The Simple Wild: A Novel(42)

Maybe this is Jonah’s way of apologizing for being a complete asshole. “Well, that’s something. I guess,” I murmur. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than this for me to forgive him.



“You’re virtually strangers, Calla.” Simon pauses to take a sip of his afternoon tea—in his favorite Wedgwood china cup, no doubt; the guy is so predictable—before I hear him set it down on his metal office desk. “It’s going to take time for both of you to get comfortable and figure each other out.”

The kitchen chair creaks as I lean forward to sop up the last of the egg yolk with a piece of toast and shove it into my mouth. “I’m only here for a week.” Can I even begin to understand my father in that time?

“That’s a self-imposed deadline. You can push your return flight and stay longer. That’s why we paid more for this ticket. So you have options.”

“I thought it was so I had the option of flying back earlier, if this trip was a disaster.” Of course Simon would see it another way. “With how things are going right now, a week already feels like a death sentence.”

“You knew this wasn’t going to be easy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s going to be impossible if he runs every time I come into the room.”

“Is he running? Or are you chasing him away?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“You’re holding onto a lot of resentment, Calla. Years of it, that you’ve used to shield your pain. You don’t hide it well and Wren isn’t the type to confront it. If you two are going to reconnect, and in such a short amount of time, you need to find a way to communicate, even if it’s around the proverbial elephant. At least for the time being.”

“I’m trying, but . . . it’s hard.” How do you form a relationship with someone without forgiving them first?

“Just remember . . . you can’t control him, but you can control how you act toward him.”

I groan inwardly. Why do Simon’s soft words seem to carry the same message as the blunt-force-trauma version that Jonah delivered earlier?

“Has Wren mentioned anything about the prognosis or treatment options? Anything at all?” Mom interrupts, her voice sounding distant over the speakerphone. She’s pacing around his office. I swear, it’s one of her favorite pastimes. Simon complains that she’s worn a circular track in his grandmother’s Persian rug.

“We talked for, like, two minutes last night, Mom,” I remind her. “But Agnes said he’s going to Anchorage next week to start chemo and radiation. And he doesn’t look sick at all.”

“That’s good. They must have caught it early.” There’s no mistaking the relief in my mom’s voice. Simon must notice it, too. How does that make him feel? Oh my God, I’m starting to sound like my British shrink stepfather.

A bell dings, signaling that the door to Simon’s practice was just opened. “That’s my next patient. Call me tonight if you’d like to discuss this further.”

“Thanks, Simon.”

“But not between ten and eleven p.m. my time, if you can help it. There’s a BBC documentary on . . .”

I tune him out, my mind straying to thoughts of how I’m going to fill the rest of my day, waiting for dinner at Agnes’s. I could head over to Alaska Wild, to get a better look at the planes and people who my father prioritized over his own daughter. But then I’d be risking another uncomfortable two-minute conversation with him. And, worse, a run-in with Jonah.

Thank God I brought my computer.

“Don’t hang up, Calla,” my mom calls out. There’s a flurry of muffled sounds and clicks, and then her soft and melodic voice is in my ear as she leaves Simon’s office with a receiver. “Hey.”

“Did you get the pictures I sent? They should have come through by now.”

“Let me see . . . Yes! Here they are. Oh my God! Is that what you flew to Bangor in?”

“I almost puked.”

“But you can’t even fit luggage in there!”

“Which is why all my things are on a cargo flight from Anchorage today.”

“Why on earth would they come to get you in that?”

“Because Jonah is a jackass and he pretty much hates that I’m breathing his precious Alaskan air.” I fill her in on the day’s events, Jonah related, earning numerous gasps and groans.

“But you have a dairy allergy! That’s not being high maintenance. That’s a legitimate medical condition,” she snaps.

“Right?” I sink into a creaky kitchen chair, feeling vindicated. Finally, someone else is reasonably annoyed with Jonah’s antics. I can always count on my mother for that. “He is the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”

“Why does Wren keep him around?”

“Because I’m in the Upside Down, where everyone likes him.” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see it.

“Just avoid him. I don’t want him making your time there harder than it already is.”

“I’m trying to, but it feels like every time I round a corner, that bushy face is there. And he lives next door! I can’t get away from him.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“Whatever.” I release a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to talk about Jonah anymore.”