Finding Jim (14 page)

Vicki finds the large colour proofs of the two books Jim wrote, and her eyes light up. “I'd love to make a display of these, Sue. What do you think?”

What do I think? I want to keep everything remotely attached to Jim locked away forever so that I don't lose anything else in my life.

“That would be fine, but please bring them back,” I reply.

I rifle through boxes in the garage and find the five by seven photograph of Jim dressed in a suit, tie and polished shoes. He shakes the Governor General's hand and accepts a medal. The Meritorious Service Medal recognizes individuals who have performed an exceptional deed or an activity that brought honour to their community or to Canada. Memories swim through my brain and I float away.

One evening, almost a year after Jim returned from
K2
, he received an official-looking envelope in the mail. He gawked at me with wide eyes. I feigned innocence.

“Wow! I've won the Governor General's Meritorious Service Medal!” Jim exploded.

“Really?”

He leaned forward and guffawed like a child not able to contain his enthusiasm. “The ceremony is in Quebec City!”

“I love Quebec City!”

He sucked in a breath and stopped. “You knew.”

“Yes. I nominated you and Dan.”

That September, Jim and I travelled to Quebec City with Dan's wife Patti and her son Ryan. The trees radiated deep burnt reds, oranges and yellows so that entire hillsides glowed. We walked the cobbled streets and stopped to admire the work of artists.

Patti accepted Dan's award posthumously. Jim grinned and received his medal for being the first Canadian to summit
K2
. I was proud.

I lay the photo on the pile to take to Vancouver and turn my attention to the slides. Kevin hunches over the light table, sorting the square pieces as if figuring out a jigsaw puzzle. More than 20 years of Jim's adventures: Alaska, South America, Africa, India, Nepal and North America. Ice climbing, skiing, mountaineering, climbing, sailing … the memories dance like fireflies. Which ones to choose? I peer at the raft crashing through the vertical waves of the Karnali River in Nepal and I remember that I almost lost Jim before, four years earlier.

I jerk my head up at the sound of the doorbell. My eyes refocus and I hear Kevin breathing beside me.

“I'll get it.” I need a break.

“Hi, Keith, hey, Julia.” I hug them and Keith smiles at me, but his eyes stay sad. Julia joins the others in the office to look at slides, but Keith lags behind and turns to me in the dark hallway.

“I brought these for you.” He holds up a gold chain, spinning on the end of which is a gold ring. I put my hand out instinctively, but when the cool of the metal hits my flesh I cover my mouth with my other hand and pitch forward as if I am going to throw up.

“Oh, God.”

“Oh, man, I didn't want to upset you,” Keith turns away and then turns back. There is nowhere for him to go.

“Thank you for bringing them,” I manage to say, and I slip the chain over my neck so that Jim's wedding ring nestles near my heart.

Keith fidgets. “You know it wasn't the first time that Jim walked close to the line.”

“Yeah, I know.” I had walked there with him. But Jim always came home. He promised he would. He had “too much to live for.” Our love was special and he would never jeopardize it. I trusted him. I lived by this truth.

I had to.

Jim's true lover, the one he wooed and caressed, was the line between life and death. Each time he came safely home after stepping so close to that line, a life force surged inside of him. He always acknowledged his luck but at the same time grew more and more confident that perhaps he would escape the basic rules of life.

Jim said that driving the mountain highway was the most dangerous thing he did. Our society tolerates the risk of driving because it is part of daily life and because it serves a purpose. Mountaineering is harder to justify.

Keith and I move upstairs and I change the subject. “What did you guys talk about on the trip?”

“The last night in our tent, we talked about spirituality. You know, whether or not we believe in God, what it means to us to be spiritual. When it came to Jim's turn, he mimicked wielding a light sabre, sound effects and all. ‘Use the force Luke.' We all laughed.”

“Did Jim say anything about the book he was reading?” I finger my bottom lip.

“Oh yeah, I saw him reading it,
Fatherhood
, the one by that comedian. He seemed to enjoy it. He laughed quite a bit and read a few passages to us.”

I sigh. I was the driving force behind us having a child, and I thought maybe the pressure was too much for Jim. He wasn't able to focus properly. He'd made a mistake because he worried about having a baby …

“What about in the morning, when you woke up?”

“You know, Jim shot upright in his sleeping bag when he first woke up and grabbed for his journal. He scribbled something.”

I rustle through Jim's pack to find the journal. Keith peers over my shoulder as I read, “Wash sleeping bag.” We laugh.

The doorbell rings again and I hustle down the stairs. When I see Scott through the glass, he bows his head. I catch a glimpse of his dark brown eyes.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Um, I just didn't feel like being alone.” He shrugs.

“Come on in. Keith and Julia and Kevin and Vicki are here. You're welcome to hang out.” I open the door wider.

His tall frame floats past me into the room as if he is hollow. Jim was a fellow guide, and his death ignites a fear: they are all mortal.

My eyes sting from squinting at slides. I choose photos of me and Jim together: under a waterfall in Nepal, on top of Mount Kilimanjaro in Africa, faces shining in the sun heli-skiing near Whistler, arms wrapped around one another at my parents' place, slow dancing at our wedding … so many photos, so many trips. I want to bronze all of these memories, solidify them so that they cannot fade.

That afternoon, I beg the local photo lab to enlarge and frame half a dozen images for Jim's service. Rush job.

When darkness comes and everyone has gone home, I curl up in bed and snuggle Jim's black and red toque under my cheek like a security blanket. He was wearing it when he fell. It touched him after I did. The acrid smell of Jim's fear lingers in the soft fleece, and it does not feel like a lifeline. It smells like death. Connor's words echo, “Auntie Sue, isn't it lonely in that king-sized bed now?”

That night I hear a noise.

I creep downstairs and follow the glow of light that seeps through the cracks around the guest bedroom door. I steady myself on the wall to listen. A shuffling sound … then another noise … yes, there it is, a familiar sigh. My feet slide forward as if I am on a tightrope. Step by step I make my way down the hallway, brushing my hand along the wall for balance. I hold my breath, ease the door open, squint into the light and strain to see long before the door is out of the way. I spy two wheels, an armrest and the broad curve of a well-muscled back. The rest of the body rummages in the closet. I catch my breath loudly because I recognize his back. And then his blond head comes into view and I know for certain. It is Jim! He isn't dead! He is just hurt!

“Hey!” He laughs.

“Oh!” I hug him, crying and laughing. Then, with superhuman strength, I lug him in his wheelchair upstairs to our bedroom, and we giggle about how we are going to fool around.

When I wake up, I slide my hand over the space beside me. The sheets are cold.

I get into the car and drive back to Vancouver, to Jim's funeral.

TUESDAY, MAY 4, 1999

Dear Jim,

Today is your funeral. I rose with the sun, to be with you, and walked to the beach. A young man balanced on a log, one leg in the air like a gymnast, and beamed, “Isn't it a beautiful day?”

“Yes.” I smiled outwardly at his enthusiasm and inwardly at the irony. It was indeed a beautiful day.

A crack of thunder shook the sky. Just one. I tilted my face to the big raindrops falling from a single black cloud. A flock of birds drummed their wings against the air. A giant blue heron floated over. Dan.

I wondered what form you would take. An eagle maybe. A moment later, two eagles soared overhead. My feet rooted into the sand. You try to communicate with me. I want to touch you, to hear you, to talk to you.

Love always, Sue

My family accompanies me to the church, but I feel alone. I feel empty, as if my voice echoes inside of me. I raise my head to the morning sun, close my eyes and let the warmth caress my skin. My breaths come short and shallow, but even so, the perfume of the cherry trees snakes its way like smoke into my nostrils. Mom Haberl hurries up and pulls me right against her chest. I relax into her arms. She gently pries away the picture I clutch against my body. Jim's big grin and bright blue eyes bring the photo alive. “Oh, nice,” she puts her hand to her heart. “Could we use it on top of the coffin?” She holds my arm and leans in close.

“Yes.” I want to let the picture go and to hold onto it at the same time.

Jim's cardboard rectangular coffin sits on wheels at the head of the church aisle. From where I sit, I can reach out and touch it. My heart tells my hand to touch the box, to stroke it, but I stay stiff. Sharron cocoons me in her arm. As the Catholic priest approaches the pulpit, my muscles seize in anticipation of even more proof that Jim is dead.

He never met Jim, but what he says is strangely fitting. He talks about how Jim did not allow the frailty of life to scare him into living less than a full life.

After the service, Sharron is my crutch as I follow Jim's body down the aisle. Hot fluid streams from my eyes and nose. I raise my chin to breathe and notice the faces of the mourners in the pews. Some look down, some turn away from me, some lean toward me with their brows furrowed and their eyes watering, and one friend sits ramrod straight staring at me with his eyes open wide like a frightened child.

Outside, I want to cry harder but I can't. I want some sound to come out of me that will be strong enough to take the pain with it. I lean on the railing and Mom Haberl puts her arm around me. Through tears, she says, “He sure did love you.” Did he know how much I loved him? Did I love him enough? She presses the Governor General's medal that they'd been keeping in their safety deposit box into my hand. “Here, you should have this.”

I press the medal back into her hand, “No, you keep it, please.”

Oak trees tower over us as the hearse drives off to Squamish to deliver Jim for cremation. To be burned. My body trembles. I want to run after the dark hearse, throw myself in front of it, scream … but I don't. I am frantic to do the right thing, but I don't know what the right thing is.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 5, 1999

Before Jim's evening memorial service at the Chan Centre, eight friends join me for a walk at Jericho Beach. We amble along the fine gravel pathway, elbows linked. The late afternoon sun kisses the trees, sand and water. “I wish I had a camera, you make such a lovely picture,” a middle-aged woman comments as she passes. The irony is excruciating. Love and grief, hand in hand.

The weight in my chest draws my shoulders and head down. I use my whole back to raise my head and squint into the sunlight. Is he here? Yes, there he is on his usual perch. I gaze. His wings billow and he is airborne. My eyes track him, closer and closer, until he is less than six metres above us. I hold my breath as he circles. It is him. It must be him. An eagle: mating for life, the gateway to the divine. He gains altitude as he circles, and I stop, sigh and gaze upward.

Close to a thousand people are at the memorial that evening. One friend bursts into tears when she sees the wedding picture of Jim and me by the candle in the foyer. There are several billboards and easels displaying the colourful proofs of Jim's two books and his awards for writing, his Governor General's medal.

There are speeches. Dad Haberl begins by thanking everyone for being there for Jim's mom. She knew him the longest and perhaps the best. He says that Jim taught him right from wrong, something a father should teach his son. It is a stunning confession for such a confident man.

When Eric speaks, he says he witnessed the first magic between Jim and me in the Queen Charlotte Islands in 1982. He raises his chin in my direction and says that Jim's face lit up whenever he talked about me. He admired Jim for belonging so naturally to many different groups of friends.

There is a pause as we wait for the next speaker to come from behind the stage curtain. People shuffle in their seats. And then the audience gasps as well-known motivational speaker and athlete Rick Hansen wheels into the light. He speaks of Jim's dedication to his profession and his ability to relate to and motivate people.

Graeme gives details of the accident.

Scott says he admired Jim for following his heart, for taking the time to do trips in the mountains. Pat, Jim's brother, says Jim's death helped him to find his own soul.

Kevin reads aloud a letter to Jim:

Dear Jim,

It's early morning and I finally feel like I can start a letter. I think everything's checked off – you'd be proud, oh list-meister – checked off only because so many of your friends have stepped up and taken projects. They're all going with a real sense of mission, and I think it's gonna be good tonight.

The last five days have been like a dream, Jim. Lots of hugs and tears, and some good laughs, too. Remember when? And “How about the time that…” I've been feeling a bit weird about not being a basket case. I think Vicki is a bit worried. Some people have told me how strong I've been, we both know that's not it – I think I'm just not ready to say goodbye yet. But don't worry, I will. Whatever, eh? It's the old songs that do get me going, though.