I looked at Ashley. Tears were streaming down her face.
“You asked once, ‘What can’t be forgiven?’” I nodded. “It’s words. Words you can’t take back because the person you spoke them to took them to her grave four and a half years ago.”
I looked around, waving my hand across the marble sarcophagus. “A simple tombstone didn’t seem right, so I built them this. Laid them side by side. I put the solarium up there so she can see the orchids. And at night the stars. Knew she’d like that. I even had the tree limbs trimmed to let the light through. Sometimes you can see the Big Dipper. Sometimes the moon.
“Many nights I have come here, leaning against her, my fingertips resting on the twins, tracing their names and…listened to myself tell her our story.” I shook my head and pointed at the recorders. “I’ve told it many times…but the end is always the same.”
Ashley’s lip was trembling. She held my hand between both of hers. Her tears had dripped onto the marble. Alongside ten thousand of mine. “You should’ve told me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“So many times I wanted to stop dragging that sled, turn around and spill it, tell you everything, but…you have so much in front of you. So much to look forward to.”
“You should have. You owe me that.”
“I do now. I didn’t then.”
She placed her hand flat across my chest, then wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face alongside mine. She placed both palms on my face and shook her head. “Ben?”
No answer.
“Ben?”
I opened my mouth, my eyes on Rachel, and pushed out the words. A whisper. “I’m…so sorry.”
She smiled, shook her head. “She forgave you…the moment you said it.”
Forgiveness is a tough thing. Both in the offering…and the accepting.
WE SAT THERE a long time. Through the glass above I watched a formation of pelicans fly over. And one osprey. Out beyond the breakers, bottlenose dolphins were feeding south, rolling in groups of six and eight.
Ashley tried to speak. Tried again and still could not find the words. Finally she wiped her eyes, pressed her ear to my chest, and whispered. “Give me all the pieces.”
“There are a lot of them, and I’m not sure they’ll ever go back together again.”
She kissed me. “Let me try.”
“You would be better off to leave me and…”
She half smiled. “I’m not leaving you. Not going it alone.” She shook her head. “Not looking at the memory of you every time I close my eyes.”
Something deep inside me needed to hear that. Needed to know I was worth that. That despite myself, love might snatch me back. Lift me from the fire. We sat for several hours, staring out across the ocean.
Finally I stood and kissed the stone above Rachel’s face. The twins too. There were no tears this time. It wasn’t goodbye. Only a pause. Just waving my hand through the mist—the smoke as it disappeared.
We walked out, locked the door, and wound through the dunes. I held her naked left hand in mine. She stopped me, a wrinkle between her eyes. She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I gave Vince back his ring. Told him that I liked him very much, but…” She shook her head. “I think he was relieved to know the truth.”
We stood atop the last dune, staring out over the beach. South, to our right, one of the nests had hatched. Hundreds of tiny tracks led to the water. The waves and foam were filling them. Erasing them. Far out, beyond the breakers and waves, shiny black circles of onyx floated atop the water’s surface. Glittering black diamonds.
I placed her hand flat across mine. “Start slow. It’s been a long time since I’ve run…with anyone. Not sure how my legs will respond.”
She kissed me. Her lips were warm, wet, and trembling.
I pointed. “Which way?”
She shook her head, smiling. The sun lighting her eyes. “Don’t care. You’re a real runner and I’m not, so I don’t know if I can keep up with you. How fast? How far?”
“LSD.”
“What?”
“Long-slow-distance. Where miles don’t matter. Only time. And in reverse. The slower the better.”
She wrapped her arms around me, pressed her chest to mine, and laughed. “Okay, but we better route through Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?”
She nodded, a sly smile. “You need to talk with my dad.”
“I do?”
“Yep.”
“Aren’t you a little old for that?”
“Remember, I’m a southern girl, and my daddy’s only daughter.”
“How’s he get along with doctors?”
A laugh. “Poorly.”
“Poorly?”
She nodded.
“What’s he do?”
“Plaintiff’s attorney.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Don’t worry, he likes you.”
“How do you know?”
“He read the story.”
“What story?”
“The one I wrote that hit shelves”—she stared at her watch—“this week.”
“Where?”
A shrug. “All over.”
“Define ‘all over.’”
She rolled her eyes. “All over.”
“What’s it about?”
“A trip I took…recently.”
“Am I in it?”
“Yep.” She took off running, her laughter echoing. “We both are.”
Her arms swung side to side, causing too much lateral movement. And her stride was too short by maybe three inches. And she put too much weight on her toes. She over-pronated. And she favored her left leg. And…
But she was a quick study. We could fix all that. And it wouldn’t take long. Broken people just need piecing back together.
For so long I’d carried the pieces of me. Every now and then I’d drop one like a breadcrumb. So I could find my way home. Then Ashley came along and gathered the pieces and somewhere between 11,000 feet and sea level, the picture began taking shape. Dim at first, then clearer. Not yet clear. But these things take time.
Maybe each of us was once a complete whole. A clear picture. A single piece. Then something happened to crack and shatter us. Leaving us disconnected, torn and splintered. Some of us lie in a hundred pieces. Some ten thousand. Some are edged with sharp contrast. Some dim shades of gray. Some find they are missing pieces. Some find they have too many. In any case, we are left shaking our heads. It can’t be done.
Then someone comes along who mends a tattered edge, or returns a lost piece. The process is tedious, painful, and there are no shortcuts. Anything that promises to be one is not.
But somehow, as we walk from the crash site—away from the wreckage—whole sections start taking shape, something vague we see out of the corner of our eye. For a second, we stop shaking our heads. We wonder. Maybe…just maybe.
It’s risky for both of us. You must hope in an image you can’t see, and I must trust you with me.
That’s the piecing.
ASHLEY RAN UP THE BEACH. The sun spilling down her back. Fresh footprints in the sand. Sweat shining on her thighs—condensation on her calves.
I could see them both. Rachel in the dunes, Ashley on the beach. I shook my head. I can’t make sense of that. I don’t know how.
I scratched my head.
Ashley returned. Breathing heavy, laughing, smiling. She raised her eyebrows, pulled on my hand. “Ben Payne?”
More tears I could not explain. I did not try. “Yes?”
“When you laugh…I want to smile. And when you cry…” She brushed the tears off my face. “I want the tears to roll down my cheeks.” She shook her head once, whispering, “I’m not leaving you…won’t.”
I swallowed. How then does one live? A memory echoed from beyond the dunes. Put one foot in front of the other.
Maybe piecing is continual. Maybe the glue takes time to dry. Maybe bones take time to mend. Maybe it’s okay that the mess I call
me is in process. Maybe it’s a long, hard walk out of the crash site. Maybe the distance is different for each of us. Maybe love is bigger than my mess.
My voice was slow in coming. “Can we…walk a bit first?”
She nodded, and we did. First a mile, then two. A gentle breeze in our faces. We reached the lifeguard chair and turned around.
She tugged on me. The breeze now at our backs. “Come on…you ready?”
So we picked up a jog. I was weak—using muscles I’d forgotten. Wasn’t long and we were running.
And we ran a long time.
Somewhere in the miles that followed, sweat flinging off my fingertips, salt stinging my eyes, my breath deep, rhythmic, and clean, my feet barely touching the ground, I looked down and found the pieces of me melting into one.
a cognizant v5 original release september 12 2010
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is not the first book I’ve written since Where the River Ends. For more on that period in my life, check my blog, The Truth About My Next Book. Having a manuscript rejected is…difficult. Something like giving birth only to watch the doctors and nurses stand back and shake their heads, “No…this won’t do. We need to send this one back.”
At the moment, that manuscript is a lot like a car on blocks in my backyard. I’m stealing parts and intend to rob it blind in the months and years ahead. Evidence to this rests in the pages that preceded this one. Thankfully, that wasn’t the end of me, or rather my writing, and this book is in your hands. I have many people to thank.
Stacy Creamer. Thank you for the role you played in my work, development, and career—even the tough parts. I wish you great success in your new endeavor. You deserve it.
Michael Palgon. Given the year’s events, I know full well you could have cut me loose. Set me adrift. Maybe the thought crossed your mind. It certainly crossed mine. Thank you for safe harbor.
All the talented folks at Broadway and Random House: Diane Salvatore, Catherine Pollock, Rachel Rokicki, Linda Kapl an and the foreign-rights department, and all the folks who’ve helped design or sell or market me and my stories that I’ve never met. I simply would not be here without you, and Christy and I cannot thank you enough.
Christine Pride. Thank you for your patience, your keen eye, your enthusiasm, and the great extent to which you have gone to bat for me. It is no doubt difficult to jump into the middle of a project. Like trying to catch a train at eighty miles an hour while standing flat-footed on the platform. You jump well. Thank you for how you did it. We’re grateful.
L. B. Norton. It’s nice to have you back. Thank you—for the fifth time. You make the process fun. Thank you for all the ways you help get me out of me and onto paper—so others can understand it. Oh, and yes, “anal-retentive” is hyphenated. I looked it up.
Bill Johnson. When I began the research for this book, I called one of my more adventurous friends, Bill Johnson, and asked him to fly to Utah with me and spend a week in one of the more remote and difficult places in the States—both the getting into and the getting out of. He was sitting behind his desk at Merrill watching a market in the midst of a freefall. He thought about it for maybe a half second (Google searches have returned slower) and said, “Okay.” Friends like that are hard to come by From Mitchell to the Uintas, you have proven yourself tough as nails—don’t ever let anyone tell you different. And you possess absolutely no quit whatsoever—unless there’s a dessert nearby the smell of fresh coffee, or something cold with condensation running down the side, in which case we’ll be taking a break. You laugh easily—a rare and true gift, one that you share liberally. We are all the better for it. You’re welcome around my fire anytime. Especially if you bring your bow drill, or your jet boil and French press.
Chris Ferebee. A decade ago, when I was just a dreamer from Jacksonville (little has changed), trying to get a manuscript noticed—maybe even published—a balding and washed-up ballplayer, with a weak fastball, pretty good curve, nonexistent changeup, and wicked slider, read my stuff and offered to represent me. That was ten books ago. You’ll notice this book is dedicated to him. He’s earned it. The reasons are many, but at the center are friendship, wise counsel, miles traveled, and dreams realized. Chris, you’re a man among men.
Christy. When I said “Run with me…,” you did. You are—and always will be—the home for my heart.
A PERSONAL NOTE TO THE READER
Last February, as I stood in the High Uintas Mountains, midway between Salt Lake City and Denver, somewhere around eleven thousand feet, I was staring at a view that spanned some sixty or seventy miles. Not a lightbulb in sight. It was cold and the snow was blowing in my face. Stinging my eyes. ’Course, tears do that, too. I was wrestling with some deep down DNA-level stuff. Questions I could not shake. Some of my hero’s words came to mind. They echoed there, and followed me home. They are following me still: I lift my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come…
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Charles Martin
Published in association with Yates and Yates, LLP, attorneys and counselors, Orange, CA, www.yates2.com.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the Crown
Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
BROADWAY BOOKS and the Broadway Books colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Martin, Charles, 1969–
The mountain between us / by Charles Martin.
p. cm.
1. Survival after airplane accidents, shipwrecks, etc.—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.A7778M68 2010
813′.6—dc22
2009039928
eISBN: 978-0-307-59249-1
v3.0
Charles Martin, The Mountain Between Us
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