Page 76 of Liquids

Go out to a rig. Is he crazy? “Where is it?”

“Alaska. Cook Inlet.”

My eyes really do go wide then. “Is it cold?”

He laughs. “In September? Yeah. It’s fucking freezing. It can be cold even in the summer. You’d be in gear pretty much the whole time.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Yeah. Dealing with the machinery is as risky as shit; all sorts of crap goes down. Bad weather’s a risk if you don’t treat it with the respect it deserves. They keep a pretty tight rein on things, safety-wise. We don’t take any risks we don’t have to.”

“How long for?”

He shrugs. “Long as you want. Maximum time I go out for is four weeks. How much time would it take you to draw some of the riggers?”

“More than one?”

“If they see you drawin’, they’re all gonna want one. And these guys have money, babe.”

“You don’t have to find me work, Rig. I can …”

Truth be told, I’m run off my feet. I’m still working as a caregiver and at the hospital. He steps forward and leans over me, sliding a hand around my neck. “Not doing it for that. Showed him the picture you did of me because I thought it was great, and he’s been on my case ever since. He’s fixed this all up.”

That’s kind of him. I’ve been paying down some debt, and the day after we got back from the fight when Rig moved his stuff in, he got paid for the fight and started paying half the rent. When I tried to argue that my apartment was a dump and he wouldn’t want to live here, he said the important thing was the people in a place, not the place itself.

Whenever I ask Rig whether he’s happy, he says yes and to chill the fuck out. He drags me off to the gym a couple of mornings a week, and he’s got me doing Zoom calls with a counselor. I didn’t tell them about Charlie last time, but this time I can’t seem to shut up about him. Rig’s also been taking odd jobs around town. Shifts when people are short-handed, work on his mom’s farm. Every so often, Angelo turns up and starts pestering him to fight, and he exaggerates a limp and talks about injuries, and Angelo scowls at him and grumbles. He hasn’t talked about the rigs in a while.

Funny thing is, he seems settled and I’m the one who’s been restless. Now I’m responsible for two people being stuck. I don’t want Rig to stay here because I’m here. He likes leaving this place for periods of time. And I can’t deny I’ve been wondering about when he’s going to get itchy feet and go back to the rigs. Either that or disappear to build his dream house.

“Are you low on money?”

He laughs. “No, but I’d be okay with going out there again. Thought it might be fun. Some time away from here without my mom relying on me might be a bonus, and they’ve been hassling me to go back to Alaska. Don’t want to leave you, though. Not gonna lie.”

My heart warms. Maybe if I keep pushing myself little by little, I’ll eventually get back to where I was. Maybe he’s thinking something like that, too. I nod at him.

“I’m down for going.”

The wind whips around the corner of the rig, practically taking the small backpack I’m carrying out of my hands. It’s vast open icy sea as far as the eye can see, and fucking freezing, even in my suit. Rig mentioned something about a weather warning today so I want to get out here while I can. The guys are busy on the drill floor at the far end of the platform. It’s not Rig’s shift, and I like getting out here when he’s not on the floor, so I don’t have to feel scared watching him wrestle with heavy equipment. I had no idea what hard work was until I saw the men doing this.

I’ve taken three weeks off from looking after the old folk, and this place has blown the cobwebs right out of my head. There’s a whole world to explore. I can’t believe I’m living in that town, worrying about what other people think of me, little old ladies, and a shitty apartment I should have left ages ago.

It’s not tough for me out here at all, though. I’m just drawing people and life on the rig. And the guys often come and look over my shoulder in the evening as I tidy and polish up what I’ve been working on. They’re an amazing crew, even if they’re messed up and struggling half the time. They’ve had terrible home lives, rough upbringings, and absent fathers who sometimes did this job, too. I want to tell all their stories and show their pictures. I’ve recorded so many conversations. Everyone’s damaged in some way. I’m not doing so bad. I’ve also been useful in ways I wasn’t expecting, too—I thought I’d only be helping if there was some crisis, but I’ve been working with the medical staff, treating wounds and cuts, and talking to the doctors on the mainland and putting things right. Turns out I like fixing things for people, too.

It’s a privilege to watch Rig while he’s doing his real job, seeing him hanging out with the men he works with when he’s not fighting. He takes a lot of responsibility for the younger guys, listening to them, helping those who are struggling, addressing problems, making judgments about safety, the weather … The list is endless. And I have to remember not to just draw him sometimes. I study the guys hauling gear across the deck, and I pull my camera out of my bag—a present from Rig before we came out here—and snap a few shots.

I could do something with all this, turn it into an idea. I don’t know what yet, but something is blooming in the back of my mind. Ideas haven’t come to me in a long time, crowded out by all the worry, no doubt. I shake my head. Maybe drawing was something I was always meant to do and I gave up on it too soon. But maybe it doesn’t need to be a choice; I could take care of people and create things, too.

Rig appears suddenly at my side and jerks his chin up. “Storm’s coming. Rig’s shutting down. We’re not evacuating, but we’ll be following the protocol for adverse weather conditions.”

I nod. I had to do offshore safety training before I came out here.

He takes hold of my chin. “You okay?”

I smile up at him. “I’m good, Rig.”

I head back inside, unsuit in the mudroom, and leave him to get back to organizing what needs to be done to shut down the rig. Guys start to file into the galley after a while and settle down on their phones or laptops. Rig appears every now and again, checking on people, sending them off on tasks that need doing. I stare out at the darkening skies, then pull out my sketchbook and start drawing: the men, the sea, the sky. It feels so elemental somehow, like we’re a small speck on this huge planet, powerless against the forces of Mother Nature. The sea is a deep inky gray.

Eventually, a message drops into my phone: