Juliette's Angel

By Juliette Power

As a child, I knew three things for sure:
I had an angel
I loved my family
My mother was about to die.
‘Stay strong,’ my father said on the morning of my mother’s death.
So I did.
What I didn’t know was that my mother’s suicide would spark a chain of events that would shadow my life. Ultimately, blind faith drove me to the ends of the earth searching for proof.

Juliette and her daughter Bonnie leave their men and jobs in Australia and fly to Kathmandu to meet a guide they found on the internet. He leads them on a trek to the top of the world. But Mount Everest is as dangerous as it is magnificent, and Juliette’s world comes crashing down when she discovers she’s not as strong as she thought.
Juliette confronts her fears, before realising her destiny in the fiery, frozen wilderness of Iceland.

What if staying strong isn’t the answer?

All her life, people called her a dreamer. All her life she sought heaven. All her life she threw her wishes to the sky. But they say be careful what you wish for.

Where do we go when we die?
What if you asked God that question?
What if He replied?

Provocatively funny, naïve, romantic, and distinctly Australian, Juliette’s Angel is a mystical memoir grounded by heartbreak and self-realisation. A true story well told.

“The Himalayas are a truly inspirational place...
And it has proven so for Juliette.
Juliette’s story shows us how a magical place in the world can lead to
far bigger things in life.”

-George Hillary, grandson of Sir Edmund Hillary, 2017

"If you are a woman, if you have lost someone, if you have maternal hurt to heal, you need to read this absolute treasure of a book. Juliette Power, thank you so so much. I don't have the words. Just gratitude and tears. I'm gonna get this for my girlfriends. Read the back page."

- Jan Rainbow, musician, Gold Coast, Australia, March 2017

If you devoured Eat Pray Love, cheered on Cheryl Strayed in WILD, or laughed at Bridget Jones's Diary, you will love Juliette's Angel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juliette Power
• Release date: Oct 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995358034

Juliette Power

High school dropout. Teen runaway. Admits her mistakes. Accepts what is. Lives with gratitude and intention. Before she died, my mother told me I had a guardian angel. She said that angel would keep me safe. As a child of suicide, I clung to that belief. I struggled to stay strong, but life was hard. My mother left behind ten children. Ultimately, blind faith drove me to the ends of the earth searching for proof. At sixteen, I ran away from home and changed my name to an actress off a soapie. Despite homelessness and adversity, I met the love of my life, won a makeover, lost weight, lost my best friend, showed off, and climbed Everest. On Everest, I finally faced my grief. I realized that staying strong isn’t always the answer. Accepting a hand is a sign of strength. My Sherpa guide Pratap became my source of strength, and he allowed me to be weak. My message to others dealing with family suicide is that burying your grief is unhealthy. It eats away at you. As a community, we need to remove the social taboo around talking about suicide. We need to allow survivors to be weak, to talk about those they’ve lost and about how it is affecting them, so that they can process their feelings and work through their grief. But more surprises were in store. One night up near the Arctic Circle, I inadvertently captured an angel on my camera. Icelandic legends say that the Northern Lights are the spirits of unborn children playing in the heavens, or that they are torches held in the hands of wayward souls directing them to the other side. What if they are right? When I saw the angel’s swollen stomach, I cried. Our mother was nine months pregnant when she died. My memoir, Juliette’s Angel: Death Desire Destiny, is the story behind that photograph. For years, I locked the camera’s memory card in a safe, unsure what to do. I believe that now, in these times of global fear and uncertainty, we all need hope, we all need faith. An angel is a messenger of hope and faith. It’s time to share my angel with others. Juliette loves Brad Pitt, dances to Lady Gaga, and watches Dr. Phil. She believes that thoughts create our experience, it’s ok to show off, and that there is strength in letting go. When not surviving deserted islands or climbing deadly peaks, Juliette can be found writing her second memoir, Castaway Great Barrier Reef. Proud of their three grown children, Juliette and her hunk-of-spunk Johnny live among the gum trees in Brisbane, Australia. www.juliettepower.com

Book preview

Defined by Death

Chapter 1

They say that everything is energy—that life and death are separated merely by a billowing veil of eternity. Maybe they are right.

On the dark side of dawn in a small brick house of a housing commission court, a woman rises from her marital bed. Under the luminous glow of a wind-up clock, she pulls on her dressing gown and slippers. The clock’s second-hand twitches loudly, but there is no need to turn off the alarm as it was never set.

It is earlier than anticipated, but for the woman, this day has been a long time coming and must begin. Quietly, so as not to disturb her sleeping family, she makes her way down an unlit hall to the kitchen. Heart pounding, her fingers search to retrieve a lumpy hessian bag set back in the cupboard. She grips the benchtop and, breathing hard, hauls herself to her feet.

Oblivious to the morning chill, she stands momentarily by the sink and stares out the window to nothing. Keys are carefully lifted from a hook, clenched tight so as not to make noise. Not having the heart to look back, the woman closes the back door softly behind her and steps out into darkness.

A few blocks away, a paperboy mounts his bicycle. He blows on his hands, pulls down on his cap, and pushes off to deliver the news.

The clip-clop of Clydesdales echoes through misty, deserted Melbourne streets. On the back of the horse-drawn cart, bottles of fresh milk and cream rattle in their crates. A gloved hand lifts a wire basket, and the milkman runs to the doorstep of each sleeping household. Horses whinny and neigh. The milko retrieves empties, whistles, and sprints back before his cart gains ground.

Weaving around steaming manure pads, the paperboy tosses newspapers onto damp lawns. Somewhere a rooster crows. The boy stops and looks up. Black dilutes to gray, and the blanket of fog lifts, extinguishing the last star of night.

Shrill voices pierce innocent dreams in the little brick house in the court. Sleepy noses press against cold window panes. A dutiful daughter remains in her room while anguished, hazy conversation seeps from behind closed doors. In her childish confusion, she thinks she hears her mother.

A bicycle lies abandoned on the lawn. Newspapers litter the ground. One wheel spins in the air. There is no good news today. For the blue-collared men and their stay-at-home wives with tribes of kids, the court’s equilibrium has changed forever.

Housewives clutch at dressing gowns and each other. Their husbands gather around the paperboy and around a car, idling in the driveway. A man reefs open the door and reaches for the keys in the ignition. Gasping, he steps back. A woman is slumped in the driver’s seat unable to breathe.

Day breaks. Hearts break. A siren screams. It’s too late. My mother and her unborn child are dead. I am eleven years old. My beautiful mother is thirty-nine, and my baby brother or sister is two weeks away from life.

Chapter 2

Nepal, forty years later.

The internet said Mount Everest National Park had everything: breath-taking scenery, grazing yak, chanting monks, alpine flowers, plunging waterfalls and a choice of trails, not to mention the world’s tallest mountain. Perfect. But it seems the Everest region lacks one thing—oxygen.

A helicopter flies over. That’s the sixth today. Raising a gloved hand to my forehead, I dig my boots firmly into ice. My polarizing sunnies struggle to dim the glare. The rescue flight’s shadow flashes past, descending beyond the glacier into a valley far below.

Despite the sub-zero temperatures, I’m perspiring. Heat creeps up my neck, and sweat drips from my chin. I pull off a glove, grab a napkin from my feather-down jacket, and squeeze my eyes shut, wiping my face. I try to blow my nose, but can’t.

Everything in high altitude moves in slow motion. It’s crippling. I can barely shuffle a few steps before altitude bodyslams me. Mother Nature makes it clear she doesn’t want humans up here. I knew but had no idea. It’s like I’m wading waist-deep through surf at the Gold Coast, but I’m not. I’m high in the Himalaya, struggling to stay strong.

Crossing the glacier is unnerving. The lifeless expanse moves and cracks underfoot. The mournful moan of shifting ice mirrors my mood. Without poles for balance or crampons for traction, my body threatens to skid across the loose moraine. With boots of lead, a skull-crushing headache, and ribs screaming in my chest, despite what that doctor said this morning, I’m sure I’m having a heart attack.

Our stern-faced guide watches me from behind his reflective aviator sunglasses. Without words, he pulls a water bottle from my daypack and passes it over. Panting, I unscrew it and lift it high. Shouldn’t have played the hero; should’ve accepted the drugs. Throwing back my head, I try to quench my parched throat, hoping like hell I haven’t smudged my lipstick.

My daughter called me a wimp earlier. I am not. She’s standing above me with her arms folded and a smile on her lips. Gasping, I push my glove back on and lift my face to the sky.

‘Whose smart idea was this anyway?’ I manage.

‘Yours, mom,’ Bonnie replies.

I stare back at her. How can I climb when my knees are shaking? We left our men and our jobs for this? With my resolve and mantras erased by altitude, I search the recesses of my mind for something to be grateful for, but I can’t. I can’t…I can’t…breathe.

Thud! My pack falls to the ice. Boots appear near my head. Equipment rustles inside a pack. Our guide’s face appears inches from mine; his mouth pulled tight. ‘I have oxygen if you need it,’ he says low enough so only I can hear. It should never have got to this. Should’ve stood up for myself; should’ve turned back earlier. Why do I do this? I constantly get myself into fixes, but now it’s not only my life at risk. Can’t believe I’m reduced to such a trembling mess. High above the eternal city of Kathmandu, above the treeline and the clouds, we are as high as heaven. But this isn’t heaven—it’s hell. And it’s all my fault. They tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen. Never do.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I lower my head and consider defeat. Rambo and his army platoon are long gone. Evidence of their large boots lies half-frozen on the trail. My daughter stubs her heel into ice, impatient to move on.

Our guide packs away the gear, and we continue our climb to the roof of the world. Apart from my throbbing head and pounding chest, our trudging boots are the only sound.

Eventually, the glacier flattens out to a soft blanket of undulating snow, fresh from the recent blizzard. It leads down to a dazzling, turquoise lake. Piles of rock cairns lay scattered. These cairns mark our path, but some mark memorials of those who never left. Towering white peaks surround this tranquil, alpine lake. A family of golden ducks bobs on the water.

‘Lake will freeze over soon,’ our guide says.

Brilliant. Then the ducks can ice-skate.

Bonnie squeals with joy and runs off to throw snowballs for the camera. She waves at me to join her. Shaking my head, I walk towards her.

‘Come on, you two,’ she says and pulls me and our guide in tight for a stilted Sherpa selfie.

When the camera lowers, my smile drops and I collapse, hands on my knees. Despite the struggle, I’m grateful for this auspicious day. We have reached the highest point of our expedition. Locals call this the Valley of Death. Another rescue chopper flies past. Oh, Buddha. We are about to find out why.

Chapter 3

Buddhists listen, and they say compassion, compassion, compassion. A few months ago, my long-time girlfriend Louna returned from finding herself in India and came to visit me at our Brisbane riverside home.

‘Cup of tea?’ I asked from my seat on the couch.

‘Oh, no thanks.’ Louna sank in beside me.

‘Thank God for that. Wasn’t gonna make it for you anyway,’ I said, flicking through a magazine.

Louna pulled back her recently-acquired dreadlocks with one hand, reached into her bag, and gave me a gift and card. Tossing the card aside, I tore through tissue paper to reveal a handmade cloth wall-hanging printed with a compassion Mantra by the Dalai Lama. I turned to Louna, and she looked at me. My friend sat there in her tie-dyed cheesecloth dress, dangly earrings, and hippy beads. She didn’t say it, but I knew what she was thinking: Compassion, bitch, you need it. Read the words.

Later that afternoon, I sat across the kitchen table from my daughter. Through the open, glass sliding doors, white cockatoos strutted and squawked on the deck railing. Ignoring them, I turned my back to tend a table strewn with travel brochures, notepads, pens, and passports.

‘Told your boss yet?’ Bonnie asked, tapping away on her laptop.

‘No,’ I shrugged, thumbing through a travel guide. ‘You?’

Bonnie shook her head. ‘Well, that’s it,’ she paused and struck a key momentously. ‘We’re committed. Kathmandu flights are…booked.’ She leaned back and took a sip of coffee. ‘Thinking we climb Annapurna.’

I grabbed my laptop.

Bonnie set down her cup. ‘Langtang then?’ My daughter ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Stay Blonde’ tufts poked up. It looked cute, but I said nothing. Instead, I opened a bookmarked page and scrolled down.

Bonnie pulled her laptop in close. ‘Pokhara?’ she suggested without looking up. ‘It’s got good reviews on TripAdvisor.’

I bit my lip and stared at the image filling my screen. Those birds are going berserk outside. It’s driving me nuts. Should get up and close the door.

‘Mom? I said Pokhara?’ Bonnie’s voice rose. ‘Mom… Mom… Juliette!’

‘Umm… No.’

Bonnie leaned in. ‘Mother, we must decide.’

‘I have.’ I turned my screen towards her.

Bonnie squinted. She exhaled, and her lips parted.

Our eyes met. For a moment, no one spoke.

‘Are you sure?’ she finally asked.

I sank back in my chair and smiled. ‘If I have to climb a mountain, it may as well be Everest.’

Chapter 4

‘Do you think the guide’s still waiting?’ I ask, clasping my hands. Bonnie drops her backpack and squats to join me on the floor of the arrival lounge at Tribhuvan International Airport.

‘He better be.’ Bonnie’s little eyes squint. ‘He has our deposit.’

As more planes land, hordes of disheveled passengers surge in, concertinaing already-packed immigration queues. Bonnie and I wriggle forward on our bottoms, kicking our daypacks ahead with our feet. Better to wait down here among well-worn hiking boots than marinate in the sweaty armpits of hairy backpackers.

‘We landed two hours ago.’ I sigh. ‘We’ve barely moved.’

‘Get used to it.’ Bonnie fans her flushed face with travel papers.

I unzip my jacket and drain my water bottle. Metal ceiling fans lazily stir the heat.

Bonnie rummages through her pack, flattens out a document on her skirt, and slides on her reading glasses. ‘Praaatap,’ she says slowly. ‘That’s our guide’s name—Pratap. He’s meeting us outside with a driver. And tomorrow he’s taking us shopping for trekking supplies in Thamel.’ Bonnie pulls off her glasses. ‘I hope he’s fun. A great guide makes all the difference.’

‘Yeah, we really need a comedian when we climb Everest.’ I draw my knees in close. ‘What if he’s not there?’

‘Motherrr…’

‘G’day.’ A man’s voice cuts in from above. ‘You girls Aussie?’ A stocky guy in a faded black Adidas T-shirt, his cap hiding long tangled hair, calls down to us. A sweatshirt tied around his waist covers crumpled khaki shorts, and bulbous hairy toes overhang his large, scuffed sandals.

‘Yeah, Brisbane,’ Bonnie answers in her little girl voice.

‘Ah, Queensland.’ He nods in recognition. ‘Great Barrier Reef. Awesome. I’m Peter, from Perth.’ He crouches down to our level and holds out his hand.

‘I’m Bonnie, and that’s my mother, Juliette.’ Bonnie shakes his hand.

‘Heading to Base Camp?’ he asks.

‘Ah, no.’ Bonnie laughs nervously and straightens her shoulders. ‘Gokyo Lakes.’

‘Gokyo?’ Peter lifts his cap and scratches his head. ‘Ah, ok, off Base Camp trail. Right. Climbing with a group?’

‘No, just us. Mum found a guide on the internet.’

Peter raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘You checked the reviews?’

Bonnie shakes her head. ‘Couldn’t find any.’

Peter turns to me. Blood rushes to my face.

He rubs his chin’s undergrowth. ‘Gokyo’s isolated,’ he says, his dark eyes darting between us. ‘Above Namche, all trekkers head to Base Camp.’

Bonnie smiles uneasily. ‘Well, not us.’

Peter rises to stand, and his eyes lock with mine. ‘Be careful. That’s all I can say.’

A uniformed official gives my passport a cursory glance, and a heavy metal stamp clamps down on the page. He slides it back to me and waves me through.

A mountain of large, lumpy backpacks and Duffel bags fills the baggage hall floor. They all look the same. Bonnie rifles through, checking tags.

‘Here’s yours.’ She pulls a black backpack the size of a baby rhino towards me. Dragging it free, I jump when a spindly Indian man appears.

‘I help you, madam,’ he says nodding and reaching for the strap.

I smile and step back.

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ Bonnie slaps his hand away. She turns to me. ‘We’re not in Australia now. Don’t let anyone take your backpack.’

Bonnie finds her pack and pulls it on.

Squatting, I brace and attempt to hoist my load. Heat races up my back. I stagger and topple backward. I push off the straps, and the pack smashes to the floor. Well, this is embarrassing.

Bonnie stands to one side with her arms folded. Momentarily defeated, I wipe my palms on my new cargo pants and take a deep breath. My daughter says nothing, but I know what she’s thinking: Mother, you’re an idiot. That pack is bigger than you. I told you to buy a smaller one, but no, you wouldn’t listen.

She’s right. It’s ridiculous. Should’ve known better. Why do we women do this? I quietly curse and haul myself up again.

Outside, frantic horns toot and stinking fumes belch from rushing traffic. Behind barriers over the road, men wave hands and handwritten cardboard signs. They shout and jostle for position. I struggle to keep up with Bonnie as she pushes past tourists and steps out onto the road. Taxis, vans, and motorbikes whizz past as we dodge our way across. Amid the hustle, a solemn Nepalese man stands, touting a sign at his chest. He peers at us.

Squinting, I rotate the words into focus: MRS WELLESLEY

I turn to Bonnie. ‘Mrs. Wellesley? Since when did you marry Tom?’

‘Namaste,’ the wiry man says, stepping forward with a bow. ‘Welcome to Kathmandu. I am your guide, Pratap.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Pratap,’ Bonnie beams.

Pratap raises his hand. A driver from a nearby taxi rushes over. After a few curt Nepalese words, the driver relieves us of our heavy loads and carries them to the back of his car. ‘Welcome, mother,’ Pratap whispers, draping a bright yellow silk scarf around my neck. ‘It is Nepalese tradition,’ he explains, bowing again.

‘Welcome, mother,’ Pratap whispers, draping a bright yellow silk scarf around my neck. ‘It is Nepalese tradition,’ he explains, bowing again.

Bonnie bends her head as Pratap lifts another scarf. ‘Welcome, daughter.’

Bonnie runs her hand thoughtfully down her scarf and gazes out of her backseat window. Bouncing in my seat, I press against the glass like an excited dog on a Sunday drive and drink in the passing sights of this ancient city. Acrid gasses overwhelm me. I wriggle in search of a paper napkin souvenired from the flight. My throat constricts.

Our taxi bumps its way through dusty, congested streets, slowing only to swerve around rickshaws and motorbikes. The driver leans on the horn, in short, frequent bursts. Our guide sits beside him, relaxed like this is standard road etiquette. If you honked like that in Australia, you’d receive the finger, attract an oversized truckdriver fuming with road rage, or be pulled over by the highway police and booked. But we’re not driving smoothly down the M1; we’re hurtling through the twisted back streets of Kathmandu in a clapped-out taxi with seventies upholstery and no seatbelts.

Sari-clad women stroll along, balancing large woven baskets on their heads. A policeman directs peak-hour traffic at a major intersection. His whistle blows nonstop as his arm waves this way, then that. Goats wander past or nibble at grass, and a pale, skinny dog scratches at fleas with its hind leg. Intricate necklace and earring sets lie on cloths on bare earth, glittering in the late afternoon sun. Above us, chattering monkeys scamper along a tangle of power lines.

Bonnie’s eyes shine, and she taps me and points out of her window. A line of barefoot, orange-robed monks files through a narrow alleyway. Our taxi passes them and pulls up outside the high, secure gates of Sing’s Teahouse.

On our rooftop garden, Bonnie throws herself back on the purple-cushioned daybed. ‘Ah, the serenity!’

After ordering wine and a basket of fresh crusty bread, I sink into the daybed beside my daughter, pull off my boots and socks, and wiggle my fuchsia toenails. A flowery waterfall of bougainvillea explodes in pinks and purples down a sidewall. Miniature birds twitter and dart above us, and prayer flags wave silently. A gray kitten bounds after a butterfly in the courtyard below. Nepalese hospitality and beauty fills my senses and lifts my soul.

‘Everest can wait,’ I say, closing my eyes. ‘I’m staying here.’

‘Oh, no you don’t, Mother,’ Bonnie warns through a mouthful of bread. ‘We’re in this together.’ She raises her glass to mine. ‘Cheers!’

I smile and relax with my daughter.

Light fades and the sky flares from tan to tangerine. A string of fairy lights flickers to life around the court. My eyes glaze over, and I sink deeper into the soft cushions. I’ve found my Nirvana, but it isn’t complete.

***

‘Sorry for our streets. Government will fix soon,’ Pratap apologizes next morning as Bonnie, and I try to keep up through hectic, unpaved roads towards the shopping district of Thamel. Sharp rocks jut out, threatening to trip us up at every turn. This is the same road we drove along yesterday, but today everything looks different on foot.

Kathmandu’s markets burst with baskets of colorful spices and fabric. Fruits and vegetables of every shape and variety line the footpath. Hands of ripe bananas dangle off shopfront doors, and pungent scents of spice, plump papaya, and citrus mingle with the thick haze of dust and diesel.

Cyclists and pedestrians wear masks, prompting me to pull a tissue from the pocket of my new skinny jeans and wipe my stinging eyes, while hoping not to smudge my mascara. Despite the fumes and grime, I’m grateful I’m here. I cough a few times and breathe it all in.

The driver of a brightly colored rickshaw struggles to keep control when his back wheel bounces from a pothole. Gripping the sides, his passenger ducks to avoid a muddy drenching. A short white dog with a red-paint smudge on his forehead, draped in a garland of marigolds, stares at me through heavy, metal gates. His cute little face looks so serious. I stop and raise my camera.

‘Today is dog day,’ Pratap says. ‘Dogs get treats.’

Bonnie grins.

We wind our way through busy alleyways.

‘How far to Thamel, Pratap?’ Bonnie asks after yet another corner.

‘Forty minute walk,’ he replies, maintaining his quick pace. ‘I know good shop. Good price for you.’

Bonnie nods. ‘Mum wants an Everest T-shirt and some books. We both need beanies.’

‘I take you Keep Walking Office first. You pay in Nepalese rupee.’ He stops. ‘You need ATM?’

Bonnie glances at me. Touching the bag at my waist, I shake my head. ‘Nah. Mum’s got it sorted,’ Bonnie replies.

By a fruit stand, a hunched old lady sweeps leaves and litter across uneven cobblestones with a worn rattan broom. Above her, on a short stone wall, a row of women sit in silence behind woven baskets brimming with beans, cabbages, and carrots. Young children hoot and tumble nearby.

I look up and marvel at the tangle of wires that criss-cross from poles to buildings. How an electrician works on those is beyond me. Sticking close to Bonnie and Pratap, I hold my breath each time we step from curb to busy road. Staring straight ahead, my thoughts repeat, I am safe, while traffic toots and flashes past.

‘I don’t need you to hold my hand, mom,’ Bonnie says, letting go.

‘No, but I need to hold yours.’ I cringe.

Halfway across, wheels brush my heels. Death by rickshaw my death certificate would read if I died today. At least that’s more respectable than Death by coconut, which is what my husband Johnny’s would’ve read a few years back when he had a near miss under a coconut tree in Fiji. Tucking a lock of hair behind one ear, I hold Bonnie’s hand and my breath until we reach the other side. Life is one big near miss. At least I didn’t die, not today.

Approaching a high-walled area, Pratap stops. ‘You like to see Durbar Square?’

We step inside. Ornate, centuries-old temples and monuments tower over us. Tourists and locals bustle about, taking it all in. Others sit on impossibly steep temple steps. They gaze skyward or enjoy the action below. Ropes of colorful prayer flags radiate off the top of one enormous stupa.

‘Prayer Flag colors represent five elements: sky, air, fire, water, earth,’ Pratap explains.

Before us, dozens of pigeons peck at a clearing until a cheeky toddler runs toward them. Startled, the birds lift their wings and flap away.

Bonnie shrugs. ‘Hmmm…We can come back and look next time.’

At the travel office, Bonnie and I sit on hard metal chairs by a desk. Pratap stands at the door, his arms stiffly by his sides. Low Nepalese voices float from adjacent rooms. Bonnie studies a montage of framed certificates and photos on the wall.

‘Do you think they’re legit?’ she whispers.

There’s no chance to reply because a petite Nepalese woman pushes backward through the flowered curtain doorway. She turns and offers us tea and biscuits from her tray. ‘Namaste,’ she says, bowing, and melts away.

Bonnie blows on the steaming liquid and takes a sip while I bite into