Lily's Mountain Read online

  I’ve already read Dad’s journal twice and studied the map that Dad kept folded up inside the back cover. I can’t figure out what went wrong. Dad didn’t mention being sick or tired. He didn’t have premonitions about falling. His last journal entry goes like this:

  ONE DAY LEFT ON THE MOUNTAIN. DOWN THE MULDROW GLACIER TOMORROW. I CAN’T WAIT TO REACH THE SOFT TUNDRA AND MY SECRET STASH OF PEACHES AND BRANDY AT MCGONAGALL. LIFE DOESN’T GET BETTER THAN A DAY ON THIS MOUNTAIN.

  Maybe the earthquake rattled some sense into me, because this time I get it. After Dad managed to crawl out of the crevasse on the Muldrow Glacier, he would go to find his secret stash of peaches and brandy to celebrate. He might linger out there for a while—​at McGonagall Pass—​before coming home.

  I could find him out there.

  Or, if Dad’s really still trapped in the mountain, then every minute matters, and I need to go get him—​now.

  Finally it’s clear what I need to do: go to Denali and hike out to the foot of the mountain. If I find Dad’s stash, then I’ll know for sure that he’s really stuck in the glacier. If not, I’ll find Dad himself, eating peaches in the tundra of Denali National Park.

  When I wake up in the morning, I slide the broken picture frame under my bed and get started. I need to get ready to go. First I make my bed. Tucking in sheet corners and puffing up the comforter until it’s smooth makes me feel better. Then I head for the camping gear in the corner. I stuff my sleeping bag into its compression sack. I pack my personal gear: Long underwear. Fleece jacket and pants. Goose-down parka. Four pairs of wool socks. Winter hat. Gloves. Bandanna. Bug spray. Underwear. Leatherman. Nylon hiking pants. Flower book. Toothbrush. Foam camping pad. Compass. Matches. Binoculars.

  When I find the travel Scrabble board, I get dizzy. I’m about to put it in my pile, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. No Scrabble until Dad comes home. It’s our game—​his word game—​and I can’t play it without him.

  Binoculars are the best thing in the pile. They bring everything closer. They will help me spot Dad on the mountain.

  I find four stale gummy bears in the side pouch of my backpack. I eat them even though they’re hard to chew. Candy is my calm.

  When I’m done packing gear, I head downstairs. It’s quiet as a spider in the kitchen, and the green bean casserole is still on the counter, stinking up the whole room.

  I gather some cooking utensils and try to figure out how in the world I’m going to tell Mom about my plan.

  The phone rings and rings. Nobody leaves messages, but on the fourth round of ringing, after the beep, I hear my best friend’s voice: “Hi, Lily, it’s Jenny. I’m having a blast with my grandma. Hope you’re having a great summer so far. Say hi to the family. Talk to you soon.”

  A part of me wants to grab the phone when I hear her voice, but Jenny doesn’t know what’s happening, and I’d rather talk to her once I find Dad and he’s home. Otherwise, it’s too hard to explain.

  I rummage through the cupboard under the sink to find my water bottle and cook pot. When I find one of Dad’s brandy flasks, it hits me: I need to hurry, hurry, hurry or it’s going to be much too late.

  Mom walks into the kitchen and sits down at the table with today’s crossword puzzle. She’s only finished three words. They’re easy words too: grim, cub, and road. It’s weird because crosswords are Dad’s thing. He’s the word guy, not Mom. But Mom’s been obsessing over the crossword ever since the call. It’s the only thing she has the energy to do, like picking up Dad’s words will make a difference.

  Every dish she’s used is piled on the kitchen counter, and the cereal milk from yesterday is starting to smell, not to mention the gloppy green bean casserole. This is not the normal everything-in-its-place Mom.

  I’m not sure how to break my plan to her. I mean, how do I tell Mom that I really need to travel more than two hundred thirty miles north to find Dad?

  I hope the biggest kind of hope I can muster and say, “Mom. We need to go to Denali.”

  She looks up from her crossword puzzle and stares at me like I’m a mosquito about to bite. She picks up her mug of coffee, left over from yesterday, takes a long sip, and gulps.

  “No way,” she says.

  “But I think Dad wants us to go,” I say.

  “It’s not Dad’s to decide,” Mom says, and I don’t like the prickly sadness of her voice.

  “Can’t we just go for a few days?” I ask.

  “No,” Mom says. Her voice leaves no room for budge. “I don’t want to go back there.”

  “Ever?” I ask.

  “Ever,” she confirms, and I swallow my mouthful of gummy bears whole.

  But Denali is our place. Mom makes mac and cheese, and Dad studies trail maps. Sophie is even fun. We cook and hike and watch wildlife. At night we line up our sleeping bags side by side like caterpillars inside the tent. Mom and Dad help us fall asleep by counting animals we saw that day: arctic ground squirrels, caribou, snowshoe hares, ptarmigan, moose, grizzly bears, and the rare fox or wolf.

  We’ve gone to Denali every summer since forever—​and I’m not about to stop going now, especially when Dad needs us most.

  Mom stares at the crossword puzzle so hard I can’t believe she’s not turning into a word. She must be thinking of all our Denali days too.

  “If you won’t come along, then can I go on my own?” I ask.

  “Of course not,” Mom says. “You’re only twelve.”

  “I’ll go with Sophie, then,” I say. This might be my stroke of genius. Mom’s been trying to get Sophie and me to do things together recently, especially outdoor stuff.

  “The answer is no, Lily.”

  “But Dad said I could practically climb Denali by myself already. Why can’t I go for a piddly little camping trip in the park?”

  “You just can’t,” Mom says, “and that’s final.”

  “Sophie’s certified in wilderness first aid,” I say, “and you and Dad even let us go camping by ourselves last summer.”

  “Last summer was different,” Mom says.

  I can tell I have a lot more work to do, so I head to the counter and pour a cup of yesterday’s cold coffee and add chocolate milk, brown sugar, cinnamon, and marshmallows. I pop it in the microwave for a minute. I don’t really like coffee, but it makes me feel better to taste something bitter. The day feels more alive. While it’s heating, I fill up a bowl with sour apple Nerds. Mom hasn’t noticed that I’ve only eaten candy since Dad went missing. Or if she has noticed, she doesn’t care.

  With steaming sugary coffee and Nerds in hand, I sit down beside Mom and her crossword at the table.

  “What’s another word for daydream?” she asks, holding her pencil tip to word 3-Across.

  I crunch my Nerds slowly. “What’s the first letter of the word?” I ask.

  “R,” Mom says. She knows it because word 3-Down is road.

  Remember? Recall? Review? No, those aren’t right. “How many letters?” I ask.

  “Seven.”

  “Reverie,” I say, letting the word slip gracefully off my tongue. It’s one of those words that sound even prettier than the meaning. Dad taught me all about reveries when I was studying for the spelling bee last school year.

  “R-E-V-E-R-I-E. Reverie,” I say.

  Mom pencils the word into the puzzle with Dad’s special mechanical pencil. She looks funny working on his puzzle, and reverie is only the fourth word she’s figured out. It will take her all week to finish the puzzle at this rate.

  I shove another handful of Nerds in my mouth. I’ve always been Dad’s little crossword helper, but I’m not sure I like being Mom’s.

  I grab the dictionary to double-check the meaning. Reverie: A state of abstracted musing; daydreaming. Yes, that’s right.

  Reverie. I think that’s what I experienced last night after the earthquake. A mountain reverie.

  “Mom?” I ask, and she is already on to the next word. “Here’s the deal: Sophie and I will go togethe
r. We’ll ride the train to the park. We know exactly what to do once we’re camping. You and Dad always say we know more about camping than any other kids at school.” There. I’ve said it, and Mom knows it’s all true.

  “You’re not going to give up, Lily, are you?”

  “Never.”

  “I can’t worry about anyone else,” she says. The concern in her eyes is hard to ignore. It’s not about-to-cry concern; it’s worse. I feel bad for pushing her, but I know how to solve her problem. I will find Dad and make things better.

  “I’m not going to be able to live without going to Dad’s mountain,” I say. “It’s that simple.”

  Mom shakes her head.

  “What if we arrange it with the Wonder Lake ranger?” I ask. We know Ranger Collins from our annual camping trips to Wonder Lake. She’s always there to welcome us to the campground and tell us about the latest bear sightings and the next sandhill crane migration. She’s been our friend there, year after year. “We can tell her that we’re coming, and she’ll watch out for us.” Now I’m onto something, and I can see Mom’s face shift. Plus, how hard can it be to outwit a park ranger once we get there?

  Mom stares at her puzzle like it will give her answers.

  “You know how you’re obsessed with these puzzles?” I ask, giving it one last shot.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Mom says while penciling in Eden for paradise.

  “That’s how I feel about Denali,” I say. “I need to go there—​be there—​close to Dad. Pitch a tent on the tundra and hike river bars and see wildlife.”

  Mom rubs her eyes with her fists and then opens them wide. Wide like she gets it. Then she spins her wedding ring on her left ring finger, as if the spinning can rewind time.

  “If you can convince Sophie to go, and Ranger Collins agrees to watch out for you two, then I’ll let you go. But only to the campground, and there will be strict rules.”

  “Sure—​anything,” I say, and my heart races ahead to the park and the tundra and the mountain . . . and Dad! I’m finally going.

  “Soph?” I whisper. “Can I come in?” Her shades are drawn, so it’s pitch-dark inside.

  “Sure,” she mumbles.

  I leave the door propped open so I have a tiny bit of light. As I walk in, the weight of the mountain sits on my shoulders. I have to convince Sophie of the plan.

  Sophie’s lying on top of her quilt with her knees up to her chest.

  “Will you come with me to Denali?” I say.

  Sophie stares at me. “Why?”

  “Dad’s out there, and you know he’s still fighting.”

  “He’s not, Lily. He’s somewhere in the glacier. Gone.” Sophie’s not whispering now, and her voice is crackly like she’s about to lose it. “I want him to be alive. I really do. But there’s no way.” Sophie’s eyes fill up with tears, slow tears that can’t quite escape her eyelids.

  I shove a huge handful of Nerds in my mouth. The tangy apple pebbles remind me that I can’t give up.

  “There is a way!” I say. “Dad could have fallen, and then used all his gear to climb out of the ice and . . .”

  “They did a full search and found no trace of him,” Sophie says, and the reminder feels like darts piercing a balloon. “And he wasn’t roped up.”

  “The earthquake might have shifted the ice,” I say.

  “You’re in la-la Lilyland,” Sophie says.

  I try to keep my cool. I’m not in la-la anywhere, but Sophie is my only way to Denali, so I have to be careful. She slides a charm back and forth on a silver chain around her neck. I’ve never seen her necklace before; it shimmers in the low light.

  “You know what Dad said about the hard times?” I ask after a while.

  “I know, I know,” Sophie says. “Eat some gummy bears and go for an adventure.”

  “Darn straight,” I say, stealing another one of Dad’s lines. “He doesn’t want us sitting around here feeling sorry for ourselves.”

  “True, but look what adventure did for him—​made him dead.”

  Dead. The word sucks the breath out of my lungs. Dead. My heart races. I reach for my candy. I put the bowl of Nerds up to my mouth and drink the last bit of them.

  Then I say the truest words I can muster: “Dad will know that you love him if you go to Denali.”

  As the words come out of my mouth, Sophie uncurls from her position on the bed.

  “He will know,” I say, and Sophie sits up taller, still not speaking.

  “So pack your bags,” I say. “We need to get going.”

  It’s settled. We’re departing first thing tomorrow morning for Denali National Park for a four-night trip. I’m still worried that Sophie’s going to change her mind. To make matters worse, Mom’s going a little batty; she’s always been a checklist lady, but this time she even printed out a paper of terms and conditions and made us sign it.

  No river crossings.

  No backcountry camping (campground only).

  No technical climbing.

  Check in with Ranger Collins upon arrival at Wonder Lake campground.

  It’s the first two conditions that are the worst, because we’ll definitely have to cross a few rivers and go backcountry camping to get to Dad’s mountain. I’m not positive about the third one. We’ll have to wait and see, but I’m pretty sure we’ll encounter some technical stuff. Ranger Collins shouldn’t be a problem; she must have more to worry about than two sisters in the campground.

  I steer my eyes away from the paper of terms and conditions when I sign my name. That way it doesn’t feel like a big lie. Mom means well, but it’s a good thing Dad told me that half the world’s rules were meant to be broken.

  We talk to Ranger Collins on speakerphone. She agrees to check in with us each night, and Mom thinks we’ll be safe as denned grizzly cubs as long as we have a mama bear park ranger watching over us. It’s too late to book campground reservations and bus tickets online, so we’ll have to buy them when we arrive at the park entrance.

  I write a detailed shopping list, and Sophie and I pile into Dad’s Ford Ranger pickup and head for Safeway. I’m starting to feel better now that we’re really getting ready to go.

  When we pull into the grocery store parking lot, Sophie leaves the truck running like she’s not sure she wants to go in.

  “Let’s divvy up the list,” I say. Sophie nods like, At least we have a list, or what Dad calls a “plan of attack.”

  I rip the list in half. I give Sophie the breakfast and lunch items. I’ll do dinners and snacks. When I hand Sophie her part, she stares at it for a while and then turns off the ignition.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she says, but she’s still buckled into her seat.

  I open the passenger door. The parking lot is crammed with cars and bustle. Today is normal for most people. Shopping carts rattle. Friendly families chatter. And the sun shines down like nothing could be wrong in the world.

  “Let’s meet at checkout in fifteen minutes,” Sophie says as we walk through the double doors. Fifteen minutes sounds like forever.

  Dinners. We have some freeze-dried meals back home in the cupboard, but I need chili. When I get to the bean aisle, I’m faced with too many choices. Dinty Moore or Stagg Chili? Hot or mild? I just want plain old chili—​the good stuff—​and all these choices give me the shivers. I pick Stagg because it has the nicest label, and I hope it’s the same kind Dad always buys. I can’t remember.

  When I’m putting the chili cans into my basket, I hear the unmistakable voice of my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Lee.

  “Hello, Lily,” she says.

  I’m just standing there with my basket, and it’s too late to sneak down the aisle and pretend not to know her.

  She gives me a hug from behind and says, “I’m so sorry about your dad.”

  I want her to stop hugging me, so I pretend to cough, but it’s not entirely pretend. I can’t breathe.

  Mrs. Lee finally lets go of me, and I turn to face her. She squints her eyes and shake
s her head. Then she gives me a squeeze on my right arm: “Let me know if you ever need anything, sweetie.”

  I can’t move or talk.

  “And by the way,” Mrs. Lee continues, “many people are wondering when you’ll have the service for him. Do you know the date?”

  “There won’t be a service,” I say, and I’m surprised the words are coming, but then they spill out, “because Dad’s not dead, he’s only missing, and not even my mom thinks he’s really gone. That’s why I’m going to Denali.”

  Mrs. Lee raises both eyebrows and says, “Oh my,” before grabbing her grocery cart and continuing down the pasta aisle in a sudden hurry.

  I can’t wait for Dad to come home so that people like Mrs. Lee can say, “Oh my,” for a totally different reason.

  Onward.

  Next stop: the candy aisle.

  I toss M&M’s into my basket, like the ones we eat while hiking up Bird Ridge every spring. And Toblerone chocolate, from sheep watching on Cathedral Mountain. Snickers, from ice-skating on Westchester Lagoon at Christmastime. And Tootsie Pops—​Mom likes red, Sophie and I like brown, and Dad likes the rare purply-pink ones. I reach out to pick our usual colors, but I can’t do it. Just looking at them makes my stomach flip. Tootsie Pops bring back Dad, but he’s not here, and I can’t eat any of them until I find him.

  I shove the box of Tootsie Pops so far back on the shelf that they’re out of sight. If I can’t eat them, I don’t want anyone else to either. I’ll just have to take some candy from Dad’s stash instead.

  Done. The heavy basket thwaps against my leg as I head to the checkout area. Sophie’s waiting for me at aisle three. She looks at my basket first, and then up at my face.

  “You look like a stunned caribou,” she says.

  I am one.

  I vow I won’t go to the grocery store again until Dad comes home.