Up to This Pointe

by Jennifer Longo

  “Yes,” I say without thinking.

  I move closer to Aiden, standing beside Scott’s cross.

  I have taken a step.

  - - -

  “Good morning, ladies!” I sing as I sail into the lab the next morning bearing toast and tea.

  “Is it?” Vivian asks, deep in concentration with a sheet of data apparently confounding her.

  “You look rested!” Charlotte says.

  I smile. “I feel better. I feel good. There is lettuce in my future.”

  “Oh, that’s right—finally!”

  The whole station is eager to watch the arrival of the cargo plane, but the clouds have moved in and it is snowing. Not enough to cancel the flight, but with the windchill where it is, none of us are going out.

  At last, they arrive. The Winfly people. Cold blows in and reunions and laughter, and Charlotte is right—long lines for food. Aiden’s swamped in the kitchen. He waves and smiles. For dinner they’ve unpacked the freshies, and Charlotte and Vivian and I feast on huge bowls of lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, and mushrooms.

  “I’ve never been happier in my life.” Charlotte smiles.

  “I’ll be happy when you’re home and in a hospital,” I tell her. But secretly I’m already happy. Traveling the world, exploring with brave, adventurous Aiden, getting a time-out on San Francisco and Kate, and ballet and Owen and—Oh, see, I can’t even think about it without getting nervous and confused, and so I stop and concentrate on my lettuce.

  Vivian is working late on the confounding data, so I go to our room alone, turn on the laptop, and tell myself this is the last. One last date with Owen, then I’ll write him and tell him…what? That I think of him night and day and miss him so much, but this cute Irish guy is offering me an easy way for me to be lazy and put off living my life for a few more months?

  >>>Dear Harper,

  It is Past Romances Revealed date time. This, I assumed, would be the one that got me super jealous and made me hulk out.

  Instead it made me feel like I’m a total creep.

  Kate’s been nice enough to meet me for lunch a lot. As it turns out, she knows more about you than almost anyone. She spends most of the time crying, but I come prepared with tissues and bullet points to keep her on track as I barrage her with questions about you.

  Please tell me you’re responding to her emails.

  And there’s where my involvement with that ends.

  Back to our date.

  Kate says, and I think I believe her, that you’ve never had a boyfriend. Not that every single person needs to date—it’s no requirement and you’re kind of busy every second of every day, but…Kate says you two agreed. For ballet. Again, I totally get it. But did you ever want to go out with someone and purposely not do it? Did you ever wish you could?

  That’s the part that makes me sad. It’s just the Rogers/Winfrey in me that thinks you maybe would have had some fun at movies and beach parties and such. But I could be wrong, and if you never wanted to and didn’t miss it, then I am definitely wrong.

  So here’s my deal. I dated in high school/college:

  1. Mia Li

  2. Midori Tong

  Mia and I dated all of our junior and senior years. We went to prom twice. Then she went to school back east and never wrote once she got there. Harsh.

  Midori and I dated on and off during my first year at college. She majored in acting and was smart and funny, but there was this whole “free love” thing going on in the drama department.

  I’m making all this sound like it was them not me, but that’s because I’m telling the story.

  I dated the daughter of one of my dad’s work friends. Her name was Vivian Tam. She was really kind and very pretty. Smart. You can see I have a type. She went to do Peace Corps work and never came back from rural China. My mom still thinks we’re getting married.

  And that brings us up to date.

  You will notice all the surnames of past girlfriends are Chinese.

  I wondered for a while if I was a soulless robot incapable of true passion, because while the end of each relationship left me sad, there was never crying or Ryan Gosling–level devastation.

  I knew you for what, three months? Spent a total of maybe ten hours with you? I will go ahead and tell you what your jerk brother probably already has. There have been some Gosling moments—none involving standing in the middle of a street in the rain—but it hasn’t been fun.

  One piece of decent advice my mom did give me, and is maybe why I persist one-sided dating you, is this:

  Find someone smarter than you. Also, braver and stronger and better looking.

  Have I mentioned that I miss you?

  Vivian’s key in the door startles me.

  “Hey,” I say, and shut down the laptop. “What’s up?”

  “You tell me,” she says, surveying my red-rimmed eyes and pile of wadded-up Ryan Gosling tissues on the desk.

  “Get the numbers figured out?”

  She nods. “I am a genius.” She climbs into her flannels, gets in her bed, puts her earbuds in. Then she takes them out. “The grants look really good.”

  “Oh—they do?”

  “You’re a good writer. You use the stats really well. They’re not overwhelming, and they make effective points. You should think about it.”

  “What?”

  “Grant writing.”

  “For…?”

  “Like a job. It’s a skill. You can write grants for anything. Like funding teenagers to come to Antarctica.”

  “Anything?”

  She shrugs. “Corporations, people with money are just dying to fund things and write off the deduction. You’re good at it.”

  Anything.

  “Thanks. Thank you.”

  She puts her earbuds back in and lies down.

  Anything?

  “Vivian.”

  “What?”

  “Do you miss home? Is that why you listen to him?”

  Long silence.

  “It helps me sleep.”

  “Vivian.”

  “Harper.”

  “I miss home, too.”

  She pulls her headphone jack out, puts the iPod in the dock, and we listen to the stories and miss home, together.

  - - -

  Charlotte sleeps late, taking a rare day off work. Vivian and I, both worn out and ahead of schedule anyway, nonetheless work in the lab on our own. Also it’s a nice place to hide, as we’re not in the mood to deal with the two hundred new people just yet.

  “Being pregnant makes you really tired, I guess?” I muse.

  “The girls at my school seemed pretty drowsy,” Vivian says. “But most them were also always smoking weed, too, so maybe they were just high. Or bored.”

  “Jeez!” I laugh. “Teen pregnancy and drug use—Garrison doesn’t talk a lot about that happening in Lake Wobegon.”

  “That’s because he made Lake Wobegon up.” She sighs. “Don’t talk about him in the daylight or I won’t let you listen anymore.”

  I smile.

  Only hours till we’re home free, the second the plane leaves, we can unburden our secret to the doctor, and Charlotte will be in the clear.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’ll go grab lunch. What do you want?”

  “Really? Because I’d love more salad. Maybe mashed potatoes?”

  “That is a brilliant combination. Be right back!” I rush down the hall until I reach the gridlock at the kitchen.

  So many people. Too crowded.

  I make my way to the stairs, and Beard sidles up behind me. “What’s up, Scott?”

  “Not a whole bunch. How are you?” I take Charlotte’s lead in suffusing my words with cheer.

  “Claustrophobic. But they’re here to stay. Winfly left this morning.”

  I turn to face him.

  “Really? I thought it stays a day or two.”

  “Too cold. Unloaded, refueled, took off right after.”

  I’m smiling so hard my face hurts. Charlotte a
nd Vivian will be thrilled; I already am. My toes wiggle inside my shoes. No more baby secret. She can see the doctor. I get in the horrendously long food line.

  “What’re you so giddy about?” Beard frowns.

  “Just excited for salad!” I’m tempted to annoy the chef, go back into the kitchen, and grab Aiden for sheer happiness. I crane my neck to glimpse him, but still he’s nowhere to be seen.

  “Who’re you looking for?”

  Oh my gosh, Beard. You are so annoying. “No one.”

  “Not your boyfriend, I hope.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s good. Considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Long distance never works.”

  I turn to him, take the bait. “What?”

  His face changes.

  “What is it, Ben?”

  “This is the Irish kid we’re talking about, yes?”

  “Yes,” I sigh.

  Ben looks, for a moment, truly reluctant. But he says it anyway. “Do you know he left?”

  “Left where?”

  “On the Winfly plane. He’s gone.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “He is. I watched him get on the bus for the runway. Tagged his bags and everything.”

  “You are an ass.”

  “Kid, I’m just telling you what I saw….”

  “I’m not a kid.”

  “Harp.” Vivian, out of nowhere. “Forgot to ask for orange juice.” She looks from me to Beard. “What’s up?”

  “Scott’s upset because her boyfriend’s gone.”

  I can’t move. The salmon stream of people crowding around the dining hall entrance is pushing, moving in closer. Everything is suddenly very quiet. Someone, Vivian, takes my arm and guides me firmly away from the crowd, from Beard, up the stairs, to a door and knocks.

  - - -

  “Are you sure Ben’s not just messing around?” Vivian muses.

  I hadn’t thought of that. “How would we check?”

  “Go ask the kitchen staff! Look at the flight record!”

  “I’ll go,” Vivian offers. She’s back in three minutes. Shakes her head.

  “Jesus Christ,” Charlotte whispers. “Do all men suck today? What the hell?”

  “He wanted me to go with him,” I whisper. “When winter’s over. We were going together.”

  “He said that?” Vivian asks.

  I nod, mopping my face with a wad of tissues.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “That’s a dick move,” she says.

  “For sure.” Charlotte nods.

  Vivian’s sitting beside me on my bed, and all at once, as if I’ve completely lost control of my mind and limbs, I put my head in her lap and cry until I can’t breathe.

  And she lets me.

  She pets my short hair. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Harper, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t…I don’t even…” I choke. “Why would he leave without me? And early. Can he even do that? Doesn’t he need a compelling reason? I’m so stupid!”

  “Harper,” Charlotte says from Vivian’s bed. “Harper.”

  “What?”

  “You are not stupid. His reason is…he’s a little boy.”

  I pull myself together enough to sit up. “Oh, Vivian,” I choke-breathe. “Your sweater’s all cried on.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not one of my favorites.”

  “Harp, I didn’t realize you liked him that much,” Charlotte says.

  “I don’t think I do!” I wail. “Do I? It’s not even—Now what do I do?”

  “About what?”

  “I was going with him! I didn’t know where, but it was a direction to go, and not alone, with a person who knew me as just me, not…” I stop short of ballerina. “I knew where I was going. I’m lost again.”

  They both sit and look at me, bewildered.

  “Why not go home?”

  More tears.

  “Hey,” Vivian says over my sobs. “Off topic, but can we tell the doctor now?”

  Charlotte shakes her head.

  “Will you tell them soon?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s making me really nervous.”

  “Ugh, me too!” I shout, flopping back onto the bed. “That goddamned plane left hours ago. Say something! Go see the doctor.”

  “I’m waiting for just one small storm, make sure they don’t send a plane right back.”

  Vivian and I exchange a look. “You’ve got two days,” I say. “And it’d better storm. Otherwise we’re going there and telling them ourselves. I can’t take it anymore!”

  “Fine,” Charlotte crabs. “But I’m hungry. Can someone…”

  Vivian stands. “I’ll go,” she offers. “What would you like?”

  “I’ll go with,” I sniffle. “Might as well keep eating.”

  We take Charlotte’s grilled cheese order and fight through the crowds together.

  - - -

  I am searching for solitude in the wrong place. So many people, all excited to be on The Ice. The afternoon after Aiden leaves, I practically run to the top of Ob Hill, alone at last but breaking the rules. I’ve memorized the climb, and each time I’m faster.

  At the cross I watch the sky glow mostly gray-pink. That’s all it’s doing and it’s enough. Still beautiful. But freezing.

  “You okay?”

  I nod.

  “Don’t seem like it,” Shackleton says.

  “I’m such an idiot.”

  “Eh. I wouldn’t say that.”

  “He was so…honest.”

  Shackleton smiles. “Don’t know about that, either.”

  “Okay, well, no, not in retrospect.”

  “Listen. You’ve only got to trust one person to know where you belong. And clinging to the coattails of some dumb kid who stands by and angles for a sleepover while you drink yourself sick? And give me a break with the ‘Home is where you hang your hat’ nonsense. That will get you nowhere. Thank goodness he left.”

  I turn to him.

  “Seriously!” he says. “Listen. It takes patience and love and bravery to have a home. To not just run off to the next place when things are hard. Or frightening. Or lonely. I’m not saying you stay stuck in a place you don’t want to be if you can get out. And obviously I’m a huge fan of exploring this glorious planet. I’m speaking to the fact that nothing good can ever come from leaving something you love, simply for an asinine notion you’re not good enough for it. Or him. Or anyone. Make yourself good enough and don’t start with me. I get the body structure stuff. I’m saying, you know who you are. You do. The path is in front of you; be brave and take it. Now.”

  “I can’t see it.”

  “Don’t have to.”

  “How did Worsley navigate the boat to South Georgia?”

  “If I knew how, I would have done it myself and not risked his life—I’m the leader, not the captain. I was smart enough to hire the very best crew, each man the best at his job, and that is why they lived. They saved themselves.”

  We look up at the diamond dust of stars in the darkening sky.

  “Feels impossible.”

  “Harper Scott! There is an important distinction between difficult and impossible—one requires a huge amount of effort,” he says. “And the other requires more.”

  “I had a place to start,” I say. “Someone to go with. Maybe I’ll go anyway. Alone.”

  “No more relying on others for the good. Or God forbid blaming others for the bad. Forgive. Trust yourself.”

  I nod.

  He smiles.

  “Harper.”

  I nearly fall off the mountain.

  Vivian.

  “Talking to yourself is a clear sign of T3.”

  I nod.

  “Except here. Which is so cold you have to persuade yourself out loud not to freeze to death,” says Vivian.

  I nod.

  “Are you okay?”

 
; “Yeah. No.”

  Wind is picking up.

  “Some Indian tribes, when they’re in mourning, the women cut off their long hair. Sometimes they bury it with a person who died.”

  Tiny shards of ice swirl around us. I am hypnotized by the stars.

  “Harper. Are you in mourning?”

  I nod.

  “I’m homesick,” she says, and jumps lightly, trying to warm up. “I hate going to bed alone. I’m used to sharing with three of my sisters. I can’t sleep. So I listen to Garrison. I was glad to move into your room. I sleep a lot better.”

  I smile. “Me too.”

  “Where are you going? When it’s done?”

  I shrug.

  “You’re not going back to San Francisco?”

  “Can’t.”

  “What if Charlotte does have the baby on The Ice? Will it be Antarctican?”

  “It should be.”

  “Want to take a walk?”

  I nod.

  - - -

  We huddle together and make our way back down Ob Hill, past the power wires bending beneath the soft weight of snow, past work sheds and buildings to the front steps of the Chapel of the Snows.

  The sturdy white chapel is squat and symmetrical, featuring a tall steeple. We fall, pushed by the wind, into the unlocked door and climb out of our frozen parkas and mittens.

  The church is lit and warm. The vaulted, beamed ceiling is dark wood, the altar backlit (or would be, on a sunny day, probably) by a window with a stained glass image of the continent of Antarctica embedded with symbols of various religions. And a penguin. The seats are basic wooden, padded office chairs arranged in rows, big American and Antarctic flags on poles. I’m surprised it gets any business, what with all the scientists. I think a lot of the people who come here worship mostly at the Altar of Keeping Warm.

  Vivian is in a seat halfway back from the altar. I hug myself warm and walk down the aisle to sit beside her.

  “This thing burned down,” she says. “Twice.”

  “In all this ice and snow. Perfect.”

  “What do you miss most?” she asks me. “Like, when you lie in bed awake, thinking about your life before you came here, what comes up first and most often?”

  It is so hard to parse this excellent but dangerous question. Because as I mentally Rolodex through what makes me cry into my McMurdo pillow, it seems to all be wrapped in one all-encompassing ache.