by K. A. Tucker
Thanks to Mom and Simon, I want to say.
Despite the fact that I can’t count the number of nights that I cried myself to sleep wondering why he didn’t care.
I’m still having trouble processing this. Why would anyone get involved with a person in the first place when they’re so sure it’s doomed to fail? Why get married and bring a human being into the world with them?
And, if you’re going to do it, why not at least try to make it work? I mean, I know that getting pregnant with me was an accident, but still.
My dad swaps the can for his plate and, setting it on his lap, begins cutting into his chicken. “So, how are things at home?”
“Uh . . . Fine. Good.” I stumble over my words, startled by how quickly my father has steered the conversation out of the trenches of the past to safe, smooth territory.
“Your mom? Your stepdad? What’s his name again?”
“Simon.”
He nods to himself. “What is he again? A doctor?”
“Psychiatrist.” I push around a piece of chicken with my fork, not hungry anymore. Finally I force myself to take a bite, and silently marvel at how tender and juicy it is.
“I knew it was something like that. Smart guy.”
“Super smart. And patient. It’s annoying sometimes, how patient he is.”
Dad’s face cracks a smile. One that fades quickly. “But he’s been good to you and your mom?”
“He’s been the best.” He’s been a real father to me.
And he would remind me to quiet that voice that fuels this lingering bitterness right about now, and remember why I came to Alaska.
But does he know about these phone calls that happened so long ago? He pays the bills. I’ve seen him combing through statements. Would he have figured out that it wasn’t me calling Alaska, but my mother?
My anger with her flares suddenly. Does she realize how good Simon is to her? That she might not deserve him?
My dad chews unhurriedly. Mom said he’s a slow eater. I wonder if that’s the case now, or if he’s using it as an excuse to avoid further conversation.
Eventually, he swallows. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to since we last talked.”
“You want to know about the last twelve years of my life?” I don’t mean it to come out sounding snarky.
He shrugs. “Unless you’ve got big plans tonight.”
“No, I can’t say I do.” Smoothing on a face mask and killing hours on social media until I fall asleep.
“Well then, I guess we’ve got time . . .” He lifts his can in the air and winks. “And Jonah’s beer.”
“Why are you smiling like that?”
My dad shakes his head, his smile growing wider. He’s long since finished his dinner and is leaning against a porch post about ten feet away from me, a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Nothing. It’s just, listening to you talk, it reminds me of all those phone calls over the years.”
I grin sheepishly. “You mean when I wouldn’t shut up?”
He chuckles. “Sometimes you’d be on such a roll that I’d have to put the phone down and walk away if I needed a restroom break. I’d come back a minute later and you’d still be talking away, none the wiser.”
“Are you saying you need to use the bathroom now?”
He eases open the porch screen door and empties the last dribs of his beer on the grass. We’ve shared two cans apiece, the remnants of Jonah’s six-pack that my dad brought back with him. “Actually, I think I’m going to hit the hay. I’m wiped.”
Tension eases back into my spine. I’d lost it for a time there—busy filling my dad in on my degree, my job, my recent layoff, Diana and the website, even Corey, who I’d given no thought to since leaving Toronto. Somewhere along the line, I forgot about reality. Now it comes back with a vengeance.
Is he tired because he’s had a long day?
Or because of the cancer inside his body, slowly leaching away his energy? Because, despite any bitterness that may linger beneath the surface, I don’t want my father to die.
I hesitate. “Agnes said you were starting treatment next week?”
His head bobs, the previous humor from his face fading.
“So . . . how bad is it?”
“It’s lung cancer, Calla. It’s never gonna be good,” he says quietly. “But I’ve waited twenty-four years to see you. I don’t want to think about that until next week. You’re here now. That’s all I want to be thinking about. Okay?”
I feel the smile curve my lips, unbidden. “Okay.” It’s the first time he’s made any indication that he’s happy I came.
A car door slams, pulling our attention toward the direction of Jonah’s house, just as an engine comes to life. Tires spit gravel as they spin away a moment later. “I think he might have another flight.”
“Now?” I check my phone. It’s nine p.m.
“Gotta take advantage of the daylight while we’ve got it. These guys work long days in the summer. They’re taking off at six in the morning and still in the air at midnight some nights.”
I grimace. “Where’s he going?”
“You know? I can’t remember him sayin’ anything about going anywhere tonight. But Jonah runs his own schedule most of the time.” He snorts. “Who knows. Maybe he’s on the hunt for another six-pack.”
I force thoughts of my dad’s health from my mind for the moment. “Good. Maybe we can drink that one, too.”
Dad chuckles. It sounds as smooth as it did over the phone for all those years. Warmth spreads through my chest, appreciating that I’m now finally hearing it in person.
“How do you deal with him every day? He’s . . . insufferable.” That’s Simon’s favorite word. Wait until I tell him I used it in a sentence.
“Who, Jonah?” Dad wanders over to the far side of the porch, to peer at the butter-yellow house, out of my view. “I still remember the day he showed up at Wild ten years ago. He was this skinny twenty-one-year-old kid from Vegas, full of piss and vinegar and desperate to fly planes. Damn good at it, too.”
That would make Jonah thirty-one, and only five years older than me. “He said he grew up in Anchorage.”
“He did. He resented his dad for taking them away. Came back as soon as he had the chance. I doubt he’ll ever leave again.”
Just like my dad won’t ever leave, I guess. But why? What hold does Alaska have on them? What makes this place worth giving everything else up?
“He may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s the best bush pilot out there. Possibly one of the craziest, too, but we’re all wired that way to some degree. Some more than others.”
“He’s definitely embraced the whole crazy bush man look. Don’t know if I agree with you about the best bush pilot part yet.”
“The Cub was a bit too small for you.” My dad nods, as if he’s already heard the story.
“He flew that tiny plane intentionally, to scare me. I thought I was going to die.”
“Not with Jonah flying,” he says with such certainty. “He might take risks that even I don’t have the guts to take, but he’s always smart about it.”
Like flying in to save Ethel’s family, I’m guessing. “I almost puked. Had a bag ready and everything.”
My dad smirks. “Well, that would have served him right if you had. You know, this one time, he was flying a group of school kids home from a wrestling meet and two of them got sick on the way. He was the color of pea soup when he climbed out of that plane. He can’t handle the sound of it happening.”
“I wish I did puke now,” I admit, through a sip of beer. Though that may have made landing the plane difficult for him.
Dad’s soft chuckle tickles my ear as he butts his cigarette out in the empty beer can. “I’ll talk to him. Make sure he eases up on you. But he’s not so bad, once you get to know him.
You might even find you like him.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
Dad wanders toward the door, collecting the empty dinner plates on his way. “There’s a bunch of movies in the cabinet beside the TV, in case you’re looking for something to watch.”
“I’ll probably just hang out here for a while and then go to bed, too. I’m still jet-lagged. But thanks.”
His gaze drifts over the porch. “Susan used to sit out here every night during the summer. ’Course, it was a lot nicer back then. She had a bunch of potted flowers and this big wicker thing.” He smiles as he reminisces. “She’d curl up with a blanket, like you are. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon.”
“She does that at home, too. We have a little sun porch off the back of the house. It’s a quarter of this size, but . . . it’s nice. Cozy.”
“Is she still growing her flowers and all that stuff?”
I chuckle. “Our house is a jungle of thorns and petals. She owns a flower shop now, too. It’s doing well.”
“That sounds right up her alley.” He purses his lips together and then nods with satisfaction. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Well . . . ’Night, Calla.”
“’Night.” I feel the urge to tack on “Dad” at the end, but something holds me back.
“Oh, and don’t mind Jonah. He likes to get under people’s skin.” He slides the door softly behind him, leaving me to myself.
“Like a damn parasite,” I murmur.
And yet, if I’m not mistaken, that parasite helped force a lot of truth to the surface tonight.
Truth that was needed if I have any hope of reconnecting with my father.
Chapter 11
I cringe at the acrid taste of sweat and bug spray on my lips as I amble up my dad’s driveway, my heart pounding from a rigorous run. So far today feels much like a repeat of yesterday—another unintentional early rise, another overcast sky, another quiet, lifeless house, save for the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee, evidence that my dad was there, but gone by the time I poked my head out.
Except today, things don’t feel as hopeless between Wren Fletcher and me as they did yesterday.
On the flip side, I haven’t begun to wrap my mind around how I feel about these phone calls between him and my mother. Angry, on Simon’s behalf, that’s for certain. Though something tells me Simon knows more than even he let on that night on the porch steps.
What if those calls hadn’t started? What if the feelings between my parents hadn’t resurfaced? Would my father still have decided that it was best for everyone if he distanced himself?
My gaze drifts to the green Ford Escape next door as I climb the porch steps, panting. I didn’t hear it roll in last night. Jonah must have come home after I went to bed.
I push through the door into the kitchen.
And yelp at the hulkish figure inside, pouring a cup of coffee into a travel mug.
“What are you doing in here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jonah slides the half-full pot back on the burner. He’s dressed much the same as yesterday, swapping the black shirt for charcoal gray, the cotton material clinging nicely to his shoulders. His jeans are still too loose. The same ratty USAF baseball cap keeps his straggly blond hair off his face.
“You don’t have a coffeemaker at your place?”
“Wren brews a full pot every morning for the both of us. That’s our routine. I always come over to fill up my mug.”
I frown. “Did you come in here yesterday, too?”
“Yup.” He turns and leans against the counter, settling his pretty blue eyes on me. “You were in the shower.” Did he trim his beard? It’s still long and full, but it seems less mangy than yesterday. Or . . . I don’t know. Something’s different about him. He looks a bit less wild and unappealing.
Bringing the mug to his lips, he takes a long sip, his gaze flickering over my sweat-coated body—clad in the pink shorts and tank top that he claimed leaves nothing to the imagination—before settling on my face. “Did your bug spray work?”
I can’t read him, not even a little bit, and that’s unsettling. “Seemed to,” I murmur, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Which is probably his goal. Setting my jaw stubbornly, I stroll over to the kitchen sink.
“Agnes warned you about the water, right?”
My hand freezes mid-swipe over my lips. “What do you mean? Is it contaminated?” I haven’t intentionally drunk any, but I’ve been brushing my teeth with it.
“No, it’s clean. But we’re on a hauled water system out here. A truck comes out once a week to fill that big tank outside. If you use it up before the next truck comes, you’re shit outta luck.”
“Does that happen a lot? Running out of water?”
“Not to people who don’t leave the tap on while they wash up,” he says pointedly, as water gushes freely from the faucet.
I slap a hand down to shut it off. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem.” A pause. “Those bites look nasty.”
I can feel his gaze on the backs of my thighs, on the angry, itchy red welts that cropped up overnight.
My cheeks begin to flush. “I’ll be fine.”
The floor creaks with his heavy footfalls as he heads for the door. “Have fun playing dress-up, or whatever it is you do all day.”
And . . . I guess he’s back to being an ass. Too bad, because for a while there, I thought I might be able to like this guy.
“Have fun annoying people, or whatever it is you do all day.”
His deep chuckle vibrates in my chest as he disappears out the door. I watch through the window as he strolls confidently across the lawn toward his SUV, as if without a care in the world.
“Bastard,” I mutter. At least the animosity that I felt for him yesterday has dulled considerably. Now I’m just mildly aggravated. I pour half a mug of coffee for myself and then, with great reluctance, reach into the fridge for the liquid chalk to top up the other half.
I frown at the fresh carton of Silk sitting front and center on the shelf.
That wasn’t there earlier this morning.
Did Jonah leave that in there?
I poke my head out the door, in time to see his Escape pulling out of his driveway and onto the main road, speeding off toward Alaska Wild.
What did he do, go out last night and buy it for me?
A quick Google search on my phone shows one other grocery store in town. I guess they must carry it. But still, for Jonah to even consider doing that for me . . .
I fill the rest of my mug, diluting the otherwise bitter taste, and then take a long, savoring sip.
It’s not Simon’s latte, but I can live with this, I decide with a small, satisfied smile.
“Thanks for the ride.” I push the taxicab door shut, my gaze wandering over the small assembly of grounds crew workers ahead, their orange vests fluttering in the cool breeze as they wheel skids loaded with packages toward the planes.
“Anytime. But you know it’s not that far to walk from your place,” Michael says as he lights up a cigarette.
“It’s closer than I thought,” I admit. Still, it would take me more than a half hour. I watch a curl of smoke sail upward. “You shouldn’t smoke.” At least he doesn’t do it while I’m in the car, or I’d have to find myself another cab driver.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ve tried quitting.” He dismisses it in an apathetic tone.
“Keep trying until it sticks. For your kids’ sake.” He talks about them enough that I know he cares, despite their living situation.
The car begins rolling away, Michael’s arm dangling out the window, the cigarette burning as he casts a lazy salute my way.
With a heavy sigh, I push through the front doors of Alaska Wild, an unexpected rash of butterflies suddenly stirring in my stomach. When I was youn
g, I used to picture my dad’s company inside one of those cavernous architectural-masterpiece airport terminals like the ones I saw in TV movies, with hordes of people rushing like little black ants in all directions, frantic to catch their next flight, suitcases dragging behind them. I asked my mom once if that’s what Alaska Wild looked like. She laughed. “No, Calla. It’s not like that at all. It’s rather simple.”
So I tried to reset my imagination to picture a “simple” airport with planes and pilots and my father at the helm. I couldn’t.
Now, though, standing inside the spacious lobby, taking in the faux wood-panel walls, the dark gray linoleum floor layered with aged forest-green runners that wear scores of dusty boot prints; the panels of lights above, checkered amongst a tile ceiling; and the only window, a large one that overlooks the runway, I finally understand what she meant.
It looks like a mechanic’s shop my mother and I ended up at once, after a strange whistling sound coming from her engine interrupted our weekend wine-touring trip to Niagara. Even the water cooler in the corner, with its sad little paper cone cups jammed into a dispenser beside it, is eerily similar.
At least it doesn’t smell like motor oil in here, though. I can’t describe the scent. A faint waft of brewed coffee and damp air, perhaps.
Rows of navy-blue chairs—the typical uncomfortable airport seats—fill the open space. There’s enough to accommodate thirty people, by my eyeball calculation. All of them are empty at the moment.
A thin brunette with rosy cheeks sits at the far end, behind one of two computers at the customer desk. Her round hawkish gaze is doing a once-over of me. When she sees that I’ve noticed her, she grins. “You must be Calla.” Her voice—a distinctive American accent that I can’t place except to say she’s not from Alaska—seems to echo through the open space.
I’m not sure how to take that.