open as wide as I can.
I reach in. Bingo. I pull out a pair of good gloves and a snow mask and put them on. Suddenly, I’m feeling a little buoyancy.
I take out several pairs of long underwear and wool socks and place them on the seat. I slip off my boots and peel off my snow-wet jeans. The cold wind stings my bare legs, which are blotchy and red. I pull on the first pair of long underwear, then the socks and a baggy pair of snow pants. I tuck a second pair of long johns and a dry pair of jeans for Paul underneath my coat.
I pull out a wind shell that I quickly put on.
Underneath, I find a sweater and a stash of energy bars. I tuck them down my shirt and zip up the shell.
There’s undoubtedly more stuff in the rest of the plane.
I walk down the aisle opening the overhead luggage bins. I pull down what I assume is a sleeping bag brought by one of the climbers. I slide my arm under the bungee cords wrapped around the bag and strap it across my back like a makeshift knapsack. I open the next overhead bin. I leap out of the way as luggage falls out. I start popping open the bags one by one. Hats, gloves. Pants. Sweaters. Wool socks! I grab three pairs and I stuff the extra gloves and hat into the pockets of my shell. I pull out a scarf and wrap it around my neck. I find a bag of chips I pocket for later.
Halfway down the aisle, I find another one of the climber’s bags and I pull it down. It’s stuffed with ropes and all sorts of other, unrecognizable gear. I loop a coil of rope around my shoulder. I look for a knife or any other sharp objects, but there’s nothing.
The yellow bag, I think. Find the yellow bag.
Chapter 15
I walk out of the main cabin and look at the graveyard of luggage strewn across the snow. All this stuff must have been in the cargo belly of the plane, which tore open like a tin can on landing.
I look for yellow rather than the shape of the backpack. Every color in the rainbow pokes up bright and clear against the canvas of white. Red sweaters, brown shoes, toothbrushes and makeup, tan pants and striped shirts. Black bags. Red bags. Pink. Orange. White. And about twenty feet from the far end of the cabin sits a neon yellow backpack.
I push through deep drifts, my right hand grazing the cold metal of the main cabin for balance. When I reach the end, I turn left and walk twenty feet out, wading through a pile of unopened bags until I reach what I really hope is Paul’s backpack. I fish around inside the main pocket of his bag until I locate his knife. I pull it out. The blade is sharp and thick, jagged at the tip. A day ago, had I stumbled upon this in Life House, I wouldn’t have thought twice about using it on myself. Now using it for any purpose other than to save Paul is inconceivable. I unzip my jacket and tuck the knife in the side pocket reserved for wallets and keys.
I sling Paul’s bag over my shoulder, next to the sleeping bag. My burden is bulky and the weight is top-heavy and uneven, making it difficult to walk. A few steps are all it takes for me to know that carrying it to the ledge will be too time-consuming. I take it off and shove it under the roof of the main cabin to protect it from the snow. I trudge back along the outside of the main cabin, using my hand for balance, and then out toward the ledge, with the rope over my shoulder and Paul’s clothes under my jacket. I pat my side pocket several times to make sure Paul’s knife is still there.
• • •
I get back to the ledge and look over at Paul. I call to him, but he doesn’t hear me. The wind has picked up and it makes it difficult to hear anything.
I scream, “Paul,” as loud as I can, and then I kick some snow and he looks up.
“Hey,” he says.
We stare at each other for a brief moment. Even from this distance, or maybe because of it, there’s a lot in his eyes: fear, death, and a kind of desperate loneliness I understand but could never explain in words.
I look down and really study Paul’s predicament for the first time. He is sitting twenty feet below the ledge, wedged between a tree and the slope of the mountain. It is closer to a cliff than a mountain slope. He is still fastened into his seat by his seat belt, which is jammed. If he were to somehow cut away the belt, I don’t see any conceivable way he could exit his seat without causing the whole thing to tumble to the valley floor. Even if he were to hang onto a tree and climb to the top, he’d still be ten feet from the ledge. With great weather and the right equipment, I suppose it could be climbed. But we’re missing both. I look to the sky and then back down at Paul.
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Tie the rope around the knife and lower it to me. Be very careful; it’s my life on the line.” He laughs. Everything is still a joke to him. In the hospital, I never liked his type.
The snow starts to fall again, not too hard, but it is being blown sideways by the wind, making it more difficult to wrap the rope around the knife. Instead, I make a loop of the rope and pull it against the tip of the blade. I jiggle the tip back and forth until it slices through the rope. Then I wrap the rope around the handle and tie a knot and double it-it’s the only knot I know how to make.
I slowly feed the rope over the edge and gently drop the blade down to Paul. He reaches out and pulls in the rope and the blade and wraps the rope around his forearm. One of his hands must be cold because he’s using his mouth to undo the knot.
“Don’t cut yourself,” I shout.
“That’s a good sign when the philosopher jokes,” he shouts. “Means she isn’t scared shitless.” He pauses for a second and then looks up at me with a smile. “I’m glad one of us isn’t.”
He laughs to himself while perched precariously above death. Somehow I find it inspiring. I clench my fist and kneel down, nervously watching Paul maneuver in his seat.
He frees the knife by remaking the loop and holding it in one hand and pulling the knife out with his mouth. He looks up at me with the blade tight between his teeth like a pirate.
He grabs the knife with his right hand and then places it inside his jacket. He examines the seat and the tree, and I watch his eyes, trying to discern what is plaguing him, what it is he can possibly do to get out of the seat and then up the cliff.
The problem, from my viewpoint, becomes increasingly clear. The seat belt is hooked around a large branch. When cut, it will release the full weight of the seat and Paul. Another branch may hold them both up, but odds suggest he would be free-falling to his death.
“You can’t cut it,” I shout, fearing he hasn’t figured that out.
“I know, but I have to.”
Dusk is blooming above us, and because we are in a valley and the light is diminished, we should be in total darkness in less than an hour. Then what?
“Tie the rope around your waist. Then cut the belt. I’ll secure myself here and then we’ll walk you up.” That’s me calling down. I’m not sure where the idea comes from-or my bravado and confidence.
He watches me for a moment and makes a decision.
“Find a tree to brace yourself against!” he calls up.
I scan the area around me and choose a pine fairly close to the edge.
Paul moves the rope around his torso with one hand, and it takes longer than you might expect. He fastens a big knot he fits tightly under his armpits. He calls up to me, “Hey, I’m gonna cut this; are you ready?”
“No! Wait!”
I tie the rope around my waist and walk back maybe ten feet from the edge and crawl around a small tree whose branches sprout out a few feet above the snow. I’m careful to keep the rope free of branches that could cause fraying or a cut, but I make certain it’s wrapped well around the tree. I only wish I had enough rope to go around twice. Then I get to my feet and walk to the edge, pulling the rope behind me. I hold up my thumb. He nods and then starts sawing the belt.
It starts to fray immediately, and the shoulder strap snaps free. The seat totters and then dangles in mid-air around Paul’s waist. He is jammed on a branch and lets out a blood-shocking scream. It is the sound of agony itself.
