Second Hand Heart (18 page)

“But you just said you loved it.”

“I know. That was weird, huh? I guess I meant I always thought I would love it. You know. If I ever got to go.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll get up super early. And we’ll drive up to Whitney Portal. And I’ll show you the trail.”

“Victor. Don’t be stupid. I can’t climb Mount Whitney.”

“Well, I know that. But you can walk up the trail. Maybe a mile. Maybe half a mile. Maybe ten feet. I don’t know. But at least you can say you were on the Mount Whitney Trail. Even the drive up there is really cool. The road goes up to over eight thousand feet.”

“You said you need a special permit and it’s hard to get.”

See? I was paying attention.

“Not from the trailhead to Lone Pine Lake. Anybody can do that as a day hike. Beyond the lake you need a permit. But we can do the first part of the trail, and Jax can go as far as the lake, too. I really want you to see it. It’s amazing.”

“Maybe,” I said. “What about Esther?”

“She looked like she was feeling really crappy. I think she’ll sleep in. We could leave her a note and say we’ll be back by nine. We could leave before the sun comes up.”

“I don’t even have good shoes,” I said, pointing to my sandals.

“We don’t have to go very far.”

I felt like I was running out of excuses. But I still didn’t want to go. So I had to ask myself why. Why didn’t I want to go up there and see Whitney Portal and walk on a tiny bit of the trail?

The answer was pretty simple. “I think I’m scared,” I said.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. It’s just all new, and I’ve never done anything like that before, and it’s just scary, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer. I guess because he didn’t have the kind of answer that would get me to go.

We sat there for a while and looked at the mountains, and the way the moonlight made the snow glow white, like it glowed in the dark all by itself. Like snow was its own light source. I could hear Jax whimpering from the car because he wanted to be with us, but dogs are not allowed in the pool area.

“Why didn’t you get him water?” I asked.

“I did.”

“I mean, until Esther told you to. It just seems weird. You love him, and Esther hates him, but you didn’t go get him water until she told you to.”

“I thought maybe I wasn’t supposed to leave,” he said. “I thought maybe she was going to pass out from the heat, and I felt like I couldn’t leave if she didn’t say I could. She can be really … intimidating. You know?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t think she’s intimidating?”

“Not at all. She’s just my friend.”

“Wow. That’s weird.”

“What?”

“Being afraid of Whitney Portal, but not being afraid of Esther. I just can’t picture that at all.”

More sitting quietly, and then I said, “I’m going to go away soon.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going.”

“Do you know where you want to go?”

“There’s a place,” I said. “I can almost see it in my head. But I don’t know exactly where it is.”

“But it’s a real place?”

“I think so.”

“How will you find it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but isn’t that a lot scarier than driving up the Whitney Portal Road?”

I thought about that for a while, and then I said, “Yeah, I guess I see your point about that.”

“So you’ll go?” He sounded all happy and excited.

“Is there a place up there to buy postcards?”

“Yeah! There is. There’s a really cool little general store.”

“OK,” I said. “I’ll go.”

I’m going to need to get a whole lot braver, and I’m thinking that’s one of those things that you just need to keep working on. You know. Like if you wanted to play the piano. Like practice.

Esther Snores

S
o when she’s quiet, I have to figure she’s awake.

So I was just lying here writing in my book about Victor and Mount Whitney, and then I got that she was awake, and then she talked to me.

“So, I’m thinking you are less nervous and scared,” she said.

And it was weird, because just for a second I thought she knew everything about tomorrow morning. Already. Which would have been a little spooky.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you used to rub the worry stone all day long, and now you don’t.”

Sometimes I hate being someone who always has to tell the truth.

“It’s at Richard’s,” I said.

“Richard?”

“The heart man.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I dropped it by mistake when I was at his house. And he’s keeping it safe until I can get back to get it.”

“Oh. I see.”

“It was just an accident. It doesn’t mean I love it any less than ever.”

“I know that. I understand.”

“Esther? Are you really OK with finding out that all the slates get cleaned after we die? Or are you partly mad because that guard doesn’t still have to be suffering?”

“I am mostly happy to know I will not need to be bumping into him again.”

“Oh. OK. Good.”

“You are almost a third of the way through that book,” she said. “This is good.”

“There’s been a lot going on to write about. Oh. By the way. Really early in the morning Victor is going to take me up to Whitney Portal. Maybe I’ll hike just a little tiny bit of the trail.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? You just had a heart transplant.”

“Well, not just. It was months ago. I mean, I had my eight weeks of follow-ups. And everything is fine. And anyway, I’m not going to go very far on it.”

I did not mention that, although it’s true that for eight weeks you have to do follow-ups twice a week, after that you still have do them, just farther apart. And I had already missed one.

See? There I go again.

“Be careful. Because it’s very high altitude. Not much air up there. Be very careful.”

Poor Esther. She’s spent so many years being careful that she doesn’t know how to stop now. Like my mother.

Somebody should put a warning label on everything in life that’s about fear. Being afraid to die, being afraid your daughter will die, being afraid of getting hurt in love. It should all have a warning label to let people know it can be habit-forming.

Once you decide to put all your energy into being scared of something, you might wake up one day and find out you have no idea how to stop. It happens to people. More often than anybody seems willing to admit.

The Portal

T
he road was very winding and tight, and it looked most of the time like Victor was about to drive right over the edge. Which is why I closed my eyes.

“Isn’t it beautiful from up here?” he asked.

And I said, “I don’t know. I have my eyes closed.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a scary road.”

“I’m not going to drive off it, if that’s what you mean. I’m being careful. You need to look. You’re missing a really nice view.”

I opened my eyes and we were about two-thirds of the way up to the top of the road.

I looked down. It made me dizzy, but it was pretty, too. Like just a little wedge of high desert below us, because the mountains on both sides covered up the view of the rest, and a lake that was almost all dry, and the little town of Lone Pine, which was not so little compared to Independence, but it was little.

The sun wasn’t even up yet, but it was just barely light.

We came around another curve, and I turned my head even farther to look and Jax kissed my nose.

•  •  •

We had to park in the overflow extra trailhead parking. There weren’t too many people around, and I couldn’t figure out who owned all those cars. Usually when you see that many cars parked you see a few people to go with them.

“Where are all the people to go with these cars?” I asked while he was locking up his mom’s car.

“They’re on the mountain.”

“They went up in the dark?”

“Some of them. Some people start at midnight or one in the morning to get up there before noon. Some camp on the trail and do it in more than one day. This is the most popular time of year for Mount Whitney. Because there’s so much snow on it the rest of the time.”

I looked around at all the gray, granitey-looking mountains on each side of us, and the little seams of snow in them. I could hear a waterfall somewhere but I couldn’t see it.

I felt weird being up here in just sandals.

We walked kind of slow to the trailhead, which was pretty steep uphill, and already I was getting really out of breath. It was scary. Like all the air got sucked out of my lungs, no matter how hard I tried to breathe in. Like it used to be.

I stopped and leaned my hands on my knees, and bent forward and tried to catch my breath.

When I looked up, there was a group of three hikers walking by very close to us. Two guys and one woman. They had those huge packs that look really solid and go up higher than your head, and they had rolled-up stuff — maybe sleeping bags or pads — strapped to the packs. And they had poles, those kind that are like ski poles but they’re for hiking. And they were wearing shorts, and very big solid boots, and incredibly thick socks with thinner socks underneath. You could see their underneath-socks sticking out at the top.

I looked at the packs, and I looked at the woman’s legs. They had these muscles in the back that were really nicely visible. They were all ropey and fit-looking. And I got this attack of something, but I swear I don’t know what it was. It just hit me. But I’m still not sure exactly what it was. Just that it hit me.

It’s like I really missed having legs with ropey calf muscles, and a big tall pack on my back. Which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, because I never did. But that’s what it was, even though it was impossible that it could have been that. I’m sorry, it just was anyway.

I know how it feels to miss something. And I missed ropey calf muscles and big backpacks. It made a spot inside me ache. I mean, really ache. A big, ugly ache.

And then all of a sudden that missing made me miss Richard. Not that I didn’t usually. Not that I didn’t in general. But suddenly, and much more. In fact, it hit me so hard that I said it out loud.

I straightened all the way up and said, “Oh my God, I just miss Richard so much.”

I didn’t mention backpacks and ropey calf muscles. Just Richard.

It was just light enough that I could see the look on Victor’s face. It wasn’t good.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” he said.

“Well. I don’t know that he’s my boyfriend. But I sure miss him.”

“You feeling OK to walk some more?”

“Yeah. OK.”

I thought we’d talk about Richard some more, but I guess Victor didn’t want to. I took a bunch more steps uphill, and right away my lungs emptied out again. I wondered if Richard missed me, and if he was scared for me.

“Don’t let me forget the postcards,” I said. It was hard to even breathe enough to say it. I mean, to say it well enough that he could understand.

“OK.” Long pause.

I was starting to think I couldn’t walk any more. Then he said, “Is the postcard for Richard?”

“One is. And one is for my mom.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t think I can walk any farther.”

“But that’s the trailhead right up there. Here. Take Jax’s leash. He’ll pull you.”

I took the leash and it did help a little bit. At first. But it also made me walk faster than I wanted to.

But we got to the trailhead.

I sat down on a bench and tried to catch my breath. “I can’t do this,” I said. “I don’t have strong muscles like you do. And like those people that went by us. You need to practice to be in shape. I’ve never been in shape, not once in my whole life. And I can’t breathe. And I can’t do this.”

“We’ll just sit a while,” he said.

The sun was almost up, and it was pretty there at the trailhead, even though I had to watch guys with big calf muscles go by. At least seven of them. I mean, at least seven guys. Which would be fourteen calves. At least. But I guess I sort of lost count.

“Maybe I’ll just go get some postcards,” I said.

“You see that shelter?”

I looked up. The trail went up a few switchbacks to sort of a … well, I don’t think I would call it a shelter. I’m not sure what it was. Just sort of a big framework of wood that you walk through. But it was made of slats, so it wouldn’t shelter you from much. I’m not sure what it was supposed to be for.