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“Simon burned the tops of his feet so bad, his skin blistered. He had to wear the hotel slippers from the resort all the way home.” I hold my gloved hand in the air before me, studying the complex crystal pattern of a snowflake before it melts against my body heat. If that’s even possible, given it’s cold enough to make my nose hairs stick together. At least it’ll be sunny, Jonah promised me over our morning coffee. “Mom made him use a wheelchair in the airport. He argued with her at first and caused this huge scene. Well, as much of a scene as Simon can cause. But then he remembered, through his ‘acute, unyielding pain, to whom he is married and surrendered posthaste.’” A laugh escapes my lips as I mimic Simon’s uppity British accent.
I don’t expect a response, and yet the silence that answers is deafening.
“You would have liked Simon,” I manage to choke out around the exploding ball in my throat, fighting the threatened rush of emotion. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the loss of my father with such intensity, where a thought or a memory—a joke, a moment, a smile—would spark a burst of uncontrollable tear
s. But sitting here now, back in Bangor, next to his grave, so close to all that’s physically left of him in this world, it all seems so fresh.
I hug my buckled legs against my chest as I study the solemn wooden cross, the name “Wren Fletcher” painted across it in tidy black lettering. The old cemetery is filled with these simple white crosses, scattered about in no particular pattern, some standing tall, freshly painted, the names unblemished, others leaning to one side, paint peeling, their owners unidentifiable. Worn, faded silk flowers loop around the wood and peek out from the heavy blanket of snow, where they’ll sit until spring cleanup, to be replaced by fresh ones.
There are no grand monuments here, no expensive crypts to boast wealth, to stand out among the crowd. In the newer cemetery across town are plenty of headstones of varying sizes and styles and value, but in this one—the original cemetery that houses the earliest settlers of Bangor, where my grandparents were buried, and my father sleeps eternally—the graves are marked by simple white wooden crosses, regardless of whether the occupant of that plot could have afforded more. It’s an oddly comforting notion—a show of solidarity for those embracing the simplicity of life in Alaska. And yet every time I see the sea of forlorn markers, a shiver runs along my spine.
Taking slow, calming breaths, I close my eyes and pretend I’m curled in my mother’s shabby old wicker chair on the porch of my father’s modular home, and he is sitting in the rickety lawn chair beside me, listening quietly.
“Jonah gave me a camo jacket for Christmas. Can you believe that? I mean, not like a cute, stylish army print that I might choose for myself. It’s this big, bulky, green-and-brown thing with antlers all over it, for hunters.” I wince. “And the inside is a fluorescent orange that I can reverse. You know, so no one mistakes me for an animal and shoots me while I’m out running.” I shake my head. “And I can’t tell if this is another one of his jokes, or if he seriously thought it was something I’d like.”
We flew back on the twenty-eighth, to blue skies and a blustering, cold wind. We enjoyed a belated Christmas dinner with Agnes and Mabel, complete with Mabel’s latest freshly caught chicken from Whittamore’s and a four-foot, potted spruce tree purchased at the Saturday market. Agnes said she plans to plant it in her backyard come spring. Jonah’s stony face betrayed nothing as I opened the bulky box, realized what it was, and did my best to appear gracious as I pulled it on. I don’t know if he bought my act, but he hasn’t mentioned it since, and it’s been four days.
“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the thought, especially coming from a guy who buys his clothes at the local grocery store.” Which is why my gifts to him included designer dark-wash, straight-leg jeans that don’t sag on his ass and a few ultrasoft crewneck shirts without a hint of plaid. I spent days looking for the perfect gifts for him, recruiting Mabel to seek out his neck and waist size. They’re the nicest items in his closet, by far. “It’s practical, I guess, seeing as I’m living in Alaska. And it looks well made, for a hunting jacket.” I chuckle. “He also got me a children’s book on wildlife safety. And Mabel and Agnes bought me a mosquito jacket and bear spray and bells, for when I go jogging.”
After spending the day on Kodiak Island with Jonah and my father, seeing grizzlies roaming the river freely, I don’t plan on running anywhere that puts me at risk of coming across one of those.
“I printed a twelve-month yeti calendar, for Agnes to hang in Wild’s lobby. It features that picture of him cutting wood at the safety cabin. I even had someone design a logo that says ‘The Yeti.’ It was meant as a joke, but it looks good. We’re trying to convince him to use it for the charter company but he’s being stubborn. It’s good, though, right? The Yeti. Like, ‘Have you booked the Yeti yet?’ I think it’s catchy. Agnes agrees. Anyway, I told her to put the calendar up after we move, so he can’t rip it down and hide it.”
I smile, remembering the look on Jonah’s face when Agnes opened it—like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to kiss or choke me. “You should have seen him, Dad. You would have laughed so hard.” That soft, melodic chuckle that brings me back to the long-distance phone conversations of my childhood.
Another sharp flare of emotion triggers inside me, and I swallow repeatedly, trying to stave off the tears.
I huddle deeper into my parka—a Christmas gift from Simon—as a familiar black Ford pickup creeps along the desolate road, stopping at the cemetery’s gate. The driver hops out, their knee-high boots landing solidly on the ground, their hood sheathing a face from view. I don’t need to see a face to recognize the small figure approaching at a leisurely pace.
I watch as Agnes veers off to the far left corner, to where her late husband—Mabel’s father, who died in a plane crash before Mabel was born—is buried.
What must it be like for her, to have not one but two men she loved to visit on this New Year’s Day, and at only forty-three years old.
“Did you know Agnes sold her truck to that old accountant guy of yours? She’s been driving your truck around ever since. Jonah gave her an earful. He can’t understand why she did it. Apparently, it’s in way worse shape than hers.” I smile sadly. “I know why, though. It’s because it smells like you.” Like old, faded fabric permeated by years of tobacco smoke.
I found myself sitting in it for a short stretch yesterday, caught in a nostalgic moment about my first morning in Alaska, stranded and forced to trudge across the boggy grass in my suede wedge heels to beg Jonah for a ride to town.
“I’m getting my driver’s license. I just need to sort out a bit more paperwork, but as soon as I have that, I’m going in to do the written test, and then Jonah will help get me ready for the road test. I should have it in time for our move to Anchorage, or shortly after, and then I’m going to buy myself a car.” The lawyers anticipate that my father’s estate will be wrapped up in a few more months and I’ll have plenty of money to buy whatever I want with the proceeds from the sale of Alaska Wild. “Jonah’s pushing hard for a truck. We got into a fight about it, after I told him I’m looking at a Mini Cooper. He’s been sending me these horrible pictures of car crashes involving moose.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry, though. No matter what I get, I’m sure he’ll make sure I learn how not to ditch it.”
The snow crunches under Agnes’s boots on her approach. In her gloved fist, she carries a cluster of pale pink silk calla lilies, to replenish the ones buried. My father’s favorite flower, he admitted one quiet night in those last weeks, while he attempted to teach me how to play checkers.
“Happy New Year!” Her greeting is delivered in that accent I now recognize as common to a born-and-bred Alaskan, especially from this side of the state. My father spoke in that same slow, relaxed, folksy way. “Nice day for a visit with Wren.”
“I think my butt’s frozen,” I joke, though the sleek black ski pants I’m wearing coupled with thermal pants offer decent protection.
“How about your feet?”
I tap the toes of my new white winter boots—bunny boots, they’re called—another gift from Agnes and apparently, a must-have for any Alaskan, good for up to minus sixty degrees Fahrenheit. “Sweaty.” It’s not cold enough to be busting out the military-grade gear, but I wanted to test them.
“Good.” She crouches in front of my father’s grave, her wise, near-black eyes resting on the cross for a long, silent moment. She nods toward the small plane that I placed next to the cross when I arrived. “That’s cute.”
“It reminded me of Veronica. I thought he might like it.” I found it online and painted my father’s name and dates of life on its belly.
“Yes. I think he would.” She tucks the silk flowers on the other side, fussing with them until they stay upright. “Is that Jonah’s snow machine I saw parked out there?”
My gaze darts to the yellow-and-black Ski-Doo I left sitting in the field, outside the back fence. “Yeah. He taught me how to drive it, so I can get around town on my own.”
“Look at you.” She grins, flashing
