My Last Continent: A Novel(29)
He leans back slightly on the rock, propping himself up with his hands. “After she was gone, after Britt left, I’d be at the office until nine, ten, eleven. Until I was tired enough to know I could get to sleep in an empty apartment. Before I could register how quiet the place was, and how neat—no food on the floor, no toys in the bathtub, no picture books.” He angles his head toward mine, though his focus is on a pair of gentoos walking past a few feet away. “Just before I went to McMurdo, I called Britt. A week before Ally would’ve turned four. Britt had met her new husband by then, but they weren’t married yet. I told her I was thinking about her because of -Ally’s birthday—but the truth was, a part of me was worried that she’d forget. She’d been trying so hard to move on, to erase both of us from her life—it was as if we’d both disappeared.” He raises his eyes to mine. “And then I did disappear. I came down here.”
There’s nothing I can say, and I suddenly feel selfish for wanting all that I want for us, for even attempting to weigh my own desire against the depth of his pain.
I move one of my gloved hands over to touch his and lean against him. We watch a penguin raise her head, calling to her chicks, and they emerge from the crèche, wobbling toward her, ready to eat.
The weather has turned, the wind blasting tiny frozen chips of rain into our faces, our hats and jackets. We sit and watch the penguins for a few more minutes before packing up our supplies and heading back to camp.
THE NEXT MORNING, we’re packed and ready by the time Glenn radios with the Cormorant’s ETA. Keller and I are windblown and grubby; I feel the sweet, worn-out exhilaration that comes from the end of a research trip, as well as the nagging anxiety about what our data will ultimately reveal.
Keller has already taken a load of supplies to the landing site, and as I follow, approaching the bay where a Zodiac will appear for us at any moment, I feel the same irresistible pull toward Keller I always have, taut as ever. I slow as I get nearer, and the few feet left between us feels vast, wide open; in this space I see our entire relationship, or whatever this actually is—both clear and opaque, entirely comfortable, and completely whole.
An hour later, after a hot shower on board, I glimpse my face in the tiny mirror above the sink. I hardly recognize myself, and it’s not the sun-and wind-reddened skin or the dark circles under my eyes or the deepening of a few wrinkles. With a jolt I recall learning, in a long-ago biology class, about a section of the cerebral cortex that, when damaged, causes a condition known as face blindness. If you damage this part of the brain, you can no longer recognize friends, family members, or even your own face in the mirror—and this is how I feel, as though I’m looking at a stranger—someone with features just like mine, only relaxed, softened: someone in love, someone loved back, someone happy.
IN THE MUDROOM after the morning’s landing at Cuverville Island, I hang up the extra life preservers and get ready to signal the crew to bring up the remaining Zodiac. Then I notice there’s still one tag in the OFF SHIP position. I don’t recognize the name, but who it is doesn’t matter as much as the fact that we’ve left someone on shore.
“Shit,” I mutter and radio Glenn to tell him to wait up.
I turn the Zodiac back toward the landing, my shoulders tensing. It’s extremely rare for tourists to get left behind, and my mind flashes to Dennis. When I round the coast to the landing spot, the sight of a lone passenger standing there nearly stops me short.
“Hello?” I call out, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.
I bring the Zodiac closer and call out again. “Sir, I’m here to take you back to—”
Then the red-jacketed figure turns around, taking off his hat.
It’s Keller.
Often during the last week of this voyage, I’ve felt my chest constrict at odd times—when I see Keller across the dining room during meals, when we pass each other en route to some task, when I watch him take off across the water in a Zodiac full of passengers—tense with the knowledge that, while he’s here now, he’ll be gone soon enough. And now, as he heads toward me, I take a long, full breath.
He wades into the water. “Permission to come aboard?” he asks.
“What exactly are you doing?” I ask, glancing backward. We’re just out of sight of the ship.
“I knew you were on mudroom duty,” he says, “so I made up a fake tag to lure you out here.”
I shake my head, trying to look disapproving, yet I have to laugh at the sight of him bundled up in a red tourist’s jacket. “Are you trying to get fired during your first season? Stealing passenger clothing and going AWOL? Glenn’s going to have a fit.”
Keller steps into the boat. “Borrowed, not stolen. And as far as Glenn knows, you’re just picking up a wayward tourist.”
He puts an arm around my waist and holds me to him as he takes the helm and steers the boat out of the bay—heading not toward the ship but in the opposite direction, toward a maze of icebergs. Moments later, we’re surrounded by towers and turrets of ice.
Keller loosens his hold but keeps his arm around me. “I just wanted a few minutes,” he says.
He cuts the engine, and we drift.
After days of tourist chatter, of Glenn’s voice on the PA, of the steady rumbling of the ship, the silence fills my mind like water in a jar—the world goes smooth and clear, with nothing but the whisk of wind around the ice, the splash of a penguin entering the water, the gurgle of waves against the ice.