Page 44 of Falling For Alaska

She sighs. “Work’s work.” Shaking her head, “Corporate wants us to use this new software, but I have no idea how it works. It’s supposed to simplify everything for us, but it makes me lose more time than before.” She stirs with a harder grip. “But I love it anyway,” she adds with a light chuckle, looking at the window.

Mom’s been working for years at this local computer company. She started as a secretary, then made her way to office manager. It’s a thirty-minute drive from Lakeside, which she’s been doing ever since we were born, and I’ve always seen her enjoy it. She would tell me, what use was a degree if not to work? The only time I tried bringing up the whole stay-at-home dream to her, she shut me down right away. A woman needs her own money, she said. Which is why my parents were more than happy when I got the keys to my own bookshop. Dad even shed a tear and said he couldn’t have been prouder. I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me after what happened, so I chose to keep the charade going. A degree in literature, a bookshop, and a house of my own that I’ve been paying dutifully each month.

“Perhaps I could help you,” I offer. “I’m not as good as Matthew with technology, but I’m sure I can manage.”

She inhales, then shakes her head. “No, no, sweetie. You’ve got enough on your plate without having to teach your old mother how to use a computer. I’ll ask our department. It’s their job,” she assures me. “Here,” she says, handing me peas to shell at the table. “Now, enough about me, how’s your shop going?”

“Um, pretty great,” I trail.

“Doesn’t sound enthusiastic. What’s the matter?”

“No, it’s great, really,” I say, forcing a smile. “There’s lots of customers and online orders. I ship books all over the country now, you know, with the new website and all.” She turns off the fire under the stew and comes to sit next to me, taking peas in her hands as well. It’s like old times, when we’d cook together, and she’d teach me all her skills.

“It’s impressive you’ve managed to do all this on your own. I’m really proud of you, you know that, sweetie?”

“I know, Mom,” I tell her genuinely. “As long as you guys are happy about it,” I mutter.

“Women need to make their own money, it’s very important, Alaska,” she tells me again, raising a finger, hammering it one more time, like she hasn’t said it enough during my childhood.

“What’s so wrong about not making your own money if you already have a degree to fall back on?” I try, gathering all the courage I can.

She frowns, studying me. “You’re not…?”

I pause before the realization hits me. “No, Mom, no, I’m not pregnant,” I say, shutting my eyes, because why am I even trying? She’ll never see it the way I do.

“Good, good,” she repeats, looking at me with hooded eyes. “Let’s keep it that way.” Silence falls over the kitchen as we keep shelling peas, and I swallow hard, shutting away my dreams one last time. What are dreams for if not to be kept safely in the back of your mind? I force a smile, focusing on the small green peas rolling between my fingers. Some things are better left unsaid. Some dreams are better off as just that—dreams.

Mom hums softly in our wooden kitchen, her fingers working through the peas with practiced ease. I wonder if she ever had dreams she had to let go of. If she ever felt the weight of expectation press down on her the way I do now.

“You’re quiet,” she notes, glancing at me.

“Just thinking,” I say, keeping my voice light.

She nudges my shoulder gently. “Don’t think too hard, honey. Life has a way of working itself out.” I nod, but I don’t say anything else. Because I’m not sure life works itself out for everyone.

And I’m not sure it ever will for me.

Six Years Ago

Four Days After the Incident

The red light on the camera blinks, recording me. The room is small, walls made of a dull gray, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and disinfectant. A single overhead light buzzes softly, making my headache worse. I’ve seen rooms like these in movies. Looking down at my stitches, the sudden urge to tear them apart grips me again. Only I don’t. I know I’m being filmed, and what I say will impact my future.

“Can you please state your name for the record?” The officer’s voice is level, unreadable. I’ve never met him. He doesn’t look at me; his eyes are on the folder in front of him. I shift in the hard plastic chair, my jeans itching against my skin, my fingers twisting together. I’m sweating in this big black sweater Mom gave me.

“Alaska,” I murmur.

“Your full name,” he clarifies. “Louder, please.” He finally glances up. His expression is neutral, and I bet this is routine for him.

I clear my throat and try again. “Alaska Elisabeth Jenkins.” My voice is unrecognizable, a shadow of myself.

He nods, making a note. “This interview is being recorded for official documentation. In regard to the events that transpired four days ago, the county is requesting another statement from you.” He flips through a few pages, scanning them. “Your initial account was…incomplete.” Incomplete? I can’t even remember the last three days. It all flashes in my mind in bits and pieces, horror, blood, and screams. Do they want me to say something…different? The red light on the camera flickers. He exhales, tapping his pen against the desk.

“It’s important we establish, um, the facts. To start, can you confirm that you were aware the lake was closed to the public that day?”

I swallow, but my mouth is as dry as the desert. “We…we saw the sign, but everyone skated there anyway.” I hesitate, my hands curling into my sleeves. It’s the truth. Everyone knew about it, even the police. It was common knowledge that the lake wasn’t officially open during winter break, but people still went there. “One day it was up…the next it was gone.” I pause, a chill running down my spine. “No one ever stopped us before.” My voice wavers, shame coating me in a thick layer of paint, impossible to remove, impossible to wash away.

His pen hovers over the paper. “So, to be clear, you knowingly entered a restricted area despite the posted warning?” One corner of his lips lifts.