He knew he should hurry, but climbing down a rock face took time. That was one of the things he loved about climbing: you couldn’t control it.
He came to a drop-off. Below him, a lip of stone jutted out from the cliff; it was about the size of a kid’s sled.
Sweating hard, he continued climbing slowly down and to the left, choosing his hand- and footholds with exquisite care. He was nearing the end of his climb. It was a dangerous time for climbers, the end of the day. It was all too easy to let your thoughts drift to the next step, to the packing of the supplies and the hike out, to—
Julia.
He shook his head to clear it. Sweat blurred his vision. For a moment the granite looked like a solid sheet. He wiped his eyes, blinked, until the gradations and l
edges and mosses reappeared.
A raindrop hit his forehead so hard he flinched. Within moments the skies opened up and let loose. Thunder roared across the mountains. Rain hammered him.
He got to the ledge and paused, looking down. He was no more than forty feet from the ground now. He didn’t need to rappel down this last distance. It would take time to set his equipment, to get ready, and it was a damned storm out here now. Wind rattled the trees and clawed his face.
He inched downward, dangled over the ledge.
He knew instantly that it was a mistake. The stone creaked and shifted, began to rotate. Tiny stones and wet dust rained down, hitting him in the face, blinding him.
He was going to fall.
Instinctively, he pushed back, trying to clear the jutting ledges and boulders below him.
And then he was connected to nothing; in the air. Falling fast. A rock smashed his cheekbone, another careened into his thigh. The boulder that had been his ledge fell alongside him. They hit the ground at the same time. It felt as if someone had just hit him in the chest with a shovel.
He lay there, dazed, feeling the rain pummel his face, slide in rivulets down his throat.
Finally, he crawled to his feet in the muddy ground and took stock. No broken bones, no extreme lacerations.
Lucky.
The thing was, he didn’t feel lucky. As he stood there, beside the boulder that could have killed him, looking up at the now slick rock face of the cliff, he realized something else.
He didn’t feel acutely alive, didn’t want to laugh out loud at his triumph.
He felt . . . stupid.
He picked up his gear, repacked his backpack, and headed down the long, winding trail to where he’d parked his car.
All the way there—and all the way home—he tried to keep his mind blank. Failing that, he tried to relive his near miss and enjoy it. Neither attempt was successful.
All he could think about was Julia, how she’d looked in the hot tub, how she’d tasted, how she’d sounded when she said All or nothing.
And how those words had made him feel.
No wonder he couldn’t find that old adrenaline surge from mountain climbing today.
The real danger lay in another direction.
All or nothing.
EIGHTEEN
In the two weeks since I showed Alice a glimpse of the world outside, she has become a different child. Everything fascinates her. She is constantly grabbing my hand and pulling me somewhere so she can point to an object and say “What?” Each word I hand her, she holds on to tightly, remembering it with an ease and a will that surprises me. I can only assume that her quest for communication is so assertive because she was thwarted before. Now she seems desperate to become a part of this new world she’s entered.
She is slowly beginning to explore her emotions, as well. Previously, when she was nonverbal, most of her anger was directed at herself. Now, occasionally, she is able to express her anger appropriately. Yesterday, when I told her it was time for bed, she hit me. Social acceptability will come later. For now, I am pleased to see her get mad.
She is also developing a sense of possession, which is a step on the road to a sense of self. She hoards everything red and has a special place for “her” books.