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That has to be Agnes.
For the past three days, I’ve been imagining what the woman behind the calm, soft-spoken voice on the phone looks like. The “friend” who must be more than that. I guess I assumed—stupidly—that she’d look something like my mother.
Agnes is about as opposite to my mother as you can get.
For one thing, she’s so small she’s almost childlike, especially in an orange safety vest that’s at least three sizes too big, baggy men’s jeans, and clunky work boots. An outfit my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in on her worst day. And, unlike my mother’s sleek and impeccably colored bob, Agnes’s raven-black hair—lightly peppered with gray—has been chopped to an unimaginative pixie length, almost as if she was annoyed with it one day and took a pair of scissors to herself without using a mirror for guidance.
For another, Agnes is an Alaska Native.
“You made it,” Agnes says, stopping in front of me, giving me a chance to take in her features. She has a pretty, round face, aged with fine lines across her brow and conspicuous crow’s-feet at the corners of deeply set, hooded eyes. I’d put her in her mid-forties, if I had to guess.
“I did.”
She smiles wide, showing off pronounced cheeks and slightly crooked front teeth the color of bone china.
Finally. Someone around here seems genuinely happy to see me.
“So, is he . . .” My words drift as my gaze wanders from the door Agnes exited moments ago to the other buildings around us, where half a dozen workers in reflective vests load cargo into planes. I search their faces while I hold my breath, an odd mixture of nervous butterflies and nausea competing for attention inside me.
“Wren had to go up to a site near Russian Mission to drop off supplies,” she explains, as if I know where that is. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Oh,” I stammer. He’s not here for my arrival? “He knew I was coming, though, right?”
“Yes, of course. He’s excited.” That wide smile wavers a touch, enough to make me suspicious.
He knew that his daughter, who he hasn’t seen in twenty-four years, hasn’t talked to in twelve years, was arriving tonight. Couldn’t he have found someone else to drop off supplies, so he could be here to greet her? Couldn’t he have sent Jonah instead? Or one of the six other available pilots, according to Jonah’s grumblings not long ago?
Better yet, seeing as he’s not too sick to fly, why couldn’t he have come to Anchorage to get me?
Is my dad intentionally avoiding me?
Will I be dealing with another Jonah, who is less than thrilled that I’m here?
I struggle to keep my expression calm as my emotions war inside me. Disappointment swells after a day of counting down the hours and minutes until I’d meet the real-life version of the picture, until I’d hear the soft, easygoing timbre of his voice again. But with that disappointment comes a wave of the same pain-numbing resentment that absorbed me so many years ago, my way of coping with the raw realization that I would never be a priority for him.
And then tucked somewhere in the recesses of these volatile emotions is relief that I have a bit more time with my feet on Alaskan soil to gather my strength before I have to face him.
“How were your flights?” Agnes asks, as if sensing my suddenly heavy mood and wanting to keep it light.
“Fine. For the most part, anyway.” I steal a withering glance over my shoulder. Jonah’s tinkering with something on the plane, seemingly ignoring us.
Agnes’s eyes trail mine and when they reach the burly pilot, her brow tightens a touch. But she’s quick to shift her attention back, to wander over my face, stalling on each feature. “You’ve grown up so much.” She must see my confusion because she adds quickly, “Your mother used to send your school picture to Wren every year. He kept them in a frame on his desk and swapped them out when a new one’d come.”
Aside from my university graduation picture, the last school photo my mother would have sent was from eighth grade, which means Agnes and my father have known each other for a long time.
It feels awkward to ask within minutes of meeting this woman, and yet I can’t hold back anymore. “So, are you and my dad married?” There’s no ring on her finger, but she also doesn’t look the type to wear jewelry.
“Me and Wren? No. We’re just us. It’s complicated.” Her gaze shifts downward, skittering over my wedge heels before landing on the worn track bag. “Yours?” she asked doubtfully.
It doesn’t sound like I’m going to get more out of her about their relationship yet. “No. My luggage is back in Anchorage. It wouldn’t fit. I can’t believe I fit, to be honest.” I explain what Billy said about sending my bags over tomorrow.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I told him to take one of the Cessnas.”
Wait a minute . . . “Jonah told me that that one was the only plane available.”
“Don’t know what she’s talking about,” he calls out, though his focus seems glued to a clipboard as his giant hand passes over it with a pen, casually checking things off.
My mouth drops open as I stare at the lying bastard.
