The Middle of Somewhere(79)

The pines thinned, the temperature soared and the twelve miles that had promised to be an easy day on paper were getting longer by the minute. Dante hiked behind Liz in silence, the click of their poles and the intermittent squawking of nutcrackers the only sound. Bubbs Creek dropped away from the trail and hid in the willows, running narrow and muffled at the bottom of a steep incline to their right. When they found its source, they could stop. Junction Peak stood in front of them, a monument of granite. The campsite was somewhere at its base, but not near enough.

It was past five o’clock when the terrain abruptly leveled and they came upon a circle of trees enclosing a campsite. Liz walked a hundred yards farther to ascertain that a narrow verdant channel contained running water. She lowered her pack onto the moss, took off her boots and socks and stuck her feet into the icy flow. Dante joined her, and they lay side by side, numbing their sore feet, eyes closed.

“How high are we?” Dante said.

“Eleven thousand, two hundred.”

“Is that what Lake Marjorie was?”

“Uh-huh. And Rae Lakes was only seven hundred feet lower.”

“But we climbed, what, thirty-five hundred feet today?”

“Give or take.”

“And about the same the day before?”

“Yup.”

He paused. “Has anyone ever told you the story of Sisyphus?”

They snacked on salami and trail mix, and made camp. Liz grabbed her towel and went to clean up in the stream while Dante began heating lentil soup for dinner. When she returned, he took his turn to bathe. The sun had dropped behind the peaks and a stiff wind blew down from the pass, so Liz donned her fleece jacket and hat. The skin on her face and arms was taut and raw from sun, wind and cold water. She blew on her hands to warm them and squatted on her haunches and stirred the soup, wincing at the pull in her Achilles tendons and lower back. She thought she really ought to do some stretches—she had kinks everywhere—but was too tired. Instead, she turned the flame down, moved to a rock and pulled her knees to her chest. Her legs felt like bags loaded with lead shot. Wasn’t she supposed to be stronger each day? She tucked her head into her arms and allowed the weight of her exhaustion to sink through her, into the ground. If she could have summoned the energy, she’d have crawled into the tent and forgotten about dinner.

Dante nudged her from her fugue. “You okay? We should eat.”

“I’m fine. Tired.”

He handed her a steaming bowl and a spork and sat on a log facing her. She placed the bowl on her knees and cupped her hands over it, warming them. Dante stirred his soup and lifted a sporkful to examine it.

“Why is it,” he said, “that everything we eat resembles baby food?”

“What?” Liz’s knees wobbled and she gripped the edge of the bowl to stop its slide.

“Baby food. Oatmeal, mashed potatoes, pureed soup . . .”

Liz’s breath caught in her chest. She let out a small cry before her throat snapped shut.

Dante stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth but it filled with cotton. Lies of cotton. Spun and stuffed full. Suffocating on cotton, clean and white. A white cotton gown. Cotton sponges to make it dry. Cotton gauze to soak up blood. She gripped the bowl tighter, ignoring the searing heat. An iron fist squeezed her lungs.

Dante was in front of her, on his knees. He took the soup from her. Held her hands. “You’re shaking. What’s wrong?” His eyes skipped across her face, trying to catch sight of the cause of her distress.

A broad ache searched through her, a dark, roiling river. She heard herself moan. Dante’s face became hazy. She blinked. Her face grew cold but he was no clearer.

He asked her again, more insistent. “What’s wrong?”

She pushed the word against the cotton in her mouth. “Baby.”

“What?”

“Baby.” She’d never noticed how sad the word was. How delicate. Two tiny syllables ringing, the sound of glass wind chimes, set in motion by a breath. Baby baby baby baby baby. Two beats that could go on forever.

Not like death. Death was a hiss. You said it only once.

“Baby? Baby what?”

He uttered the words and they pierced her, blooming into a throbbing pain behind her eyes. She pulled her hand from his and pinched the bone between her eyes as hard as she could. The pain shrunk back. He lifted her chin but she dipped her head, avoiding his gaze. “Liz, what do you mean? Why are you crying?”