Avalanche Dance (17 page)

“Mom says you’re talking about quitting dancing. She says you’ve just given up.”

“What’s the use –”

“Now, you listen to me, Gwen. I don’t want to hear that. How can you even think that way? You, not dancing?”

“But I can’t –”

“Gwen, you’ve got to try to get better!”

“But how –”

“We’ll figure it out. If it takes physiotherapy, you’ll get physiotherapy. If it takes surgery, you’ll get surgery. Whatever it takes.”

He lifted her chin, forced her to look in his eyes. “Promise me, Gwen. Promise me you won’t give up.”

A wild flare of hope pulsed through her.
Could
she heal?
Could
she come back?

“Okay.”

“You promise?”

A smile. “I promise.”

G
wen and Molly turned the curve past the Thor Falls bridge, and Gwen wondered, for the tenth time, what on earth Molly was up to. And where Molly had been for the last week, and why she’d suddenly popped up today.

After they’d returned from Vancouver, they’d hung out nonstop, rediscovering each other. They’d talked the whole way back to Norse River, heads together in the gray bus seats, and kept right on going once they’d come home. They’d laughed. They’d cried. They’d revealed secrets and hurts. They’d found themselves finishing each other’s sentences.

After a few days, Molly had abruptly disappeared. No calls, no visits, no e-mails. Nothing. Gwen had wondered what was going on. Was Molly pulling away again?

Then Molly had showed up at the house this morning, handed Gwen her shoes, and said, “Come on, we’re going for a hike up Mount Odin.”

Gwen had looked at her in disbelief. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we are. Come on, Gwen. I promise, it’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

It wasn’t the promise that Gwen had trusted, it was Molly’s body language. Her eyes were twinkling and her mouth was twitching and her body was quivering with excitement. It was the old Molly, with some devilment up her sleeve. So Gwen had let herself be persuaded.

It had been scary approaching Thor Falls. Not as bad as last time, not even close. Still, she’d broken into a sweat as they neared the base of the trail. Nearly turned back. But Molly took her hand and told her to just keep breathing, it was going to be okay, and, to her amazement, it was. Breathe in, breathe out, one foot in front of the other, gripping Molly’s hand, and then they were over the bridge, and Gwen could let go.

It was one of those rare sunny early spring days, sunlight sparkling on the water, last night’s raindrops glistening on the trees. Gwen stopped and sniffed, taking in the musty smell of last winter’s leaf mold, the fresh ferny scent of this year’s horsetails. Felt the sunlight on her face. Heard the chatter of a squirrel, the thrumming of a woodpecker. It felt good, after so many weeks of hiding. Of being half-alive.

They stopped hiking after a steep switchback, leaning over, hands on knees, catching their breath. After a minute, Gwen straightened up. Molly stood there, gazing out at the horizon.

“Are we stopping here?” Gwen asked.

“A little farther.”

“Where will the Mystery Walk end, may I ask, oh, wise one?”

“I’ll let you know. Keep walking.”

Gwen smiled to herself, then walked on. She wasn’t using the cane anymore. She still felt the odd twinge, but mostly her leg was all right. She couldn’t understand it. She
knew
she hadn’t imagined that pain – she could remember how it shot up her leg – and still did, sometimes. Yet she also knew she’d somehow invented it. And now, it seemed, she didn’t need it anymore, so it was going away.

Mysterious
, she thought. But it didn’t matter. Her leg felt better every day.

She didn’t know if it was too late to put together a dance for Dancemakers – although the deadline hadn’t yet passed, she’d lost precious weeks of honing her dance. But Dancemakers didn’t seem so urgent now. She could dance. She had her life to dance.

I huff along behind Gwen. It’s good to be up here. Better than last time, that’s for sure. I just helped Gwen conquer the bridge. Felt good. To be trusted. To see her do it.

Things are still a little strange. Mostly it feels okay. We’ve fallen into the old rhythms, like remembering an old tune you haven’t sung in a long time. We’ll be joking and laughing about all kinds of stuff – our parents, our teachers, how annoying my sisters are, how Gwen secretly loves playing Orcs and Elves with Percy, how she doesn’t have a clue that Danny has the hots for her even though it’s obvious to everybody else in the
entire school – then one of us’ll say something about a party, having fun, getting crazy, and an awkward silence falls. I’m still wondering if Gwen disapproves of me, and I guess she’s still wondering if I think she’s a bore. We’ve got a lot of talking to do. A lot of figuring out who we are. But we’re here. That’s good enough for now.

They hiked on. Came around a bend – and there it was. The site of the avalanche. Fallen trees, their roots sticking up in the air. Broken trunks, uprooted bushes, overturned rocks. Bare patches where the earth was scoured away like the tender skin beneath a scab. So raw, so real, in the daylight.

Gwen’s heart started to race and she felt cold. She heard the roar of the sliding snow, saw the wall coming down, remembered that night, when she’d frozen, right here, unable to move –

She turned away from the mountainside, squeezing her eyes shut.

Then she felt arms around her. Gwen clung to the strength in Molly’s arms, to the warmth of her support. Then she let go and forced herself to turn around. To gaze at the devastation. To face it, stare it down.

It wasn’t easy. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced. The slope was brutal and ugly and bare.

But she looked. She stood her ground. And she found that she could breathe normally. That she didn’t have to crumple.
The avalanche was a scar on the land, and it was still a scar on her. But it didn’t have to be one forever. She took one last look, and then they walked on.

Around a switchback. Another. Then Molly said, “Here.”

Gwen stopped, turned to face her friend. A look of excitement, almost nervousness, was on Molly’s face, but she wasn’t saying a word. Gwen looked around, trying to figure out what it was about this spot that deserved stopping for. They were far enough away from the falls that the roar was just a steady hiss. The part of the ridge they were standing on gave a broad view of the beach below and the ocean beyond. Aside from the whisper of Thor Falls, all was quiet.

Gwen turned to Molly. “All right, you’ve brought me all the way up here. Now what?”

Molly reached into her backpack and handed her an iPod and portable speakers. “Press
play.”
Smile twitching.

Giving Molly a quizzical look, Gwen did. At first, nothing. Then, a hushing sound. Familiar. Whsshh … whsshh – waves. Waves breaking on the beach. The squawk of a gull. Then the roar of Thor Falls, up close, loud, pounding, crashing. Then the cry of an eagle, far away.

“What … how … ?”

A grin. “I taped it.”

“So that’s what –”

“Sh!”

Gwen quieted. More sounds – birds, the distant hoot of a ferry’s horn. Snippets of music. A drumbeat. A bass line. A saxophone riff.

Then – a voice. Molly’s voice. Singing. No words, just a melody, rising and falling. At times scared and small, at others defiant and strong. Singing the mountain. Singing the snow, the avalanche. Singing the terror. Singing the sound of the ocean. The sound of Thor Falls.

Molly had made this. Molly had sung for her.

Her voice rang out above the waves, above the waterfall.

Singing the dance.

Gwen looked at her friend. Molly, smiling, nodded as if to say,
Go ahead
.

Gwen turned toward the ocean. Stood a moment, scanning the horizon, watching the spots of brilliance where sunlight danced off waves.

Molly’s voice soared.

Gwen raised her arms and began to dance.

The author would like to thank James and Lynn Hill, Corinne and Dave Roth, Carol and John Gives, Richard Banner and Bruce Horn, Sandy Stevenson, Bruce Cookson, Ruth Nyman, Sandra Diersch, and Kathy Lowinger.