The first fifteen to thirty minutes are crucial. After that, most die from asphyxiation.But I have air,I thought to myself, my vision blackening as I teetered in and out of consciousness.I have air. I can wait.
But I knew the other statistics, too. Hypothermia got the ones who made it through the first half an hour. The cold claims lives easily, and after an hour, there are no avalanche survivors.
I just had to wait.
And the rescuers did come. But it wasn’t Etienne on his skis.
No, the rescuers came in a Blackhawk helicopter, thirty-two minutes after the avalanche. An average response time for the area, I’d read in the local newspaper a week later. The rescuers were commended for their speed.We always strive to be better, the lead rescuer said. Remy Matthieu. I still remember his name.Our goal is twenty minutes.
It wasn’t until later, after everything, that I remembered we both wore avalanche beacons tucked into the pockets of our ski jackets.
That’s how they found me so quickly.
That, and the barely visible tip of my ski pole poking out of the snow. They got me up with a broken wrist, a concussion, four cracked ribs, an open gash across my side, blood loss, a knee injury, and hypothermia.
They carried me across the snow to the waiting helicopter, but Etienne wasn’t sitting there waiting for me. It was hard to form words through the cold.My brother,I told them.
“He’s deeper,” Remy said. I knew that was standard practice, to go for the shallow victim with a higher chance of survival first, but the anger burned at that response. Through the pain and haze. I wasfine.I could’vewaited.
He was higher on the mountain when the avalanche started, triggered by our movements. Not by much. But enough to bear the brunt of it.
They dug him out. And I passed out in the helicopter, lying on a gurney, next to Etienne in a zipped up orange tarp. We both left the mountain, but only one of us did it alive.
His neck had broken from the crushing snow.
At the funeral, I heard one of my aunts say that at least he died fast. No suffocation, no hypothermia.Thank God for the little things,she said, in a tone of such false compassion that I wanted to punch her. I’d had to leave the wake.
In the weeks after, I received praise for my quick thinking. There were local newspaper articles written about the boy who survived. The tragedy of Etienne’s death.Remember what to do if the avalanche happens to you.
My father’s depression. My mother’s sobs and hysteria. My little sister’s shock and incomprehension.
So lucky, everyone told me.You’re so, so lucky.
And I never told anyone about who’s choice it was to go down that slope. That I was a newly turned thirteen-year-old who should have known better.
That Etienne died because of me.
I leave the open windows behind and head into the bathroom. With no fighting to do, I’ll have to improvise. Andthere are other ways to feel pain. I pull off my boxer briefs and step into the spray of ice-cold water.
I survived when I shouldn’t.
I survived where he should’ve.
And now I’m living the life that should have been his.
GROUP CHAT
James
This gold-embossed wedding invitation says next weekend, Raphaël. Where’s the consideration?
Alex
I have time!
West
Nora and I will be there, naturally. Thanks for sending an invite to Amber, too. My sister would be annoyed if you didn’t.
