Girl in Ice(4)

“Not… about Andy.” I sat straighter, considered not telling him a thing. “Dad, have you ever heard of someone thawing out alive after being frozen?”

He glared at me, blurted, “Is this a joke?” Several nurses and residents glanced over at us.

“No,” I said softly, hoping he would mimic my tone. “Why would I joke about something like—”

“Is Wyatt losing his mind out there? God knows I would, after what happened with Andy and wintering over the year before. Asshole didn’t even come home for the funeral.”

“He couldn’t leave… the research, remember?”

He glared at me as if I were too stupid to guess some obvious truth. “I never liked him.” He tossed the box of caramels on a nearby table. “Who called who? He called you?”

“I called him, because he sent me an email about finding a girl frozen in the ice.” I leaned a little closer to him. “She woke up alive, Dad. She’s speaking, talking all the time, but Wyatt can’t understand what she’s saying, neither can Jeanne—”

“Jeanne? That tough old bird’s still out there?”

“Dad, listen. He sent me an audio clip. I can’t understand a word of it.”

“Even you can’t sort it out?”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.”

“First of all, I don’t buy this horseshit about thawing out alive, so let’s put that aside for now. Where did he say he found this girl?”

“Glacier 35A—”

“He’s hundreds of miles from anything. There is no indigenous population there. Never has been.”

I stared through the picture window at a little girl half pulling her elderly grandmother along the sidewalk; the girl looked about seven years old. She looked so small. “Dad, Wyatt’s not crazy. He’s a lot of things, but he’s not that.”

My father leaned forward in his chair. I glimpsed the old fire in him. “We only had his story, Val, you know? Anything could have happened out there.”

“He wants me to come up. Try to talk to the girl. He’ll pay my expenses, any loss of income. He wants me to come right away.”

“Greenland? The Arctic Circle? You?” he snorted. “You’ve never been out of Massachusetts.”

My voice got small. “I went on that trip to DC. In high school.”

“Oh, yes. DC. When you refused to get on the plane home? I had to leave work, drive down to pick you up, then drive you all the way back.”

I felt helpless and sad. What good did it do to tell him I’d been on a plane a few times since then—miserable and zonked out—but showing up for exactly one wedding and one funeral before scuttling back home like a hermit crab to its shell? No one had to remind me of my shortcomings, especially my father. I knew which twin had been the favorite, the most charismatic, charming, funny, brave.

But I was the one left alive.

“Dad, I’m just telling you what he said. Of course I can’t go. I’ve got school, and I’ve got…” I trailed off pitifully. What did I have? No husband, no children, just my father, and my rage-aholic ex, Matt. After our breakup and a few months of reveling in my conviction that I’d done the right thing, I’d begun to miss him and come frighteningly close to drunk dialing. But thanks to Facebook, a few taps of my wine-sodden fingers and there he was, hooked up with some hard-looking blonde with an endless forehead. Work was weird, too—a sabbatical freed me from upcoming fall and spring semesters to work on a project I had, over time, grown to care less and less about. Translating a series of books of Aramaic poetry had lit me up when I applied for the gig months before Andy’s death; now, the idea of spending six months dragging meaning from the texts—which tilted a bit heavy on love poems—felt tedious. I had a great sucking nothing keeping me here, except visits with my father, or coffees with Andy’s bereaved fiancée, Sasha, but I felt her pulling away too. Each time she saw me, she saw Andy, which only cut her to ribbons.

Dad sank deeper in his chair, his long-fingered hands forming a steeple against his forehead. “Something’s going on.”

“Yeah, well, clearly—”

“No, Val, listen to me.” His voice grew deep and gravelly. “Wyatt is up to something, and it has to do with your brother. I know it. I’m sure of it. He’s a wily son of a bitch.” He levered himself to his feet, his reedy length swaying back and forth until he grabbed his walker.

This resentment over Wyatt’s closeness with Andy was not a new theme with my dad. Sure, he’d been grateful when Andy’s prof had helped him navigate graduate school, keeping on him to finish assignments on time (Andy couldn’t have cared less what day it was), relentlessly mentoring him until, one fine day, Andy earned a doctorate in climate science. Everyone in the restaurant at his graduation dinner could feel their affection for each other. Teacher and student acted like father and son.

Which was the problem.

“Come on.” My father’s face grew rigid with determination. “We’re going for a walk.”

Hunched over his walker, he clomped his boxy orthotic shoes down the brightly lit hallway, his sharp shoulder blades slicing at his thin summer shirt like the wings of an extinct bird. I grabbed my purse and followed. At the door, he turned to me and—even though I wanted to—I couldn’t look away. For just a moment, all the rage, grief, and despair I couldn’t bear to feel was etched into his once-handsome face. His son, his heart—the boy who melted him in ways I never could—had taken his own life, and only I was left.