There Will Come a Time (24 page)

“Maybe it's kind of like having that feeling you're doing what you're supposed to be doing, like when you play the bass or when I organized the food drive last year at school, you feel good. No, more than good. You feel like you are supposed to be alive. Maybe that's fate. My head hurts.” She touches her temple. “Can't we just think of puppies?”

“Puppies?”

“Yeah. Puppies are perfect. They're so cute. Puppies love you, no questions asked. When you come home and they see you, their whole bodies shake with joy.”

“Too bad they grow up to be dogs.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. “Is it safe out here?” Hanna asks.

I look around at the mountain and thick bushes that frame the trail. Because of her question, I suddenly have that feeling that we're being watched. I don't let us stop. If we do, we'll probably hear all kinds of things moving in the gray. “Why? You see something?” I point my flashlight in the direction she's looking.

“No, it's just dark and we're by ourselves.”

“It's getting lighter.” It is. A faint fluorescent bluish light is just beginning to creep into the night, ready to make it day. I don't even really need the flashlight anymore.

“You know what I mean. There could be a serial killer or something out here.”

“Yeah, you know, all of those serial killers who love hiking in the early morning hours.”

“Or weird people. Weird hiker people. People living in tents. People living off the land, the off-the-grid types.” She is frightening herself, so I give her a little pat, but she hangs on and loops her arm through mine.

“You guys were amazing last night, by the way,” Hanna says, changing the subject.

“Thanks.” I pull her closer to me because I don't want to take any chances and have her stumble toward the edge. We're pretty far up, and peering over the cliff, I see a fall from here would be deadly.

“I'm going to say something serious,” she says. “I'm just preparing you.”

I'm suddenly concerned, though Hanna has done this to me before and then said something like, “I don't like thin-crust pizza.” I still brace myself for what she has to tell me. Maybe she's going to bring up the subject of us.

“You have a gift with music,” she says. “I don't know how you do what you do, but you have to keep playing. Maybe that's at Berklee or maybe it's not, but you have to play.”

I relax. No talk about defining what is happening with us.
I'm a little disappointed because if Hanna brought it up, it'd force us to have the conversation.

“For a long time I used to think music was about the notes,” I say. “But now I think it's more about the intervals
between
the notes. It's easy for me to get lost in it because music is everywhere and when you are listening or playing, you know you aren't alone.”

“See, even when you talk about it—a gift.”

I take a chance and say, “We should play together some time.” It's not asking her on a date, but it's in the right direction.

“Oh no. No way.”

“Why not?”

“Remember that one time? You were all upset because I couldn't keep up. Besides I'm not sure how a bass and violin would work.”

“It's unconventional, sure, but Edgar Meyer does a lot with the cello and bass; I'm sure we could figure out a bass and violin. Anything could work.” I'm talking music, but I'm thinking of Hanna and me. “Most things can, if you want them bad enough.”

But Hanna is clueless. “Puppies,” she says. “We should just stick to puppies.”

We continue hiking, and the higher we go, the more the air feels crisp and clear. The rising sun gives off a little heat. In the summer it can be brutal to hike here because there's no shade
and it's so dry that the dirt gets in your mouth. You want to start super early and bring plenty of sunscreen and water, but this time of year it's cold in the morning. It's normally pretty crowded too, but I guess we're here before the crowds. I pass a water bottle to Hanna and she stops in the middle of a step to take a long sip before giving it back to me.

“Okay, so we can see the sunrise from here, right?” she says. “I mean, did the list say that we have to make it to the
top
? Didn't it just say ‘hike to see a sunrise'?”

I stand behind her and put my hand on her lower back. “Almost there.” I gently push her forward. “This is the toughest part.”

I keep talking to distract her. “You'll love it. There's this old railcar at the summit because a long time ago there used to be a huge hotel that people rode up to stay at. The hotel ruins are there too, though just the foundation and some signs with photos. There's an old echo phone—”

“But, Dad, I'm tired,” she whines. She leans back into me even more.

“Come on, I can't carry you up.” I keep nudging her up the last part of the trail to where it stops climbing and spills onto a wider flat dirt trail. “Keep moving. See, there's what's left of the rail.” I point to the rusted tracks and remains of a car. There're weeds growing up through the wheels. I maneuver her around
some boulders and then out to a flat ridge that overlooks the valley of houses spread out below us like a scene from a postcard.

We've arrived just in time. As the orange light leaks from behind the San Gabriel Mountains, the sky catches fire, with brilliant reds and oranges igniting all around us. It's like a canvas and some unseen artist is adding new layers with each second. Say what you will about the smog, it gives LA some amazing sunrises and sunsets.

“Wow,” Hanna whispers.

“Wow” doesn't even cut it. I've seen sunrises before, but never from this high. The perspective gives a clarity that you can't get from the ground. I am so small, like an ant on a hill. Watching the sky burn, I think of how the sun rises every day no matter what is happening below. No matter who is getting up early to go to work, no matter what work is being done, no matter what fights people are having, no matter what happiness, or sorrow. Life keeps going.

Maybe because Hanna's standing with me or because I've lived through something terrible that I never thought I'd find my way out of, but the thought doesn't depress me. It makes me realize I'm a part of something bigger than myself. As long as I'm alive, I'm underneath an endless sky, on a planet in a solar system that's lodged within a massive universe.

As the warmth of the sun hits my body, every cell within me is
yelling, “I exist! I am here!” That's not something to waste. Hanna shifts her body next to me. I'm not alone, and that gives me hope.

“Want to say anything?” I ask Hanna, knowing she probably will.

“Grace, I hope you like your sunrise.”

We watch the colors morph and continue to change the sky.

“Come on,” I say. “Let's use the echo phone.”

“What's that?”

“There's a natural echo across the canyon, over there.” I point to the mountain on the other side of us. “They put up a phone that you speak into and your voice carries even more.” I lead her to the brown device, which is about Hanna's height. It's a very simple contraption, just a straight metal base and a funnel at the top, like a megaphone.

I think about what to say, and shout, “Hello!” into the mouthpiece. Yes, very clever. In a couple of seconds my voice echoes twice from across the canyon.

“Grace!” I yell into the echo phone. Her name reverberates against the rock walls three times before it fades from our hearing. I picture the sound traveling until it reaches her.

I look back at Hanna and she's holding her temple with her hand.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She shakes her head as if she's trying to wake up.
“Just a little light-headed. What should I say?”

“Whatever you want.” I step aside.

She puts her mouth to the phone and says, “I miss you.” It's not as clear as a single word, but Hanna's voice fills the canyon. Hanna moves back from the echo phone to let me have another turn. I say a bunch of silly things, like, “Cheeseburgers” and “Yo Santos!” and stuff.

“Your turn,” I tell Hanna, but she doesn't respond. She's staring into the canyon, and lets out a big yawn.

“No. I'm done.”

“We did get up before dawn.” I take a drink of water and offer her some, thinking maybe she's a little dehydrated.

“I'm fine,” she says with an edge and walks back to the cliff with the view of the valley and sits down in the dirt.

I get this buzzing in the back of my mind, a red flag. “How are you doing? You need something?”

“I wish you would stop doing that. I said I was fine. I'm not a child.”

I haven't heard Pepe go off or anything, but Hanna's acting ornery, like she's low.

“I know you're not a kid.” I keep my voice calm, so I don't irritate her. “But you seem a little off.”

“I'm fine,” she says again, but her head droops and she suddenly seems very tired, almost loopy.

Now I'm worried. I've seen Hanna get this way before when she needed something high in sugar quick. “You want to check Pepe for me?”

“I'm fine.” She folds her arms across her chest and stares straight ahead.

I try a different tactic. “How about we make a bet?”

“I don't like bets.”

“Since when? If I win, you take something. If you win, I owe you twenty bucks.” I look around for her bag, then remember she left it in my car. She probably has a protein bar in her pocket.

She pats her side. “Pepe is under control.”

I bend down next to her and get close to her face. “Hanna, let me see Pepe.”

“No.” She holds an arm against her side, shielding her insulin pump from me.

“Please?” I plead. She's getting more difficult, so I know it is serious.

“No.”

I remember what her mom had told me about when she gets stubborn, I needed to be firm.

“Hanna, I am going to check Pepe.” I place my hand on her arm to move it, and she pouts, but she doesn't give me much resistance. Sure enough, her pump's lower than fifty-five, which
I think is really low. I make her look. “See? I'm right. I win. Not that I want to gloat or anything.”

She takes an exasperated breath and glares at me.

“So why don't you eat something, okay?” I use the voice that I use with Fern when she needs a little coaxing. “Let's see what you've got with you. Can you stand up, please?” I help her to her feet. She pats her pockets.

“Oops,” she says, and giggles. “I think I forgot.”

“What?” I start searching her pockets, even though she's swatting my hands away.

“Hey, stop that.”

She doesn't have any food, a sugar packet, or even her glycogen pen, which she usually carries for emergencies. I bet it's all in her bag back in the car. Why didn't she bring it with her?

“Hanna, Hanna, listen to me.” I'm level with her now, right in her face, which has gone pale. Her eyes are looking at me but not looking at me. Her pupils are dilated. “Your sugar is very low. We need to figure out how we're going to get it back to normal.” I'm trying to be calm for her, but I'm starting to freak out. It's a long way back to the car. There's nothing around us. How are we going to get down the mountain?

“It's not low. Leave me alone, Mark.” She staggers away from me.

“Wait,” I say. I grab her arm, worried she might get too close to the edge.

She shakes off my hand. “You always do this. Trying to take care of me all the time. You don't know.” She waves her hand at me. Small sweat beads are starting to form along her forehead. “And I'm not going to make the cake. I won't do it. It's, I don't know, not a good time. I'm not tired, don't want to go to bed yet, and he is sometimes fun, but sometimes annoying.” She's not making any sense. This is bad. This is really bad.

My hand shakes as I dial 911, but there's no service on my phone. I walk around, holding it out, trying to pick up a signal, but there's nothing. We're in the mountains. It's almost impossible to get reception here. I get Hanna's phone from her back pocket. Same. No signal.

Hanna sits back down in the dirt. I can't panic. I won't panic. I know if I don't get her help, she could pass out or worse. Fear grips me suddenly. I can't think of worse. There's not going to be a worse.

“Okay, Hanna. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to get down this mountain.” I try to calculate the time in my head. It took us over an hour to hike up. It's probably around two-point-five miles, but downhill we should be able to make it faster. We can even run.

Hanna smiles lopsided as if she's drunk, but at least she
doesn't try to fight me as I help her to her feet, put my arm around her waist, and pull her alongside me. She's mumbling something, but I can't really make it out.

“Let's go.”

We start to make our way down. Hanna acts like she's sleepwalking, stumbling more than walking. She's awake but not entirely present. I have to guide her every step.

“This'll be a crazy story we can tell people one day. Just stay with me. You're doing great.” As I say the words, Hanna's body goes limp, and I catch her just before she falls. I slowly sink to the ground with her.

“Hanna.” I hold her face. Her skin is balmy. Her eyes are closed. I place my head on her chest. She's still breathing regularly and mumbling. She opens her eyes, but she's out of it.

We're completely alone in the middle of nowhere. There aren't even other hikers. My heart is racing and I don't have time to think. I pick her up, cradling her like a child, and start moving as fast as I can down the mountain. The switchbacks are difficult carrying Hanna's weight. My knees buckle as I try to run with her, and I have to slow my pace.

I try to think about something else, anything other than how my arms are burning and my legs are ready to give out. I think of the first time I met Hanna. The day after she moved in across the street from us. Grace was so excited to have a girl her
age in the neighborhood. I was disappointed she wasn't a boy, but then she came over with her skateboard. Maybe that's the day I fell for her. Pink helmet, pink-and-green board, knee and shoulder pads. She looked like a skater wannabe. But when she did her first jump off the ramp, she was the real deal.