Page 11 of Waking Olivia

I look at the summit and the sun warms my face. It’s cold as hell, cold enough that it’s stripped everything inside of me. Any lingering uncertainty. Even the anger.

My father was wrong. He said mountain climbing was a hobby, not a profession, and that one day I’d be home with my tail between my legs. He was wrong, and I know it as I stand here. I know there’s nothing else in the world I’m supposed to be doing. I know that even if this climb is my last—and no serious climber ever goes up without at least acknowledging the possibility—it was worth it. I’d rather have had two good years with the sun on my face and the summit hovering above than a lifetime of working on the farm. Climbs like this are the only time, for as far back as I can recall, that I don’t feel as if something is missing.

Iwake. I’m not at high camp or base camp. I know that the only climbs in my future are the ones I wedge into days and weekends that are already too full. I’ll probably never summit Everest or Annapurna or any of the other ones on my bucket list. I’m going to live and die toiling on that farm, just like my dad did.

The only difference is that he had a choice.

There were things about climbing that sucked, that would have bothered me over time. It’s hard to have a relationship when you’re gone months at a time. I’d eventually have wanted kids, and it would have been hard to leave. But I was 24. I didn’t want commitment—I wanted convenience. And I had it. Sometimes I think if it had just been a little less perfect this wouldn’t be as hard for me as it is right now.

There isn’t a single afternoon, when practice is done, that a tiny voice doesn’t suggest I go climbing. I hear it today, but I don’t go. I never go. The sprayer’s coming to do one last application of weed killer tomorrow and I’ve got to make sure the fields are ready first. Otherwise, I’ll spend the next goddamn month fixing ruts he’s put out there.

But the voice is still there, even as I head to the farm on the way home.You’ve got four hours of light left, it says.You couldn’t do much, but your gear is already in the car. You deserve just one.

Sometimes I feel like an addict, except the only person my climbing ever hurt was my father. I’m sure as shit making amends for it now.

10

Olivia

School begins.

Between that and practice, I don't fall asleep at night. I collapse. Which is ideal. Exhaustion tends to keep the dreams at bay.

I have fresh legs every day, not that Will is any less displeased. I'm running well, but he only seems to find fault. I am,by far, the fastest girl on the team, but every day he stands there looking for things to criticize, bitching about my turn-over rate and stride length, or making me stay after everyone else to run next to a metronome for Christ’s sake. I’m doing every fucking thing he asks and he’s still treating me like a burden, a charity case he’s been forced to take on.

“Good job,” he says to Erin and Betsy at the end of practice. I approach and his smile fades. "Your kick was off on the last lap."

"Well, I came in ahead of everyone else,” I snap, “so maybe the rest of the team's kick was off too.”

There's a small muscle at the corner of his jaw that pops when he's mad. That muscle and I are practically family I know it so well.

"If you're not interested in improving," he says, "then stop taking up a spot that could be used by someone who is." Even now, in the midst of his anger, I can't stop noticing things about him. His eyes are the brightest blue, like a postcard of the Caribbean. Especially when he's mad.

"Yeah, you'd love that, wouldn't you? I’m apparently the only person on this team who needs constant correction."

"Has it ever occurred to you that I ask more of you because I think you’re capable of more?” he demands. “The rest of those girls are giving me everything they have, but you are not. Do you want me to just let you plod along and get through college having never taken first when you know you have the potential to?"

For the first time ever, I don't feel anger in response to his words but an inexplicable urge to cry. I prefer anger. I don't know what to do with this other feeling. "I'm going to shower now," I say, my voice slightly hoarse. He nods, looking unhappy and puzzled at the same time. Possibly even concerned.

I don't want his concern.

God knows it won’t last.

On Thursday, Hannah brings this massive box of stuff that her mother has sent, full of homemade cookies and peanut brittle and even rolls of quarters for the laundry.

“Ugh, snickerdoodles," says Hannah, throwing the bag into the center of the table. "I'm already sick of snickerdoodles and school’s only just begun."

"At least your mom sends you homemade stuff. My mom just sent me a bag of Oreos," laughs Nicole. "Like I couldn't go to the store and buy my own Oreos."

Hannah passes me the bag and I hand it on to Erin as if it's toxic, my stomach tight and my throat dry.

"Oh my God, Finn, live a little," gripes Erin. She takes a cookie from the bag and pushes it toward my mouth, but I avert my head.

"I don't like snickerdoodles," I tell her. It's a lie. What I don't want is the queasy feeling this whole thing causes in my stomach. This tangible reminder that this is what other people have – a family who cares that they are gone.

“Saw Will’s girlfriend heading to his office just before we left,” smirks Nicole. “Looks like someone’s getting a little a.m. wake-up call.”

“Not necessarily,” counters Erin. “She works for the university. Maybe they’re just meeting for breakfast. Is she hot?”

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