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“Still.”
He grins mischievously, flashing nicotine-tinged teeth and a slight overbite. “What can I say? I’m lucky my wife likes babies.”
I can’t recall the last time I offered more than a polite hello and nod when seated in a cab or Uber, intent on getting to my destination, my attention glued to my phone. And, truth be told, if I had a phone to use, and if I wasn’t trying to avoid Jonah, I probably wouldn’t even know this guy’s name.
But, forty-five minutes after climbing into this taxi, I’m more familiar with Michael than with anyone else in the entire state of Alaska.
Michael is only three years older than me, which is mind-boggling. He mostly lives with his brother, and the two of them run a thriving cab company in Bangor together. Meanwhile his wife and kids live up the river in a village of about three hundred, with his parents and her sister. His wife wants nothing to do with Bangor and this way of life. She claims it’s too loud and busy. Ironically, she must not think that having seven children is too loud and busy, because she’s been popping them out like a Pez dispenser.
Michael gave me a tour around Bangor, stopping by a lively riverfront, teeming with villager boats, and a landmark church—the first structure ever to be built in the town. He even agreed to play cameraman and took a few posed pictures of me while we were there, and the results aren’t half-bad.
“You must miss your kids a lot.”
He shrugs. “I see them when I go back.”
“And how often is that?”
“Depends on the season. It gets harder when we’re waiting for the river to freeze over, or thaw. Can’t take the boat through, and it’s not safe to drive. Sometimes I have to wait weeks.” His voice has an easy, unhurried way about it. Much like Agnes’s does.
“Must be hard.” But what’s it like compared with not seeing your child for twenty-four years, I wonder.
“I can provide for my family better this way. Here.” He passes a business card over the seat to me. “Call me anytime you need a ride. I’m always working. Even when I’m sleeping.”
“Cool. Thanks.” I frown at the name. “Wait, I thought your name was Michael.”
“Michael is my kass’aq name.”
“Your what name?”
He chuckles. “My kass’aq name. ‘Kass’aq’ is what we call white people.”
“Oh. But this is your real name? This . . .” I frown at the spelling, sounding out cautiously, “Yakulpak?”
“Ya-gush-buck,” he corrects, emphasizing each syllable.
“Ya-gush-buck,” I repeat slowly. Coming from a city as diverse as Toronto, it’s not the first time I’ve struggled with—and butchered—a name. “So . . . not at all how it’s spelled, then?”
“Not for a kass’aq.” He grins. “Stick with ‘Michael.’ ”
“Sounds good.” Scooping up the bouquet of flowers, I hand him the thirty bucks we agreed on, plus a tip he more than earned. “Thanks for being my tour guide.” I slide out of the back of the car, noting with relief that Jonah’s Escape is nowhere to be seen.
“No problem,” Michael says with a wave, his brakes squeaking as his car begins to roll away. He didn’t ask about that scene with Jonah in the Meyer’s parking lot, for which I’m glad.
The moment I step through the door and into my dad’s eerily quiet, dark house, my phone picks up the Wi-Fi connection and begins chirping with a string of text messages and voice mails from my mom and Diana. I sigh, knowing I can’t avoid calling home much longer.
Right after I eat.
Two paper bags lie on the counter, empty and folded. When I open the fridge, I find to my surprise that my groceries have been tucked away, lined up much too neatly for a man who was chucking vegetables on the checkout belt only an hour ago. And here I was, expecting my salad supplies to be strewn across the front lawn.
Maybe this is Jonah’s way of apologizing for being a complete asshole. “Well, that’s something. I guess,” I murmur. But it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than this for me to forgive him.
“You’re virtually strangers, Calla.” Simon pauses to take a sip of his afternoon tea—in his favorite Wedgwood china cup, no doubt; the guy is so predictable—before I hear him set it down on his metal office desk. “It’s going to take time for both of you to get comfortable and figure each other out.”
The kitchen chair creaks as I lean forward to sop up the last of the egg yolk with a piece of toast and shove it into my mouth. “I’m only here for a week.” Can I even begin to understand my father in that time?
“That’s a self-imposed deadline. You can push your return flight and stay longer. That’s why we paid more for this ticket. So you have options.”
“I thought it was so I had the option of flying back earlier, if this trip was a disaster.” Of course Simon would see it another way. “With how things are going right now, a week already feels like a death sentence.”
