The Unsinkable Greta James(25)

“Too far,” he says, returning to his phone.

“No, I meant once I get there.”

He points a finger out the window and to the left. “There’s a city bus over there. It’ll drop you at the visitors’ center. Next one should be here any minute.”

When she turns around, Ben is standing there.

“Hi,” he says with a sheepish grin.

“Hi,” she says, then gestures over her shoulder at the window. “Mendenhall?”

“Thirteen point six miles long. Has retreated one point seven-five miles since 1929. Has a lake with its own ecosystem.” He stops when he sees her face. “Not what you were asking.”

“No,” she says. “I was just wondering if you’re going too.”

“Oh,” he says, his eyebrows rising above his glasses. He glances at the guy with the dreads, who is now cleaning his fingernails with the corner of a credit card, then back at Greta. “Yeah. I am.”

“By bike, dogsled, or kayak?”

He looks bewildered. “What?”

“Never mind. There’s a bus stop over there.”

They buy tickets at an ancient-looking machine, then wait on the corner beneath the gauzy rain as the bus pulls up. Inside, it smells like mildew, and Greta half-expects to find wads of gum tacked to the ceiling, like in the school buses she rode as a kid. The olive green seats are nearly filled, so there’s no choice but to share—they slide into the only empty one, first Greta, then Ben, who has to angle his long legs into the aisle.

As they bump along through downtown Juneau and out onto the highway that runs along the water, they’re unable to avoid leaning into each other every time there’s a turn. “Sorry,” Greta mutters at one point, gripping the back of the seat in front of them, but then they veer left and it’s Ben’s turn to apologize, and after a while, it all becomes a little funny.

They’re deposited in the gravel parking lot of a welcome center, near a sign that outlines various hikes to the glacier. It’s raining harder now, and though they’re both wearing waterproof jackets, they don’t have umbrellas. Rain drips off Greta’s eyelashes and the tip of her nose, and her shoes—a worn pair of Vans—are already taking in water.

Ben—who is of course wearing hiking boots—has produced a guidebook from his jacket pocket. He’s reading it intently even as the pages grow more and more damp.

“There’s a lookout point at the visitors’ center over there, or else you can hike down to the river for a closer view, or…” He glances up at Greta, and for an awkward beat, they stare at each other, trying to gauge whether they’re doing this together or not. The wind picks up, blowing the rain sideways, and Greta glances off toward the trailhead.

“Let’s hike,” she says, already starting to walk, and Ben tries to hide his surprise as he hurries after her, tucking the guidebook into his pocket.

It’s not long before the glacier comes into view, and they both stop. From a distance, it might be mistaken for a thick layer of snow, winding between two mountains like a great frozen river. But they’re close enough now to see the jagged places where the ice has broken off and the way its edges are tipped with an otherworldly shade of blue. Greta feels something inside her go still at the sight. It looks just like the photo on her mom’s calendar.

They gaze at it for a long time, as the rain comes down and the clouds drift overhead, as people stream past them, snapping photos and posing for selfies. On impulse, Greta reaches for her phone, but then decides against it. There’s no way a picture could capture this.

“Wow,” Ben says, turning to her. His hair is plastered to his head and he’s starting to shiver, but his eyes are bright. “We’re in Alaska.”

Greta can’t help smiling at the wonder in his voice. “We’re in Alaska.”

They continue down the muddy trail toward the lake that separates them from the glacier, the rain pinging off their jackets. In the distance, the brilliant orange of a kayak cuts through the mist, and a pair of hawks fly in low circles overhead.

“So,” Ben says as they inch their way down a small slope, their shoes—Ben’s perfectly functional, Greta’s wholly inadequate—slipping in the mud. “The rest of your crew wasn’t up for this?”

“My dad’s not feeling well,” she tells him, “and the others went to a cannery.”

“That sounds…” He searches for the right word. “Gross.”

Greta pauses to lift a muck-covered sneaker. “Unlike this.”

“They’re family friends? The others?”

“Yeah, I’ve known them all since I was a kid. My parents met Eleanor and Todd after their daughter bit my brother in kindergarten, and Mary and Davis have lived next door since I was in middle school.” She pushes back the branch of a tree, dousing them both with water, but they’re too soaked for it to matter. “My mom—she really loved them. This whole trip was her idea. She was always coming up with activities for the group: bowling and apple picking and Super Bowl parties, stuff like that. Every Christmas, she’d get everyone together and make us go caroling in the neighborhood.”

“Even your dad?”

“Even my dad,” Greta says with a smile. “He was always grumpy about it, but I think there was a part of him that secretly loved it. Or maybe it’s just that he loved my mom.” This last part comes out thickly, but Ben doesn’t seem to notice. “Besides, if it weren’t for her, he’d have just sat at home and watched baseball all the time.”