Finding Jim (23 page)

Dad shakes his head. “I can't be emotional about Jim dying anymore.”

“That's fine. I just need to know that I can cry around you,” I plead.

He squeezes me and kisses the top of my head. “Okay. I love you, Sue.”

“I love you too, Dad.” I lean against him.

“You know I loved Jim too. I feel guilty about encouraging his risk-taking.” He beats the table with his finger.

“Jim wasn't affected by what others thought. He would have done it even if you had disapproved.”

“The risk isn't worth it. I've seen the pain it causes.” Dad looks at me.

“It was worth it for me, Dad.” I look away.

My body braces itself against the approach of Christmas as if I hold in the forces of all of the rivers on earth.

“You know, maybe this would be a good year to go to Hawaii and just forget about Christmas, not celebrate,” Dad sighs. Good idea. But we always host Christmas dinner for the old folks.

I sit in the living room with Glenda. Fear lodges angular words in my throat. “What do you want to do for Christmas?” she asks.

“I don't know.” Nothing. I don't want to do anything. But if I commit to a response, I open myself to judgment.

“Don't feel you have to go out and shop for presents; no one expects it.”

“Thank you,” I breathe out. How can I buy presents when Jim is dead?

On December 19, school finishes for the holidays. My sister Sharron is not coming home for Christmas. She wants me to drive to Edmonton to visit her before Christmas, but my homing device kicks in and I beeline to Whistler instead. Safety. Familiar territory. I surface back in Vancouver at my parents' house on Christmas Eve. Harsh Christmas lights glare at me from the tree. I give the mound of colourful presents a wide berth. My family sits around, singing carols. I smile but cannot sing.

When there is a pause, I remind them: “So, I'll be going skiing up Cypress tomorrow morning early, for the sunrise. I'll leave about six but should be back by 10 to open presents.” They nod and look sad. Nobody mentions that this is what I used to do with Jim, go for a ski first thing Christmas morning. “I guess I'll hit the hay.” I get up.

Dad hoists himself up and kisses me. “Good night, Sue.”

Alone in my room, I cry until my head aches.

Sleep comes in a series of short nightmares until I am too frightened to close my eyes. When it is still dark the next morning, Christmas morning, I pull on my ski clothes and ease open the front door. My younger stepsister Laura drives me to the parking lot of Cypress Mountain, where Mike, Rose and Eric meet us.

Whoosh, whoosh. The skins on the bottom of our skis sweep the snow as we climb. A plump yellow cat's eye of a moon hovers in the dark at our backs, lighting up the snow like a runway. My breath swirls in front of my face. After an hour of plodding, the stark black and whites fade to glowing greens, deep blues and oranges. My gaze locks onto the amber sun as it rises above the horizon, pulling me with it. Up. Higher. Yes. We're there. The city of Vancouver at our feet. Ocean. Mountains. Yes. The summit. Almost in the same instant as the beauty surges through me, I slump onto my poles. He would be here. At the top, he would be here.

“Merry Christmas, Sue.” Rose leans forward to hug me.

“Merry Christmas, Rose. I sure do miss him.” I push my face against her down jacket.

“Me too.”

The snow sparkles like diamonds and we leave tracks like a snaking river as we ski back to the car.

At my parents' house, wrapping paper litters the living room floor. My younger brother discusses the pros and cons of sports. I grit my teeth at the normalcy and breathe a sigh of relief, too. I look at the ground, like a shy child hoping not to be called on in class. When my head feels stretched to breaking point, I go downstairs to let go. Christmas dinner is the usual festive affair, with 11 of us, including grandparents, around the decorative table laden with food. But I feel like an imposter wearing a purple paper crown and toasting our good health.

The next morning, I drive home where I feel no pressure to be happy.

The red light on the answering machine pulses. I slap the tape into action.

“Hey, Susie, it's Terri calling. I can't stop thinking about you. It just feels so real today. I know you feel this all the time, but it's sort of like it's Christmas and Jim's not back and he would be here for Christmas. I keep picturing your face and I feel so sad. I feel so sad for you. I wish we could bring him back. I hope you make it through the day okay. I love you so much.”

Andrea visits and we ski together. Before she leaves, she stocks up the fridge. Christmas is over. I couldn't stop it from coming, but it is over.

(JANUARY 2000)

I meet a friend to rollerblade around Stanley Park. She glides effortlessly while I jerk around bracing against the inevitable crash. When will I find my balance and confidence again? We take a break on the grass, and she hands me a piece of paper.

“This is the phone number of a counsellor I went to during my divorce. Her office is close to your parents' place in Vancouver. She works out of a big space that can take lots of energy. I still check in with her once a year to make sure I'm on the right track.”

I tuck the paper in my pocket. “Thank you. It would be helpful to talk to someone. I lean on my friends a lot and they must be getting sick of my whining.” My friend is confident, strong, a successful businesswoman. If she can go to a counsellor, so can I.

It's true that I am holding down a full-time job, meeting with friends and taking over fundraisers that Jim organized. I am functioning. But I feel constant angst that peaks at night and when Jim is obviously absent, when he is obviously dead, and only abates somewhat when I am in the wilderness. I am exhausted from hyper-vigilance. It's only a matter of time before the next tragedy strikes. And what if I'm not doing everything possible to get Jim back? I do not recognize myself.

I make an appointment with the counsellor.

I arrive early and wait in a small corridor for my turn. When the counsellor opens the door, her long silk blouse and skirt billow and I notice her bright eyes and warm smile. We sit opposite each other in a room that echoes. A massage table stands at one end. Large crystal bowls squat at the other end. She explains that she plays the crystal bowls with a special rubber mallet to create a sound that eases pain in cancer patients. She smiles as she talks, and her voice rides musical waves as if she is lulling me to sleep.

I tell her my story.

After an hour, she leads me to the table, settles me on my back and asks me to close my eyes and listen to her voice. She starts at my feet and works her way to my head, opening the passage for positive energy. Her hands rest for several minutes above my heart and I start to cry. Her voice melts into me.

“You are light. You are love. And you are free.”

At the end of the session, she gives me a recording of our meditation together and urges me to listen to it every day.

“Feed your mind, body, heart and soul every day.” We make a list together of how I will do this: breathing exercises, writing in my journal to Jim, painting, connecting with friends and family, walking Habby, exercising in the outdoors.

I make an appointment for the following week. Before I leave, she hugs me and I hug her back.

(APRIL 2000)

Part of me wants April 29, the anniversary of Jim's death, to sail by with no pain, no remembering. The other half knows that the pain is connected to my love and that ignoring one would be ignoring the other. So, I decide to invite family and very close friends to Whistler to let go of more of Jim's ashes at Blueberry Point, a 20-minute walk from our house, through the woods along Alta Lake. I have no idea if this is what the family wants, but I listen to my inner voice. People can join in if it feels right for them.

There is still some snow on the ground so I give Mom Haberl an old pair of Jim's boots to wear, and she grins. Jim's sister-in-law grips her husband's arm as she negotiates the roots and slopes of the trail. The point is a rocky bluff overlooking the lake. I sit down on a rock with a painted cedar box on my lap. The adults melt into the shadows of the trees, but the children cluster around me. Jessica, who is five, places her little hand on my knee. “What's in the box, Auntie Sue?”

The children's curiosity gathers in soft creases on their foreheads. I take a breath and whisper the truth so it won't hurt so much.

“It's Uncle Jim. It's his body. These are the ashes from his body.” Their eyes open wider and they press closer, swaying on their feet, backs arched and bellies protruding.

“Oh,” one of them whispers back.

I tell them that we are all going to take some of his ashes and find a place to let him go, to send him back to the earth. When I lift the lid, the adults inch forward. I curl back the edges of the plastic bag and these little hands reach in with great care and cup a bit of Uncle Jim. Very carefully, as if carrying water that may spill, or a baby bird, they walk to a place where they can be with Uncle Jim. My eyes fill and I want to thank these children for being so brave. When all of the hands, big and little, are gone, I sit there empty. Exhausted. I reach into the bag and sift the remaining contents slowly though my fingers. A white chunk half the size of my little finger gets caught. Bone. Jim's bone. This is what is left of Jim's body.

Amongst the trees, big people help little people to let Jim go. Vicki comes over with something metal in her hand. She holds it up. It is a large staple. I am perplexed.

“Ah, it's one of the staples from his ankle.” Her mouth opens wide with the realization.

“Oh, my God,” I mumble. And I remember that he fell more than once in his life.

My steps faltered as I scanned the white walls of the hospital for directions. In a hushed tone, I asked the nurse behind the desk where I might find Jim Haberl. I turned to follow the wave of her arm and there he was in the hallway. My insides jumped because I needed more time to rehearse my greeting. It was one year after Jim and I first met on the sailboat. Now I was 17 years old.

“Hey!” he nodded and grinned. Then he propelled himself toward me in his wheelchair with one definite movement. I bent over, cupped his shoulders with my hands and hugged him without our chests touching. His light-blue hospital gown billowed around his slight frame, and I thought how he looked like a little boy and how I felt like a young woman. I wondered how much weight he had lost. Jim laughed and said the nurses teased him about having so many female visitors. My heart clenched like a fist, and I remembered Jim kissing me the previous summer on that barnacled rock in the Queen Charlotte Islands. I wished I were his only visitor.

I sat very still opposite Jim as he recounted how he had fallen the equivalent of five body lengths onto rocks. He had been working as a crew member on that same sailboat where we had met off the west coast of Vancouver Island. They were anchored and Jim had kayaked alone to one of the nearby islands.

Jim explained, “I started to climb around on the cliff. But I didn't have any gear, and I was just wearing runners so I didn't plan to go too high. It was so great to get my hands on the warm rock, and to be doing something physical after so many sedentary days on the boat, you know? And my blood got pumpin' and I was cruisin'. Everything was flowing and then this bulge reared up in front of me, nudging me backwards. I slowed down and stretched wide to hang on.”

Jim spread his arms and sucked in his chest to show me how he had bear-hugged the rock. I visualized the dark purple veins in his taut arms straining against his skin. My body tensed as I imagined Jim inching his way upward, clenching his stomach muscles and holding his breath from the exertion of fighting gravity. I held my breath.

“I was working it, one move at a time and it was getting harder. About halfway up I thought I was fine. But then I slid my hand over the rock feeling for the next hold. And there was nothing. I searched with the other hand. Nothing.”

Jim told me how the muscles in his arms and legs trembled with fatigue. A nubbin of rock stared him in the face. He leaned his head forward and closed his teeth around the small protrusion and held on. Slowly he lowered his right arm and shook it gently to coax the blood back to the muscles. Then he gingerly raised his arm back to its hold on the rock. He did the same with his left arm. The relief was temporary, and Jim could not lower his arms in turn quickly enough to maintain strength. It became increasingly difficult to make his fingertips pinch the small holds. He peered nine metres straight down to the jagged black volcanic rock and the noisy salty surf below.

“I knew I was going to fall so I took a deep breath and pushed myself away from the rock, so that I wouldn't hit on the way down,” Jim explained in a steady voice.

I gripped my seat.

Jim fell nine metres and lay still. The impact separated his pelvis, shattered his ankle and cut his head. “When I came to, I assessed my injuries and then instructed the clients, who had canoed over from the sailboat to help me, what to do in terms of first aid.” Jim grinned confidently.

I sat paralyzed. How was he able to function in such a scary situation?

A helicopter transported Jim to Vancouver where surgeons pinned his ankle together with five-centimetre-long staples.

Back at our Whistler house, upstairs behind the closed door of our bedroom, Dad Haberl holds a plastic bag while I transfer some of what is left of Jim's ashes. He and Mom Haberl reserved family spots in a cremation wall in one of the local cemeteries and want to put some of Jim's ashes there.

I ask him to tell me when to stop. When his hand comes up, one third of the ashes remain. So far, Jim is scattered in the Queen Charlotte Islands, on Mount Kilimanjaro, at Whistler and in Vancouver.