Page 51 of The Rom-Commers

Then an unearthlyclumpsound right at the base of the rocks.

I didn’t see her fall.

I didn’t see the rock that hit my dad, either.

The rest of the memory is built only with the scaffolding we pieced together afterward: A patch of rocks came loose—like a mini-avalanche. One of those rocks hit my father on the head before he even knew anything was happening, knocking him unconscious. As he dropped to theground, of course the belay rope swished upward, out of his hands. And how high up was my mother then? A hundred feet, maybe? Sometimes I look up at the rooflines of buildings and try to re-create it. Was it three stories she fell from? Four?Five?

I’m sure my dad knows. But I’ll never ask.

I didn’t see it in slow-mo, the way you might in a movie, even though I was right there. It was over before I knew what had happened. And then there was nothing to do but run to the spot where they both lay, bleeding, unconscious, twisted like no bodies should ever twist.

I was back at the rock where Sylvie was sitting before she’d even moved. “Don’t go over,” I said. “Stay right here.” We were too high for cell service, so I said, “I’m going for help.”

But she wasn’t listening. “Mom?” Sylvie whispered, staring in that direction.

I took Sylvie’s face between my hands and turned it to mine. “Don’t move from this rock. Don’t go over there. And don’t touch them, okay? That could hurt them worse.”

“Okay,” Sylvie said, still whispering, her eyes glassy.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

Then it hit her I was leaving. Her voice wavered with panic. “But what do I do?”

“Talk to them,” I said. “Just keep talking. Say I’m going for help. Say I’ll be right back. Say it’s all going to be okay.”

It wasn’t all going to be okay. That much was already clear.

“Don’t leave me,” Sylvie pleaded.

“I have to,” I said. “Be strong. And just keep talking.”

What else could I possibly do? I left.

I ran down the trail. Fully sprinted—no pack or supplies or water. I tripped on a root at some point but scrambled up to keep going—only discovering later I’d sprained my ankle and never even felt it.

I have no idea how long it took to make it to the trailhead—no sense of time—but when I found a lady with a working cell phone I was almost too out of breath to speak. “There was a rockfall,” I panted, pointingback up the trail. “My mom was climbing. My parents are hurt.” And then, as she was dialing for help, I heard myself say the only thing left that I knew for sure. “It’s bad. It’s bad. It’s bad.”

HERE’S A TRUTHthat never changes: My mom didn’t survive the fall.

The rescue workers said she probably died on impact. By the time they arrived, she was already gone—and my dad was critical. A rescue team strapped my dad to a backboard and readied him for helicopter transport to the ER. Another team—a recovery team—stayed behind to collect my mother.

They sent Sylvie and me with my dad. Decisions had to be made.

Sylvie didn’t want to leave our mom. She screamed—feral with panic—and tried to go to her.

She was so enraged with me for that. For leaving our mom behind. Alone.

I asked her about it once, years later—if she was still mad.

“I was never mad at you,” she said, like I was crazy.

“Yes, you were,” I said. “You scratched me on the face.”

Sylvie frowned, like that didn’t sound like her. Then she said, “I don’t remember anything about that day.”

Maybe that’s a blessing. I wouldn’t wish those memories on her. The sound of my mother hitting that cliff base still woke me up in the night.

And then I always got up and went to check on my sleeping dad in the other room.

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