Finding It (28 page)

“Oh, I can curse!” She assures me. “I can curse like a Manchester ball player. Do you want me throw down the F-grenade?”

I laugh. “Bomb, Mum! F-bomb.”

“Do you want me to throw down the F-bomb?”

“No.”

“Then tell me who you are with passion and conviction.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Fffff…”

“Okay, okay!” I am only just wrapping my head around ass. I don’t think I am ready for fuck. “I am Vivia Perpetua Ass-Kicker Grant, breaker of hearts and wearer of Wonder Woman underwear.”

“Damn straight you are! Now, get over to France and make up with Jean-Luc. If you’re going to give me grandbabies, you need to get going on the make-up sex.”

Ugh! I inwardly cringe.

“Um, yeah. I’m not sure I am ready for this new liberated, uncensored Mum.”

“Too bad,” Mum laughs. “I’ve burnt my bras and am heady on the fumes of my new-found freedom.”

I imagine my mother tossing a match on a mound of brassieres, surrounded by her prizewinning roses, while nosy old Mrs. Johnston pokes her nose over the fence. From Bible studies to Zumba classes—if my mum isn’t afraid to take a risk and shake up her life like a snow globe, shouldn’t I be brave too?

* * * *

I usually love rainy days, curling up with a good book, sipping hot cocoa by the fire, but today I am restless and irritable. My conversation with my mum didn’t help either.

“You have been pacing for the last hour.” Poppy looks up from her laptop. “What’s the matter, Vivia?”

“I don’t know,” I stop pacing and look at my friend. “Have you ever felt like you just need to do something, but you don’t know what?”

Fanny pads into the kitchen, her mahogany hair a wild nest perched atop her head, her eyes two narrow slits on her face.

“What or who?”

“Funny.”

“You never did tell me what happened between you and Calder.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and plops on the chair beside Poppy. “Out with it.”

“There is nothing to tell. Seriously, do you think we ripped our clothes off and did the down-and-dirty against the standing stones or what?”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Poppy says.

“That’s one tall, sexy possibility I wouldn’t mind getting down and dirty with.” Fanny looks at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Tell us, Vivia. We won’t judge you.”

“Do you really think I would have sex with some random man I met at a pub? I am not a slut, Fanny!”

“I never said you were a slut, Vivian!”

“Whoa!” Poppy hold her hands up. “This is getting too intense. Do I need to play a Taylor Swift song?”

“No!” I snap.

My anger isn’t over Fanny teasing me about a boy—it’s about what happened at Boujis and the shame I feel about having flirted with Bishop—and now Calder.

“Did someone turn the heat up?” I irritably yank my shirt collar and resume my pacing. “Why is it so stuffy in here?”

“Would you like me to turn the heat down?” Fanny clutches her coffee mug and stands up. “Or open a window?”

“Don’t bother.”

I grab my raincoat, slip my iPhone in the waterproof pocket, and shove my feet into my Wellies.

“Where are you going?” Fanny frowns.

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just out.” I twist my hair into a knot and pull my wooly cap over my head. “For a walk.”

“But it’s raining.”

“It’s Scotland. It rains every day.”

“Okay.” Fanny dumps her coffee in the sink and puts the mug on the counter. “Give me a minute to grab my coat and boots.”

“Thanks, Fanny,” I say, heading for the door. “But I really just want to be alone. I need to think.”

“Is that wise, Vivia?” Poppy taps her laptop keys and turns the screen toward me. “The storm is building. It could get nasty out there.”

“I won’t be gone long.” I flip up the hood on my raincoat. “Besides, I’m from San Francisco. I’m not afraid of a little rain.”

“Wait, then!”

Poppy runs to her room and returns with a flashlight.

“Take my torch then.”

“I have a light on my iPhone.”

“Your iPhone isn’t waterproof. Just take the torch”—she presses it into my hand—“for me.”

I slip the flashlight in my side pocket and leave the cottage.

Since I don’t have an agenda, I move on habit, following the path to the barnyard, over the fence, and up the hill to the back pasture where I saw Torcach having his pseudo-seizure.

I just walk, and the more I walk, the more empowered I feel. I don’t care that I am already soaked down to my boots. It feels good to be out in the cold exerting myself. Sometimes, you reach a point where it no longer matters if you are wet—you’re just wet and so you embrace it.

Calf-deep in a puddle and looking at the distant fog-ringed pap, my agenda forms. I am going to climb that pap—the pap Fanny tried to convince me to climb yesterday. Who needs eating shortbread in my sheep jammies and reading the latest Sophie St. Laurent historical novel—a thrilling tale set during the French Revolution, about a renegade priest who assassinates revolutionary leaders and rescues condemned souls from the guillotine—when I can climb a mountain?

It’s probably going to sound crazy, but my mind is inextricably linking making it to the top of the pap with winning Luc back.

I can do this!

I am running up across the field, leaping over boggy puddles, stomping on soggy patches of grass. I cross a stream, the water swirling around my boots, and begin the long, arduous climb up the mountain. From a distance, it appeared deceptively manageable, but an hour into the climb, I question the soundness of this self-imposed fitness test. This isn’t an agoge. I’m not a young Spartan warrior trying to prove my fitness for battle. So why am I doing this to myself?

You’re doing it because it’s the only way you’ll know if you can do it! You’re doing it because you don’t want to end up one of those middle-aged women suffering an existential crisis wondering about the road less traveled
.

Reaching the top of the mountain is a triumphal moment. If my legs weren’t wibbly wobbly—to borrow a Dr. Who-ism—I would be doing the football-slam End Zone Dance. Instead, I cup my hands around my mouth and let out a Ricola cough drop commercial yodel, before whipping out my iPhone for a few high-altitude selfies.

I snap a classic crossed-feet shot with my Wellies in the foreground and an expansive gray sky in the background, green peaks far in the distance. There’s nothing about the shot that screams Scotland, but it is my favorite memento of the trip because it has personal resonance. After I sign into my Twitter account and tweet the photo with the hashtags #SawThePap #ClimbedThePap #TheseBootsAreMadeForHiking #HighlandSelfie.

I move over to the other side of the mountain to get a shot of the verdant Scottish Highlands rolling endlessly toward the horizon. I take a few selfies with the camera held far above my head to capture the steep drop behind me and slide the phone back into my pocket.

The rain is picking up again, so I take a last look at the stunning landscape before I begin the interminable climb down, when my boot slips over the slick rocky top and I find myself tumbling backwards over the edge.

Hands on the Stick

Oh, Lawd, Sweet Jesus!
Plunging to my death has long been one of my biggest fears, and now it is happening. It is really happening—in sickening slow motion. I freefall for what feels like an hour before landing with bone-shattering force and rolling, banging my head, scraping my knee, and finally landing flat on my back on a narrow ledge.

I stare up at the Heavens and perform a mental scan of my battered, aching body. I can wiggle my toes, move my legs, and lift my head. Amazingly, I appear to have escaped a wheelchair-bound future. It’s just the crushing pain in my head I have to worry about now—that, and plunging to my death.

I sit up slowly, gingerly, and scoot far from the edge, pressing my back against the side of the mountain. Screwing up my courage, I lean to the right and look over the slide of the mountain.

Sweet Baby Jesus! It is a straight drop down. I am not good with calculating distances, but I would say it is at least four, maybe five, thousand feet.

You’ve heard the saying, “My blood ran cold?’ Well, mine hardens to resemble arctic rivers.

I am going to die on this stupid mountain—all because of some misguided self-challenge. I remember what Calder said about well-trained border collies fending off attacking coyotes. What if coyotes attack me in the night?

Wait! Coyotes only live in North America—aren’t they just the weaker cousin of wolves?

Wolves! There must be wolves in Scotland. There are wolves in England—I saw
An American Werewolf in London
.

And hounds! Demonic blood-thirsty hounds. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about the Baskerville Hounds. I try to remember how Sherlock defeated the homicidal hounds, but can’t think over the thump-thumping pain in my skull.

I wish Luc were here. He would know exactly what to do. He would whip out one of those thin metallic blankets he keeps in his pack when we go riding and camping and fashion us a parachute or a tent.

Luc.

I unzip my inside pocket, feel something sharp slice across my finger, and pull my iPhone out to discover the fall shattered the screen.

I push the power button and—miraculously—it turns on. I push the button again and say, “Siri, call Luc.”

“Just to confirm—do you want me to call Luc de Caumont?”

“Yes!”

The line crackles, but it connects the call.

One ring.

And then silence. An all-engulfing silence. I don’t need an operable screen to tell me what I already know: dropped call.

I try it again, but get no response.

“Damn you, Siri.”

My head is pounding and it hurts to keep my eyes open. I wipe my hands on my wet jeans and run them over my skull, checking for bone shards or brain matter. Nothing sharp and nothing squishy. I look at my hands and a burble of bile rises in my throat. A salmon-pink color now stains them that I know didn’t come from the dye in my pink woolly cap.

I am bleeding! I probably split my melon on my way down the mountain and the only thing keeping my brains from oozing out is my woolly cap.

Well, if that is the case, I will die with my boots and my hat on. Let the unfortunate hiker who stumbles upon my bloated corpse deal with that mess. I can’t deal with the site of blood. Brain matter?

Uck! I shudder.

I bring my knees up to a sitting fetal sitting position and pull my hood down low. Someone will come for me soon. Fanny will realize I am lost, organize a search party, and lead the Chick Trippers on a rescue mission.

The wind shifts, driving the rain to fall at a sharp angle. I rest my head on my knees and wrap my arms around myself.

Of all of my mishaps, this is the most embarrassing. Certainly it is the most ignorant self-induced mishap. Hiking up a mountain in the rain. What am I, an idiot?

I can’t even say I was doing something epic, like rescuing a lost sheep or taking part in an archeological exploration in search of Noah’s Ark.

Damn Donna D’Errico! The former Baywatch actress fell off a mountain during an expedition to find Noah’s Ark in Turkey. She totally jacked my excuse. Who’s going to believe the old “I fell off a cliff looking for Noah’s Ark” excuse now?

I shift and Poppy’s cold, heavy flashlight bangs against my bruised side. I pull it out of my hip pocket, say a prayer it still works, and push the button. The warm golden glow comforts me, especially now that it’s dark, but since I might need to use it to flag down rescuers, I click it off again.

The rain stops, but the pounding in my head does not. The dark moonless night and my heavy lids make keeping my eyes open difficult.

What was that?

I swear I just heard someone call my name, but when I click on the flashlight and aim it into the yawning abyss, there is nothing but empty, lonely blackness.

I want to close my eyes against the pounding in my head—the flashing pulse of light I keep seeing when I move my eyes too fast—but I think people with concussions are supposed to stay awake. And I am pretty sure I concussed my noggin.

The darkness isn’t helping. It’s like an indigo velvet curtain pulled before my eyes. It makes me sleepy just looking at it.

Hours pass before I finally click on Poppy’s flashlight and put it on the ground between my booted feet, pointing the beam toward my face. Get me, I’m a prisoner in a gulag.

“We vill break you. You vill sleep. Sleep, damn you, sleep.”

I am chuckling at my own perverse sense of humor when the distant whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of an approaching helicopter drowns out my laughter.

I should be jumping up and down, waving my arms in the air, like people who have been snatched from roaring rivers or lifted from burning building, but the bones in my legs have suddenly turned to jelly. Wibbly wobbly doesn’t cover it.

And then the Coast Guard Search and Rescue helicopter is hovering over me and a disembodied voice is telling me not to move, that help is coming.

A man wearing a neon yellow hardhat takes a backward step out of the helicopter and descends on a cable to my ledge. He unhooks from the cable and comes to me.

“Can you stand?”

“I don’t know.”

He bends down, puts his hands under my arms, and helps me stand. I am trembling like a newborn colt, my legs shaking beneath me.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

I look up into his face for the first time. He has a stern jaw and an intense gaze. He’s wearing an earpiece.

“You don’t look anything like Ashton Kutcher, but I still want to give you a big kiss. Thank you for rescuing me from this ledge and the pack of wolves waiting out there to gnaw on my bones.”

His earpiece crackles.

“Ma’am, we don’t have time to talk right now.”

The crew lowers a basket. My rescuer grabs the cable to steady the basket and turns back to me.

“What is that for?”

“You need to get into the basket, ma’am.”

I look at the basket attached to the slender cable. “Are you crazy? I am not getting into that basket. No way.”