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Didn’t he feel that he owed it to me?
I push that bitter thought aside. “Because he blamed himself for Derek dying. He told me.”
Agnes makes a disapproving sound. “No matter what way you slice it, Wren has a way of twisting the accident to take the blame. Either Derek wasn’t experienced enough to find his way through those mountains, which means Wren made a bad judgment call, or there was no avoiding it, and it should have been Wren flying into that ridge. It happens enough through those passes when the weather’s dicey. Pilots mistake one river for the next and they don’t turn when they’re supposed to, or turn too early. Either way, Derek should still be here. According to Wren, anyway. No one else ever saw it that way but him.” She hesitates, studying me. “He never told me that he canceled his trip to go see you until it was too late. If I’d known what he was planning, I would have insisted that he go. I feel partially responsible for what happened between you two. I’m sorry for that.”
“No . . . You had nothing to do with it. That was his choice.” And perhaps his mistake, but perhaps not. What would have happened to our family? Would Simon have been cast aside?
Would my mother have done something that she couldn’t take back?
What would my life look like right now, had my dad come to Toronto?
I sigh heavily. “I wish he’d told me. Even if I didn’t understand it at the time, I’d like to think I would have eventually.”
“If it makes you feel any better, Wren won’t say it but I know he has a lot of regrets. You and your mother are at the center of most of them.” Agnes stands and wanders over to a block of cupboards by the utility sink. “He can be an infuriating man, I’ll admit. He says little and is slow to act on feelings. It’s not that he doesn’t care, though. Far from it. You just sometimes have to watch extra close to see how he shows it.” She stretches onto her tiptoes to reach the cupboard above the sink and begins shuffling things around, searching and rearranging boxes and tins that are already in order, doors smacking against their frames to fill the quiet.
She needs to keep busy, like my mom.
At least they have one thing in common.
Over the past two days, I’ve been able to slowly cobble together a sense of Agnes’s relationship with my father, and yet one thing remains uncertain. “So . . . have you and my dad ever . . . I mean, was there a time when you two were more than friends?”
She occupies herself with a clipboard and pencil that hangs on the wall, marking something off—inventory, maybe? “There was a time when I hoped we could be more than what we are.”
“But not anymore?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, as if giving her words careful thought. In the end, all she says is, “Not anymore.”
A knock on the door sounds then and we both turn to see Sharon filling the doorway, her pregnant belly all the more pronounced now that I can see her long, thin legs.
Agnes’s eyes twinkle as they take her in. “How’re you hangin’ in there?”
Sharon’s hand settles on the underside of her bump as she waddles toward the fridge. “I’m peeing every twenty minutes, I’m forgetting everything, and this heartburn . . . ugh. And Max is irritating the hell out of me.”
“Max is the father. He does our regular run up to Nome,” Agnes explains to me, watching Sharon as she stands in front of the open fridge, a confused look on her face as she searches the shelves. “He’s just excited.”
“And I’m excited for this little guy to get out,” Sharon says with certainty. “Agnes, have you found anyone to replace me and Max yet?”
“Jonah’s interviewing a new pilot next week. Nothing yet for front desk. It’ll be me, Maxine, and Mabel for the next little while, I guess. Unless I can convince Calla here to stay longer.” She chuckles. “What do you think? Take over for Sharon when they move back to the Lower Forty-eight? You’d get to spend more time with your dad . . .” She dangles that out there as if it’s bait.
Did my dad tell her about the bank’s restructuring? That I’m unemployed and technically could stay longer?
I wonder why Sharon and Max are leaving, anyway. Do they not like Alaska?
“That’s why I came in here. God, this baby brain!” Sharon groans. “Wren radioed in. He’ll be landing in ten.”
“Good. Finally.” Agnes beckons me with a wave of her hand. “Come on, Calla. Let’s watch your dad fly in.”
I hug my body against the chill that’s moved in over the past hour, the damp air and murky clouds hinting of the approaching rain. At least the mosquitoes have taken to ground with the cool breeze.
“Look! There he is!” Agnes points up at the sky, to the small speck quickly taking shape as it nears. She smiles. “I never get bored of watching these guys fly home.”
I’ll admit, I do feel a small thrill, being at an airfield, surrounded by all these planes, and this surreal reality that they’re the only means for rejoining civilization. It’s definitely a different way of life from stepping onto a subway or car to get to your destination.
“Does my dad go out every day?”
“No, he usually spends his days stuck on the phone, checking in with all the pilots and watching the weather reports. But he’s been going up more over the last week. I think he’s trying to get in as much flying time as he can before he has to give it up.”
I frown. “What do you mean, give it up?”
