Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,81

the security of trees and foliage, and it’s like I’m on some strange alien planet.

Step by step by step, the air gets thinner and there are fewer trees, even the stumpy ones. There’s not even much in the way of moss. Just lichen growing like mold on the rocks, green, black, and gray. They’re the only living things that won’t get blown off the mountain by the wind, surviving because they pretend to be part of the rock.

My windbreaker snaps in the wind like a flag on the mast of a ship. This feels like hurricane wind, tornado wind. An angry wind strong enough to shove me off a mountain.

Just ahead of me lies Knife Edge, which connects Pamola Peak—named after the Native American storm god who supposedly lives on this mountain—with Baxter Peak, the true summit. This is the most dangerous part of this trek. For about a mile, there’s this narrow band of rocks, barely two feet wide. I’ve read about this place. People have fallen off Knife Edge and plummeted 2,000 feet to their deaths. Probably on windy days just like this one.

If I stay low, close to the rocks, I bet I can make it in spite of the wind. My first step falls on loose rocks and I slip, grabbing onto a boulder to steady myself. Adrenaline surges through my body as I hunker down low. On one side, there’s a sheer drop. The other side is the same. All that is holding me up on this planet is a narrow strip of rock that I’ll have to climb across on all fours in a heavy wind. Yes, I could turn around and try tomorrow. But the summit is there within sight, so close. I’m going to do this.

Halfway across Knife Edge, a crowd of dark clouds drifts in from the other side of the mountain. Instantly, the sun is hidden by clouds and the entire world turns gray. The first drops of rain fall, huge and dense, and the wind begins a low howl.

Stuck in the middle of this precarious strip of land, I cling to a flat boulder like a tiny barnacle in a raging sea. Pressing my head to my chest, I ignore the rock scraping skin off my nose, the dirt and lichen lodged under my fingernails. Can’t move forward, can’t move back. Stuck, in limbo, within sight of the summit of Mount Katahdin.

So this is it. I’ve run as far as I can go. Ran away from the flat prairie land of Illinois to New York City and to Concord, Massachusetts. Ran away from my parents and away from Magpie. Mostly, I’ve tried to run away from what I did. But it follows me wherever I go, even followed me to the top of this mountain. The rain comes harder now, pelting my skin like buckshot.

My sister will never dance again. Hell, she’ll never walk again. Not without a fake leg taking the place of the one she lost. How can I climb back down this mountain and go on living with that forever at the core of me? Such a coward, all I could do was run away on my two good legs. God, I can’t think about this. But I can’t run either. Not this time. I’m trapped here with myself and my thoughts.

Wind and rain slap my face, whip across my back, my arms, my legs. The shrieking could be the howling of the wind, or it could be me. Salt tears and fresh rainwater stream down my face, into my mouth. How can I ever go home again?

A new realization breaks over me. Truth is, I don’t have to go home. Don’t have to face my parents. Don’t have to feel pain anymore. All I have to do is let go of this rock. Stand up, throw my arms out to the sky, and let the wind take me. This, here and now, could be my fate. This would be a clean ending to my useless life. A good way to die. Slowly, I peel shaking fingers off the rock, imagine the release as I let the wind shove me off the mountain, imagine falling like flying, sweet relief. I tense the burning muscles of my legs, ready to stand. To surrender.

No, Danny.

A voice rides the wind.

I lift my head up and squint against the wind and rain, somehow expecting Rosie to be here next to me, clinging to this rock, blond angel in pink. The