sounds great.

  “Oh, come on, I won’t be going to bed until at least one a.m. anyways. I’d be putting this place to waste if I slept in it. I’ll probably just crash on a couch somewhere.”

  I smile, but don’t say anything.

  Ethan eyes me again before speaking. “The sheets are fresh and everything. In fact, I haven’t even slept in this since it’s been renovated, so it’s basically brand new, which also means I can hardly consider it mine.”

  And that time he got me. I turned around again and eyed the back of the bus, smiling. Sure, any bed that can also convert into a couch probably isn’t the most comfortable in the world, but I’ve also slept on rocks and tree stumps when there was no better place to set up our backpacking tent.

  “I guess I can sleep in here, if you really don’t mind,” I say, turning back to Ethan.

  “You really make it seem like I’m pulling your leg here, kid.” Ethan pushes me in that playful sort of way an older brother would. He grins, and it reminds me again of my mom saying how Ethan always has a plan up his sleeve.

  Chapter 4

  To say I’m awestruck when we pull up to the house is an understatement. I have always been vaguely aware that my mom’s side of the family is a little luckier than most when it comes to finances.

  My grandfather was a dentist, and my grandmother used to own a touring company in the area before she sold it after retiring. I was aware that when we visited, their house was not only big, but sat on Lake Stevens. What I didn’t remember was how jaw-dropping the view was.

  I could see the Cascade Mountains as we were driving, but clouds obstructed the view for most of the drive.

  When we park in my grandparents’ driveway, the home has a small sense of déjà vu that I can’t place. In an odd way, it feels like home away from home. It’s a large house with a tiny front yard and driveway packed
with cars from all my family members. It isn’t until I walk around the side of the house to the lake that I’m greeted with more grass and a stone walkway that leads to the back door of the house in one direction and a firepit at the edge of the lake in the other. I’m looking at the fire pit, which had been updated since my last visit years ago, when the cloud coverage finally eases up.

  I’ve lived in New Hampshire my entire life. The White Mountains were my backyard. Between my dad and me, and occasionally my mom, we had hiked almost every mountain and summited every peak. I completed the New Hampshire 4,000-footer list when I was only thirteen years old, a list that contained New Hampshire’s 48 mountains over 4,000 feet. Every year my dad and I would hike Mount Washington because it was my favorite mountain—probably because it’s the only one where you can get fresh pizza at the top. Mount Washington has become more of a tourist destination over the years. You can drive up or take the COG railroad up the mountain. At the top is a building that’s used as an observatory to monitor the weather, but there’s also a huge cafeteria to eat. And let’s not forget the gift shop. The true experience is when you hike up though. The pizza always tastes better that way.

  The terrain of the hiking trails in the White Mountains can be brutal, from loose rock to steep boulders you have to climb. While Mount Washington is infamous for having the worst weather conditions and the highest wind speed record in the world, it’s short in comparison to other mountains across the United States that scale far over 14,000 feet. My dad wanted to help me pick my first 14er to hike, another plan which had been put to a grinding halt. He’d already hiked Mount Rainier a handful of times with my mom when they had visited, and I’m almost certain that was where he wanted to take me for my first 14er, even if he never outwardly said so.

  But the thing I’d never noticed when I’d visited Lake Stevens as a kid is how the Cascades tower over the lake. Looking at it now, I wonder how I missed it as a kid. Knowing me, I was probably too focused on the water to look up and see the mountains. They’re permanently capped by snow, the type of mountains you look at and feel a deep respect for because of their massive size. They make the White Mountains look like a little playground.