(too late)
Afraid I’ve done something terrible again. Had another of those blackouts. This time it happened when I was in front of the bathroom mirror. Sorry, Sam, sorry world, sorry sorry sorry, but I took the bandages off. Telling myself I needed to rub in scar cream (which is BS, because I usually just glob it in between the strips with two fingers). But I had to release the pressure. That was the real reason. Couldn’t bear it any longer. And that disgusting face, it’s worse every time I look at it. I’ll never get used to it. Couldn’t bear the sight of my own reflection, so I cracked the mirror. Just like that, no touch involved. Like a fucking fairy-tale cliché.
And that’s not all. My fingers, white-knuckled, clawing the sink, got cold like it was December. The porcelain burst into a craquelure under my fingertips. Next, I was back in the crevasse, hearing Augustin screaming against walls of ice. The cold. The echoes in the dark. And then the Maudit, coming up from the deep. So enormous; so alive. After that, only Augustin’s falling helmet. Exactly like it happened in Claire’s office. There was no end to it, that was worst of all.
Must have come to an end after all, because I came back to myself on the street in front of the house, with Loes Timbergen from a few doors down freaking out on me. Rosalie wailing out loud in her arms, little face buried in her mother’s breast, tricycle on its side. What was I thinking, scaring a child like that? Maybe Loes was just referring to the mummy mask, because I had it on again. Maybe she thought I was playing a prank. But I don’t think so. What if something worse happened? Something terrible, like with Claire? What if I hurt a child?!
Anyway, I raised my arms in apology and walked away quickly. Cleaned up the mess in the bathroom. A good mosaic is no eyesore, if you know what I mean. Seven years of bad luck, right? At least I was myself again. Pressure gone. Took an even bigger dose of oxa and slept through the rest of the day. Resisted the urge to take them all and be done with it.
Won’t do it. For S.’s sake.
Little Rosalie’s frightened face, I can’t get it out of my head. It gives me the jitters all over.
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September 29, 2018
Just heard the doorbell. Sam got it. Loes Timbergen. Heated discussion. Couldn’t make out what L. was saying, but heard Sam when he blew up. “Listen, if you wanna take that tone, he wasn’t wearing a mask, he’s recovering from an accident he barely survived, and we’ve got more important things on our minds than your kid losing a night’s sleep over it. It’s not Nick’s fault she’s sick, got it?” And slammed the door.
So the girl is sick. Sick. Sam’s right. Get it out of your mind. Not your responsibility.
But. But. But.
(later)
Still haven’t heard from Claire. I can surmise till kingdom come, but I simply don’t know what happened to her after she faced that horror. The horror I carry within me. But what happened to that girl Rosalie—that I do know.
I can’t deny it any longer.
What if it’s contagious?
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September 30, 2018
Sam, what’s the matter? Is it about the bathroom? Or has something else happened???
(later)
What did I do? Please talk to me!!!
(later)
Sam finally talked. Said my phone rang last night. Almost had a stroke, because he knows I put it on Airplane Mode at night. Maybe I forgot to yesterday evening, no knowing now. Didn’t give it any thought this morning, because I slept through the whole thing. Anyway, it was Augustin. Name and portrait on the screen. Sam scared, not knowing what to do. Then he thought that maybe they’d found A.’s body and the police were going through his recent calls, so he picked up.
You could hear only static. Like someone was calling very long distance, Sam said, or a strong wind was blowing into the speaker. But then he heard a voice. Had to strain to understand what it was saying, because it was whispering. Realized it was a single word in German, being repeated over and over: kalt. Kalt kalt kalt. Went on for almost a minute. The whispering got more and more intense. Then they hung up.
Maybe he dreamed it. Nothing from Augustin in my Recents; no other numbers, either. S. got mad when I asked if it could have been a dream. Probably rightly so, but had to ask.
Now drained and scared. Real, real scared.
(later)
The die is cast. Decided to go to Switzerland. Can’t go on like this. Sam, the sweetheart, it was his suggestion, even though it’s the last thing he wants.
Wish I knew if this is the right thing to do.
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October 1, 2018—to Sam
Dear Sam, sorry about everything. Everything I said and everything I’ve been putting you through. I’m responsible for this misery. I had to go up that mountain at all costs. I can only hope you’ll forgive my stupidity one day.
The longer I think about it, the more I see that you’re right. It was a good decision to search for our answers at the source. But let’s promise each other one thing: we will not go up there. Not even to the valley. Whatever happens. I understand what you said, but truth is I don’t believe in all that psychological crap about confronting your demons.
That mountain is dangerous.
So promise me. Forget about seeing it with your own eyes. We stay away from it.
(later—private notes)
Some good news after all. Sam just came up to me. Managed to get his father to agree to rent a chalet in Grimentz for a month, with some spiel about trauma alleviation and couples therapy. Unbelievable—it must have cost a fortune. I don’t even want to know how much the rent is.
“Your dad’s a hero!” I said, hugging him tightly. “When this is all behind us, we’ll fly to New York together and take him to a Yankees game. He’s always wanted to do that with you, right?”
Sam raised his eyebrow and said, “Go ahead and take him to the stadium, if you want. I, on the other hand, have an appointment in a lounge bar on Seventh Ave, where they know how to fix a mean mojito.”
We leave day after tomorrow. We’re finally taking action!
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October 3, 2018
Found an eleventh-hour reference. A couple of years ago, Pieter and I spent a rest day during our climbing vacation with his uncle, Frans Wijngaards, who owns a chalet near Zermatt. I remembered that he had shown us an old little book with legends and local tales. It was called Walliser Sagen, from 1963. I emailed Frans last week, asking whether it said anything about the Maudit, but he couldn’t find anything. But turns out today he emailed me a scan of a passage about the pastures above Grimentz. One of them, located behind a place labeled “Col Maudit,” is apparently called the Valley of Echoes, and the valley dwellers have shunned the area since time immemorial, because the devil is said to reside there.
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