The Simple Wild: A Novel(8)

“Oh.” I take a seat on the top of the steps, suddenly feeling wobbly-legged. Simon eases down onto the step beside me.

“I know things have been difficult between the two of you for some time, but I thought you’d like to know.”

Difficult? More like nonexistent.

There’s a long pause. “I only know because I found a copy of the test results in his pocket when I went to do his laundry. He doesn’t know that I’m calling you.”

I hear what she doesn’t say: He wasn’t going to tell me that he has cancer. “So . . . how bad is it?”

“I’m not sure, but the doctors have recommended a treatment plan.” She has a reedy voice and a slight accent that reminds me of my father’s, from what I remember of it.

I don’t know what else to say except, “Okay. Well . . . I’m sure the doctors know what they’re doing. Thanks for calling and letting me know—”

“Why don’t you come here for a visit?”

My mouth drops open. “Here? What, you mean . . . to Alaska?”

“Yes. Soon. Before treatment starts. We’ll pay for your ticket, if that’s what it would take. It’s high season right now, but I found an available seat to Anchorage for this Sunday.”

“This Sunday?” As in three days from now?

“Jonah could bring you the rest of the way.”

“I’m sorry, who’s Jonah?” My head is spinning.

“Oh.” Her laughter is soft and melodic in my ear. “Sorry. He’s our best pilot. He’d make sure you got here safe and sound.”

Our best pilot, I note. We’ll pay for your ticket. She said she was a friend, but I’m gathering that Agnes is more than that.

“And Wren would love to see you.”

I hesitate. “He told you that?”

“He doesn’t have to.” She sighs. “Your father . . . he’s a complicated man, but he does love you. And he has many regrets.”

Maybe this Agnes woman is okay with all the things Wren Fletcher doesn’t say and do, but I’m not. “I’m sorry. I can’t just hop on a plane and come to Alaska . . .” My words drift. Actually, as of this moment, I have no job or other major commitments. And as far as Corey is concerned, I could probably fly to Alaska and come back without him ever being the wiser.

I could just leave, but that’s beside the point.

“I know this is a lot to take in. Please, think about it. You’d get the chance to know Wren. I think you’d really like him.” Her voice has grown husky. She clears it. “Do you have something to write with?”

“Uh . . . yeah.” I pluck the pen from the breast pocket of Simon’s button-down shirt—I can always count on him to have one at the ready—and jot down her phone number on the back of his hand, though it’s likely already on the call display. She also gives me her email address.

I’m in a daze when I hang up with her. “He has cancer.”

“I gathered it was something along those lines.” Simon puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. “And this woman who called wants you to visit him.”

“Agnes. Yeah. She wants me to visit him. He doesn’t want me there. He wasn’t even going to tell me. He was just going to go and die, without giving me any warning.” My voice cracks. This man who I don’t even know still wounds me so deeply.

“And how does that make you feel?”

“How do you think that makes me feel!” I snap, tears threatening.

Simon remains calm and collected. He’s used to being yelled at for his prodding questions—by my mom and me, and by his patients. “Do you want to fly to Alaska to meet your father?”

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow.

I sigh with exasperation. “I don’t know!”

What am I supposed to do with this information? How am I supposed to feel about possibly losing a person who has only ever hurt me?

We sit quietly and watch as Tim and Sid venture out from beneath the car, their humps bobbing with their steps as they head for the bins at the end of our driveway, standing on their hind legs to paw at the blue one, attempting to knock it over with their weight. They chatter back and forth to each other, only bothering with an occasional glance at their audience.

I sigh. “He’s never made an effort to get to know me. Why should I bother making the effort now?”

“Would there be a better time?”

That’s Simon. Always answering a question with another question.

“Let me ask you this: Do you think you could gain something from going to Alaska?”

“Besides a picture with my mom’s sperm donor?”

Simon grimaces his disapproval at my poor attempt at humor.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I guess I just have low expectations for a man who hasn’t cared enough to meet his daughter once in twenty--four years.” He was supposed to come to Toronto. He called me four months before my eighth-grade graduation, to say that he was coming for it. I started crying the moment I hung up. All the anger and resentment that’d been building up over the years, for all the birthdays and holidays he’d missed, disintegrated instantly. And I truly believed that he’d be there, that he’d be sitting in the audience with a proud grin on his face. I believed it, right up until he called, two days before the ceremony, to say that “something” came up. An emergency at work. He wouldn’t elaborate.