by K. A. Tucker
Or will I be facing the version he became later, after he broke my heart? The real version. The one who has never made an effort to know me.
“So? How did it go?” Agnes leans against the wall that leads into the kitchen, her back to me. As if this is another typical day.
“They’ve got their supplies,” comes the deep male response, with a hint of rasp.
An odd sense of déjà vu rises deep inside me. I’ve heard that voice say those words before. Many years ago, through a receiver, carried along thousands of kilometers of wire, occasionally tinged by static and the hint of an echo. Probably when I asked him what he’d done that day.
“And the elk?”
He responds with a faint chuckle and it sends shivers down my spine, because that sound is familiar, too. “They finally chased them off the sandbar and to the east. Took ’em long enough, though. I almost had to turn around.”
Silence lingers for one . . . two . . . three beats.
And then . . . “So?”
One word with such heavy meaning.
“She’s in her room, getting settled. Jonah was a pain in the ass.”
Another chuckle. “When isn’t he?”
If my dad is angry with Agnes for bringing me to Alaska, he’s hiding it well.
“Well . . . I’ll let you go and say hello.” Agnes disappears into the kitchen.
I hold my breath as my heart races, listening to the floor creak and the footfalls of approaching boots.
And then suddenly I find myself face-to-face with my father.
He’s so much older now than he was in that tattered picture still tucked beneath my sweaters at home, and yet it’s like he stepped out of the frame and into real life. His wavy hair still hangs a touch too long, like something from the 1970s, but the brown has been mostly replaced by gray. Where his skin used to be taut and smooth, age has carved deep lines and crevices. He’s wearing the same outfit—jeans, hiking boots, and a layer of checkered flannel.
And he looks . . . healthy. Only now do I realize that I’d been preparing myself for a male version of Mrs. Hagler—brittle and hunched over, with an ashen complexion and a chest-rattling cough. But to look at him, you’d never know he has lung cancer.
Ten feet lingers between us and neither of us seems to be ready to make a move to close it.
“Hi . . .” I falter. I haven’t called him “Dad”—to him—since I was fourteen years old. Suddenly it feels awkward. I swallow my discomfort. “Hi.”
“Hello, Calla.” His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “Gosh, you’re all grown up now, aren’t you?”
Since the last time you saw me, twenty-four years ago? Yeah, I should hope so.
But I don’t feel like a twenty-six-year-old woman right now. Right now, I feel like an angry and hurt fourteen-year-old girl, brimming with insecurity and doubt, acknowledging that this man—the one not moving a muscle to close this last bit of distance—made a conscious decision to not be in my life.
I don’t know what to do with my hands, but I feel the urge to do something with them. I tuck them into my jeans pockets, and then pull them half out, only to remove them completely to ball them into fists. From there it’s a fold and tuck into my armpits, as I hug my arms around my chest.
He clears his throat. “How were your flights?”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
The bang of a metal door and the crank of a dial in the background reminds me that Agnes is still here.
“Are you hungry? I didn’t have a chance to go shopping—”
“No. I’m fine. I ate in Seattle.”
He nods slowly, his gaze studying the worn carpet beneath our feet. “How’s your mother?”
“Great.” No doubt on her third glass of wine and driving Simon insane as she paces circles around him in his chair, waiting to hear from me. I hesitate. “She’s shocked by the news.” I don’t think there’s any need to elaborate further.
“Yeah, well . . . it is what it is.” He reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “I’ll let you get settled, then. See you in the morning.” He turns and, just like that, he’s gone, the kitchen door letting out a loud groan to signal his exit.
I stare at the empty space where he stood.
See you in the morning?
Four planes, 5,500 kilometers, and twenty-four years later, and all I get from my father is two minutes of polite conversation and “see you in the morning”?
Disappointment threatens to bowl me over.
I sense eyes on me and look up from my daze to find Agnes there, her dark, worried gaze studying me. “Are you okay?”
I swallow away my emotion. “I’m fine.” My shaky voice betrays me.
“Wren isn’t the best at expressing himself. This is a lot for him to take in.”
I let out a breathy laugh, but all I feel is the urge to cry. “For him?” What about for me?
At least the smile she gives me is sympathetic. “I’ll move your clothes to the dryer for you. Go on and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”
I’m glad for the dismissal. I duck into my bedroom, pushing the door shut behind me, fighting against this prickly feeling that’s growing, the one that says I’ve made a terrible mistake, coming here.
I know the moment my phone has connected to the Wi-Fi because a rapid-fire succession of chirps sound, all text messages from my mother.
Have you made it to Anchorage yet?
Let me know when you get to your dad’s.
Are you there yet?
Okay, I checked your flights and saw there was a delay from Seattle into Anchorage. Call me as soon as you can.
I called Alaska Wild and they said you landed about fifteen minutes ago. Have you made it to your father’s?
My thumbs pause over the screen, deciding what to say. If I give her an honest rundown, she’ll insist on calling, and I don’t have the energy to dissect this disastrous reunion with her and Simon yet.
I made it. You were right about the small planes. I’m exhausted. I’ll call you tomorrow.
First thing, okay? We love you!
And remember to take lots of pics!
I quickly swap my clothes for my pajamas—one of a few clothes items that didn’t get wet, thankfully—and dart into the bathroom to wash up. My father and Agnes are nowhere to be found, which makes me think they’re outside, talking.
Shutting myself into my bedroom once again, I draw the curtain and crawl under the blankets with my phone, hoping to distract my dark thoughts.
I pull up the picture that Agnes took earlier. As horrifying as the flight in that thing was, we pose well together, the plane’s cheerful colors especially striking against the gloomy backdrop.
The only flaw is the asshole standing inside the frame.
Jonah’s back is to the camera, his clipboard is gripped in his hand, but his head is turned to showcase the fur around his face and the fact that there’s no mistaking it—he’s watching me. If it were any other guy, this picture might tell a different story, a romantic tale of a man drawn to a woman.
So not the case here.
I play around with the various photo editing tools, cropping, tweaking, and filtering, until I have a stunning snapshot for Instagram, sans angry bush pilot.
But my thumbs stall over the keyboard, unable to come up with a suitable caption. Diana’s voice preaches in my head. Be upbeat and inspirational! Bonus points for funny!
I feel the opposite of those things right now.
I always struggle with writing captions. Not Diana. Then again, most of her posts don’t sound like her, at least not my best friend Diana, the girl who shoves sweet potato fries into her mouth five at a time while she gripes about the lawyers at her firm.
How can I make anything about today upbeat or inspirat
ional?
How should I lie?
By keeping it superficial, that’s how. Simple and light and happy.
I quickly type in the first thing that comes to mind: “City girl in the Alaskan wild. Love my life!” I throw in a bunch of hashtags—another golden rule à la Diana—and hit “post.”
All the while I’m biting my lip against the worry that comes with my growing reality—that everyone would be happier had Agnes never made that phone call.
I wake to soft ocean waves lapping rhythmically at the shore, a peaceful sound courtesy of the white-noise app I use every night.
For a split second, I forget that I’m unemployed and single.
And in Alaska to meet a father who may be gravely ill but still doesn’t want me here.
Pushing the sleep mask off my face, I let my eyes adjust, focusing on the faint glow of daylight that creeps around the edge of the curtains. My muscles ache with weariness after yesterday’s long, grueling day of travel. Or maybe it’s this bed. My bed at home is a king—big enough that I can sprawl sideways and never have a limb dangling over the edge—and dressed in memory foam to mold to my body. This one has all the qualities of a Salvation Army cot by comparison.
The pillow’s not much better, hard and lumpy against my face. I must have punched it a dozen times last night, trying to soften it, before giving up.
I paw at the small wooden chair next to me until my fingers grasp my phone.
I groan. It’s not even six a.m. and I’m awake. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised—my internal clock thinks it’s ten.
I also shouldn’t be surprised that my mother has sent three more texts.
Are you awake yet?
How is your father doing? Does he look well enough?
Let me know when you’re awake!
She’s also tried calling.
I’m not ready to handle the Susan Barlow inquisition just yet. I mean, what would I even tell her? He looks healthy, meeting him was brief and awkward at best, and I don’t know why the hell I came?
There are also two messages from Simon.
Be patient with your mother.
Remember, you are a stranger to him, as he is a stranger to you.
“No shit, Simon,” I mutter. I’m sure there’s a deeper meaning behind his words. There always is. Simon is who I need to speak with right now. I’m desperately in need of one of his shrink pep talks. But I’m sure he’ll be prescription-pad-deep with real patients all morning, so my issues will have to wait.
If there’s one good thing about waking up this early, though, it’s that I’ve bought myself a few hours before I have to call home.
I sigh with satisfaction as I open up my Instagram to find more “likes” on my bush plane post than usual, and a dozen new followers. I can always count on Diana to leave a comment riddled with emojis and exclamation points, along with the usual comments from my friends and a few regular followers, the “Love your outfit!”, “Beautiful shot!”, “You’re so pretty!”, “I have that hat, too!” But there are a few other ones, too. People claiming how lucky I am to be in Alaska, how adventurous I am, and how they’ve always wanted to go.
These people—strangers—see a pretty, well-dressed girl embracing life. None of them know the real story—of why I’m here, of why I’m already thinking about going home. They can’t sense my loneliness, or the knot in my stomach. That’s the magic of social media, I guess. But there’s also an odd comfort to hiding behind the illusion. If I stare at myself beside the orange-and-yellow toy plane long enough, and reread the effervescent caption enough times, maybe I’ll start to buy what I’m selling, too.
I spend a few minutes answering people, until basic human needs win out.
Throwing off the heavy layers of blanket, I pull myself out of bed and quickly change into the outfit from yesterday, my skin prickling with gooseflesh from the crisp, cool air. It’s refreshing in comparison to the stifling summer heat and the stale air circulating through the vents back home.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee teases my senses as soon as I crack my bedroom door. To my delight, I find the basket of my clean clothes—folded—sitting by my feet. I push it aside for the moment and pad softly down the hall, that same conflicting mix of anxiety and excitement churning in the pit of my stomach that I had last night.
The living room is empty.
So is the kitchen.
“Hello?” I call out and wait.
Nothing. Not a rustle or a floorboard creak, or a tap running from his en-suite. It’s eerily quiet, the tick-tick-tick of the kitchen wall clock the only sound.
But my dad’s been here, I can see, by the not-quite-full pot of coffee and the used mug sitting next to it, spoon resting inside. I poke my head out the door to see if he’s having a cigarette. An old black Ford truck that’s in only slightly better condition than Agnes’s sits outside, but there’s no sign of him, or so much as the lingering scent of nicotine.
It’s not until I’ve stepped back inside that I notice the sheet of lined paper sitting on the counter, next to the fridge. My name is scrawled across the top in tidy all-cap print. Next to it is a stack of American twenty-dollar bills.
Didn’t know what you’d want to eat. Keys are in the truck. Meyer’s is five miles away. Go east to the end of the road, turn right, then make your 2nd left in town. The rain should hold off for the morning, if you want to go for a walk.
At the bottom of the page, there’s a scribbled-out “W,” as if he started writing his name and then decided against it. But he didn’t replace it with “Dad.”
I’m guessing he’s gone to work. Does he always leave for work this early?
Or was he avoiding me?
On impulse, my fingers graze the ceramic of his used mug. It’s still warm. Evidence that he was here, and not that long ago. He probably bolted the second he heard movement coming from my room, I realize with dismay.
How he got to work without his truck, I can’t guess. Maybe he got a ride from Agnes?
Regardless, it clearly didn’t cross his mind that I might not have my driver’s license.
“No, no, you go ahead to work, Dad. What? But we haven’t seen each other in twenty-four years? No biggie. I would never expect you to take an hour or two off. Seriously, I’ll take care of myself,” I mutter, trying to squash the sting in my chest.
I spend a few minutes rifling through the bare fridge and disorganized cupboards to learn that my father lives off coffee, cheap sugar-loaded peanut butter, and frozen macaroni-and-cheese dinners.
It’s a good thing I’m not hungry. What I am, though, is desperate for one of Simon’s frothy soy milk lattes. I don’t have a lot of vices, but my regular dose of caffeine in the morning is number one on a short list. On the rarest of occasions that I miss my fix—I could count those days on one hand—my head is throbbing by midday.
Five years ago, Simon surprised us at Christmas with a fancy barista machine that can rival Starbucks. I swear he sits at the breakfast bar every morning with his cup of Earl Grey and his Globe and Mail and listens for the first creak of steps from the third floor, just so he can hit Brew. By the time I’m staggering down to the kitchen half-asleep, he’s sliding a hot mug into my hands. To keep the Kraken at bay, he claims, though I’m pretty sure it has more to do with his secret fascination with the frother.
A pang of homesickness stirs inside me, but I push it aside, focusing on the matter at hand. This Meyer’s place doesn’t open for another two and a half hours. That means I have time to kill while I figure out how I’m going to get there so I can survive this day.
Beads of sweat trickle down my face as I pause for a gulp of water and to catch my breath, my gaze landing on my father’s mossy green home in the distance. I lasted twenty minutes in that eerily quiet, uncomfortable house with nothing but my tense thoughts and my laptop before my disquiet forc
ed me out. Throwing on my running gear and investigating my surroundings seemed like as good an excuse for escape as any.
I can see Agnes’s house in the distance, too. It’s like a mirror image of my father’s house—same size, same distance from the road, same wooden porch leading up to the door—except it’s white, and there’s no truck in the driveway. It was already gone when I ventured out. I assume she’s at work, too.
The mileage tracker on my phone claims I’ve run ten kilometers and I haven’t lost sight of either house this entire time. There’s been little to obstruct the view—fields of low bushes and a few scattered houses—and not another living soul to distract my focus.
Not a single person driving by, or riding a tractor, or walking their dog. Not even an echoing bark to carry through the stillness. It’s unsettling. I’m so used to the constant flow of people, the blasts of horns and roars of engines, and the clatter of construction. It’s white noise for me, and I’ve come to need it as I need the rhythmic waves of an app to sleep. Add the fact that I don’t have a working phone and I feel completely cut off from the world out here.
How can anyone find this peaceful?
“Ow!” I slap my thigh, leaving a squashed tiny corpse clinging to my skin where my palm made contact. The mosquitoes have been relentless all morning, swarming my damp, bare flesh.
A second and third pinch on my arms and calves gets me running once again. That seems to be the only way for some respite.
I keep a steady, solid pace along the road, the rhythmic pounding of my running shoes against dirt the only sound, until a low, familiar buzz catches my ear. A yellow charter plane climbs the sky above me, leveling off just below the thick layer of tufted clouds the color of sheep’s wool, the kind that promise rain at any moment. I can’t discern the logo on the side of the plane, but it could very well be an Alaska Wild charter.
It could very well be my dad.
Trying to get as far away from his daughter as possible.
Can he see me down here in my hot-pink running outfit and matching running shoes?
At least they used to be pink. Now they’re covered in mud splatter, thanks to the dirty roads. A week of this place and I might as well toss them onto the Davisville subway station tracks to join the others.