Finding Jim (13 page)

At the top of the chute, Keith was leading and began to cut across to the other side. Their boots sank easily into the snow and then stopped suddenly at a harder slab layer deeper down. When they tapped gently on the slab with their boots, it sounded hollow, like banging on a drum. Mountaineers refer to these snow conditions as “bricks over Rice Krispies” because the snow beneath the slab layer is lighter, less dense. On the 50° slope, the harder, heavier layer over the less consolidated one could slide at any time, especially with the added pressure of a human's weight.

Without saying a word, Jim began to cut another line at less of an angle.

As Keith joined Jim's new route, the hard snow layer settled beneath them with a “whumph” sound. They froze.

When Jim moved on, he walked as if doing giant tippy toes: one slow high step to clear the snow, then he gently placed his foot down, sank slowly to thigh level and used his plastic mountaineering boot to pat the snow down gingerly. He did this over and over, agonizingly slowly, for 15 minutes. No one spoke.

As they reached the other side of the chute, they dropped their packs on a small knob of snow and began to chat again. The slope angled off to a moderate 20°, and they were out of the chute on a slightly raised feature a few hundred metres from the ridge. The hard part was over. While Keith and Graeme had a drink, Jim resumed breaking trail, pushing through the thigh-deep snow.

Minutes later there was a loud crack. Keith and Graeme looked up in Jim's direction and heard him call, “Whoa, boys!” A slab of snow the width of a small house and half the height of Jim's body fractured and rushed toward them, breaking up as it crashed into rocks and ice.

Keith and Graeme fought to stay on their feet as refrigerator-sized blocks of snow, carried along by a river of powdery snow, pushed them toward the rock cliff. As Keith waded uphill against the current, he saw Jim slide by him, fighting to get a purchase with his ice axe.

The room is silent as we stare at Keith. He raises his chin to Jim's family, and I see his eyes now as he says, “Jim came really close to me, really close … If I had reached out, I could have touched him.”

The room freezes for an instant. I stifle my immediate response: Why didn't you grab him? Why didn't you grab him?

I say nothing. I clench my teeth, lower my gaze and fiddle with the bottom of my shirt.

After a pause, Dad Haberl nods his head decisively, raises himself slightly out of his chair, opens his arms and says, “Of course, we know you did everything you could.” And he lowers himself back into his chair.

I gape at Dad Haberl, as if he has switched sides and now plays for the opposing team.

His words are generous, but I am not ready to believe that Jim cannot be saved. I guard my house of cards.

Keith slowly lowers his gaze and continues talking.

When the snow settled, Graeme had hurt his knee and one pack was gone. And so was Jim. Keith and Graeme strapped on crampons to climb down the steep icy chute they had just so carefully ascended. A little voice was saying to them, “You're lucky to be alive, so stay that way.” Jim had gone over a four-hundred-metre cliff, and Keith knew that there was no chance of survival. But he called to Jim over and over for 45 minutes, “We're coming, Jim. Hang on, we're coming.”

When he reached the bottom of the cliff, Keith spotted a patch of snow stained brownish red. His metal probe made a soft thud as it hit something spongy buried less than half an arm's length down. He dug down with his shovel and found Jim's wrist, bent at an odd angle.

I think to myself nervously, that's not right. Jim has always been very fit and healthy. His arms were warm and alive when he held me a week ago. No, Keith must be mistaken.

Keith and Graeme uncovered the rest of Jim's body and knew he was dead before they saw the head injury. They cried.

They debated whether or not to activate the emergency locator beacon they carried. The device would inform Search and Rescue of their location. Their situation was no longer an emergency. Jim was dead. Nothing would reverse that. Yet, a man had been killed. They decided to pull the yellow plug. Then they cocooned Jim in his dark forest-green sleeping bag and left him on the snow.

On the four-kilometre ski back up the glacier to their tents, Keith fell to his knees sobbing over and over. By chance, Paul flew over to check on them and Keith exhaled into the radio that Jim was dead. Paul landed and picked up Keith and Graeme, but because Paul's young children were at the lodge and would be upset by a corpse, Jim spent the night on the glacier, alone. Search and Rescue contacted the lodge to confirm that their assistance was not needed.

I picture Jim lying there in the cold. My mind races. How can I get to him and hold him so he won't be alone? How can I hold his hand as he falls over the cliff? How can I save him? I would die for him.

Back at the lodge, Graeme made the hardest phone call of his life to Kevin, and then Keith and Graeme drank tequila until they were numb.

The next morning, Paul's father, Grandpa John, flew back to the glacier with Keith and Graeme to pick up Jim. Then they flew to the town of Glennallen and loaded Jim's body with all of their mountaineering gear into the back of an open pickup truck. “It seemed fitting,” Keith mused, “to have Jim with us, in the truck, with all the gear, as opposed to in an ambulance.”

Grandpa John drove them two hours to the nearest funeral home in Anchorage. The coroner pronounced the cause of death as severe head injuries.

Keith sighs as he recounts the final facts of Jim's accident. The tension connecting the group sitting around the living room breaks; people relax back into their seats quietly, and their eyes glass over. Gradually, soft voices fill the void and a few people get up. Kevin stands in front of me shaking his head and slamming the back of his hand into his other palm, “It's such a simple thing. You throw on a rope. Jim knew better.” I say nothing and search for Keith.

I guide Keith to the privacy of the bathroom and close the door. I need more information so that I will be prepared. I shift around frenetically. I put one hand on Keith's arm and stutter, “I wan… I want to see Jim's body…” I study my shoes and try to muster courage. “Ha,” I laugh uncomfortably. “Um, you see, I need to know what he looks like, you know?” Keith nods eagerly and gazes at me softly.

“He suffered a head injury, a basal skull fracture. Part of his skull was missing and there was blood pooling in his face around his eyes.” I try to smile in appreciation as tears drip down my cheeks.

“Okay, thanks.”

I am heading to my car to drive back to Dad's house when Pat places his hand gently on my arm from behind. “There were no regrets, Sue, nothing was left unsaid.”

I turn quickly and agree, “Yes.” I hug him tightly. An undercurrent of truth tugs at my wishful thinking. So much living was left undone, and I think of the words I did not say to Jim: “Please don't go. Please don't leave me. Please don't die.”

SUNDAY, MAY 2, 1999

Dad Haberl phones to say that Jim's body has arrived at Kearney's funeral home and that the director will arrange a viewing for me at 3 p.m. I sigh and hold my breath almost in the same instant.

I choke out my plans to Terri, and she says, “Oh, Susie, I understand why you would want to see him. You need closure. But … I don't feel the same need. My last memory of Jim is the two of you walking hand in hand in the setting sun at English Bay, you remember, when we all met for dinner the night before he left? You looked so happy. That's the memory I want to keep.”

Yes, I remember that evening with our friends. I hear the laughter. I smell the charbroiled hamburgers, the french fries. I feel Jim's hand resting on my thigh, the lightness in my chest.

But even if no one else wants to see Jim, I do. I need proof. I need to know that he isn't waiting for me somewhere. Injured. Dying. Waiting for me to save him. Jim would understand. He was plagued by nightmares that Dan waited for him on
K2
. He never had the option of seeing Dan's body.

Dad and my older sister Sharron drive me to Kearney's.

Sunrays splinter through the lace curtains, creating a strobe effect on the people half filling the reception room. I want to open a window to let the heavy air escape. A faint smell of cleaner lingers, but the scent of death cannot be completely scrubbed out.

I pause.

Dad Haberl hurries toward me, “The family decided to come and see Jim, too.”

“Oh,” I answer numbly. It doesn't matter who is here, but I need to have time alone with Jim with no distractions. I don't want to miss any clue that he is still alive. And I want to feel that magic of being alone with him.

The funeral home director steers me to a chair and motions to a book on the table. “We have many beautiful urns to choose from.” The prices glare back at me.

“The plain box is fine.” My hand shakes as I write my name beside “widow” on the form and give the authorization to have Jim's body burned.

The material of the director's suit stretches across his back as he slides open the doors to an adjoining room and invites us inside with a gesture of his arms. I scan the pews, the podium and the rectangular cardboard coffin at the front of the room. The cardboard does not surprise me. The family chose the most practical option, given that Jim is to be cremated. It makes no difference to me.

Dad and Sharron sit on either side of me in one of the pews near the back. Kevin and his wife Vicki lead their children, Jaslyn and Connor, down the aisle. Connor holds on to Vicki's arm with both of his hands and casts his big blue eyes her way several times. His eyes open wider as they reach the long box.

Connor's little hands grip the side as he peers over. With a very still face, he gazes up at his mom and whispers. Vicki nods gently and Connor's little arm reaches out tentatively and disappears into the coffin. He pulls it back sharply and turns to his mom with a sheepish grin, holding the offending finger.

When the family has viewed Jim's body and has left the room, I tell Sharron and Dad that I am ready. Stiffly, step by step, closer we creep, arms linked until I can just see Jim's hand resting on his stomach. I stop abruptly, “Okay. I'm good now.”

Dad and Sharron leave me.

Dad Haberl nods to me, “They were kind to us by covering part of Jim's face.” He lowers his gaze and slides the doors closed. I am alone with Jim. No heart beating save my own. The fear in my body surges, and my breath rushes in and out like boiling surf. Focus on breathing. I let out a slow breath through trembling lips. I take a step, breathe, then another step. I reach forward to grip the edge of the cardboard box and drag my feet forward.

My muscles relax when I see Jim's face. He looks peaceful. Not in pain. There is his familiar square jaw, his thin-lipped mouth with the tiny scar from a needle of ice, his symmetrical nose and then a white cloth that covers the upper half of his face. No eyes. His steel-blue eyes.

I picture the purple and blue discoloration and swelling under the bandage. How bad would it be? Would he be so hurt that I wouldn't recognize him? Would I have nightmares of his injured face?

My fingers play with the edge of the white bandage. I think of pulling it up. But I don't. I try to visualize the face I love, but I cannot rid my mind of images of bruises and blood, and I panic. I can't see him … Oh God, I forget already. The room feels cold and cavernous. I don't know what else to do. I want Jim to say something. It is as if I am a child opening a much-anticipated gift, only to find that the box contains every monster in my closet.

Suddenly, I feel him somewhere in the room. The warmth of his relaxed, wide-open smile.

I look down at Jim again. At the request of the funeral home director, I had sent one of Jim's favourite outfits: T-shirt and jeans. The T-shirt is placed on top of his upper body. I guess they couldn't get it over his head wound. I brush his cold finger, venture up his muscled forearm, then trace a familiar line up his chest, lightly, so as not to hurt him. I search for bruises and broken bones. I exhale deeply. Perhaps he hit his head right away and went limp.

I lean over, kiss his dry lips, rest my wet cheek against his and whisper my goodbyes. My Jim. My sweet Jim.

But Jim is not there.

MONDAY, MAY 3, 1999

Horns blare as vehicles blast by me over double-yellow lines. I risk a glance at the angry faces of the drivers but grip the wheel. Ten and two. Ten and two. Focus. Concentrate. Why are they going so fast? Don't they know? Don't they know we all hang by a thread? More blaring. My gaze darts to the rear-view mirror and I sob, “I can't go any faster!” I just can't. The highway speed limit is 80 kilometres an hour and my speedometer reads 60.

I am going home to Whistler. Halfway there, I stop by Kevin and Vicki's place in Squamish to pick up Jim's pack that Keith and Graeme have brought back from Alaska. Kevin and I sit against a log in the sun eating sandwiches.

“I went through Jim's pack and pulled out the food so it wouldn't go bad. Hope you don't mind,” Kevin informs me. He adds, “Yup, actually this cheese came from his pack. Didn't think there was any point in wasting it.” The food lodges in my throat. I swallow hard to get it down, as if I'm swallowing a part of Jim, a part that I will never be able to get back. But Kevin's pragmatism grounds me in the real world, the world in which Jim is dead.

Kevin and Vicki convoy with me the rest of the way home to Whistler.

I stride through our front door and am halfway up our stairs before I realize that Jim is not coming down to greet me with a hug. Grief sucks out my energy like a vacuum and I crumple. I reach my hand up to the solid cool wall. “How the hell am I going to live without you, Jim?”

The memorial service is in two days. There will be a slideshow about Jim's life and a display of his accomplishments. I have returned home to gather memories, to look through the binders and binders of slides, to put Jim's life in a box.