Under the Northern Lights(42)

He held out his hand to me like he’d done when we’d first met. “I really enjoy your friendship, Mallory, and I’d love it if we could keep . . . what we have.”

Confusion passed over his face after he said that, and I knew he looked that way because he wasn’t entirely sure just what we had. All he seemed to know was that, like me, he didn’t want what was between us to end. That gave me hope, because I was sure, in the deepest recesses of my soul, that what we had went deeper than friendship, and if he wanted to keep that alive, then a part of him wanted to live again, wanted to love again. His light hadn’t entirely been extinguished yet, and as I shook his hand, I could see the smallest kernel of a miracle begin to grow.





Chapter Fifteen

It was difficult to be around Michael after that day. Not because of what he’d said, not because of his thoughts on humanity, but because . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. I also couldn’t stop thinking about his wife, a woman he was still in love with, bound to for eternity by guilt and regret. I couldn’t believe that his wife would want him to be this closed-off person, though. She’d want him to live, to be happy, to love those around him, not to hide away from everyone and everything. Hearing Michael’s views broke my heart, so I had to believe it would have broken hers too.

It made me miss my sister even more. I wished I could talk to her, ask her advice. She occasionally worked with veterans and had experience dealing with PTSD, and that seemed to me to be the closest thing to what Michael was going through. He’d been ripped open by a traumatic event, one he hadn’t even been present for, and the wound went deep; there was no sure way to stitch it, except time. And that was part of the problem. This isolated life that Michael was living—it was like being stuck inside a bubble of time. The seasons changed here, but nothing else. Every time the sun rose, it was like hitting the repeat button, and while the simplicity of that was refreshing, I had a feeling that it was also prolonging Michael’s grief. Without feeling time moving forward, there was no real way to heal. He was killing himself here. But I didn’t think I’d ever convince him of that.

In Michael’s mind, the outside world was an empty, cruel, heartless place . . . a war zone, one he didn’t wish to return to. If I felt the same way, I could understand and support his decision, but he was oversimplifying the human race. For every ounce of vileness, there was an equal—if not greater—amount of goodness. Sometimes you just had to look harder to find it. For some reason the negative aspects of life were abundant, prevalent. It was almost a daily assault on the senses: Here are all the horrible things you missed while you were away! You had to reach through the garbage to find the golden nuggets of pureness and light. I truly wished it were the other way around, but human beings tended to be intrigued with grief. While good deeds were praised, then forgotten, horrific deeds were forever etched on our psyches.

But that didn’t mean we were a lost cause. Like wayward children, we just needed . . . guidance. And I desperately wanted to be that shining light for Michael to follow. I just didn’t know how.

“How are you doing?” Michael asked one afternoon, his light eyes inquisitive. I was helping him with the trapline today, like I usually did when I didn’t have enough chores to keep me busy for a full day. Michael had asked me something similar to this question almost every day since our conversation, like he was afraid I viewed him differently now. And I supposed I did see him in a different way. It just wasn’t in a negative way like he probably thought.

Trudging through the thick drifts of snow, I shrugged. “My toes are a bit on the cold side, but other than that, I’m fine.”

He frowned at my answer; clearly he hadn’t been wondering about my physical discomfort. “Are you . . . do you . . . ?” With a sigh, he stopped talking. We’d both decided we’d never see eye to eye on certain subjects, so we shouldn’t talk about them, but he looked like he was having second thoughts. Or maybe doubts.

“I really am fine, Michael. I’m more . . . worried than anything.”

That made his eyes open wider as he looked over at me. “Worried? About me?”

“Yeah . . . I worry about what’s going to happen to you once I leave.” The truth of that statement settled on me like a cold stone upon my shoulders. How long could he continue like this? What would kill him first—the elements or the loneliness?

Michael stopped and turned to me. The snow falling around us was getting thicker, and heavy, fat flakes partially obscured his face. “I’ll be just fine, Mallory. I’ve lived this way for a while now . . . I’m not scared, so you shouldn’t be.”

Yes, but it wasn’t just where he was living that worried me. Not wanting to get into it, I gave him a small smile. He saw right through my attempt to be cheerful, and his eyes saddened. “I’ll be okay, Mallory. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“That’s just it,” I said. “I don’t need to worry about you, but I still do. I think a part of me will always worry about you.”

A slim smile curled his lips. “And a part of me will worry about you. I guess in that small way, we’ll always be connected.”

A very small way. Much too small for my taste.

The wind picked up, sending a slice of cold right through me, and the heavy snowfall suddenly became a near blanket of white. I could just barely make out Michael’s outline as he looked around. “This is starting to get really bad. We should go back.”