The Big L: And My Everest

The Big L

and

My Everest

Nina May

Copyright © 2008 by Nina May.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter One

So this is where it all ends, he whispers softly. His fingers absently flick the droplets of water as they form at the base of his drink.

How appropriate, he thinks. A piña colada, a tropical island, perfect weather, and I’m planning to end it all. My timing has always been perfect.

His eyes wander over the dust-covered ornaments and bric-a-brac hanging from the walls of the grass and bamboo cafe. He pities their doomed existence of an eternity sitting dust covered and motionless in a world that once welcomed their arrival. Like him, they were once fresh and new, the object of someone’s attention and affection.

How proud my parents must have been with their greatest acquisition… a son. How sad to discover he is a failure, he whispers sarcastically. As he picks at one of the plastic flowers, he reassures himself that his life had not been a total waste, destined to spend his existence in this godforsaken hovel just steps away from the freedom that only the ocean could bring.

Every wave serves to remind him of his weakness compared to its strength, his impetuous flightiness compared to its diligence and consistency, his small insignificant worth compared to the vastness of its reach, the enormity of its depth. That was one characteristic that Adam was never accused of having. He was always very charming and winsome, dazzling each new enraptured acquaintance with his smile and quick wit. A perfectly choreographed, oft-performed soliloquy of brilliance and compassion would secure for him a place in their minds as great, wonderful, intelligent, amazing, etc., etc. Always awarded a superficial badge of accolades, his striving for greater recognition and glory seemed in vain as though he knew no one would ever really know him.

He moves his head a fraction of an inch to avoid a tiny sunray penetrating his eye. He blinks slightly and then moves back into its focus as if daring the brightness of the sun. His brown eyes begin to water as he fights to keep from blinking. To the end, his spirit flickers with strength and defiance.

Finally exhausted by his ill-matched competitor in this exercise in monotony, he turns his back to the persistent ray. He can feel the delicate warmth on the small balding spot at the back of his head as though a tiny person was touching him with their small, warm finger.

He reaches to stir the separated piña colada mixture with the melted ice cubes. He can’t resist that last watery, insipid taste of the good life.

Boy, when things were great, they were perfect. When they were bad, they couldn’t get worse, he thinks to himself as he pulls a $20 bill from his wallet.

He neatly refolds the remaining money, habitually returning it to his wallet, replacing the wallet in his pants’ pocket. Why am I doing this? he thinks. Where I’m going, I won’t be needing this.

Just where am I going?

The question had always been avoided in the past because, to him, death was inconceivable. He had the world by the tail and a constellation of ideas and dreams in his eyes. He was immortal and invincible. The power of his cunning smile and crippling wit combined with his determination to succeed, achieve, excel… were unbeatable. There was never a thought for the inevitable that befalls normal people. To acknowledge mediocrity even in the inevitability of death was never allowed, never entertained.

He pushes the creaky bamboo door open to welcome a flood of warmth and sweetness to wash away the dank mustiness from his nostrils. He lifts his head to breathe deeply, hoping to wash the stench from his spirit. A spirit choked by depression, despair, and pain.

He pauses to listen to the sounds that before had been vague, irritating, or irrelevant: The humming bees, the crying babies, the lapping waves against the coral reef.

He had chosen this island in the Pacific because he had heard it was the farthest point west in the United States. Ironically, it was well-known as the gathering place for the hopeless, the despondent… the suicidal. But they gathered alone, one by one, to give a last farewell, never knowing those who came before or after.

Take a number, he muses lightly. Oh gee, I’m sorry, sir, there is at least a two-hour wait in the wrist-slitting line. Business is booming this year. You may want to try the drowning route. Much more macho, makes better copy. You always have the edge on the unanswered question, Did he do it on purpose, or was it an accident?

He shuffles along the sandy road, taking his place in the eternal line of the hopeless, dejected, and ignored. Like lemmings, they quietly follow the despair that leads them persuasively to this desperate act. Whatever method they choose, the results are always the same, the destination the same, the effect the same. Yet in their private worlds, none other exists. No other pain is as great nor burden as heavy. They each, in turn, carry the weight of the world, trading that burden for eternal relief… they hope.

He begins to whistle softly, suddenly aware that the villagers must know where he is going and why. If they could see me now, that little gang of mine. He continues to whistle, hoping to throw them off the scent of desperation and futility. He realizes how silly it is to care, at this point, what people think. Oh, I would just die of embarrassment if they knew, he thinks, forcing a smile at the irony of the thought. He chuckles and shakes his head then imagines a few people looking at him strangely. He determines that the sure sign of eventual suicide for them was a person walking alone, laughing. They would be trying to hide their depression so no one would know what they were up to. So if I just look real sad, they will just think I am a normal person coping with life, just out for a stroll.

Yes, Adam Richardson did still care what people thought, even now.

Chapter Two

Christa smiles to herself as she replaces her notebook in her backpack. There, that’s not so bad. Better than I thought.

She stands up, feeling the blood rush to her legs where she has been sitting cross-legged for hours. She brushes the sand from the back of her shorts and bends to gather the rest of her gear.

The sun was beginning its nightly entertainment spectacle with its flamboyant display of color and drama.

God, that’s beautiful. How incredible. That’s reality. All this other crap is just that, crap. She begins to hum lightly to herself as she folds her blanket and stuffs it into the backpack. She always has a tune for every occasion that just pops in her head at the appropriate time. Now without realizing, she is humming her childhood favorite; Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.

For Christa, that would be easier said than done. But she knew it could be done. She had been reassuring herself for the past week with the knowledge that many successful businessmen failed numerous times before they really made it big. And a hostile takeover wasn’t really a failure, just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Her greatest disappointment in losing the fashion house and label she had struggled so hard to establish and grow to a multimillion-dollar business, was that Abbie’s legacy would die with it. The merger would change the label name and force her out of the position of designer and CEO. She was thankful, though, at least Abbie was not alive to see this raid on the company that she was responsible for even existing.

She smiled as she remembered the wise counsel of Abbie, her beloved nanny who raised her, taught her to sew, draw, and design fashions since she was a little girl. She relied on her through the years after her father died and her mother abandoned her. She kept her wise counsel through college and into the lean years of trying to start a fashion business. When she would drag herself home after taking her portfolio to investor after investor, after meeting the same opposition—she was too young, she was a woman, she had not proved herself in the fashion industry as being a viable investment risk—Abbie was there to speak life into her.

Christa was in her early twenties in the mid-’70s when she decided to start her own label. It was a time when women were first beginning to emerge as autonomous and capable of the same challenges and accomplishments that had always been reserved for men. She was a trailblazer and was not easily dissuaded from her goals and visions. Abbie would reinforce that tenacity and never allow her to give up or whine or complain that life was not fair. She would always have a story to tell Christa of her grandpappy who was born in slavery and died a self-made businessman who owned his own home.

Christa had learned at an early age not to complain around Abbie who would just cock her head and give her that look that said what words never could. If my illiterate ex-slave grandpappy could make something of himself, in spite of all the obstacles thrown at him, then, girlie, so can you. Now stop your whining and just do it.

In later years, Christa would refer to it as her Nike speech that she knew by heart. She actually loved hearing Abbie’s stories when she was not going through hard times because they were so much fun to listen to. She just hated to be reminded of someone who could overcome out of such intense adversity when she knew she really never had anything to complain about. Even the fact that her mom was totally immersed in her own social life and left Abbie to raise her, she never felt abused. She was actually relieved that her mom showed no interest in her as a child because her critical, perfectionist nature always made Christa feel inadequate and clumsy. Her mom seemed to float into a room as if flowing straight from a TV commercial or sitcom. She was always coifed, packaged, and presented in flawless perfection that accentuated the feeling of inaccessibility that Christa always felt around her.

Although her father was totally consumed with his patients, he was a loving and kind father who, to Christa, seemed like the father on Father Knows Best. That show gave her comfort growing up because she lived vicariously in the show and knew if her father was home more, he would be as fun and clever and wise as Robert Young, who played Jim Anderson, the father. He served as her surrogate father while Donna Reed became the surrogate mother until she began to watch Bewitched, and she was certain that Samantha’s mother, Endora, was a much more perfect match for her mom.

As Christa grew older, she realized that her mom’s perfect facade of total control and frigidity was much more calculating and Machiavellian than she could ever have imagined. It wasn’t until her father died when she was thirteen that she realized that her mom had basically been acting her whole life. She was presenting the image of the perfect homemaker, wife, and mother when, in reality, she always had her own agenda for power