The Same Sky(54)

“Since I don’t know,” said Jane. “It helps me personally, and it helps me figure out what to tell the kids when a pet dies.”

I nodded, smiling. “Raven, Hammy the hamster, the betta fish …”

“All living happily in heaven,” said Jane.

“With Mom, I gather,” I said.

“With Mom,” said Jane. “Who watches over us.”

“I wish I could believe that,” I said morosely.

“It’s not so hard,” said Jane. “Just believe it.”

“Then why did you lose the baby?” I said, anger rising in my gut. “And why did I, if there’s some benevolent God and a heaven?”

“I don’t know,” said Jane.

We drove out of town in silence, taking County Road 14 past Lake Lenore into the national forest. We passed the remains of Ash, a town founded by the owners of the Bachelor Mine, and crossed Dexter Creek. Jane pulled the truck over. “I’ll do it,” I said.

“Thanks,” said Jane.

I climbed out of the truck. In the chilly morning, I knelt to turn the knobs on the front wheels that would lock the hubs and engage the four-wheel drive. I got back inside, and Jane put the truck in gear and drove up the steep dirt road to the Wedge Mine. “I always feel like we’re going to fall off,” I said, grabbing the dashboard as Jane expertly handled a sharp switchback.

Jane sighed.

“What?” I said.

“That about sums it up,” said Jane.

“What does that mean?” I said.

Jane bit her lip and did not answer. In the dawn light, with her hair tucked under a Ouray High cap, she looked sixteen again, and I remembered how ethereal she had been, always pale, dreamy-eyed, sort of floating on the outskirts of our family. Before Dennis and the kids had worn her down, she’d been a blond angel.

“I used to think you looked like an angel,” I said.

“Not anymore?” she said slyly.

“No, but …,” I said.

“I don’t mind being a fat mom,” she said matter-of-factly. “Nobody saw me when I was perfect. I was invisible. Now I’m in the middle of everything. I’m the anchor.”

“The heart,” I said, moved.

“Yup,” said Jane. She put her shoulders back, and I saw in this gesture how proud she was of what she’d accomplished.

“I’m proud of you,” I said.

“Thanks. I’m proud of you, too,” said Jane.

“For what?”

“For accepting your life,” she said. I was silent, chewing that one over. I hadn’t accepted my life at all, which was the problem, I saw now. But wasn’t striving for your dreams supposed to be a good thing?

“I haven’t accepted it,” I said.

Jane drove to the trailhead and pulled the brake. She gathered our backpacks, which she’d filled with sandwiches, trail mix, and lemonade. “Let’s go,” she said.

“Hold on,” I said. “I said I haven’t accepted it. I want a baby and I f*cking deserve one, just as much as you do.”

“Okay,” said Jane. “You’re right.”

“Damn right I’m right,” I said, jumping out of the Toyota, my feet landing hard on the cold ground. I shouldered my pack and began walking along the trail, pausing only to enter our names and the ungodly hour in the trail register. It was barely light.

Wordlessly we hiked through aspen, spruce, and fir. I was fueled by rage and unhappiness, and I moved quickly. My thighs burned, and I soon left my sister behind. I reached the meadow and stopped, sitting on a boulder to wait for Jane. I took in the view—there was Ouray, looking like a doll-sized town from twenty-five hundred vertical feet above. As I looked out at the Red Mountains and Hayden Peak, I remembered hiking this same trail with my parents, Jane in a pack on my dad’s shoulders. I must have been six or seven. When my mom said, “Keep going to the Bridge of Heaven,” I’d been scared and stopped short.

“I don’t wanna go to heaven,” I protested.

“It’s not the real heaven,” my mom said.

“Bet the real heaven looks a lot like it,” Dad said, adjusting his pack.

“Oh, no,” Mom said. “The real heaven looks like this.” She’d taken my hand and Jane’s and kissed my dad.

“Such a softie,” Dad said, smiling.

“Come on, honeybun,” Mom said to me, tugging me forward.


Jane finally reached me, breathing heavily. “I don’t feel so good,” she said, reaching into her pack for a water bottle and peanuts. “This might have been a better idea in theory.”

“You can do it,” I said. “But it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

“I wanted to say goodbye to her there,” said Jane.

“What?” I said, thinking of my mother.

“It was a girl.”

Jane sat next to me on the boulder. This felt like a good time to say what I needed to say. “Jane,” I began, “if you get the test, you’ll be able to take preventative measures. I just think it’s something you need to do.”

“We’re all going to die, Alice,” said Jane, pulling her knees up.

“Okay,” I said, “but for the kids’ sake, I just think—”