My Last Continent: A Novel(45)

The wild kingdom had always appealed to me more than the human one, but it wasn’t until I watched the Adélies feeding their chicks that I saw my family reflected in their -behavior. The female Adélie makes her fluffy, charcoal--colored chicks chase her around for food; the chicks tumble over each other to eat, and one invariably goes hungrier than the other—but their mother wants to ensure that the stronger chick, the one most likely to survive and usher in a new generation, will get the most attention, the most food. To my own mother, I was the weaker chick: As soon as she realized I was more interested in grad school than in marriage, she focused her attention on my brother, who settled down with his college sweetheart, Cheryl; he remained in suburban St. Louis, where he played the role of faithful son year-round, no travel required. When I called home to tell my mother I’d gotten accepted to graduate school, she said, “Did you hear Cheryl’s pregnant again?” That was all.

I suspect she turned her attention to my brother because he’d replaced my father in so many ways, but he was also her only other chance at family—Mark and Cheryl, the happy couple, their three kids. Mark never bent or broke the rules; he didn’t find things he wasn’t supposed to, or, if he did, he never spoke of them. I’d been the one to force my mother to acknowledge what she hadn’t wanted to see, and I don’t think she ever forgave me for that.

It became clear six years ago, the last time I was home for the holidays. Helping my mother prepare Christmas dinner, I watched her put a place card for my father on the dining room table, even though he hadn’t been home for Christmas for the past two years. Earlier, she’d sent me out to the liquor store for the Scotch he liked because we were out. And when I scooped chopped onions into the vegetarian stuffing I was making, she let out a gasp, then insisted I take them out. “Your father hates onions, remember?” she said.

I looked down into the mixing bowl; the onions were still on top, and I sighed and began to spoon them out. She stood over my shoulder, watching, then pointed out a few bits of onion that had slipped down the side of the bowl.

“When are you going to stop?” I asked her. “Just because you make everything perfect doesn’t mean he’s going to magically appear.”

She stared at me with her flat gray eyes, then reached over and yanked the bowl away. “I’ll do it, then,” she said.

“Mom—”

She picked up a knife and began to scrape the rest of the onions from the cutting board into the garbage. “If this is your idea of help, I don’t need it,” she said and waved the knife in my direction, as if for emphasis. “Go on.”

I stood there for a moment, but she ignored me, so I left the kitchen and stepped out the back door, taking comfort in the cold.

Now I look out the library’s view window, doubting whether I’m equipped for what’s ahead—marriage, parenthood—when my relationship with Keller has so far been as precarious as the lives of the penguins. For us as well as them, everything depends on near-perfect timing, and as I stare at the ring he’s given me, as much as I want to bring our lives together, finally, for good, I wonder if such a future is possible for me, the weaker chick.





ONE YEAR BEFORE SHIPWRECK


Booth Island





We’ve spent the morning on Booth Island, taking tourists on walking tours, and now, as the passengers are finishing their lunches and taking early-afternoon naps on the Cormorant, Keller and I are wrapping up some census work for the Adélies. We’ve split up to cover the entire colony in the three hours we have, and I’ve lost sight of him as I study the birds in the rocky nests in front of me.

The project’s goal this season has been to do an Adélie count during the peak of their egg laying—which Thom and another APP researcher did two months earlier—and again toward the end, which Keller and I will do on our last voyage in another two months, just as the chicks are getting ready to fledge.

Yet now, in the middle of the breeding season, it’s not looking good—broken eggs are scattered around the colony, and skuas perch on the slopes above, waiting to swoop down upon errant or abandoned chicks.

I pause and stare at an Adélie sitting on an egg, knowing there’s no way the chick inside is going to make it. By the time we’re back for the final count, his parents will be heading north, and he won’t be old enough to fledge. Unable to fend for himself, he’ll die of starvation, or end up prey for skuas. A few yards away, two charcoal-fluffed chicks sit alone on a rock, shivering, squeaking for food. They won’t survive much longer if they don’t have a parent show up soon.

As a scientist, I’m not supposed to let this break my heart, but it does.

I linger for a moment, watching the chicks, wanting to pick them up and wrap them into the warmth of my parka and take them home.

I go back to the landing site to meet Keller. The beach is deserted, which doesn’t make sense; we’d arrived together in one Zodiac, and I hadn’t heard its engine start up again. Then again, you can’t hear much of anything over the wind and the sounds of the birds.

I feel a sharp beat of panic at the thought of how unimaginable it would be if anything were to happen to Keller. There’s been a certain distance between us on this trip, which isn’t entirely unusual—on these expeditions, we are little more than fellow crew members; we don’t have the luxury of time or space for much else. I often wish we were back at McMurdo, that we could’ve stayed there forever—gotten jobs in maintenance or in the galley, in the store or in the bar. Just to stay together.