Love Lies Beneath (6 page)

liquid, solid

liquid

gas, liquid,

forever

in random echo.

Every drop

encapsulates

the beginning,

its undulating

glass a window,

opening

into Genesis.

You wake to platinum

beads of dew,

the very first

morning

breaking within

the clutch

of dawn

dampened grass,

consider

that we are essentially

water and wonder

how many eons

we squander,

every time

we allow

ourselves to cry.

The day dawns a splendid, sharp blue, as if I ordered it up especially for Mel and me. The snow on the mountain fell early and furiously this year. Coverage is supposed to be exceptional, between Mother Nature's generosity and Heavenly Valley snowmaking, which is legendary. December's deep chill has kept the mountain pristine, and I'm eager to track it up.

“Ready?” I call.

Melody comes tromping out in what look like brand-new ski boots and a tangerine-colored powder suit, which must have cost a pretty penny. But the excessive padding does nothing for her figure, and the color is not the best against her pale, freckled skin. Then again, with her helmet and goggles on, you can't see much of her face.

“What do you think? Graham picked everything out and gave it to me for an early Christmas present.”

“Uh . . . it looks really comfortable, and I definitely won't lose you on the mountain. I just hope you don't get
too
hot.”

“I just hope you don't freeze your tushie off.”

She's referring to the form-fitting black wool ski pants and violet turtleneck sweater I'm wearing. “No worries. My parka is killer warm. My tushie's in no danger.” I slide into said jacket, slip on my favorite pair of Oakley sunglasses. “Let's do it.”

“I don't suppose you've got a helmet stashed in your pocket somewhere?”

“You're kidding, right? And ruin my perfect hair?”

The joke does not amuse her. “After what happened with Raul, I'd think you'd be a little more cautious.”

“When you hit a tree going that fast, a helmet won't save you. It wouldn't have changed a thing.”

Wisely, she drops it. We collect our skis and head on up the gondola. Heavenly is a big mountain, with a lot of wide, well-groomed intermediate runs. We spend most of the morning maneuvering those. It's Wednesday, pre–winter break, so the crowd isn't too bad. Another week and this place will be a nightmare.

Those people don't know what they're missing today. The snow is crisp, the breeze delicate, and the air temp cold, but not uncomfortably so. You couldn't get a better day, unless you're a spring skiing aficionado. I dislike slush, so I prefer to schedule my trips earlier in the season.

Melody would be content to ski the big boulevards all day long, but I'm starting to hunger for steeper fare. At the top of the Sky Express, I signal for her to stop. “Why don't you take the Ridge Run down? I'll take Ellie's and meet you at the bottom.”

We're standing at the lip of the black diamond run. She peeks over the edge and shudders. “I suppose I should be grateful you're not heading over to Mott Canyon.”

Heavenly's two Nevada-side canyons, Mott and Killebrew, are notoriously difficult—precipitous, skier-tracked, obstacle-lined thoroughfares, for serious double-black-diamond skiers only. I've tried them a couple of times, but never with really great snow. “I was thinking about heading over there after lunch. For now, I'll just go this way. See you at the chair.”

I don't wait for further discussion, just point my skis downhill and away I go, taking long, sweeping S-turns, in total control. My pulse quickens and my legs remind me this run is more difficult than the last, but the challenge is exhilarating, and so is the speed, nothing between the rush and me except air. This is why I love this sport.

About halfway down, I hear shouting above me. “Watch out! Oh shit! Oh shit!”

I don't dare turn to look, but it sounds ugly, and the “oh shit”s are getting closer, and suddenly I am hit from behind. I cartwheel to one side, legs splitting awkwardly. One ski brakes in a pile of powder, while my downhill speed carries me forward.
Whop!
Holy mother of God, I think I just lost my right knee.

The good news is I finally stop, unlike the bastard who ran into me and is still tumbling toward the bottom of the run. The bad news is, when I try to stand I fail the knee test. Strangely, it doesn't hurt much. But no way can I take a turn. The knee wobbles and pops too easily sideways, its center loose. Ligament tear, for sure.

I drop onto my butt in the tattered snow. Two boarders stop to check on me. “You okay?”

“Could you contact ski patrol, please? I'll need a sled.”

One guy takes off. His buddy stays with me. “Whoa, that was gnarly, dude.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You cold? You're shaking.”

“Not cold. Pissed.” There goes my season, first day out.

“Don't blame you. That guy sucked. If you're warm enough, I'd pack that knee in snow, try to keep it from swelling.”

“How did you know it's my knee?”

“We could see it go from up there, man. But as bad as it is, check that out.” He points to a still figure near the bottom of the slope. Ski patrol is already gathered around him. “That dude took a radical fall, man. It'll be Care Flight taking him out of here, all the way down to Reno. All you get is a sled and maybe an ambulance to Barton Memorial. Unless you've got a ride.”

“I do, actually, although it's valet-parked down in the village. My sister can drive me from there, though. Hey, if you happen to see a lady in a ridiculous orange powder suit, would you let her know she can probably find me in first aid later? Tell her to bring me a drink.”

“Like, coffee or what?”

“Like whiskey. Neat.”

He laughs, then reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket. “If you don't mind risking germs, I've got this.” He extracts a metal flask. “Not whiskey. Jäger.”

The kid doesn't look too germy. Why not? “You sure?”

“Hell yeah. Oh, look. Here comes your chariot.”

I take a big slug of the licorice-flavored liqueur, just as my own personal pair of ski patrolmen arrive. The young one is tall and stocky, the fortyish one built like a miniature mule. It is the ass who gives me an appraising once-over and says, “Been drinking today, have we?”

I bring my eyes square level with his. “Did you ask the guy who took me out from behind if he'd been drinking today?”

“It's hard to question someone who's unconscious.”

“Yeah, well, my sitting here with a destroyed knee had nothing to do with me drinking. I never touched a drop before this one, and I kind of feel like I deserve a good belt, considering an out-of-control jerk—who was totally conscious at the time—just annihilated both me and my entire season. Now, you want to do your job, or what?”

I start to hand over the flask to my boarder buddy, reconsider. “Do you mind?”

He shrugs. “Help yourself.”

After a long, slow swallow, I return the flask to its owner. “Many thanks, and thanks for hanging out with me until the inquisition arrived.”

“Hey, now,” says Tall and Stocky. “I haven't said a word.”

“That's why I like you. Well, that and you're sort of cute.”

The guy blushes and starts to ready the sled as the boarder takes off, calling back over his shoulder, “I'll be on the lookout for orange.”

My ride off the mountain is quite a production. The ski patrolmen—tall and stocky Trevor, and miniature-mule Will—forgive my Jägermeister indulgence when they observe the state of my knee. Despite their packing it with snow so quickly, it is ballooning. This, plus its purpling mottle, is all too obvious when Will slices the leg of my ski pants most of the way to my groin.

He whistles. “I've seen some ugly knees in my time. That one is up near the top of my list. Does it hurt?”

“Oddly, not really.”

“It's going to.” He wraps it in cold packs, pulls the remains of my pants leg down over the swollen lump.

Trevor lifts me easily, lays me flat on the bed of the sled, and secures a blanket over me with a couple of wide tie-downs. “I've never been tied up before,” I joke. “Promise this will be fun?”

Will actually chuckles. “Oh, yeah. The best time you'll ever have, and all you have to do is lie there. We, on the other hand, have our work cut out for us.”

They do. Will moves around to the front, where he'll have to pull once we reach flat terrain. Meanwhile, he steers while Trevor takes the cheater strap at the rear, acting as the brake. Both men snowplow down the steep face, denying their skis—and so, the sled—momentum.

It still feels fast to me. Air movement stings my eyes. Despite their watering, I'm aware of the stares of those we pass, especially when we reach the landing where lines form for the Sky Express chair. It's embarrassing, but I understand they can't help it. It's like passing a car accident.

Nothing much to see here, people. The blanket isn't pulled up over my face. I'm alive and kicking, at least with my left leg. Not sure about the guy who hit me, though. We go past his quiet form at a distance. Ski patrol is keeping everyone back, making room for Care Flight to land so they can load the man into its belly. I can hear the snarl of the helicopter's approach. The snowboarder was right. I'm glad I'm not leaving the mountain that way.

Across the flats, we slow significantly, then it's a short drop to a gentle beginner's roundabout. It takes almost a half hour to arrive at the first aid station at the top of the gondola. “Don't weight your right leg,” instructs Will as he and Trevor help me stand. “We'll get you inside.”

One arm around each of their necks, I hobble, one-legged, to the door, where a note informs us:
Back soon.
We push on through, anyway. The stark room is dingy white beneath dim fluorescent lights. “Wow. This place could use a face-lift.”

“Hey, now,” corrects Trevor. “This here is a state-of-the-art first aid station.”

The men help me onto a gurney, adjust the back so I can sit up. “I'll go deal with the sled,” says Will, starting for the door. “Nice skiing with you, ma'am.”

Ha-ha. Very funny. “You
will
get the name of the man who ran into me, right?”

Will stops, turns back toward me. “So you can send him a get-well card?”

“In case my insurance company needs to get hold of him,” I correct.

“Standard operating procedure. If they—or you—have any questions, you can always contact the resort's legal department directly. Which reminds me . . .” He locates a clipboard and pen. “Please fill out this report and give it to the on-duty when he gets back. He's probably helping out up on the mountain.”

He exits as Trevor elevates my right leg and places a fresh ice pack on my knee. “How's that feel?”

“Useless.”

“That's right, and I expect you to keep it that way until someone smarter than me tells you otherwise. Now, is there someone who should be informed about your accident?” He's just so earnest, I kind of want to kiss him, if only for the shock value.

“You mean, like my lawyer?”

“I kind of thought you
were
a lawyer.” He grins. “But, I meant like your husband. Or a relative.”

“I'm not married. And the only relative who might care is my sister, who's here somewhere. I'd call her, but she never takes her cell out on the mountain. Says she wants to disconnect from the real world when she's skiing.”

Now he loses his smile. “Did you tell her she'd be a lot safer carrying her phone with her?”

“It wouldn't do any good. Melody maintains a serious list of rules to live by. Besides, her
phone
is much safer
not
going out on the mountain with her.”

Which elicits a nervous laugh. “I hope she skis cautiously, then.”

“No worries. Mel's definitely not the out-of-bounds kind of skier. And it would be a cold day in hell before you'd find her limping her way down a Killebrew run.”

“That's very good to hear. Now, do you need anything before I go?”

I glance around the room, which is naked except for a miniature desk, two more gurneys (because a first aid station can never have too many), and a door, which probably leads to a bathroom. “Go? As in, you're leaving me here all alone?”

“Sorry, ma'am, but my job is on the mountain.”

“But . . . what am I supposed to
do
?”

“What am
I
supposed to do? Stay here and entertain you?”

I really want to act pissy, but that will definitely get me nowhere, so I'll attempt “helpless” instead. “No, no. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. But could you . . . I mean would you mind . . . I, um, need to use the restroom. Could you possibly help me? Just to the door, I mean. I think I can take it from there.”

Trevor's cheeks flush cranberry. “Oh, of course. Why didn't you just say so to start with?” He whisks me off the gurney as if I am weightless, sets me down just across the bathroom threshold. “Be super careful not to twist that leg sideways, and try not to bend that knee.”

He shuts the door, and I take my time. He's given me the excuse, but even if he hadn't, accomplishing the task is tricky. I manage to keep my right leg mostly extended, but when I sit it does slant toward the floor, flooding the knee with fluid. Suddenly, it hurts, and it hurts a lot. I manage to quell the rising scream, which escapes as a very loud “Jesus!”

Trevor knocks on the door. “Everything okay in there?”