Chalet Cheng perches on one of the best vertical rise mountains in North America, above the older million-dollar townhouses and the new multimillion-dollar condos. Even though I’ve been here just once, I can navigate to our chalet blindfolded. On the left is the vast Italianate villa that looks out of place on this street of log mansions, on the right a metastasized bungalow. And secluded at the end of the road is Chalet Cheng, a timber-frame lodge set atop blue-green river rocks. Windows the size of minivans frame the sunrises over Wedge, Armchair, and Mount Currie on clear mornings. At night, Rainbow Mountain glows in the sunsets, earning the peak its name. I breathe out, feeling like I’ve made it home.
Once inside, Mama and Baba head immediately to the library for a glass of wine. The only place I want to go is my bedroom, but I stop by the hand-peeled log of red cedar that runs from the bottom floor clear on up to the third, feeling dwarfed beside it. It’s the same feeling I get standing on top of a mountain: awestruck that I could possibly exist in a world this massive. The contractors spent three months looking for the right log, and were just in time to salvage this thousand-year-old tree from being turned into paper.
I start up the staircase that bends around windows etched with totem figures. As I near the second floor, Baba walks into the entry and looks up at me.
“We have a business dinner tonight,” he says. “A number of snowboarders will be there. You’re more than welcome to attend.”
Visions of Jared dance in my head. I’m not ready to face him yet.
“Thanks, but I’m really tired,” I say, and continue up the stairs, past the second floor, which is reserved for Wayne’s family. For a guy who barely acknowledges my mom, he certainly helps himself to the perks she provides, down to the perfect shade of green she picked because she knew it was his favorite color.
But then again, I think as I drop my backpack in my own bedroom suite on the top floor, I never thanked Mama either after she spent a good two weeks poring over color swatches, fabric samples, and furniture designs to create my room.
From my window seat, I watch as the last of the sun dips below the ridgeline, and Baba’s car pulls out of the driveway and disappears down the dark street.
My cell phone rings, and for a brief, stupid second, I think Jared’s calling me. I dive into my backpack, scrambling for the phone, wondering what, if anything, I should say. By the time I grab the phone, reality sets in before caller ID does. Of course it couldn’t be Jared. Why would he call when he never did after my accident?
“Syrah? It’s Lillian.” Her voice sounds unsure, not knowing whether she’s welcome to step over the decimal point that separates her from me.
“Lillian? What’s up?”
“Hey, I’m sorry I’m calling during your vacation, but I…”
I know what it’s like not to have anyone to talk to. “Stop. What’s going on?” And then I guess, “Is Amanda okay?”
“We had the baby—”
“Oh, my God! Congratulations.”
Lillian’s voice is a mishmash of emotions. “Zoe is absolutely yummy. You’ve got to see her. But… her tissue isn’t a match after all.”
“Oh, no.” I drop back down to the window seat and clutch a pillow to my chest, a feeble shield against what I know this means.
“You know this was a possibility all along and my parents didn’t want to do any in vitro testing and risk Zoe. So now… unless we find a bone marrow donor who matches Amanda, we’ll have to use the stem cells that the doctors harvested from her. It’s not ideal. Even Dr. Martin says so.”
“There still isn’t anybody who matches her?”
“Nope.”
“God, this is so unfair,” I say. “So when’s the procedure?”
“Two weeks, if everything goes as planned.”
“Two weeks,” I repeat faintly. Inside, I’m thinking: no way, no way. There’s no way that I can pull off Ride for Our Lives in fourteen days. Aside from one lame Ask at Boarder Xing with Age, I haven’t done any others.
As if she knows what’s going on in my mind, Lillian says, “You know, I didn’t call because I wanted or expected you to pull a Cheng-style miracle.”
But those are the magic words. The Cheng name creates miracles, whether it’s securing a private premiere of Attila from Hollywood or snagging five million dollars in three phone calls the way Mama did for the Evergreen Fund.
“We can do it,” I tell Lillian.
She snorts, a little sound of disbelief that I’ve heard all my life from Wayne, the one that cuts down my dreams with a You just try, little girl. You know what? I’m tired of that snort.
“Okay, there’s one thing you have to do,” I tell Lillian, more forcefully than I intend. Call me a hypocrite, but knowing that I’m going to have to talk to my parents about Ride for Our Lives makes me think twice. “Let your parents know what we’re planning, because we’ll need their support.”
“I don’t know, Syrah. Even if we pull this off, it’s no guarantee that we’ll find a match.”
“No,” I agree. “But don’t underestimate The Tao of Cheng.”
When we hang up, I think about how Lillian and her family are confronting something they can’t control or fix, no matter what they do. Or how much money they have. My big angst today was being pulled away from Auntie Marnie and my family when the truth is, I can always return to them. As soon as I turn sixteen, I’ll get my driver’s license. My car is already waiting in the garage, even if I pretend the Mercedes sedan isn’t there because I don’t want anyone, especially The Six-Pack, to know.
And this afternoon, I got all worked up just because I saw Jared, a boy who created a messy mogul field in my past. But here’s the thing: Jared can’t create a single bump in my future if I don’t want him to.