He shakes his head. “But you’re a Scott. Correct?”
“I am. Are you Amundsen? Roald, like Dahl. Right? He’s named for you.”
“Sorry?”
“The writer—James and the Giant Peach? Matilda?”
“No, I meant, sorry, I’m not Amundsen. Not Scott.”
“Oh.” My throat is dry. “Shackleton.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Oh God, that sounded awful. “It’s just, Amundsen…I know every step he took to get there. I’ve studied….And I am a Scott, so why not…”
He shrugs. “I am not here unbidden.”
“What?”
He just sits there, looking at me.
Of course. We who sank in the sea, who have the wrong hips and feet.
My voice is barely audible. “Are you my Ghost of South Pole Past?”
He twirls his finger loosely around his head. “T3.”
“No one mentioned hallucinations!”
“You’re really going to need to eat something,” he says. “Be with some people.”
“Oh my God, if one more person says that…”
“And why haven’t you been writing to your family? Kate? Owen?”
“I will.”
“I mean, this computer business…if I’d had some of that, who knows how things would have gone down? My wife surely wouldn’t have had to worry I was dead so often….”
“Okay!”
“Harper, you need me?” Allison calls.
“No, sorry…sleepy!”
Shackleton frowns. “Keep it down.”
I breathe deeply. Exhale. Just the T3. This will stop. I’m fine with it. It’s fine. I turn over in the hammock to face him. “All right,” I whisper. “Impart your wisdom.”
He holds up his hands. “Just did. Eat some food. Talk to people. Even as we watched the ice crush Endurance and pull her down into the water, my men played football. They put on some plays. When I hired my crew, one of the first questions I asked every single candidate was Can you sing? But that’s just to keep away the…” He gestures to his head once more.
“Yeah, got it.”
“As for the larger issue at hand…I understand your instinct, coming here. And for what it’s worth, I think it was an excellent decision.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.”
I nod. “Well, thank you. I know how badly you wanted to get there.”
He frowns. “Get where?”
I frown back. “Uh…the South Pole?”
“No,” he says. “See, that’s where you’re losing me; I don’t understand this overwrought determination to make this solely symbolic pilgrimage. So you talk someone into giving you a seat on a helicopter—what is that? Suddenly you’re a ballerina again?”
“It’s not just symbolic! Hardly anyone, barely any humans, ever get there. If I can do that, I’ll feel…I can do anything.”
“How so?”
Oh my God, this guy. “Because!” I whisper-wail. “So many people want to get there so badly all their lives, and they never make it.”
“Because they’re not meant to.”
“Because they haven’t tried hard enough!”
His snow-blind eyes laser-beam me. “You were right to come. Especially winter. When the storms are here, you’ll see. There are no landmarks anywhere. Just empty open white. Nothing but possibility. A blank canvas. Best place to stop following the wrong path and make a brand-new one.”
“I loved my path,” I whisper. “I don’t want anything else.”
“Yes, I know,” he says. “Why are you giving up so easily?”
“I’m not giving anything up. I never had it! There’s nothing left to surrender. I worked my entire life. I did everything I was supposed to.”
Shackleton shakes his shaggy head. “You kids. One disappointment, one misstep, and you lie down and cry about it. Throw the baby out with the bathwater.”
“What baby?”
He puts his freezing hand on my stockinged feet. “Look at these disgusting things. You ruined them and enjoyed every second of it. Correct?”
I nod.
“Did anyone make you do it? Why dance every single day, every day of your life? Who was forcing you to do that?”
“No one.”
“Because why?”
“Because…it’s everything. It’s all I am or ever want to do or be. Nothing makes me happier. I love it. I love it.”
“Don’t you miss it?”
I put my head in my hands.
“You need to be here to figure out why you heartlessly stopped being a ballerina. What did ballet ever do to you to make you abandon it?”
“It doesn’t love me back!” I hiss at him, sitting there calmly on his ice, beard still frozen in the humid air of the greenhouse.
He sits back. “Well, there’s your problem.”
“What?”
“Entitlement. No person, no thing—not Antarctica, not the universe, not ballet—is ever obligated to love us back. True, honest love for a thing is because you love it, with no expectation or want of reciprocation. You love ballet?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Because…I do. Why did you keep trying to get to the pole again and again?”
We sit for a while. Vivaldi fills the silence.
Shackleton leans toward me. “Harper Scott,” he says. “Did you eat your dogs?”
In the hammock, my heart thumps. I nod.
“Me too,” he whispers.
I pull my left foot to my knee, my hand over one scarred heel. “I was ten. Simone said my heels weren’t right for pointe shoes. There was extra bone; she told my parents it would screw up my feet. I begged them until they let me have the surgery. Cut the bone off so my feet would work in the shoes.”
He nods. “That’s pushing the river a bit. Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“Still you love to dance?”
I nod.
“Well,” he says, “you’ve just solved your problem.”
“Which one?”
“All of them. You know what to do.”
“No, I don’t! I’m not worthy of ballet. I’m not made for it. My body’s not meant for it….I’m too old. It’s too late.”
“You’re meant for it.”
“No, it’s—You don’t understand. I’m seventeen years old; it is too late. I’ve wasted my entire life for the love of something I can never have, and now I don’t have any idea who I am. But I thought, if I came here, if I get to the pole, I’ll know—it will come to me.”
“What will?”
“The answer!” My eyes sting.
“What do you miss, most of all, besides dancing? What have you given up—what do you regret?”
“Willa,” I whimper instantly. “I miss my kids.”
Shackleton smiles.
“What?”
“You miss teaching them?”
I see right where he’s going and he’s wrong. “I miss them.”
He sighs.
“Harper Scott. The Ice is not to be conquered. It is just ice. You know what to do. Follow the sun. And for God’s sake, pay attention.”
I struggle to sit up in the swinging hammock. “What does that even mean?”
“Do not give in.”
I close my eyes.
Still lost.
“Harper?” Allison’s hand is on mine. “Hey,” she says. “Why the tears?”
- - -
I zombie into the dining hall. I’m hungry. And sick of it. Why am I still starving myself? I’ll never be a ballerina. That ship has sailed—and been swallowed by The Ice. I pick up a plate and fill it with the remains of the last of the lettuce until August. Or until Allison’s crop comes in. I pour dressing on it, not lemon.
There is a basket of bread. All kinds. I take a multigrain-looking one, slather it with butter, and instead of water, I pour a glass of milk. Low-fat, not skim.
Take that, T3.
Cha
rlotte walks in, sees me, and darts straight to my table.
“How was it? Did you love it?”
I nod, my mouth full of balsamic-dressed iceberg lettuce. “You can go in anytime, you know. Allison said so.”
She scrunches her nose. “Was there anyone else besides you?”
“No.”
“See?” She sighs.
“What?”
“It’s more for people who…How do you feel?”
I shrug. “Hungry.”
“Good! Ooh, listen—move Vivian in tonight, okay?”
I shovel more salad and keep chewing.
“Take the rest of the day off. Okay? Harper?”
“No, I’ve got a ton of data to get through. I’ll just finish—”
She puts her arms around me for one tight, strong hug. “Tomorrow. You’re going to be okay, Harp. You’ll be glorious.”
That is debatable. I watch her go and I stand, toss my plate in the wash bin, and walk into the kitchen.
“Aiden!” I call. He turns from the wash sink, suds up to his elbows.
“Hey!”
“I need your help.”
- - -
“Have you ever used a computer?” he says later, in the warm Christmas light of what is for the next few hours still my room. “See this thing that says, ‘Connect to network’?” He clicks it. The Internet pops up.
“You fixed it!”
Aiden rolls his eyes, gets up, and sits on the second bed. “How’re you feeling?”
“Tired.” Shackleton’s You know what to do rolls around in my head. “Annoyed.”
“Even after the greenhouse?” He finds a new pile of library books I’ve borrowed. “Still mourning?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty pissed forty-five minutes in a hammock didn’t cure me.”
“Sorry.”
“No,” I sigh. “I am. I’m a boring broken record of…boringness. You tell me things now.”
“What things?”
“All the things. Where in Ireland do you live?”
“Have you been?”
“No.”
“But you know the basic shape?”
“Of Ireland? Sure.”
“Okay. I live at the bottom.”
“Oooh, near Dingle?”
His eyes widen. “Dingle, yes! Did I tell you that?”
“No. My mom watches this travel show on public television, Rick Steves’ Europe—Rick is hilarious. He’s always talking about going to Europe ‘through the back door,’ which I’m not sure he gets what that means….But he loves Ireland. He’s done so many episodes there, and I’ve seen the one in Dingle a million times. I can’t believe you live there!”
Aiden is laughing. “Oh God, Rick Steves. Practically every American I’ve ever met has got a Back Door guide with them. Rick put us on the map.”
“Is there still the music festival? In the churches, all the pubs?”
“Every autumn.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
He nods. “Fiddle.”
“Really.”
“My whole family does. I miss that, definitely.”
“Will you go back after college? To live?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You like your family? Your parents?”
“Love them. A lot.”
“But you won’t go back.”
“I would never have left if I stayed any longer. They’re perfectly happy there, and I was, too. I’ve got three brothers. We know every inch of every field and street, and there’s not a neighbor whose house we’ve not eaten supper at. There are the girls we grew up with we’re supposed to marry and have a gaggle of kids with, and the schoolmates we drink and play music with in the pubs every Saturday, and I did. It was hard to leave. But it wasn’t meant for me. I’ll visit, but I was always…straining against it. You know?”
I don’t. I’ve never strained against my life. I’ve stretched into it. Yearned for it and loved it more, even as I lived it.
At the desk I stare at the screen. Sign into my mail account.
Eleven new messages.
Mom. Mom and Dad. Mom. Kate. Luke. Mom. Owen. Owen. Owen. Owen. Owen.
“That’s a lot of Owen,” Aiden says close to my shoulder. “Relative?”
I close the laptop. “Friend.”
“Huh. Prolific.”
I shrug—and gasp as a sharp pain shoots through my left shoulder, straight into my neck. I reach up and grab the burning spot.
“Whoa,” Aiden says. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know,” I moan. “Stabbing, awful pain…”
“Where?”
“Where I’m rubbing. Oh my God, it hurts….”
“All right, don’t shoot the…person trying to help. Hold still.”
His hands move to the painful shoulder, and I instinctively move away. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s okaahhh. God, what is wrong with me? I’m broken!” Another bright flash of heat pulses near my neck.
“Sit still,” Aiden says kindly. “Tell me if this hurts.”
He moves my hundred pounds of hair aside and puts his hands on the muscle, gently pressing his warm fingertips into my skin.
“Gah, okay, ow!”
“Breathe. Just let me do this—”
“It hurts!”
“Yes, you’ve established that. Shut up, and let me help you!”
I whimper pitifully and clench my toes while he massages my shoulder, and the pain explodes, then gradually subsides.
“Are you breathing?”
“Yes,” I snap, and exhale because I have not been breathing.
“Wow,” he says, low. “You’ve got some muscular…muscles.”
The pain is dull.
“Mmm.”
“You work a lot of free weights?”
“Mmm.”
“What could possibly have your poor shoulders so tense? You’re neck’s all jacked up, too.” He kneads my gristly muscles slowly. I breathe.
Wind is sending icy snow past the dark window. Snow will always be Kate dancing. My heart breaking again, and again, and again.
Does Owen wonder why I haven’t written back?
Aiden moves his hands under the shoulder of my T-shirt. I flinch.
“Sorry!” he says. “Sorry…”
“No, it’s okay, I’m…thank you.”
“Harper.”
“It’s fine! Feels better. Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know. I’m just…” I stand up, immediately get a head rush, and Aiden sees it happen. He takes my arm and sits beside me on what will be Vivian’s bed. I put my head on my knees, and I try so hard but can’t keep the tears from springing out of my eyes. “Sorry,” I tell him. “This is so dumb. I’m tired of being in pain.”
“How long has it been like this? Have you seen the doctor?”
“No, this kind is new. I’m just—sick of myself. Feeling sorry for myself.” I grab a hair tie and wrestle my hair into it.
“Well, if it helps, your neck may be really screwed up, but you’ve still definitely got the best posture of anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Great, thanks.” I pile my hair into a giant mass on top of my head.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m driving myself insane.”
I rub my neck and my hair falls, spilling down my back. So heavy.
Outside the window, the blizzard is more insistent. I climb over Aiden beside me on the bed, march to the door, and yank it open.
“Aiden? You coming or not?”
- - -
The haircut lady looks like a grandma who’s still determined to keep it together with lots of makeup and a way-too-skimpy tank top. She’s sitting in the makeshift salon across from the laundry room, lights on, reading a two-year-old People magazine. The old headlines make me suddenly nervous. Aiden holds my bare hand. No mittens.
“Hello!” he says. “Open for business?”
Haircut looks at her
watch. “Sure,” she says, and tosses People aside. “Who’s up first?”
Aiden looks at me. Huge, encouraging smile. He squeezes my hand.
Butterflies.
“Me.” I sit in the chair before the mirror. She looks us both up and down.
“You the kids?”
We nod.
“I’m Deb,” she says. She hefts my hair up and snaps a plastic cape around me. “What are we doing? Trim? Few layers?”
“Cut it off,” I say to her face in the mirror. “Please.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
Aiden is sitting in a plastic chair. His eyes are wide.
“Honey,” Deb says, “you’re going to have to be more specific.”
I frown. What could be more specific than cut it off…all of it? If she doesn’t start soon, I’ll lose my nerve. I move my fingers over my scalp. “Close. Nothing left.”
“Shaved?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Cropped?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Close.”
“Yes.”
“Like a boy?
“Sure.”
She sighs and lifts the heavy length of my dark hair in both hands. Shiny. Straight. Nearly long enough to sit on. She shakes her head. “What is your name, sweetheart?”
“Harper.”
“Harper. You need to take a minute. Give this some real thought.”
“I have. If you don’t want to, I’ll end up doing it myself in my room with sewing scissors, and it’ll take forever. Deb. Please?”
She sits on the spinny stool beside my chair. “You think on it some. Come see me next week.”
“Please.”
She zeros in sternly on the reflection of my red-rimmed eyes. “You break up with a boy?”
I shake my head.
“Sure you did. Come here to get away from the mess? You listen to me; this is not the way to do it. Not off The Ice and especially not on it—end up looking like what’s-her-face in Rosemary’s Baby, and plus, didn’t they tell you eighty percent of your body heat escapes through your head? You’re lucky to have all this; no hat could keep you as warm as hair will. Pretty, too. You talk her into this?” she asks Aiden.
“No, ma’am.”
Deb picks up a plastic comb, steps back to sweep it through the full length of my admittedly beautiful hair. “I’ll tell you something else, too; you’re here and he’s not. It’s done. Won’t matter to him either way.
My eyes are starting to sting. “I have to.”
“Oh, come on. Says who?”
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