by Luanne Rice
Martha busied herself turning the sleds. The snow intensified. I did not cry, Hadley. I’m not sure what I felt. Loss, and sadness and love. I left the picture of our family beside the plane. I kissed it, said goodbye again to Paul, and put the picture under a few handfuls of snow. He is not there, sweetheart. He is gone. You knew that already, but I didn’t somehow. I am glad I saw the spot, but it is just a windy knob in a bog no one will visit again for many decades. I felt Paul more clearly, more resolutely, the previous night when the northern lights flickered and danced and snow hung just beyond the horizon. Oh, my son.
You asked if he felt pain or terror, and I can’t speak authoritatively to that. I have wondered it myself. I received few clues from the wreckage, except that the nose of the plane had disappeared, which meant the impact had been significant. Draw from that what you will. I’m so sorry you have to consider these possibilities. When I am feeling strong and positive about Paul, I imagine him using his skills and intelligence to think of ways to survive. I cannot picture him abandoning hope, so no, I do not think he felt abject terror on the descent. The plane did not fall nose first, not vertically—it came in on an angle, as if they might be able to crash-land. From that detail I believe Paul retained hopes of surviving the crash. He would not have despaired or given up prematurely. That was not his character. He would have braced himself, knowing it was hellishly dangerous, but he was young and strong and would have seen himself making it through. That’s what I believe. From the appearance of the nose section—from where it had been, rather, and please don’t feel you need to read this if you don’t want to—the impact was massive and overwhelming. He died quickly, darling. He died all at once.
I said something for the pilot, Kilkenny. I had blocked his name so many times, that I wondered at how easily it came to mind beside the plane. For what it was worth, I said I forgave him. I don’t know if I meant it or not, or even if I had a right to forgive anyone, but he died here, too, and I no longer wanted to hold him responsible. Ice. Flight. They perished together, Paul and Kilkenny, and I hope they drew some solace from their companionship.
You wait, of course, for some sign in these moments, but I saw nothing. Too much snow fell from above. We didn’t stay long. When Martha had the dogs turned, ready to head back, she came to me and asked if I was all right. Did I want to stay longer? Did I want to camp there for the night? She hugged me briefly, said she was sorry for our loss, then saw that I was determined to follow her back. She took her sled back the way we had come.
I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t move with any purpose. I felt myself floating—maybe my illness, but also the sense of loss overwhelming me. I went to the front of my team and knelt between Grabby and Sneak and put my face on their fur. They were impatient to go and kept darting their heads past me, watching Martha’s team advance. Maybe this time they were saying “On-by” to me. The dead must find their own way, if there is a way, and the living have no choice but to go on living. On-by.
I looked one last time at the fuselage, then lifted the snow hook from where Martha had wedged it, yelled “Huphuphup” and left. The dogs pulled like maniacs to catch Martha’s team. In minutes snow obscured any last glimpse of the plane.
So that was my great quest, sweetheart. A fool’s errand or not, I don’t know. We had a difficult time on the return. We had to wait out one storm for more than a day. Cold and miserable. Martha told me stories of polar exploration, which I enjoyed. She is writing a book and so the tales were fresh in her mind. I told her about covering sports and some of my own adventures.
Our last night in the tent the temperature dropped to well below zero—probably 30 below. I have never felt cold to equal it. The dogs went under the snow immediately when we halted, and they refused to come out for food. A few trees exploded—the sap became so cold that the wood contracted and snapped. Then on the lake to our west the ice began booming and moving and it gave a haunted feeling to the night. It is a hard country, but I could see how one could grow to love it. Martha and I did not stay up long. We went to sleep, eager to have morning arrive. In the middle of the night Grabby slithered into my sleeping bag. You would not have thought it possible, but she nosed her way in and before I could prevent it she had burrowed down beside me. Her fur brushing against me was cold, but eventually she warmed me, and I learned at last the true meaning of a one-(or two-) dog night.
Everything had lost the capacity to yield by the next morning—the dogs’ lines curled like tired inner tubes, and the sled runners clung to the ice beneath them. This form of traveling is mental more than anything else. You must be optimistic and solid, or the cold will draw you into it and exert its power. Martha seemed to sense our languor, because she repeated often that we would make it home that day. That was the carrot. By this time, I’ll admit, my cough had grown quite ragged. I coughed most of the night and all morning on the sled. Martha turned around on her sled frequently to check me, and I knew she weighed pushing harder to get us home, or taking it easier to accommodate my condition.
We arrived at two o’clock. Swahili met us and took over the dogs. She hugged Martha and she hugged me. Then, like that, it was over.
Sam
December 9
Hadley—
I hope I haven’t been a complete cad not to have asked about your wrist. I hope it’s feeling better now and mending properly. Is there anything more slippery than cold rocks by the ocean? But I know how you love getting to places like that, and the return the sea gives to you, so it would be futile for me to tell you to avoid them or take a friend. I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner in these pages. I have been preoccupied with the trip to the plane and my own feelings and I neglected you on that count. Forgive me. You know, of course, I only want good things for you.
I am thinking about you all the time. All the time. Do you know that inner voice we have, our conscience, our personal PA system, whatever the heck it is? Mine has your voice. That might make me borderline schizophrenic, but there it is. Sometimes I don’t know if I am listening to my voice or yours. Maybe love is a confusion of voices.
And I want a hundred answers from you. Will you keep the house? What have you decided? How are your paintings coming? I love the sketches you included. You have a gift, as I’ve always known. And did Julie arrive? How is she? I have a wonderful image of you two warm beside the fire and the wind giving you a pleasant pane rattling. Your Irish blood responds to all that banshee moaning. But it is working toward Christmas and I like thinking of you two together, the white lights of dim restaurants, the smell of pine and peppermint. Tell Julie as much about my findings here as you feel you should. She is a lovely young woman and I miss her in our lives.
I had a rocky couple of nights—bad cough, high temperature—but I am feeling better now. Gus came close to calling for an emergency evacuation. Snow still had us locked in, so it would have been quite a big deal to have summoned the EMTs. But they would have come if called, putting their own lives at risk. I suspect I came with the germ of the pneumonia in me. It wasn’t all the dogs and the snow. I will be better soon, so no worries.
I have to inform you about one more thing, then I’ll wrap this up. Apparently the charter airline company that carried Paul northward is holding some of his possessions. His effects, they called it. Kilkenny’s wife wants to see me. She said if I am passing back through Anchorage—and of course I am—she hoped I would stop by to see her. I am not sure why, but I have misgivings about seeing her. It feels like a little mystery. Why didn’t she simply say what she wanted with me? Anyway, I will stop and see her on my way out. I hope to be back in Seattle by Christmas Day.
Back to you, Hadley. Always back to you.
Sam
December 12
Dear Sam,
I don’t know what to say, where to begin. You saw the plane, you stood there in the spot where he fell to earth. Your difficulties getting there…to what really is and was the end of the world to me. I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard ti
me. Sam, I’m glad you were there—that you laid eyes on the plane, and that you touched it, and that you kissed the picture and left it there. You did that for both of us. Thank you.
You’re lucky to be alive, aren’t you? That’s what I get from this batch of letters. Thank goodness for your intrepid mail system. You were right all along, and I really needed to read these as soon as possible after you wrote them. You’re sick, and I’m worried. Pneumonia, really? Sam…
It’s sinking in, that you actually made it to the site, saw where Paul died, that you were right there where he was. It always sounded so distant and remote, and obviously it was. But now that I know you did it, that you went through so much planning and traveling and hardship to get there, I wish I’d gone, too. So much danger. So much lost.
I’d expected to cry when I read your letters, but I couldn’t. I just read straight through, wanting to find out what happened, what you saw, and whether you’re okay. I had all the information, but I couldn’t feel it…maybe I couldn’t let myself. Wide awake, here in my little rented house, it would have been too much, too deep—or maybe it’s just that I’m too alone here to let the feelings come. So I had to wait for sleep to take over.
But it didn’t. I just lay awake, and I swear I could hear your dogs barking…Jenny and Penny…I love that you have dog sisters. Family sticking together—that’s what always mattered to us. I thought I heard the sisters starting to howl and cry. My eyes were closed, and I imagined I was with you right there, in the spot where you found Paul’s plane. I was with you and the dogs…and we were with Paul.
The mound…that word stung me when I read it on the page, a few pages before you write about finding the plane. “Mound” sounds like what it is—funereal. I guess I fell asleep…because I swear I saw the mound; it was part of the landscape—endless and stark and white. It was covered with snow, just like you said, and I saw the saplings. I reached out, to pull myself up, and I grasped one of the thornbushes you wrote about, and it pricked my thumb…blood on the snow.
And it melted…rivulets of white and blue water, mingled with my blood as it flowed harder from my thumb. And then it wasn’t—my skin was healed, and I was digging, in such a panic—my heart frozen and caught in my throat, clawing through the snow to the frozen ground.
I’m telling you the truth—this really happened. People lose their minds with grief. Having our son die…how can I even explain this? Or do I have to explain at all? My mind takes flights, Sam. It’s how I can go to him. Go to you, too. I’m not sure whether I was awake when I saw all this, or whether I was fast asleep.
You’d said the plane was there, but in my dream it was gone. All I found was the picture you’d left. And it was ruined. The snow and melting ice and my blood had blurred the image, made the paper so delicate it fell apart when I touched it. And that’s when I started to cry. My heart just broke open, and I stood there holding the soggy pieces of paper, trying to put them back together, just wanting to see your faces—our faces. You and me and Paul…
I started to howl, just like the dogs—Jenny and Penny were with me, right by my side. I could feel their wet fur through my jeans. They were pressing against me, holding me up. And then I heard Paul say, “Mom?”
I turned around, and he was there with you. And this is so strange—but you were both the same age. He was twenty, just the age he was when he died, and so were you—my young husband, your hair and beard still brown—and you both were smiling. I looked at you and wondered how I hadn’t known your trip to Alaska had been to save Paul—how had I thought he was dead?
And I reached out to hold you both, and the dogs began to bark again, and that’s when I woke up.
This is the part you won’t believe: when I opened my eyes, I saw the most ghostly green light at the window. I thought maybe the people next door had put up Christmas lights. But I got out of bed and crossed the room, and it was the northern lights.
The first time I’ve ever seen them. I’d always thought we would see them together. When I think of the celestial shows we’ve seen—the Perseid and Lyrid meteor showers, the Southern Cross, total eclipses of the sun and moon, Hale-Bopp, nights of Venus, mornings of Mars…why did we always have our eyes trained on the sky? But we did, we always did, and we never saw the northern lights together.
I stood at the window, touching the cold glass so I would feel it under my fingertips and know I was really awake, and I stared out at the green and gold—just the way you described it in your letter. And you know, Sam—I know you sent it to me. I know that you sent the northern lights from Alaska to Maine so I would know you were with me.
And I want to tell you right now, more than anything I want you to know that I am with you, too. I swear I am, Sam.
I wish I could send the northern lights back your way so you would know. I’m thinking so hard right now, directing my thoughts up there. Here’s what I want to say:
We loved him, and we loved each other. We were a family, and we still are. Not even his death can take him away from us or us from him. I feel him with me, Sam. And you, too. Close your eyes and know I’m holding your hand, thanking you for what you did, for going to Paul, for bringing our son back to me.
I can’t sleep. I tried, but it’s not going to happen.
Do you know Rumi’s poem “Love Dogs”? I’ve been thinking about it, ever since reading your last batch of letters. It’s beautiful and haunting, and makes me think of you. It speaks of a dog moaning, and his master hearing. That ineffable connection between two souls.
The grief you cry out from draws you toward union.
Can you see why that line makes me think of you, especially now? The poem is for you, but also for Grabby, Sneak, Wiley, Dash, Blondie, Dutch, Snowball, Kya, and, especially, my girls—Jenny and Penny.
And for Martha. Thank her for me…or maybe I’ll thank her myself.
Hadley
To Martha Rich:
December 12
Dear Martha,
I just sent Sam a letter asking him to thank you for me, but I decided that what I really want to do is write you myself. I need to thank you for…well, for more things than you can know. Starting with helping Sam visit the site of our son’s death. I’m not sure how much he’s told you about us, about the history between us, and how I felt about his trip to the Arctic, to visit Paul’s crash site.
I didn’t want him to go at all. It wasn’t long after we got the news of Paul’s death that Sam began to think about going to Alaska. Not to bring home Paul’s body—the Alaskan authorities made those arrangements, and we buried him near our home—but to see the spot, to lay eyes on it, to touch the ground. I think part of him believed it wasn’t really true, that until he actually went there, saw it, he could believe that it was all a terrible mistake. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to go. He could never bear to visit Paul’s grave. But he was determined, finally, to see where he died.
At first it was assumed that I would go with him. To Sam, it was our duty as Paul’s parents. Now, reading his letters, I have to ask myself many questions…why didn’t I want to go? Was it really because I felt I’d had more than I could take? Seeing our son’s remains, seeing his name on his headstone? Paul’s body was home—he was already buried, so why would I want to travel into the terrible territory that had taken his life?
Sam became—there’s only one word for it—obsessed. He lived, slept, and ate Alaska. He took many assignments during this time, and he’d come home from wherever he was with stories of people he’d met, people who’d gone into the bush. He researched the ways to reach Paul’s crash site, learned that there were only two ways—helicopter and dogsled. Then he learned that the only helicopter pilot stationed up past Laika Star, a guy who’d been taking trappers and fisherman into the country, had died in a crash. So then it came down to dogs and hiking.
This is all stuff that you know. Sam likes to talk—I’m sure you know that by now, too, sharing a tent with him. I loved that about him, from the time
we were young. The way he would tell a story, going on and around, weaving it all together. Other women complain their husbands don’t talk; that was never the case with Sam. So I’m wondering what, how much, he told you…I wonder how he presented it to you. I find myself, a little, wanting to defend myself to you.
It doesn’t matter, though…the important thing is that you helped him get there safely, helped him leave the photo at the site. That was his idea, but in the end it meant so much to me. I can only imagine how it was for Sam, to do that. I know he got sick on that last leg, and he’s never been good at taking care of himself. He’s a force of nature, and nothing can keep him down. I hope he’s doing what the doctor tells him.
Maybe we’ll meet someday, Martha. Until then, please know you have my deepest thanks and respect. May your holidays be bright…
Yours,
Hadley West
December 13
Dear Sam,
It’s getting close to Christmas, and I miss you terribly. Julie is coming out tomorrow, and she’ll stay the night. I’m looking forward to seeing her, and I wasn’t last week; I think it’s a combination of getting your letters, knowing that things are at rest in a new way—that you’ve been there, borne witness, left our picture there, and you’re almost on the way home. That plus Julie herself. You’re right—we always enjoyed her. She’s a good girl, and I love her for wanting to stay in our lives.
Sam, by now I assume Martha has told you I wrote to her. Just a thank-you note to let her know how much I appreciate what she did for you. Your letters are full of so many names, people I feel I know—or should know. Gus, Cindy, even poor Kilkenny. You mentioned that you said something for him. You didn’t say “prayer” because that’s not your way. It’s not really mine either, but I stopped into the island chapel this morning and lit candles. One for you, one for Paul, and one for Kilkenny.
