by Katy Regnery
My phone dings in my hand as Silvia writes back to me:
SILVIA:
NO SPARK? Come on! He’s hot, tall, in good shape, and single! How can there be no spark? I don’t believe it.
My lips twitch as I think about this for a second.
I’m not blind. Cody’s not ugly. I might even go so far as to say his face is beautiful, and I’m certain he’s covered in muscle. Sled dog racers have to be fit. Biology won’t be thwarted, and nature programmed us to have intense attraction sensors and receptors. Is Cody physically attractive? Yes. Empirically.
But that said, he doesn’t look me in the eyes when he speaks, and even then, he barely has anything to say. His body language is awkward—head downcast and eyes averted, almost like he’s shrinking away from me. For God’s sake, he let me crawl around on the floor in a public place and didn’t even attempt to help me. And yes, his dogs are awesome, and my room is really cozy, which I appreciate, but I guess I just don’t feel a connection to him. I don’t have a bead on him at all. I don’t get him. He’s really...uneven.
JULIET:
He’s...awkward.
SILVIA:
Like how?
JULIET:
I can’t explain it. He’s just...not my type. One minute, I think he’s an asshole. The next, he seems nice enough...even really nice. I don’t know. I just don’t think I’m interested.
SILVIA:
You barely know him. Give him a chance.
JULIET:
Nah. Actually, I think it’s best if we’re just friends. Romance could complicate things.
SILVIA:
You’re living in the home of a hot Alaskan musher. Romance would only make things more awesome.
JULIET:
Nope. Not happening. Priorities, Sil.
SILVIA:
You are an enigma to me, girl.
JULIET:
I’m okay with that.
I chuckle softly, then put the phone back on the bedside table. When I slide out of bed and my feet hit the floor, I’m grateful for the plush area rug under my feet because I’m sure it’s cold as hell outside. The temperatures this time of year in Nome hit an average high of forty degrees and an average low of thirty-four. And it’s only going to get colder from here.
Throwing on my terrycloth bathrobe, I gather together some supplies that I shipped here: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and other toiletries that I’d like to keep in the bathroom, then make my way down the stairs to shower. As I pass by the kitchen, I notice that several large lobster pots are sitting on the now-cooling range, no doubt part of the dogs’ morning food preparation. A bright-orange sticky note on the coffeemaker catches my attention. It reads “HELP YOURSELF” in a messy, childlike scrawl.
As I shower, I wonder about Cody.
In my study, I’ll need to include a profile on Cody—who he is and how he got that way. So of course I’m interested to figure him out, so to speak. And yet again, I feel some level of guilt that he doesn’t know he’s my test subject.
“You’ll tell him when you’re ready,” I mutter, stepping out of the shower and toweling off. “You won’t leave without telling him.”
I mean, I wouldn’t do that, would I?
I couldn’t.
Or...could I?
I use my forearm to unfog the mirror and stare at myself in the glass.
If I used a pseudonym for Cody in my case study, would it be such a big deal if I didn’t tell him? I’d be using him for my fellowship, sure, but isn’t he using me to qualify for the Iditarod?
Yes, says my conscience, but he’s been upfront with you about that.
But, really, I counter, what would it hurt? What harm could it possibly do?
I mean, if I tell him I’m actually studying him, it could even harm the study; test subjects often change their behavior when they’re under the proverbial microscope. He’ll be more natural if I don’t tell him. And anyway, how would he find out? I highly doubt he reads the sort of veterinary medical journals in which my study would be published.
Shrugging into my bathrobe, I scurry back down the hallway, pouring myself a quick cup of strong black coffee en route to my room.
Usually I would wash and blow-dry my hair at night to get an early start in the morning, so I’m annoyed that it takes a while for me to get my long hair dried and braided. I’m missing out on time with the dogs, when I should be learning their morning routine.
But finally, an hour after I woke up, and bearing in mind it took ten minutes to find my parka and mittens in one of my unpacked boxes, I’m ready to go downstairs and help Cody.
I close the front door behind me, my boots crunching over the gravel driveway as I make my way to the kennel on the northeast side of Cody’s property. My stomach gurgles from the acidic coffee sloshing around in my empty stomach, and I briefly consider running back to the house to eat something that’ll soak it up but decide to wait. I’d like to see his feeding routine for a couple of dogs, at least. If I don’t join him now, I’ll miss everything until tomorrow.
He’s in the back row of doghouses at this point, already having fed about fifteen dogs. I can smell the dog’s breakfast, and from the pungent, gamey smell, I decide it’s a mix of defrosted meat, fish parts, kibble, vegetables, and warm water.
I greet the dogs in the first row by name as I pass them, careful not to make eye-contact as I pass by the animals in the second row still eating. They’re good dogs, with sweet, social personalities, but food is food, and dogs are protective of what’s theirs.
When I get to the last row, I call out Cody’s name as I approach him, but he doesn’t answer. That’s when I realize there are white wires running from his ears. He must be listening to music.
I don’t want to frighten him by sneaking up from behind, so I cut through two doghouses, deciding to face him head-on.
He’s scooping food into Bismarck’s dish when I stop in front of him.
And that’s when I see it—them—for the first time.
Initially, it just appears that he moves awkwardly, holding the dog bowls against an oil cloth bib over his chest, as he scoops food into the dish. But then I realize:
He’s scooping food by fisting a ladle with three fingers.
And he’s holding the bowl against his chest with his forearm, which leaves a severely disfigured hand in plain view.
It appears to have—three? No—two fingers. A thumb. And a pinky. Nothing else.
My lips part in surprise as I stare at his mutilated hands, and I’m frozen in place as my mind works to add this shocking and vital piece of information into what I already know about Cody Garrison.
He was honorably discharged from the military and placed on a permanent disability list because he’s missing half of his fingers, which he likely lost in combat.
He’s awkward, most likely, because he not only experienced severe trauma but was left forever damaged, mentally and physically.
And—fuck me for being a callous fucking bitch—he didn’t help me pick up my stuff in the airport yesterday because he would have had to take off his gloves, which were concealing his mangled hands.
Once-random puzzle pieces snap into place, and I understand more about Cody Garrison now than I’ve understood in the entire eleven days since we met online, and my heart—my racing heart—swells with sympathy, barely able to comprehend the magnitude of his suffering, of the horror this man has endured.
As I’ve been gawking at Cody’s hands, I haven’t noticed the fact that he’s stopped what he’s doing. Now that I do, I close my mouth, staring at my feet, furiously blinking my eyes to hold back my tears. The ladle slips out of his grasp, and I watch Bismarck’s food bowl drop to the ground, empty. The hollow clang of metal on gravel snaps me out of my trance.
Say something, Juliet. You have to say something.
I raise my gaze to Cody’s face to find he’s staring down at me with a look of such stark dread, such a terrible combination of shame and despair, it makes
my stomach flip over.
Combined with the up-close smells of the dogs’ morning meal and the way-too-strong coffee that has been assaulting my otherwise empty stomach, I can’t prevent what happens next:
Without any warning whatsoever, I throw up the coffee all over Cody’s boots.
When I realize what I’ve done, I gasp in embarrassment, then bolt back to the house like a spooked snow rabbit with a dozen Arctic wolves on its trail.
***
Cody
Stunned is a word.
Another is shocked.
Humiliated.
Dazed.
Put them all together, then multiply them by a thousand, and maybe a new word could be invented to describe the way I feel right this second.
She looked at my hands and—literally—got sick.
That’s a first, I think, chucking nervously. But it’s a raw, horrible, humorless sound, and Bismarck shifts his weight from side to side and whines.
“N-No,” I say softly, leaning down to pick up his bowl. “It’s...it’s okay, boy. I’m...okay.”
That’s a lie. I’m not.
My hands are shaking, but I somehow manage to pick up the ladle and scoop three cups of stew into Bismarck’s bowl before setting it carefully in front of him.
Topeka and Boston are last, and I fill their bowls on autopilot, barely saying a word to them. Then I put the ladle in the stew pot and push the food cart back toward the grub shack. I park the cart in the right-near corner of the shed, then move the massive stew pot to the countertop, covering it for later. I have an electric table saw where I should cut strips of frozen meat for the dogs to snack on during today’s workout, but I don’t trust myself to use heavy machinery right now.
I pull the feeding smock over my head, hang it on a peg, then lean back against the food preparation counter, trying to take a deep breath though I can’t seem to fill my lungs.
She looked at my hands and vomited.
I shove my hands into my parka pockets and clench my jaw, closing my eyes against the burn of unmanly tears. I haven’t cried in a long time, but fuck me, I’m hurting right now. There’s no other word for it.
I hurt.
I bow my head, but images I desperately try to keep at bay come rushing at me. The deafening sound of the explosion. The burned blood that spattered my face, splashing into my eyes and blinding me. The smell of charred flesh. And then—oh, God, then—the pain. The I-want-to-die levels of pain as I looked down and realized what had happened. The tourniquets wrapped around both of my wrists to staunch the blood, the sirens—
“Cody? Cody, are you out here?”
I open my eyes and reach up with the back of my hand to dry my tears. I’ll be damned if I let her see she made me cry.
“Cody? Cody!”
A massive lump sits in the middle of my throat, so I try to clear it, but it won’t budge. The sound is enough, however, to lead her to me.
She appears in the doorway of the shed, her body backlit by the bright sun behind her. I can’t see her face very well, but that could be because my vision was affected that terrible day, too. I don’t see half as well as I once did.
My tattered pride forces me to stand up a little straighter and lift my chin, but I betray myself by shoving my hand, damp with tears, back into my pocket, out of view.
She notices this and winces.
Yes, it’s ugly, I think. Fuck you.
I’m clamping my jaw together so tightly, it starts to ache, so I loosen it, and I’m finally able to take a deep breath. It’s audibly shaky, though. It’s ragged and rough. Like the rest of me.
“Cody,” she whispers, her voice breaking on my name.
My eyes finally adjust to the dim light, and I stare back at her, saying nothing. There’s nothing to say.
She’s going to ask me to take her back to the airport, and I will. I won’t say a word. I’ll sit in my car as she packs, I’ll drive her to the airport, and I’ll watch her walk inside. Then maybe, for the second time since I moved to Nome, I’ll take a seat at the Klondike and I’ll order a shot of whiskey. And I’ll keep ordering whiskey until I can’t smell her puke on my boots, until I can’t remember the horror on her face when she saw my hands.
“Cody,” she says, “I didn’t know.”
Maybe I should have told her.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” I manage to whisper. My voice is raspy and low, and the words I say make my eyes burn with fresh tears because they’re so goddamned pathetic. I can’t bear for her to see the depths of my sorrow, so I look down at my boots, now stained dark brown from her vomit.
“I would’ve,” she says.
“You would’ve...what?”
“I would’ve come,” she says. “I still would have come. I just wouldn’t have been so surprised the first time I...I...”
Her voice drifts off.
I wish I could feel comforted by her words. Hell, I wish I could believe them. But her actions speak louder than her words. She threw up on me when she saw my hands. There’s no way we can work together now.
“Yeah,” I say, still looking down. “Well, when you’re ready, I’ll drive you back.”
“Back...where?”
To the fucking airport! I want to scream at her. So you can go home to civilization where people have all their fingers and aren’t irreversibly damaged by what they’ve seen, by the terrible things that have happened to them. You don’t belong here with me!
“Airport,” I mutter, stepping forward to push past her and go back to the house where I can bury my face in Viola’s soft fur and grieve my broken dreams in the privacy of my bedroom.
I’m surprised when she places a palm flat on my chest, stopping me.
“Look at me,” she says softly.
I fucking can’t.
“Please, Cody,” she says, her voice gentle. “Please look at me.”
My jaw is tight, and my lips are pursed in misery when I raise my eyes to hers. But up close like this, so close to her, I can better see the expression on her face. It’s not horrified or repulsed. It’s sorry. It’s kind. It’s almost...tender.
Trust is like a vine sometimes, the tendrils reaching out to bridge one living thing to another. I feel a tiny tendril unfurl and bend toward her, reaching for her, wanting so desperately to be anchored to me and attached to her.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m so...” She shakes her head back and forth, her lips trembling and eyes full of tears as she speaks. “I’m so sorry.”
The lump is back. I try to gulp over it, but I can’t.
“I don’t know what happened to you, but I’m sorry for it.” She clears her throat. Her eyes are so glassy, I don’t know how she’s keeping her tears from falling. “And I am so...very...sorry...for my reaction earlier.” She reaches up and swipes at her eyes. “I don’t know what happened. The smell of the dogs’ food, and the coffee. My stomach was already upset, and I was so surprised—”
“They’re like claws,” I blurt out. “Unnatural. Repulsive.”
Her hand is still flush against my chest, and I don’t know if she realizes it—probably not, because I think it’s an involuntary, nervous thing—but she’s moving her fingers as she speaks. Gently, almost imperceptibly, she’s flexing and bending her knuckles, making the pads of her fingers press and flutter against my shirt with each small movement. I can feel the heat of her palm through two layers of cotton, and I imagine my heart straining outward as it beats, hoping she can feel it, hoping she knows that it’s there, that ugly people still have feelings.
“No,” she whispers, a tear final escaping her eye and sliding forlornly down her cheek. “They’re hands. Injured hands. Strange, but not repulsive.”
I take a deep breath and give her an “eat-shit” look because I can still smell her vomit.
“Cody. I didn’t...throw up...because of your hands.”
“Sure seemed that way.”
She drops her hand from my chest, and fuck me, I instantly miss
it.
“No. Not at all. I promise,” she says. “I—I’ve seen more blood and guts in my life than you can imagine. I’m not squeamish.”
“How have you seen blood and guts?”
“Working with my dad’s practice. Plus,” she says, “I’m a fourth-year veterinary student. I work at a vet clinic in Minneapolis every weekend.”
“What? You’re studying to be a doctor?”
I can’t help the way this comes out, half-disbelieving and half-mocking. But come on. You can’t be a vet and throw up every time you see a disfigurement.
“Yes.”
“Best get your gag-reflex under control, then.”
“I’m telling you...my—” She clears her throat, and two bright spots of hot pink color her cheeks. “—my reaction before had nothing to do with your hands. It was the dogs’—”
“—food and coffee on an empty stomach,” I finish for her, using her lame excuse.
“I swear,” she says, holding up the middle three fingers on her right hand like a girl scout. She glances at her hand and grimaces, like she’s embarrassed to have all her fingers because I don’t, then she lowers her hand. “Sorry.”
“For what? Having fingers?”
“I’m doing this all wrong,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”
“Can you scoot over? I’d like to leave,” I say. “I’ll drive you to the airport when you’re ready.”
But she doesn’t budge. She stands there blocking the doorway with her body, holding me captive in the grub shack when I’m getting pretty desperate to leave. My tears are gone now, thank God, but my dogs are expecting a workout and I need to start getting them harnessed. I don’t have any more time for this conversation.
“I’m not leaving,” she declares, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m staying.”
I stare at the challenge on her face for a second, then do something that probably shocks the hell out of both of us: I pull my hands from their hiding place in my pockets, and hold them up in front of her, not three inches from her face.