Three Mountains
by Phyllis Agins Grode
The first forms the spine of Corsica where they decide to honeymoon, unlike all the other newlyweds who choose the obvious like Acapulco or Paris or the Caribbean. Sex is nothing new after five years, but sleeping on a granite mountain has seduced them. So have the diamonds the sun casts on the sea, a glittering blue circle around their mountain. Every night the mosquitoes bite and wild boars growl close by, but they look at each other and whisper lovers’ promises that only the recently married can imagine. The same pledges whispered across centuries.
“And if I get fat? Will you love me then?”
“Even when I’m bald like all the men in my family?”
“Always,” they both swear. “Until we’re old.”
They apply anti-itch cream to the other’s back until the need to touch defies sunburns and insect bites, and they fall onto the double sleeping bag.
“Forever,” they whisper.
********************
The second is after thirteen years. Not so far this time because their two boys are at camp just down the road. She wants to be close enough just in case. Near their Main Line home, the Poconos create a mountain out of a mere hill, and the nearby hotel offers cell service to the cabins. Even with Canadian gear and goose feathers underneath her, she is always cold. They haven’t zipped the sleeping bags together, even though this time was to inspire romance because they are too busy at home. Making love is an occasional event.
He struggles with the suitcase, swearing because she threw away his old backpack.
“It’s different between us,” she insists in her mother’s voice.
“Nonsense.” He nervously strokes his bald spot—a bad habit that started with the first empty patch. He’s laughing but with lips that are pulled tight. To close in some secret that might escape.
“Is there someone else?” The question that nags, that she tries not to ask, but must.
“Of course not,” he answers. “Just need to relax.”
They leave the small cottage and move to the chalet, where the cold is as constant as it was before. Where his distance continues despite the black lace thong and matching balcony bra she wears.
********************
The third had been planned for a year.
“I have to go,” she tells her doctor when he presses his fingers into those breasts that once inspired her husband and fed her boys. “It’s what we always dreamed. The Andes are the highest in the world. It’s summer there now and we’ll stay warm in the hotel. There’s all kinds of activities and massages for the weary. He’s always tired, my husband.” Then she adds, “This was my first mammogram.” She needs to explain. “A little late.”
“Feel this.” The doctor guides her hand to her left breast—just above the resonance of her heart. “We shouldn’t postpone.” He tries to convince her.
They drive past the Aconcagua Peak where wildflowers spread in pinks and oranges and a light green she’s never seen before. Behind her flesh, the knot waits while her husband talks about their plans, as if they’ve just discovered each other. As though they’re returning to the first mountain when they were new.
Today the peak in front of her demands the spiral road and directs sunlight through the car window onto her—a spotlight of insistent clarity.
This time in the mountains, she knows. She has come to say goodbye.
About the Author
Phyllis Agins Grode divided her time for many years between Philadelphia and Nice, France, adding Mediterranean rhythms to her sources of inspiration. She’s the author of two novels, a children’s book, and an architectural study. Recently, more than fifty short stories have appeared in literary magazines, including: Nova Literary-Arts Magazine, Lilith, and the Madison Review (EC). For more, visit phylliscarolagins.com.
