Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [77]
“Three,” he said.
She grabbed his wrist. It was a choice. She could’ve abandoned him, could have launched herself out to spite him or save him, to insure that only she would die, or she could’ve yanked him forward and killed them both. But she didn’t. She grabbed his wrist while he held hers and tried to do what he’d told her to.
Her whole weight ran up his hand, from forearm to bicep to shoulder, her life filling his whole right side. He lifted her straight up with all of the strength he had, but as she got her right foot underneath her, he felt her lean forward. She had to. Because of her pack, there was nowhere else for her body to go. His eyes were closed with the effort, with fear, and as she stood—the outside of her right foot braced on the outside of his—he felt her whole body drift out over the edge, her torso leaning forward, her head beyond her feet, like a ski jumper riding the air. She swung her left arm in circles for balance, whirling it counterclockwise again and again. She’d managed to stand, but when he opened his eyes he saw that for a split second he was the only thing suspending her weight and she was the only thing keeping him from tumbling forward. In that split second, they were each pulling with full strength from the other, making a kind of arch. Finally, she was able to lean back—these last inches were gentle—and get her feet underneath her again; and then she stood up straight.
“Have you got it?” he said.
He held her hand; she held his. Her chin was still pointed up. All she could see, he imagined, was sky. And then she sobbed once, a clear, single cry that sounded like relief.
“I’ve got it,” she said.
She was still facing the sea, her pack leaning against the cliff. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. Their hands, still gripping each other’s, were shaking. A helicopter flew toward them, the tremendous noise from its engine rending the moment. She watched it bank left and pass overhead; then she turned to face him.
That picture of his wife’s face: her expression well beyond exhaustion and grief and elation, in a state of having been saved and having saved herself. The picture of her relief. Of having seen something terrible through. He wondered, was that what a woman looked like after she gave birth? Did she have that same expression of amazement and pain, of loss and gain? So much risk in the making, David thought. Making life could utterly break your heart. It was an expression as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s, one that disclosed everything about her he couldn’t and wouldn’t ever know. And it was an image he tried to keep, but it finally disappeared, and once it was gone he could never recapture all the sadness and joy of their marriage. It was the picture he kept in mind over the next several days and the day before they left the island for home. Alice said there was one more thing she had to do: scatter their child’s ashes. She knew exactly where, and when she told him, he called Harold to set it up.
“Has she forgiven you?” he asked.
“I think so,” David said.
“Well, be sure to forgive yourself.”
David thanked him for everything, then said good-bye. Harold booked them a helicopter tour of the island out of Princeville airport, with one special stop. Alice wore a new dress she’d bought—a white dress with red lilies—and wore a red lily in her hair. She told the pilot what she wanted to do, though he’d already been told. This helicopter ride: so much force, so much lift above your head that it was like being dangled by the scruff of your neck thousands of feet in the air. Through the windows, the views were worth any amount of money. Descriptions of Kauai would always fail; it was simply a place you had to see. They headed southwest first, came around the Na Pali coast, and passed over Kalalau Beach—“It would’ve been nice if we’d stayed