by K. A. Tucker
These Alaskan pilots are crazy to choose to do this.
“How much longer?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady as the plane tilts this way and that.
“Ten minutes less than the last time you asked,” Jonah mutters. He radios the dispatcher and begins rhyming off codes and talking about visibility and knots.
And I glare at the back of his bulky frame, wedged into the pilot’s seat. If he’s uncomfortable in this tiny fuselage, he hasn’t uttered a word of complaint. In fact, he’s said barely anything to me this entire trip. Mostly “yups” and “nopes” and closed-off answers that stalled all attempts at small talk that I made. I finally gave up and instead focused on the frayed ash-blond wisps of hair that curl around the brim of his baseball cap and over the collar of his jacket, and not on the fact that just outside the thin metal walls and glass panels are thousands of feet through which we could plummet to our death.
A reality that seems more certain with each sudden and violent jerk.
The plane careens to the right, earning my panicked gasp. I squeeze my eyes shut and keep taking calm, steady breaths, hoping that will quell this bubbling nausea. I can do this . . . I can do this . . . This is just like flying in any plane. We’re not going to die. Jonah knows what he’s doing.
“That’s Bangor, up ahead.”
I dare peek out the window and below, hoping the promise of my toes touching the ground soon will help with my nerves. Lush, green, flat ground stretches out as far as the overcast skies allow me to see, a vast expanse of land mostly untouched by the human hand. It’s peppered with streams and lakes of all shapes and sizes, and one wide river that snakes through it.
“That’s Bangor?” I can’t hide the surprise from my voice as I study the crops of low, rectangular buildings huddled along the river’s edge.
“Yup.” A pause. “What were you expecting?”
“Nothing. Just . . . I thought it’d be bigger.”
“It’s the biggest community in Western Alaska.”
“Yes, I know that. That’s why I thought the buildings would be, I don’t know, bigger. Taller.” With all the scrambling of the last two days, I had little time to educate myself on where it is I’d be going. All I know is what I read on my phone while waiting for my plane this morning—that this part of Alaska is considered “tundra” for its flat land; that the sun barely sets during summer months and barely rises during the long, arctic winters; and that most of the towns and villages around here have Native Alaskan names that I can’t pronounce.
Jonah snorts, and I immediately regret admitting my thoughts out loud. “Doesn’t sound like you know much at all. Weren’t you born here?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’d remember anything. I wasn’t even two when we left.”
“Well, maybe if you’d bothered coming back before now, you’d know what to expect.” His tone is thick with accusation.
What the hell is his problem?
We hit a pocket of turbulence and the plane begins jolting violently. I brace myself with a palm against the icy window as that queasy feeling begins to stir again, and the solid form deep inside me begins to rise. My stomach’s preparing to empty its contents. “Oh God . . . this is bad,” I moan.
“Relax. It’s nothing.”
“No, I mean . . .” My body has broken out in a sweat. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
His quiet curse carries into my ear. “Keep it down. We’ll be on the ground in five minutes.”
“I’m trying, but—”
“You can’t puke in here.”
“Do you think I want to?” I snap, fumbling with my plastic bag. Of all the things I dreaded, vomiting is up there with the worst.
And now I get to do it sitting behind this asshole.
“Hell. Six other pilots available and I had to be the one to get you,” Jonah mutters to himself.
I close my eyes and lean my face against the window. The ice-cold glass helps a bit, even with the jarring bumps. “ ‘Don’t worry, Calla.’ ‘It’s no big deal, Calla.’ That’s what a decent person would say,” I mumble feebly.
“I’m here to get your high-maintenance little ass to Bangor, not soothe your ego.”
High-maintenance? My ego? I crack one lid to shoot daggers at the back of his head. All pretenses of politeness have dissolved. “Does my dad know you’re such a giant dick?”
Jonah doesn’t answer, and I’m glad for it, because talking makes my nausea worse. I push off my headset and go back to drawing long breaths through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth, fighting my body’s urge to evacuate its contents at any given moment as I’m bumped and jostled in our descent toward the runway ahead.
The tiny two-seater plane teeters side to side like a seesaw before the wheels touch the ground, bouncing several times and then finally sticking.
Miraculously, I somehow succeed in keeping my tacos down through it all.
I breathe a sigh of relief as we coast down the runway. To the right, I spy several large rectangular buildings in various colors—forest green, fire-engine red, navy-blue—with two commercial planes like the ones I flew earlier today. We head left, though, toward a crop of smaller steel-gray buildings, the largest of them wearing a white and aqua-blue sign that reads ALASKA WILD.
My heart begins pounding in my chest.
I was here twenty-four years ago. Too young to remember, but I was here, and I’ve imagined this moment countless times since.
A short, stocky guy wearing a fluorescent vest casually waves his orange sticks, guiding Jonah to a spot at the end of a line of six planes. In front of us is a row of four more. Behind them, another two.
All of them are larger than the one we’re in, I note.
I want to ask questions—Are these all my dad’s planes? What part of the airport are we in? Is the collection of colorful warehouse-like structures actually the city airport? How many people work here?—but it’s become apparent that Jonah has no interest in enlightening me about anything, so I bite my tongue. I can ask Agnes. I’m assuming she’ll be more pleasant to talk to.
Or I can ask my father, who I’m about to meet.
The sudden urge to pee hits me.
No sooner has Jonah shut off the engine than he’s yanking off his headset, popping open the door, and hopping out with surprising grace.
I remain a while, though, enjoying the crisp, cool breeze that skates across my face, working like a salve for my churning stomach.
“Come on, let’s go!” Jonah barks.
I’m almost done having to deal with him, I remind myself as I slip out of my seat.
I stall at the plane’s doorway to size up the distance to the ground, struggling to figure out how I’m going to hop out in my wedge heels—while keeping my purse on my shoulder and my hat on my head—without falling flat on my face or twisting an ankle. I should have changed my shoes when I was pilfering through my suitcase to get the essentials.
Without a word of warning, Jonah seizes me by the waist with his giant hands and hoists me down as if I weigh nothing at all, earning my squeal of surprise. Setting me onto the ground, he then dives back into the plane to retrieve the nylon bag tucked in behind my seat. He unceremoniously drops it to my feet like he’s tossing trash to the curb. It lands in a puddle.
“Here. Puke all you want now.” He thrusts the plastic bag into my empty grasp.
I peer up at his face—still masked by all the mangy hair and sunglasses and baseball cap, pulled low despite the lack of sun. How long has he been growing that bush for, anyway? Years? There are long, wiry hairs sticking out in every direction. I guarantee it’s never seen a pair of scissors or a comb. Ever.
My disgusted expression stares back at me from the reflection of his lenses and my mother’s words about falling in love with a pilot suddenly hit me.
I burst out laughin
g. Is Jonah what she would call a “sky cowboy”?
As if I’d ever fall for this guy.
The skin between the bottom of Jonah’s aviators and the top of his unkempt beard flushes. “What’s so funny?” he asks warily.
“Nothing.” The cool wind picks up in a gust, sending strands of my long hair fluttering around my chin and threatening to lift my hat from my head. I brush away the strays and clear my throat. “Thanks for flying me here,” I say politely, keeping my expression flat.
He hesitates. I can feel his heavy gaze on my face and it makes me uncomfortable. “Don’t thank me. It wasn’t my idea,” he says, then flashes a tight, insincere smile, revealing straight, beautiful white teeth.
And here, I had assumed he’d written off all basic grooming and hygiene habits.
“Hello, there!” a female voice calls out, distracting me from thoughts of punching Jonah right in that perfect grill of his.
I gladly turn away from him, to see a petite woman marching toward us.
That has to be Agnes.
For the past three days, I’ve been imagining what the woman behind the calm, soft-spoken voice on the phone looks like. The “friend” who must be more than that. I guess I assumed—stupidly—that she’d look something like my mother.
Agnes is about as opposite to my mother as you can get.
For one thing, she’s so small she’s almost childlike, especially in an orange safety vest that’s at least three sizes too big, baggy men’s jeans, and clunky work boots. An outfit my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in on her worst day. And, unlike my mother’s sleek and impeccably colored bob, Agnes’s raven-black hair—lightly peppered with gray—has been chopped to an unimaginative pixie length, almost as if she was annoyed with it one day and took a pair of scissors to herself without using a mirror for guidance.
For another, Agnes is an Alaska Native.
“You made it,” Agnes says, stopping in front of me, giving me a chance to take in her features. She has a pretty, round face, aged with fine lines across her brow and conspicuous crow’s-feet at the corners of deeply set, hooded eyes. I’d put her in her mid-forties, if I had to guess.
“I did.”
She smiles wide, showing off pronounced cheeks and slightly crooked front teeth the color of bone china.
Finally. Someone around here seems genuinely happy to see me.
“So, is he . . .” My words drift as my gaze wanders from the door Agnes exited moments ago to the other buildings around us, where half a dozen workers in reflective vests load cargo into planes. I search their faces while I hold my breath, an odd mixture of nervous butterflies and nausea competing for attention inside me.
“Wren had to go up to a site near Russian Mission to drop off supplies,” she explains, as if I know where that is. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Oh,” I stammer. He’s not here for my arrival? “He knew I was coming, though, right?”
“Yes, of course. He’s excited.” That wide smile wavers a touch, enough to make me suspicious.
He knew that his daughter, who he hasn’t seen in twenty-four years, hasn’t talked to in twelve years, was arriving tonight. Couldn’t he have found someone else to drop off supplies, so he could be here to greet her? Couldn’t he have sent Jonah instead? Or one of the six other available pilots, according to Jonah’s grumblings not long ago?
Better yet, seeing as he’s not too sick to fly, why couldn’t he have come to Anchorage to get me?
Is my dad intentionally avoiding me?
Will I be dealing with another Jonah, who is less than thrilled that I’m here?
I struggle to keep my expression calm as my emotions war inside me. Disappointment swells after a day of counting down the hours and minutes until I’d meet the real-life version of the picture, until I’d hear the soft, easygoing timbre of his voice again. But with that disappointment comes a wave of the same pain-numbing resentment that absorbed me so many years ago, my way of coping with the raw realization that I would never be a priority for him.
And then tucked somewhere in the recesses of these volatile emotions is relief that I have a bit more time with my feet on Alaskan soil to gather my strength before I have to face him.
“How were your flights?” Agnes asks, as if sensing my suddenly heavy mood and wanting to keep it light.
“Fine. For the most part, anyway.” I steal a withering glance over my shoulder. Jonah’s tinkering with something on the plane, seemingly ignoring us.
Agnes’s eyes trail mine and when they reach the burly pilot, her brow tightens a touch. But she’s quick to shift her attention back, to wander over my face, stalling on each feature. “You’ve grown up so much.” She must see my confusion because she adds quickly, “Your mother used to send your school picture to Wren every year. He kept them in a frame on his desk and swapped them out when a new one’d come.”
Aside from my university graduation picture, the last school photo my mother would have sent was from eighth grade, which means Agnes and my father have known each other for a long time.
It feels awkward to ask within minutes of meeting this woman, and yet I can’t hold back anymore. “So, are you and my dad married?” There’s no ring on her finger, but she also doesn’t look the type to wear jewelry.
“Me and Wren? No. We’re just us. It’s complicated.” Her gaze shifts downward, skittering over my wedge heels before landing on the worn track bag. “Yours?” she asked doubtfully.
It doesn’t sound like I’m going to get more out of her about their relationship yet. “No. My luggage is back in Anchorage. It wouldn’t fit. I can’t believe I fit, to be honest.” I explain what Billy said about sending my bags over tomorrow.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I told him to take one of the Cessnas.”
Wait a minute . . . “Jonah told me that that one was the only plane available.”
“Don’t know what she’s talking about,” he calls out, though his focus seems glued to a clipboard as his giant hand passes over it with a pen, casually checking things off.
My mouth drops open as I stare at the lying bastard.
A soft sigh escapes Agnes. “Come on, Calla.” She reaches down to grab the strap of the nylon bag and then hoists it over her shoulder as if it weighs nothing at all, even though it’s probably half her size. “Let’s get you settled before your dad arrives. I’m sure your mother would like you to check in.”
“There’s Wi-Fi at the house, right?” I wave my phone in the air. “Because I haven’t been able to get a signal since Seattle.”
“You must be dying,” Jonah mutters under his breath, but loud enough for me to hear.
I roll my eyes.
“No, you won’t get a signal. Only GCI works around here. But yes, you’ll be able to connect from home,” Agnes says. “Jonah, take care of things here for me, will ya?”
He grunts an answer, which I assume is an agreement.
Agnes seems to take it for that. She beckons me to follow her with a nod of her head, toward a small crop of vehicles parked on the far side of the office building.
“Wait! Do you mind taking a picture?”
“Oh . . . sure,” Agnes says, her eyes widening with surprise.
I hand her my phone and then pick my path gingerly through the puddles to lean against the plane, angling my body in a pose that I know is especially flattering, my left hand pressed gently on the top of my hat.
“Smile!” Agnes calls.
“Oh, no, it’s okay!” I call out as I look into the distance, at another plane that’s descending from the clouds. Keenly aware of Jonah’s eyes on me, my ears pricked to catch whatever snide comment he might have to make.
Thankfully, whatever thoughts he has, he keeps them to himself for once.
“I took three. Is that good?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” I
avoid Jonah’s gaze as I collect my phone and follow Agnes. “So, you work here?”
She smiles at me warmly. “Going on sixteen years now.”
“Wow.” My dad and Agnes have known each other since I was ten. That’s four years where we were talking and he didn’t mention her. Has it been “complicated” for all that time or just part of it? “And what do you do here?”
“What don’t I do is more like it. Fly planes . . . I don’t do that. But I keep busy with a lot of other stuff—dispatch and payroll, bookings and shipment contracts; all that boring stuff. And I take care of the guys. We have . . . thirty-five pilots on payroll now.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“’Course, they’re not all full-time and they’re scattered all over the place. We’ve got one guy in Unalakleet, two in Kotzebue . . . Barrow, of course, for the summer season. A few in Fairbanks . . . all over the place. It’s like having dozens of sons. They can be a handful and I don’t see some of them for months on end, especially the ones up north, but I love ’em like they were my own.”
“I’ll bet.” Though how anyone but legitimate flesh and blood could love Jonah is beyond me.
I’m so distracted with my thoughts that I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking. My left foot lands in a deep puddle. I cringe from both the shock of the cold, muddy water against my toes and the damage it’s going to do to the suede insole. “I guess it just rained?”
“It always ‘just rained’ around here.” Agnes tosses the duffel bag into the back of an old black GMC pickup truck that’s seen better days—the side of it is dented and scratched, and rust is eating away at the wheel well. “I hope you brought good rain boots with you.”
“I did. Beautiful, expensive red Hunter boots.” I pause for effect. “They’re in Anchorage with the rest of my clothes.”