Mom, Dad, and I once watched a documentary about a man who walked over a canyon on a tightrope. Despite knowing he wouldn’t fall, I was as tense as the rope he walked on. This last year has felt that way—like I’m walking a tightrope. Or maybe like I am the tightrope. I told Mary this. She responded: “Eleanor”—she calls me Eleanor, even though everyone else calls me Nora—“you’re not the tightrope. You’re the canyon. And your healing is like the water carving you. It takes time. It’s a never-ending process. But as you heal and grow, something beautiful and layered and solid and lasting is formed.”
I think Mary might be a poet, too.
FIVE
Dad and I finally reach the edge of the isolated, unnamed canyon he found for us. It’s narrow, widening and tapering, twisting and turning as far as I can see. Looking down into it is like getting a peek at an unknown world. I can only see the bottom in snippets, some of it hidden by the curving walls or outcroppings, some of it so dark that anything could be waiting in the shadows. The walls I do see are layered and look as though they’ve been burned in places. That’s the desert’s varnish. On the other side, maybe only fifteen feet across, a kangaroo rat scampers to the edge, seems to be inspecting the canyon, too.
“Cool!” I say. “It’s a slot canyon.”
The only other slot canyon I’d been to was Antelope Canyon, and that one had been packed with tourists. I’d wanted to take my time exploring every hidden crack and corner, every layer cut and carved by wind and water, but our guide had rushed us through.
“Yep,” Dad says, clearly impressed with himself. “Hard to find, too. Took lots of expert research.” He leans over and looks down into the crevice, whistling. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
“It’s actually pretty small.” I grin. “Honestly, it’s not all that impressive.”
Dad presses a hand to his chest as if I’ve hurt him to his core. Then he picks up a rock and tosses it over the canyon. It bounces on the other side in a puff of dust and sends the kangaroo rat scurrying under a nearby brittlebush. “You know, Nora, I think you could jump it.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right.”
“So it’s not that small, then?”
I shake my head. “It’s medium at best.”
Snickering, Dad unbuckles his backpack and tosses it on the ground. He pulls out our rope and harnesses while I secure my helmet. Dad finds a good-sized boulder at the edge and sets an anchor in it, then two backup cams in case the anchor fails. He raises a finger and says matter-of-factly, “Redundancy is essential.”
Raising a finger, I finish, “Especially when risking your life.” We smile at each other, and I don’t think we’ve felt this normal in a year—one year exactly today.
Dad threads the rope and ties stopper knots. We trade our hiking boots for rock shoes and step into our harnesses. I tighten mine around my waist, but Dad still double-checks it.
Dad backs away from me. He stands at an angle on the edge of the canyon, his rope going taut, and a moment of hesitation, of fear, crosses his face. This is the first time since Before. Since his shot leg. Since it’s only the two of us instead of the three of us. Then the moment of fear passes. His face lightens. “To infinity and beyond!” he cries, lowering down.
I stand at the edge, watching him. It’s obvious how hard it is for him to rappel down by himself. With no one holding the rope at the bottom to help him, he has to control his own descent, slowly threading the rope through the descender, his face twisting in pain and determination—no, it’s defiance. No one’s a better climber than my dad, and I know that when he makes it to the bottom, he’ll feel even more normal again. I want him to be normal again. I want him to be like he used to be.
Slipping gloves over my shaking hands, my stomach clenches. Forty feet. It may not seem like a lot, but it’s enough to kill us, especially out here where no one can find us. But Dad doesn’t see it that way. In Dad’s mind, the only danger in the world is people. This canyon is safety.
Dad wasn’t always like this. It started as only one person and one place he feared. But it spread until it became all people and all places. One minute we were tossing boxes of macaroni and cheese into a grocery cart. The next minute we were hiding in the cereal aisle behind a tower of Frosted Flakes on sale, our cart abandoned, Dad shaking, his arms gripped so tightly around me I could barely breathe. After that, Dad kept seeing more and more suspicious people. Kept looking for exits, paths of escape, routes to freedom.
Now our quiet house, this empty desert, the many barriers we’ve built between us and others—it’s all Frosted Flakes on sale.
Dad glances up at me and forces a smile through his sweat and strain. I smile back, trying to assure him with my expression that I’m not worried, that he’s doing just fine.
Mary says Dad and I have built walls around ourselves. She says our walls are made of all the unhealthy things—guilt and shame and fear and anger. She says we haven’t fully processed or accepted what happened.
But how could anyone accept such a thing? Why shouldn’t we build walls to protect ourselves? Mary says the walls are weak, leaky, full of holes that constantly drip and seep pain.
I think maybe we just need to build stronger walls.
SIX
Dad waves from the bottom, and I pull the rope up. Threading the end through my belay loop, I tie my figure-eight knot. Then I thread the rope through again, following the same path, duplicating the pattern, my hands relaxing, my stomach unclenching a little bit. At home I keep a length of rope next to my bed. Sometimes I sit and tie the figure eight for hours.
I grip the rope in my gloved hands, sweat dripping down my back. My hoodie is already too warm. My breath hitches as I step backward off the edge.
“On rappel!” I shout, pushing my legs against the stone, beginning my descent, using my guide hand to feed the rope through the rappel device. The harness straps dig into my lower back and bare legs, and I wish I’d worn long pants instead of jean shorts.
Dad is my belayer, holding the rope at the bottom. He helps keep me steady as I walk backward down the wall, my feet pressed against the rock, the rest of my body leaning into a seated position. One step at a time. Down the wall. My body senses the danger in what I’m doing, and I freeze.
Fear fills me, churns my insides, overwhelms me, makes my mind want to escape to somewhere else, into my poetry. I don’t look down. Instead, I focus on the wall in front of me:
Layers, layers, and layers.
Smooth pale seams
upon rough spatters of rainbow red
upon pitted and pockmarked pink
upon veins of gray.
Layers, layers, and layers.
Mary’s words break through: Identify what you fear, Eleanor.
“Dying,” I whisper.
Are you likely to die in this situation?
“No.”
Don’t leave until you’re calm. Facing fear is a skill that must be learned.
I breathe in deep and steady, trying to slow my pounding heart, willing my frozen limbs to move.
“Everything okay up there?” Dad calls, sounding winded from his descent.
Taking another deep breath, I shout, “I’m coming down.”