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She thought of the names she’d seen on the list this morning. Many of those who’d died were Sherpa, and there must be people here who’d known them, perhaps who’d loved and lost family and friends.
They would be saying words of peace, of blessing—the sorts of phrases shared among survivors to soothe and heal the raggedness in their hearts.
It felt good to be here, among people. To open her heart to bright colors and light, to healing.
Before the expedition, the Sherpa had held a puja, building an altar and stringing lines of prayer flags at Base Camp. Rosemary had attended.
The Sherpa called the mountain Chomolungma, and they believed a goddess inhabited the valley: Miyolangsangma, the Goddess of Inexhaustible Giving. She rode a tiger and bestowed jewels in the form of granted wishes. Miyolangsangma had given the Sherpa the bounty of foreign travelers and their economic resources—but as uninvited guests on her sacred landscape, they had to behave with special reverence and be careful of their motivations.
Risking life and death, many on the mountain became closer to their gods, even superstitious in their faith. Climbing, Rosemary had never felt any pull toward the God of her childhood, but in the tent after the avalanche, whispering the Lord’s Prayer, she’d felt connected to something larger than herself—both smaller and bigger, and part of the human project.
She felt that way now. She was glad she had come.
Kal settled onto the floor beside her with an oof. “Are you as stiff as I am?” he whispered.
“Worse, I imagine.”
“How’s the headache?”
“Disappeared with the coffee.”
“Good. So, my mom wants to meet you.”
Rosemary looked around. “She’s here?”
“Yeah, she’s the one with short hair by the wall, in the red shirt.”
Rosemary located her—a small woman with a deeply creased face and animated hands. “I’d be honored.”
“Just to warn you, she’s kind of bossy.”
“I can hold my own.”
Kal stood and extended his hand. When Rosemary took it, he lifted her to her feet, the assist so smooth and effortless that her entire body remembered, all at once, every detail of the night she’d spent in bed with him.
Sex with Kal had been exactly as easy and effortless as his hand lifting her from the floor, athletic and deeply physically satisfying. Her blush came fast and furious. She unbuttoned her jacket, smoothing her hands over her stomach. Crikey. Not the time or the place.
She very much hoped there would be a time and a place again, soon.
Rosemary followed Kal to the spot along the wall where his mother chatted with a group of people in what Rosemary assumed must be Sherpa, or Nepali. They stopped speaking as she drew close. Kal took her elbow, putting her in front of him and to his left, and made the introductions in order of age, identifying her to his uncle Dorjee; his mother, Yangchen; and his sister Sangmu.
“It’s good you came,” Yangchen said. Her eyes were warm when she shook Rosemary’s hand. Kal’s eyes. He had her chin, too, square and strong.
“I was pleased to be invited. It’s a lovely place.”
“It’s good for the community. There are a lot of Sherpa in New York, more than anywhere in the world outside Nepal. You’re English?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go to university?”
“Cambridge.”
“My father went to Cambridge. Trinity College.”
“Oh, that’s an excellent college. I went to Girton. What did your father study?”
Yangchen smiled. It was Kal’s broad smile, although Yangchen didn’t have her son’s easygoing, laid-back vibe. She was more intense. A powerful woman.
