Post 2

Before leaving home, I’d had the “you’re her only parent, you have to stay alive” foresight to get a physical, update my tetanus, and load my luggage with numerous and varied antibiotics. Dosing myself with a Z-Pak, flooding my system with purified water and a full-day of deep sleep worked its magic. I was no longer feverish or chucking books at walls so I was back in the mix for Rainbow Mountain. 

The plan had slightly changed. We’d still be driving the three hours southeast from Cusco to hike but instead of Vinicunca, we’d be climbing Palccoyo. It was a longer and more remote trail, over four miles, but with an easier grade and slightly less elevation gain. We’d be dropped off somewhere near 14,000 feet then climb an additional 2,300 feet where at the summit, we’d offer up our flowers, our prayers and in my case, the ashes of my dead husband to our Andean Earth Mother, Pachamama.    

I’d been carrying Clayton around in a plastic shampoo bottle since Hawai’i. I figured if I got stopped in customs with what appeared to be human remains, I’d mix him with water and pretend he was a super-organic face mask. That used to be our kind of humor about death, until it wasn’t.  Until death came for a long unwelcome visit, in all her horror and her glory. Ripping our home to shreds like so much confetti in the wind. 

This Peruvian plan of mine was not what Clayton requested in his will. Clayton wanted his ashes to “tread the boards” for eternity, meaning he wanted to be spread in the Broadway theaters, maybe sprinkle a dash here and there at some prestigious regionals or in London’s West End. 

I had to settle for Vegas. 

Covid may have shut down every other venue around the entire world and possibly the Universe, but dammit, Vegas was open. By God, there would be magicians and ventriloquists and showgirls come hell or high water.  So Vegas it was, with my plastic shampoo bottle and daughter in tow. 

Here’s the thing: human ashes are dense and bright white and while this may be disturbing to hear, they include pieces of bone. They are not wispy or light or in any way subtle. Spreading bright white human ashes inside a theater entirely upholstered in Vegas red velvet is the equivalent of throwing Anthrax into a newsroom.  It’s a really, really good way to get yourself arrested. 

I mean, I still did it. And I got away with it. But it was nerve-wracking. I wasn’t hip to repeat that anytime soon. Especially in London or New York. Oh my God, I could just picture myself being hauled off for terrorism, my dear Cecilia waving as they tossed me in the paddy-wagon. 

So I made the executive decision, being Clayton’s medical proxy (whether he was dead or alive) to take what remained of his body to see some of the world. We’d go on the vacations we never got the chance to plan. We’d travel together one last time.  Plus, his globe-trotting brother had been to Machu Picchu.  It just seemed right. 

As we boarded the bus in Cusco, I spoke privately with our spiritual guide, Valerio, and in my broken Spanglish confirmed our conversation from the night before. I showed him the green plastic bottle and his gentle eyes met mine. He bowed, more than nodded, and a calm settled over me. 

This wasn’t a hike.  This was a mission.