Loveland

by Lisa Marie Mercer

When Mariel, a New York physical therapist loses her father, a former 10th Mountain Division member, to the 9/11 attacks, she discovers that he has left her his stockholder shares to the Loveland Ski Area. Mariel and her husband Jonathan purchase a Colorado physical therapy clinic, with the understanding that Jonathan will keep his New York job until they are certain of the clinic's success. Jonathan plans to visit every month, but when he discovers that Vicki, his former lover is involved with the Committee to Rebuild the World Trade Center, he joins the cause, and his Colorado visits become less frequent. Meanwhile, in Colorado, documentary filmmaker and Loveland ski instructor David La Vecchia wants Mariel to help him make a film about her father's life. Then, Mariel's brother sends her a packet of letters sent to their father by Kate, a former Women's Army Corps member who trained with their father at Camp Hale, and is currently working at Loveland. Kate and Mariel meet, and Mariel slowly learns the secrets of her father's past.

978-1-59431-794-1

Also Available in HTML and RTF formats

suspense/mainstream

Prologue

Mariel

If conventional wisdom had a face, it would surely frown upon the way I conducted myself throughout the second part of my life. Yet since the hypothetical face of conventional wisdom could only belong to a conventional, read, boring person, I feel no need to justify my actions. After all, my spiritual, physical and emotional adventures have been a tradition in my family for generations. Who I am to break a family tradition?

The anonymous body of know-it -alls; commonly know as "they," says that everything happens for a reason. Reason? Ha! Some of the most unreasonable acts in the history of the world shaped my life, as well as my family history.

This is my story.

Sept. 11th 2001

They could not have picked a more beautiful day.

It's a day that inspires poets and songwriters.

It's a clear day, so of course, you can see forever.

It's a day to reflect on the glory of being alive.

It is definitely not a good day to die.

Look out the window and watch the woman walking her greyhound near the Battery Park City waterfront. Do you see her? The one with the long hair falling to her waist? It's hard to miss her. The long dress with a laced up bodice is certainly out of place amongst the stiff gray suits that characterize "business wear" for the yuppies of Lower Manhattan. She belongs in a world of castles carriages and kings.

Suddenly, she hears music. Ravel's Bolero. She has an urge to dance, but then, she realizes that it's the ring tone to her new cell phone. This is her fourth. She often loses things, including her mind. Fumbling through a bag filled with papers, cards, tissues and other items that have long ceased to be useful, she answers on the last ring.

"Bonjour, Papa"

"Mariel darling. I've arrived early for our breakfast date."

"Oh no! I'll finish walking Whistler and hurry-"

"No don't. I'm sitting here at Windows on the World enjoying the view."

She laughs. "Don't get too drunk, Dad. I'll see you at 10:30 as planned. Je t'aime, Papa."

No answer.

"I love you."

Still no answer.

"Je t'aime. I love you. Can you hear me now??

She is disconnected. Then, she stares, transfixed.

Physical paralysis characterizes the shock stage of the grief cycle.

Whistler, her greyhound, drags his Mommy from the danger, just as he did three nights ago. He wonders if he has earned himself another cookie.

***

I use the third person when I tell this story. Call it denial, delusional, whatever. Just let me believe, for at least a moment that it happened to someone else. Reality will eventually slap me in the face and remind me that I lost my father, my hero and my role model on 9/11.

America lost a World War II hero, who dedicated his life to battling bigots and religious fanatics of all persuasions; from Meir Kahane to the Ku Klux Klan. He died at the hands of a bunch of religious fanatics, who were enticed by the reward of post-mortem sex with virgins. And "they" call that reason? Well I say, to Hell with reason!

Irrational anger is the second stage of the grief cycle..

If I had listened to reason, I would have listened to my dad after the 93 bombings.

"This is Kristallnacht all over again, Mariel. They are already implying that this was a Jewish plot. You need to get out of that neighborhood. Something much worse is going to happen."

These were strong words from dad, who defined the shelter drills of my elementary school days as "ridiculous." In retrospect, they probably were. Did people who worked in the offices at the World Trade Center duck under their desks when the planes hit? I think not. My older brother thought it hilarious when, as a toddler, I would confuse the Castro Convertible jingle with the news announcements about the "Race to Space" with the Russians. I somehow understood that the Russians and Castro were both communists, whatever that meant, so I pranced around the house singing, "Who was the first to conquer space? Castro the Communist!" Dad was not amused. He saw it as an example of the McCarthy propaganda that characterized that distasteful period in American history. He did, however, take the 1993 bombings quite seriously.

I did not listen to my father in 1993. Jonathan and I had just moved to Battery Park City. I was too stubborn to leave my new home. Home? Where is home? Whistler understands my confusion. He drags me towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Lady Liberty observes the exodus of the huddled masses, racing from the scene, yearning to breathe free. God, if you're there, why hast thou forsaken us?

We arrive in Brooklyn Heights. Whistler had brought me to grandma and grandpa's house. For better or for worse, this is now home. Perhaps, if I'm nice to my mother, I will discover that my father somehow escaped.

Bargaining characterizes the third stage of grief.

Damien

I hear the explosion as I unlock the door to my mother's apartment. Another day in New York, another explosion. My mother is lying on the couch, sobbing her eyes out. So what else is new? Trying my best to sound chirpy and cheerful, I call to her.

"Good morning, Lady Catherine. I come bearing a feast suitable for a queen! But why the tears?"

She looks up at me, and sniffs, "A plane just struck the World Trade Center. Aaron was supposed to meet Mariel for breakfast at Windows on the World. He went early because…because it was a nice day and he wanted to take pictures."

Here we go again. "Are we having one of our bad dreams, darling?" She jumps to an upright position. Sometimes I forget that this former Ziegfeld Girl is still quite agile. She shakes her finger at me. Shit! Now I'm in for it.

"No we are not having one of our bad dreams. I may be losing my mind, but I'm not delusional. And don't talk to your mother that way!"

I roll my eyes and walk to the television, expecting to see some sort of soap opera that has somehow confused her.

"Damn!"

"Watch your language!"

"Sorry." She sits down on the couch and moans. "He went early so he could take pictures…"

I place my arm around her shoulders and interrupt her. She's a crazy old broad, but she's my mother and I love her. "Well don't plan their funeral yet. Dad's a war hero. And remember what my crazy sister did during the 93 attacks?" She pushes my arm away, jumps up and paces around the room. Uh oh. Rant alert.

"That foolish girl!"

"Gee, mom. Why don't you tell me what you really think of your daughter?"

"No daughter of mine should have been so stupid to think that she could carry a 50-pound oxygen tank for ten blocks- Especially when she was two months pregnant."

"She saved many lives that day."

Here it comes; the famous, Catherine Savan snort of disdain. "She killed her child! Then she got that, that, "heart thing." Again with the heart thing. Get over it, Mom. Of course, I can't say this. Instead, I walk over to her and massage her shoulders. "That "heart thing" was something she was born with. If she hadn't had that miscarriage, it might have been too late when they finally discovered it. And just think, she joined the church after all of that." Maybe if I appeal to her Christianity…

"Getting baptized at that pagan Cathedral of Saint John the Divine is hardly what I'd call religion. And then there's that so called spiritual advisor of hers. That jogging nun."

Okay, that didn't work.

"Sister Felicity helped Mariel keep her sanity." I reasoned.

'What sanity?" she retorted.

"Touché! But people who read horoscopes should not talk about paganism." This infuriates her.

"Nancy Reagan reads horoscopes!' This is an argument I will never win. Under my breath, I mutter, "and that's supposed to be a good thing?" The doorbell rings. Saved by the bell. It's Mariel's husband Jonathan.

"Where's Mariel?" he demands.

"Not here," Catherine answers.

He stands, paralyzed at the doorway. "I was in the middle of a case. Suddenly, the bailiff comes into the courtroom and tells us that we need to evacuate the courthouse. At first, everyone thought that it was just another bomb scare. But then, we heard the news. I just didn't know where to go. So I followed the others and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Sit down," I say. "Let me fix you a drink."

At the word "drink," Catherine stops sobbing. "Pour me one too, sweetheart."

"Mom, you know you're not supposed to mix alcohol with your medication."

She throws the remote control across the room. "My daughter and husband are dead. Pour me a goddamn drink!" It's not worth an argument. I pour the drinks and position myself between them on the couch.

A few sips later, Jonathan is ready to talk. "I knew something was wrong the other night. We had gone out to dinner. When we got home, Mariel was worried that she had eaten too much. She told me that she was going out for a run, even though it was already 10 PM. You know how she gets."

Catherine glares at him. "If she knew how to control her appetite, these things wouldn't happen." Uh oh. Here it comes.

"If you hadn't fed her so much nonsense about "keeping her figure…" Jonathan retorts.

"Stop it, both of you!" I interject. "Go on, Jon."

"She asked me to go with her, but I refused. Later, when she came back, I knew something was wrong. But she wouldn't talk to me. Spent the rest of the night on the couch with Whistler. On Sunday, she was watching the news. Something seemed to bother her. Then I heard her call Aaron to tell him that she wanted to meet him today."

The doorbell rings.

"Aaron?" shouts my mother.

"Mariel?" shouts Jonathan.

Mariel

I enter my parents' apartment and see Jonathan, my mother and Damien gathered in the living room. This is a recipe for yet another disaster. Whistler dances around the room, oblivious to the tension, and wondering why nobody is petting him. Jonathan jumps up and smothers me with hugs and kisses.

"Thank god you're alright."

"God," I say, "had nothing to do with it." I begin to cough.

My mother accosts me. "Where the hell is your father?" I'm still coughing, but this doesn't faze her.

"Must you always ask the obvious, mother?" I choke.

"Why did you have to meet him today?" she demands.

"Gee, I'm sorry I didn't read his horoscope before I-

"Don't go there!" Damien warns. I ignore him.

"made plans to meet him," I continue. For a moment, she softened. In a pleading tone, she asks, "Do you think he's…"

"Well duh!" I cut her off. So much for my bargain with God.

"Don't you get fresh with me, young lady!"

"Mom, real mothers don't say that. They haven't used those clichés since those stupid movies you used to make." "Don't call me mom!" she hollers. "You're not my daughter. You were never my daughter."

I cuddle up next to my husband and whisper, "next thing you know, she'll be yelling 'wire hangers.'"

He puts a finger to his lips, admonishing me to avoid making matters worse. "Tell us what happened, baby," he says gently. Slowly, I recount the story, but the sound of my mother in the bedroom, fumbling through the dresser draws, distracts me. What the hell is she doing?

She comes out, holding something in her hand. Whistler believes that he's finally getting his well-deserved "I rescued Mommy" treat. He rushes to see what she's holding.

"Your father had a will," she whispers.

"Oh that would be very important to you." It's wrong, but I can't resist the sarcasm.

"It's about his funeral arrangements," she snaps. I'm not ready to hear this. Nonetheless, I ask her to read it. She goes into hysterics. We can't tell if she's laughing or crying. Whistler, the damn traitor, rushes over and adorns her with his wet, sloppy doggie kisses. Enjoy it, Mom. This is the only grandchild you're gonna' get.

"He wanted to be cremated, can you believe that? Cremated! He wanted to be cremated, and have his ashes thrown over the Loveland Pass!" The irony of the situation doesn't escape us. An uncomfortable silence ensues. Finally, Jonathan is the first to talk.

"We have to honor his wishes."

"Oh yeah. What are we supposed to do, sort through the rubble of corpses and look for his remains?" He ignores my crude sarcasm and continues.

"No, but we can go to Loveland and have a memorial service." Damien, who never quite got it about Colorado, interjects.

"Oh no. No way am I getting on a plane after this. Besides, air traffic will probably be restricted."

Jonathan puts his hand on my brother's shoulder. "That's what cars are for," he says. "But we should wait a few weeks before going out there. It's probably going to take some time to get the family and friends together."

All of us stay at my parent's house that night.