“No.”
“You were eleven, twelve, maybe. You said I would have moved to New York. You said I would have gone to business school, become one of those finance people on the Upper East Side, a CEO or something.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I was a mother with four kids, an immigrant, bad English, Merlin hit me, I had nothing. But you said I should be rich and powerful. You said I only wasn’t because I was born Sherpa and a girl.”
Kal shrugged. “You’re my mom.”
“Not every child sees his mother. Sangmu, she wanted me to praise her drawings and buy her toys, then I’m a good mother.”
“Yeah, but that’s just Sangmu.”
“That’s what I mean. You see Sangmu. You see me. You see people. You argued with Merlin, told him you were going to end climbing on Everest, because you wanted more for Sherpa people than to chase money pouring down the side of a mountain.”
“Look where that got me.”
“Yes. Look where it got you. This far from a master’s degree”—she pinched her fingers in the air—“and job offers calling on the phone.” Her mouth was stern. Angry with him. “You went to the courtroom, swore on the Bible to tell the truth. You told them what your father did. You told them I was a good mother, and I could take care of you and your brothers and sister. I never said to you, thank you. I never said, you helped me. I never said, I don’t think I could have survived without you. I never said, I couldn’t have climbed the mountain without you. I never said, you’re a good boy, Kalden.”
“You said the last thing.” There were tears in his eyes. It was too much, his life upended in one afterno
on, his mom—who wasn’t responsible for Merlin’s death—thanking him for helping her survive. It wasn’t their deal, all this sharing of information and feelings. He couldn’t take on any more feelings. He already had too many.
She folded her hands on top of her purse. “I should have told you what happened. I knew I should tell you. But you always saw me, I thought you’d understand without my having to tell you. I made a mistake.”
“You could have told me anytime.”
“How do you tell your son when you can’t tell yourself? I was supposed to say, ‘I didn’t kill Merlin.’ But in my heart, I killed him a thousand times. I wished him dead.”
“Nobody could blame you for that.”
“You could blame me,” she said. “He was your father.”
Kal watched gulls land and pick over the gravel, looking for french fries or other bits of castoff treasure. He’d thought there were only two kinds of people who climbed Everest: megalomaniacs and the walking wounded. He’d put his father in the first category. He’d invented the second for his mother.
It wasn’t fair that he never asked her why she climbed the mountain.
It wasn’t fair that he’d stopped thinking of her as a person and started thinking of her as a raw wound who needed his protection.
“I don’t blame you,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“I just want to do something that makes a difference.”
“You already do that.”
Kal didn’t know. He didn’t know anything, except he shouldn’t have let Rosemary go. He should have tried to make her stay. Or begged her to take him with her. “I don’t even know why I want her so bad,” he blurted.
Then his mother was laughing at him.
“Knock it off,” he said, when she didn’t stop. “Have another mint or something.”
She extracted one from her bag, her shoulders shaking, faced lined with amusement.
“Seriously.”
“No one knows why their heart wants what it wants.” She popped the mint into her mouth. “I can’t tell you that.”