by K. A. Tucker
She shrugs her backpack off. It falls to the ground with a thud. “I was in town, getting groceries, when I heard someone say that Jonah crashed his plane and had to go to the hospital. So I went there, but they wouldn’t let me in to see him, and I couldn’t get hold of my mom at first, but then I did and she told me he was fine and to just go home, but I was so worried,” she rambles, her words quick and panicky, her breath ragged, as if she had pedaled as hard as she could all the way here.
“He’ll be home in a few hours. But he’s fine.”
“Okay.” She nods slowly, as if it’s taking time for her to absorb that answer, to trust it. She brushes her hair off her forehead. “Can I hang out with you until then?” There’s desperation in her voice. He might be fine, but he so easily might not have been. Something scary happened to someone she cares about and she doesn’t want to be alone.
Neither do I, I realize.
“Of course you can.” I smile. “I hope you feel like digging through old junk.”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. I wasn’t in the plane, Mom.”
“But still, that must have been scary for you to witness.”
“It was,” I admit.
Her sigh fills my ear. “I remember those days, hearing some of the stories of things that’d go wrong. I’d do the math on how many times they went up in the air each day, and the odds of something bad happening being that much higher because of it. Especially in those little planes. They’re not like the big jetliners that practically run on computers and have backups of backups. It got to the point where every day, your dad would walk out the door and I’d wonder if that was the last time I’d see him alive.”
“That would have been hard to deal with.”
“Hard? It drove me nuts. I was never meant to be a bush pilot’s wife.”
Simon’s profession is certainly much safer than my dad’s. Aside from that one patient who launched a silver-plated Sigmund Freud head statue at him—missing him completely but putting a hole through the wall—Simon’s biggest occupational hazards have been paper cuts and chair ass.
“Thank God for this George guy. Imagine what could have happened?”
Yeah, thank God for George, and Jillian, his little hula girl.
But, more importantly, thank God for Jonah’s stubborn need for a gut check. If he hadn’t insisted on taking Betty for that quick flight, there would have been a young mother and newborn baby in that plane when the engine caught fire.
Who knows if that landing would have been any smoother.
Jonah very well may have saved their lives today.
“They still work!” Mabel exclaims behind me. I turn to find her with her arms held wide, a string of red, blue, and green Christmas bulbs stretched between them.
“I can’t believe it!”
“I know, right?” Mabel giggles. “I’ll check the rest.”
“What can’t you believe?” my mom asks.
“Hold on, Mom,” I murmur, shifting my phone away from my mouth. “If we have enough, we can string them up all over the ceiling, like a canopy.”
Mabel’s eyes widen. “Oh, that would look so cool.”
“Calla! Who are you talking to?”
“Agnes’s daughter, Mabel. Did you know Dad kept all your stuff? Like all of it.” Mabel and I spent almost two hours rooting through stacks of dusty plastic tubs from the deepest corner of the garage, to find everything from holiday decorations to garden gnomes and whimsical sundials.
“Agnes has a daughter? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Why didn’t you tell me about all those phone calls between you and my dad? I want to throw back, but I bite my tongue against the urge.
“I haven’t had a chance.” To be fair, we haven’t spoken over the phone since Monday afternoon. There’s plenty I have to fill her in on that I can’t do over text. But now is not the time. “We found your wicker chair under a tarp. It’s in decent shape,” I say, trying to sway the conversation back to lighter things. The cushions have long since succumbed to time, moisture, and some animal—likely mice—but the chair’s frame itself is sturdy enough to bear weight.
We dragged it all out, and then Mabel helped me clean off the porch, lugging the decrepit lawn chairs, fishing rods, and other miscellaneous things that have collected over the years into the garage. And she did it all without a single complaint.
It’s my first time spending real time with Mabel without the buffer of my father and a game of checkers. She’s quirky and plucky and talks nonstop about three different topics at once, often trailing off mid-sentence. I’m starting to think she may have issues with attention.
And I’m growing more fond of her with every minute.
“Listen, I’ve got to go. There’s a customer here,” my mom says. “You’ll fill me in on everything later, right?”
“Sure.” I know she means later tonight, but I’m not exactly rushing to dive into that conversation. Does she really need to know why my dad canceled his trip all those years ago? Would she care if Alaska Wild has run into financial challenges, and that I’m trying to help while I’m here? Maybe she would. But maybe I also selfishly want some time for just me and my dad, without her complicated relationship with him entering the picture.
I end the call just as a truck engine sounds.
Mabel drops the strand of lights in her grasp and bolts out the door. “It’s Jonah!” she yells. Her feet pound across the grass as she runs for his driveway.
And I feel the inexplicable urge to run right behind her. But I resist, occupying myself with my bottle of water and an apple I washed hours ago to eat but couldn’t find an appetite for.
Finally, I decide I’ve waited long enough and make my way over.
Jonah’s leaning against his truck, an easy smile touching his lips as he listens to Mabel prattle on. I’m halfway across the lawn when he notices me coming, and begins stealing frequent glances my way.
“They let you drive yourself home?” I holler, struggling to keep my pace slow and casual. As if I haven’t been silently counting down the hours, anxious for him to get home.
He eases off the truck to stand taller and takes steps toward me. “Who was gonna stop me?” He’s not wearing any bandages. A thin, tidy line of black stitches runs across his forehead, about an inch below his hairline. The cut is smaller than I expected it to be, for as much blood as it produced. Still, it looks like it’d be painful. Most of the blood has been washed from his skin, but his beard is matted and sticking together in crimson clumps.
A bite my lip against a smile as a fresh wave of relief and happiness washes over me. I nod toward his forehead. “How many?”
“Just nine. Should heal up nicely.” His lips part with a sly smile. “Doc said it’ll only add to my good looks. I think she was flirting with me.”
“Right. Of course she was.” I roll my eyes but laugh. “And everything else was fine?”
“Shoulder’s a bit sore but doesn’t look like anything’s torn. I was lucky.”
“I’ll say.” Again, I think of how today could have gone, and I shudder.
“Come and see Wren’s porch!” Mabel insists, reaching for his hand.
“Later, kiddo,” he says, dropping my dad’s pet name for her. “I’ve gotta shower and change. Maybe take a nap.” The dark navy of his cotton shirt hides the bloodstains well, but not completely. He nods to something in the distance, smirking. “Looks like someone’s interested in seeing it, though.”
We turn to see Bandit scampering toward my dad’s house.
“The chips!” Mabel exclaims and takes off running.
Jonah chuckles. “He’s gonna eat well while you’re around.”
“Whatever. He can have it all. I’m not hungry after today.” I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the chill in the wind.
He opens hi
s mouth to say something, but then seems to change his mind. Reaching through his driver’s-side window, he pulls out a red-and-black-checkered flannel jacket and tosses it to me. “Figured you didn’t want your sweater back. It’s the smallest they had. Should fit.”
“Wow. It’s . . . Thanks.” I slide my arms into the sleeves and tug it on, reveling in the soft material against my fingertips. “Now I look like I belong here.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, but he’s smiling.
“Do you know when my dad’s coming home?”
“Probably a while, still. FAA cleared us to take off again.”
“Yeah, we’ve been seeing planes for the last hour.” My dad has a perfect view of the skies around the airport from his porch. I can’t help but wonder if that was intentional or just a lucky coincidence when he moved here.
“He’s still dealing with the investigator, but him and that guy go way back, so hopefully that’ll speed things up. Not that there should be any problems. We’ve got all the maintenance records. Should be a quick clear for me to be back in the air.” His tone is casual. Not the tone of someone who’s rattled because he could have died today, but also not the Jonah who’s just waiting to poke at my temper.
I shake my head. He just got home from the hospital after crashing a plane and he’s already itching to get back in the air. “Freaking sky cowboys,” I mutter under my breath.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing.” I nod toward his house, hugging the jacket to my body. “Thanks again for this. You should go and rest.”
Jonah begins walking to his porch, his steps slow and seemingly reluctant.
“Hey . . . Did you get far with that website today?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Not really.”
“You’re not much for hard work, are you?”
There’s the Jonah I know. “Maybe if you’d learn how to keep a plane in the air, I wouldn’t be so distracted.”
His responding chuckle is deep and warm, and it sends a small thrill through my body. “Bring your computer over after you have dinner and we can work on it.”
I frown. “You sure?”
“Gotta get it done, right?” His pace picks up as he climbs his stairs and disappears into the house.
The skies are still bright with sunshine—deceptively so, for eight p.m.—when I leave my dad and Mabel in the living room and stroll across the marshy grass. I have a plate of leftovers in hand and my MacBook tucked under my arm. I hesitate for only a second before I rap on the door with my knuckles.
“Yeah!”
I wait another moment, listening for approaching steps.
“I’m not getting up!”
I ease the door open. The scent of lemons and mint catches my nose as I step into a tidy little kitchen that’s a duplicate of my father’s in layout and style—right down to the color of the cabinets and countertops. And yet it feels fresh and clean and new.
Probably because there isn’t an army of ducks.
But also because I’d been preparing myself for the smell of stale beer and three-day-old pork chop bones, something that might suit the life of an Alaskan bush pilot and bachelor who puts little effort into his appearance.
“Hey,” I call out, kicking off my mucky running shoes, my curious frown still firmly in place. “I brought you a plate of Mabel’s cheesy casserole in case you haven’t eaten. My dad said it’s pretty good.”
“Just leave it in the kitchen.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Please.”
I set it down and then venture farther in, into the living room. Another room that’s identical in basic layout to my father’s—a sliding door that leads out to a screened-in porch, small black woodstove atop beige ceramic tile in the far corner, simple Ikea-style floor-to-ceiling bookcases tucked in the other corner—and yet feels distinctively different.
And, again, unexpectedly tidy.
The carpet has been updated to a fluffy-pile mocha that’s still new enough not to show wear patterns. The walls have been painted a warm gray and decorated with framed photographs of vibrantly colored bush planes against backgrounds of snowy tundra. Table lamps cast a warm, cozy glow to a room in shadow, despite the burning sun outside.
To be frank, it looks Jonah’s house has been decorated by a woman.
Jonah is sprawled out on one side of a charcoal-gray faux suede sectional. His stained clothes from earlier are gone, swapped out for a pair of black track pants and a soft gray T-shirt that lays loose across his abdomen and yet still manages to highlight his muscular ridges. He’s cursing quietly as he fusses with a pill bottle.
“Here, let me.”
“I’m good.”
I yank it from his grasp, my nails scraping against his dry, rough palms. With one swift turn, I have the cap off. “You’re right. You’re perfectly fine.” I make a point of letting him see me roll my eyes as I hand the bottle back. “What are they for?”
“Thanks,” he mutters, fishing out a pill. “Muscle relaxers.” Strands of his hair dangle down either side of his face, freshly washed. He obviously just showered, but there are still flecks of dried blood tangled within that mangy beard of his. Nothing short of a pair of scissors will get all that out.
His eyes are on me now, narrowing suspiciously. “What?”
“Let me get you some water for that.” I hunt through his cabinets for a glass, temporarily mesmerized by the state of his kitchen. It’s spotless. Everything is organized tidily, and there’s no clutter or obvious dirt. Two plates with pink flowers etched around their rim sit drying in the dish rack, along with a handful of other dishes, the stainless steel in the sink gleaming.
But the most bizarre discovery for me is the canned goods cupboard. A guy like him, I’d expect to chuck cans in haphazardly. But every last can is grouped by type and size, their labels facing out, stacked in tidy rows. “Hey, have you ever seen Sleeping with the Enemy? You know, the one with Julia Roberts and the crazy ex-husband?” The one who likes his cans to be organized this same way. Ironically enough, the one I watched with my dad the other night.
“I don’t watch TV.” A pause. “Why?”
“No reason.” I add more softly, “I’ll bet good ol’ psycho Martin didn’t watch TV, either.” Dog food? Why does Jonah have a dozen cans of chunky chicken and liver alongside peaches and creamed corn and black beans? He doesn’t have a dog.
But he does have a raccoon, I remember.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Nothing.” I fill a tall floral-etched glass with water and bring it to him, setting it on the coffee table.
“Thanks.” Jonah promptly downs his pill and starts chugging.
“Did you sleep earlier?”
“No. My shoulder’s throbbing too much. It’ll be fine once these pills kick in.”
“Have you taken them before?”
“Yeah. The first time I dislocated my shoulder, back in high school. When I was playing football.”
“Huh. I wouldn’t have taken you to be a team player.” I wander over to the bookcase, noting what I didn’t notice earlier—that there isn’t a TV in here.
“I wasn’t. I got kicked off the team halfway through the season.”
I shake my head but smile as I examine the tatty spines, curious what interests Jonah besides flying planes and being generally abrasive.
“Those are called books,” he murmurs, the timbre of his voice soft and smug.
The Great Gatsby . . . Crime and Punishment . . . “My, aren’t we literary.”
“And what were you expecting?”
“I don’t know . . . How to Skin a Squirrel in Four Steps? 101 Ways to Cook Beaver? What Happens to You When Your Parents Are Related?” I mock.
He chuckles darkly.
There must be over two hundred books crammed in here. “You’ve read
all of these?”
“That’s what you do with books, Barbie.”
I ignore the nickname, because he’s just trying to get under my skin, and turn my attention to the one shelf reserved for framed pictures. “Is this your mom?”
“Yup. Way back, when we still lived in Anchorage.”
I study the stunning and svelte woman in the cherry-red bikini, perched on the edge of a dock, her long white-blonde locks looking windblown, her slender legs crossed at the ankles. “She looks a lot like this Norwegian fashion Instagrammer that I follow. Really pretty.”
“She is Norwegian, so that would make sense.”
A grinning boy of maybe six sits next to her, his scrawny, tanned legs dangling over the edge, equally light hair glowing under a bright summer sun. His piercing blue eyes, though so innocent there, are an easy match to the man lying on the couch behind me.
“Is she still in Vegas?”
“Oslo. She moved back when she remarried.”
“Do you see her much?”
“It’s been a couple years. I was supposed to go see her this Christmas, but I doubt I’ll be going now.”
“Why not?”
“Because of Wren.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like “why else wouldn’t I go see my mom for Christmas, other than for Wren?”
“Right. Of course.” Jonah will be running Wild and flying my dad back and forth to Anchorage for treatment. Jonah, who’s not even blood-related. “Are you still going to be able to fly him on Monday morning?”
“Me, or someone else.”
A pang of guilt stirs in my chest. Am I wrong to be leaving a week into my father’s treatment? I mean, I pushed my ticket back, but should I be staying longer? Should I be staying to help him while he’s at home? I am his daughter after all, even though we’re only just newly acquainted. Do I owe him that?
And if not for him, then for Jonah, and Agnes, and Mabel, to help share the burden?
And if not for them, then for myself?
I need to call Simon later. He’s always my voice of reason.
The next picture is of a tall, gangly, teenaged version of Jonah standing stiff and somber-faced next to a man dressed in military fatigues. A fighter jet is parked behind them. This must be Jonah’s father. It’s not a surprise that he’d have such a beautiful wife, himself a handsome though stern-looking man, with a jawline that could crease paper. I hold the framed photo up. “How old are you in this?”
