The Wishing Trees (9 page)

They walked on a narrow road leading toward the mountains. Businesspeople and schoolchildren approached them on bicycles, darting toward the train station. Mattie glanced at the children and then back at her father. He’d been uncommonly quiet all morning, and she felt his hand perspiring against hers.

She tugged on his fingers. “Are you okay?”

His gaze finally dropped to her. “I reckon so,” he said, his smile fake and forced.

They proceeded up the hill, passing women who swept doorsteps with old-fashioned straw brooms. No sidewalk existed, so they kept close to the edge of the street, aware of approaching cars. The street was too narrow for vehicles moving in opposite directions to pass one another, so one car would pull over to allow the other an opening. Drivers were efficient, maneuvering their vehicles within inches of concrete telephone poles, homes, and stone privacy walls.

The mountains above were lush, highlighted by blossoming cherry trees. Mattie saw that her father’s gaze was fixed on a three-story apartment building ahead. The white building was dominated by rows of balconies, on the railings of which futons and blankets were draped. She watched an old man emerge from the top level and beat a hanging futon with a wooden paddle.

“What’s he doing?” Mattie asked.

Ian didn’t seem to hear her. “That’s . . . that’s where we lived,” he said, his words almost obscured by a passing car.

“You did?”

“Your mum and me.”

Mattie scanned the building. “Where?”

He pointed toward the middle of the second level. “There. I moved in with her. She found the place first.”

“Can we go up?”

“No, luv. I reckon I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Ian felt his heartbeat quicken, a bead of sweat running down his chest. His thumb twisted and turned. His stomach ached. “Because that little room was our first home. And sometimes . . . sometimes there’s just no going back.”

“Oh.”

He wanted to say more, but the power of speech seemed to have abandoned him. And so he led Mattie forward, passing the building, treating it the way he might Kate’s tombstone. He remembered moving into her room, carrying his bags up the cement stairs. She’d met him halfway down and had kissed him, despite a Japanese taboo on such a public display of affection. They had entered her room, set down his bags, and made love as distant trains rumbled past.

Kate’s apartment had been about five paces across and ten paces down, but its limitations only served to bring them closer together. They had fallen in love in those cramped quarters, brought together by walls and want and a world that had somehow conspired to make their paths cross.

Ian increased his pace, leading Mattie toward a canal that ran along the base of a mountain. The canal was lined with blossoming trees, and he was reminded of walking alongside it, arm in arm with Kate. Instead of turning so that he and Mattie might retrace those steps, Ian kept on the street, soon veering down a paved walkway. In a few minutes the alley ended, leaving them at the bottom of a mountain, near a bamboo forest.

He pointed to a trail ahead. “This is it, Roo. This is where your mum and I went on our little walkabouts.”

“Let’s go.”

And so they went, following a trail that monks had hewn out of the mountain two thousand years earlier. The grove of bamboo soon disappeared, replaced by a combination of maple and evergreen trees. Rays of sunlight pierced the thick canopy above, revealing ferns, moss-covered logs, and a stream that the trail crossed over back and forth. Moisture hung in the air, as if they’d climbed into the belly of a storm-producing cloud.

Mattie followed her father, pausing suddenly when she saw how a shaft of light fell to illuminate a series of stone steps in front of her. Above the steps, the forest loomed, lush and almost luminous. “Wait, Daddy,” Mattie said, unzipping her backpack. “I have to draw this for Mommy.”

Ian looked around, nodding slowly, becoming aware of the beauty that surrounded him, a beauty that Kate would have pointed out, just as Mattie had done. “Good onya, Roo,” he answered, knowing that a part of his wife would always be in his daughter.

She looked at him, her brow furrowing. “Are you all right?”

“Let me see you draw.”

Sitting on the decaying trunk of a long-dead tree, Mattie opened her sketch pad. She used a gray pencil to create the path, three different shades of green to fashion the forest, and a series of other colors to add the sunlight and the stream. Her skill as an artist was limited in that she accidentally exaggerated the contrasts of colors, as well as the features of her surroundings. A fern was too green. Tree trunks were too straight. But, still, a replication of the beauty in front of her began to emerge. And though the rays of her sunlight were too bold and bright, that boldness and brightness brought a sense of warmth to her drawing that might not otherwise have existed.

Ian watched his daughter’s small fingers guide and discard her colored pencils. He stepped closer to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “That’s lovely,” he said, bending down to kiss the top of her head. “And she’s going to adore it.”

“You think?”

“Since when didn’t your mum love anything you did?”

“She’ll see it, won’t she?”

Ian glanced up through the treetops. “I don’t know, Roo. But your mum, she believed that she would. And she was closer . . . to something . . . to an end, to a beginning . . . than we are. So maybe she understood something that we don’t. And if she believed, well, then I reckon we should too.”

“I believe.”

“I know you do,” he said, sniffing, his eyes growing moist. “And I’m glad you do.”

Mattie finished her drawing, put her sketch pad in her backpack, and stood up. “Let’s go.”

The path led them upward. An hour passed before they reached the summit of the mountain, which offered an unobscured view of Kyoto. The city sat amid a lush valley, swaddled by mountains. Though much of modern-day Kyoto was uniform and ugly, other parts were dominated by ancient temples, shrines, and gardens. The Kamo River ran from north to south, spanned by a series of bridges that bore trains or cars. Even from a distance of several miles, the trains could be seen moving ahead, shimmering steel snakes that disappeared into tunnels or behind buildings.

Ian walked to a nearby clearing, remembering how he and Kate had picnicked here, drinking wine as the afternoons passed. Looking for traces of her presence, he sat atop a smooth rock into which monks had chiseled a series of Japanese characters.

“Do you know what it means?” Mattie asked.

“Yeah, luv. I read about it once. And I never forgot. ‘Live to be content. ’ That’s what it says.”

Mattie nodded, studying the trees around her. “Which one would Mommy like?”

“You decide.”

Her gaze swept from tree to tree. Though many pines were present, she was more interested in the maples, because they carried new leaves. They had survived the winter and were growing, were reaching toward the sun. Mattie walked over to a big maple that leaned in the direction of the city. “Does this look like a wishing tree?”

Ian stepped beside her. “If it’s not, I don’t know what is.”

“Can you lift me, Daddy?”

“I’ll climb with you.”

He raised her to the bottom branch, which she grasped and pulled up on. When she had moved out of the way, he jumped, grabbed the branch, and followed her. She moved cautiously, having climbed only a few trees in Central Park. Not looking down, she continued on, careful not to break twigs or dislodge leaves. Finally, when she was about twenty feet above the ground, she sat on a large branch and reached for her father’s hand. Ian positioned himself beside her, watching her face.

“Do you have the string?” she asked.

“Why don’t you give me your papers, luv, and I’ll tie them on?”

Mattie did as he asked, handing over her two drawings and her wish. Ian took the three sheets of paper, aligned them, and carefully rolled them up. He then used a piece of string to tie the rolled paper so that it looked like a scroll. Pointing to a wrist-thick branch that sprouted bright green leaves, he asked, “How about this spot?”

“That’s good, Daddy. She’ll see it there.”

Ian tied her drawings and her wish to the branch. He used several pieces of string, so that no breeze would sever the bond between the papers and the branch. He thought of Kate, dying in her hospital bed, wondering how her daughter might send her wishes. And this thought provoked a new pain in him—an immense sense of love, loss, and legacy. He glanced at the sky, debating if the words Kate had written might be true, if she could see Mattie and him as they sat in a tree above the city. If there was a time when she could see them, this time was it. If there was a single moment when he wanted to sense her presence, that moment was now. It had followed him around the world, climbed this mountain beside him, and now shared the branch with him and Mattie.

“I love you, Roo,” he said softly, kissing the back of Mattie’s head, but continuing to look above. He tried to keep his grief at bay, but the emotion was too strong. He didn’t feel Kate’s presence when he wanted to feel it most. And so he cried. As did Mattie. He held her tight against him and they clung together, father and daughter, weeping for a woman who had loved and left them.

Ian wanted to believe in Kate’s words, in the wishing tree, but try as he might, he couldn’t. How could he believe in such goodness when that very goodness had been ripped away from him?

He knew, though, that Mattie needed to believe, that she couldn’t soar if she didn’t have faith. So, as he cried, he whispered to her about how much her mother must love her drawings. And about how her wish, whatever it was, would surely come true.

NEPAL

To Climb and Fall

“ONE WHO DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO DANCE SAYS THE FLOOR IS CROOKED.”

—NEPALESE SAYING

F
ive days later, Ian and Mattie had seen most of Kyoto and its surroundings. They had visited Todai-ji Temple, the largest wooden building in the world. On the banks of the Kamo River, they’d picnicked and watched cranes hunt for crayfish. They had followed kimono-clad women who strolled on wooden sandals down cobblestone passageways. Days were spent sharing smiles with strangers, hiking to ancient shrines, sketching sights both new and old. To Ian, much of Kyoto had changed. And yet so many corners and crevices carried memories. They’d walked past a famous bar, outside of which Kate and he had first kissed. They’d traveled to Lake Biwa, where Kate and he had swum and camped. Unfortunately, the rebirth of such memories sent Ian careening into black holes from which he struggled to escape.

They had left Japan two days ahead of schedule. Though he enjoyed the country as much as any he’d visited, Ian simply couldn’t stay in Kyoto. Staying in Kyoto was like setting himself on fire. And he couldn’t do that with Mattie by his side.

The next stop on their itinerary was Nepal, a land through which he and Kate had hiked and climbed, yet a place where his memories weren’t so crisp and common. They had only spent three weeks in Nepal, and though those three weeks had been wonderful, the Himalayas had overshadowed everything they’d done there. Ian didn’t fear returning to Nepal as much as he had Japan, though he did worry about taking Mattie to a developing country. He felt irresponsible for doing so, given her age.

Now, as they sat in the back of a well-traveled plane, heading deeper into the heart of Asia, Mattie opened her film canister. She didn’t know what to expect and was surprised when a diamond ring set in silver tumbled onto her lap. “What’s this?” she asked, picking up the ring.

Ian smiled. “I know whose it is, luv. But I’d rather have your mum tell you.”

“What?”

“Read her note.”

Mattie held the ring in her left hand and opened a rolled-up piece of paper with her right.

My Marvelous Mattie,

What you hold in your hand was your great-grandmother’s wedding ring. She wore it for thirty-nine years. When she died it went to my mother, and then to me, and now I’m passing it along to you. I know that it’s too big for you to wear properly, but someday it won’t be.

Your great-grandmother was a remarkable woman, as was your grandmother. They may not have made newspaper headlines, but they were extraordinary nonetheless. Do you know, my precious girl, that your great-grandmother aided in the war effort? She worked in a factory, painting jeeps, touching them up and adding white stars. And your grandmother volunteered her whole life, helping those less fortunate than she. I had planned on following in her footsteps, but this illness has derailed those ideas.

Someday, Mattie, you may have your own wedding ring. Choose it wisely, because I hope it will spend a lifetime on your finger. And choose your husband with even more care. Take your time. Pretend that you’re walking with your eyes closed. Love should be savored, not rushed.

Do you know why I fell for your daddy? Well, it wasn’t because he was handsome or powerful or rich. He was average-looking and as poor as a church mouse. But inside, Mattie, inside he glowed. He knew how to make me happy. From our very first encounter he made me happy. Think of all the times he prompted me to smile and laugh. Haven’t you always known how much he loved me?

There is a famous saying about love, Mattie. It says that we were given two legs to walk, two hands to hold, two eyes to see, two ears to hear. But we were given only one heart. Why? Because our other heart was given to someone else. For us to find. I found your daddy, and he found me. And the same will happen to you.

I wanted, so much, to talk to you about boys and love. But I can’t. So instead of those conversations I want you to have this ring. Remember who wore it, and what it means. And don’t be afraid to talk with your daddy about anything. He’s a wonderful listener, Mattie, if you need him to be, if you let him know that you’d like to take his hand. He’ll help you. So, please, always go to him.

Did you know that when your daddy and I were in Nepal, we made up poems for each other as we hiked? Most of them were funny, but a few talked about those two hearts. When you’re there, climb as we did, and be happy. Sketch something beautiful and smile at the sky. I’ll be watching, as always.

I love you.
Mommy

Mattie held the ring against her chest. She reread her mother’s words, then tucked the canister safely away in her pocket. She didn’t cry. Instead she studied the ring, imagining her great-grandmother painting white stars. “Maybe, Daddy,” she said, “I like to paint because my great-grandmother did too.”

Ian nodded. “I reckon paint . . . it gets into your blood and stays there. And her blood is in your blood.”

“Could you put this ring on a string for me, so I can wear it around my neck?”

“Sure, luv. I’ll do that when we get back to New York. You can wear it and we’ll go to a fancy restaurant.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“No worries.”

“Are you going to open yours?”

“You want me to?”

“I think you should. Before we land.”

Ian glanced out the window, looking for the Himalayas but seeing only clouds. He sighed, his stomach starting to ache as his heartbeat quickened. He thought about taking an antacid but, instead, opened the canister, and unrolled the little scroll.

My Love,

So, you’ve come to Kathmandu. Remember when we climbed the pass? We were so tired, so spent. We could hardly breathe. But the Himalayas made a circle of white castles around us. We were alone, and on top of the world. How lucky we were.

I worry about you both so much, Ian. I worry about Mattie because I know how she must be hurting. And I can’t help her. I want to remind her of her blessings, of the gift that is you. But I can’t. So, will you do that for me? Let her know that she’s not alone, not in her suffering, not in her yearning. Maybe it would be good for her to see the poor in Kathmandu. Maybe she could learn from the collective angst that is a part of the human experience. I don’t know. I’m lost. I’ve never been so lost in my life. Dying is like being in a maze while blindfolded. It’s overwhelming. One of my few consolations is that I know you’ll do this trip together, and that it will bring you closer together. She loves you so much, Ian. She wants to make you proud. Remember to tell her how you feel.

I wish I could visit those wonderful mountains with you both. Sometimes, Ian, sometimes you forget the beauty around you. I’ve had to show you, which has been one of the greatest joys of my life. But you can’t forget now, because I won’t be there. And you need to see the beauty that remains in the world—the beauty of the Himalayas, of the strokes of Mattie’s pencils, of the people you will come to know in the future. So, please, go discover something beautiful.

Here are a few words to leave you with:

Beside You

Walking beside you,
I’ve heard music that stirred my soul,
Seen sights fit for the eyes of gods,
Touched you and known that my loneliness is gone.

Walking beside you,
I’ve laughed.
I’ve cried.
I’ve bled and loved and dreamed.
I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes,
Each one as precious as a child’s smile,
As poignant as my earliest memories.

Do you know, my love, what I feel now,
as I approach my next journey?
I feel pain and sorrow.
I feel regret.
I am tormented by the echoes of roads untraveled.

But I would not trade away this suffering
if it meant never meeting you.
Because walking beside you is what I’ve always done best.
I’ve reached such summits,
Realms of light and wonder and joy.
And those moments and monuments will never be taken from me,
Not in this life,
Not in the next.

So, please, blow me a kiss from a high place.
And know that I’ll be beside you—
Then,
Now,
Always.

Kate

KATHMANDU WAS AS IAN REMEMBERED IT—A CHARMING yet unornamented city located in the gentle hills outside the Himalayas. From above, the city looked like a rambling collection of three-story brick buildings. From the ground, Kathmandu’s contrasts were more apparent. Colorful rickshaws carried tourists and locals. Blue tarps fluttered above stalls. Dark-skinned people clad in multihued robes and dresses hurried down narrow streets. Cows, monkeys, and countless pigeons were everywhere. The cows—sacred to many Nepalese because of their belief in Hinduism—wandered about without a care in the world. The monkeys gathered near temples, leaping to and from ancient rooftops, oblivious to the people below who photographed them.

Near the heart of downtown, where tourists tended to congregate, hundreds of Nepalese peddled their wares. Much of the goods catered to climbers. Though these offerings were almost inevitably knockoffs, no one seemed to care, as the quality was still good. There were rows of fake North Face jackets, piles of phony Columbia sleeping bags, and box upon box of hiking boots. As it was still early in the trekking season, most of the stalls were bereft of customers, which made proprietors even more aggressive than usual.

The foreigners in the city tended to be young, either students or adventurers. Ian studied them, noting how fit and strong and sunburned they were. These weren’t tourists, he knew, but travelers. They carried battered backpacks and wore shorts and tank tops that revealed their muscles and tattoos.

As Ian and Mattie walked, hand in hand, near downtown, he glanced at her small frame and questioned the wisdom of taking her to such a place. He felt torn—pulled in one direction by his need to fulfill Kate’s wishes, but tugged in the opposite way by his desire to shelter Mattie. What if she got sick here? he wondered, scratching at his week-old beard. What if something happened to him?

One of Ian’s biggest fears was that he would die, leaving Mattie alone. Of course, he had reworked his will after Kate’s death, and Mattie would be taken care of by his sister-in-law. Mattie would be loved. But she’d suffer, no matter how much Kate’s sister tried to make her happy.