The Wonder of Us

by Kim Culbertson

  Apparently, we’re all nursing stings we’re not talking about this morning.

  Neel checks his watch. “Our tour driver for the Golden Circle picks us up at nine. Meet downstairs with your bags packed in twenty minutes.” He scoots his chair back crisply, tucking the magazine under his arm the way he has in so many other breakfast rooms on this trip.

  I watch him cross the room before turning to Riya. “Trouble in Iceland?”

  “Not really.” She licks some syrup off her finger. “I mean, we sort of got into it last night, but it’s fine.”

  I motion to his exit. “That didn’t look fine.”

  “That looked like Neel.” She stands. “Oh, and don’t forget your phone on the side table by the bed. Did you see it this morning? Your mom called like five times.”

  I saw it. That’s why I left it in the room.

  A little after nine, Neel, Riya, and I wait outside the hotel near an enormous white van with bright blue lettering reading Iceland Adventures! Gunnar, our tour guide and driver, leans against the van, talking into his phone. Today he’s taking us on an overnight tour of the Golden Circle, a loop showcasing some of Southern Iceland’s most famous features. Well over six feet, with a bushy white-blond beard, and built from bricks of muscle, Gunnar has a fitting name. In fact, all the Icelanders we’ve met so far seem to have won some sort of genetic lottery. His voice, though, surprises me: low and musical, full of soft syllables. Mom would call him a gentle giant. A stab of guilt hits me when I think of her. Up in the room, I didn’t call back. I texted: busy, heading out on a tour! She hasn’t text back.

  “Look.” Riya elbows me and nods in the direction of some other passengers coming through the hotel doors. We eavesdrop as they introduce themselves to Gunnar. A family from Spain: a mother, father, and two cute shaggy-haired teen boys who turn out to be twins. “Nice,” Riya whispers to me when she hears this, “one for each of us.” She gives them a sunny smile when they glance in our direction.

  Next, a middle-aged couple joins the group. Rand and Suzie. They’re from Vermont, stopping over in Iceland for three nights before continuing on to Paris. Rand nods at something Gunnar says and adjusts his faded gray baseball hat, which reads Bennington College. Next, a woman decked out in full hiking gear and a puffy down vest hurries out of the hotel. She has dyed black hair but appears to be in her late sixties or early seventies. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been trying to wake my friend.”

  Gunnar looks alarmed. “Is she ill?”

  “Just lazy,” our new guest assures us, digging through a backpack that appears outfitted to save us on the off chance we end up lost in the Icelandic wilderness for the next month. Our last passenger, the hiking woman’s friend, emerges from the hotel a few minutes later, clothes spilling out of her unzipped green duffel bag, her closely cropped white hair sticking up in places. “We almost left without you, Carol,” Hiker Lady says, shaking her head. Gunnar assures her we did not.

  “My alarm didn’t go off, Maggie, don’t make a federal case of it,” Carol says sharply, trying to stuff the dangling arm of a shirt into her bag and smooth her hair down at the same time.

  The Spanish family takes the long bench seat for four in the far back. Riya scurries to take the bench seat in front of them, and the other two couples settle into the seats near the front. Carol adjusts a mini blue backpack on her lap and stares straight ahead as we begin the drive out of Reykjavík. Maggie hands her something wrapped in a white napkin from the hotel. “Here, I made you a toast sandwich. You missed one heck of a breakfast spread.”

  “You’re not supposed to steal the hotel napkins,” Carol replies, but she nibbles the sandwich.

  Neel nudges me, whispering, “That’s you and Riya in fifty years.” I fake a horrified expression, but Riya doesn’t see it. She has turned in her seat to chat up the boys, Diego and Matías, who are from Barcelona. “I’ve always wanted to go to Barcelona,” she’s saying, her laugh silvery. I turn, too, listening to the conversation, nodding, smiling, but my eyes keep slipping outside to the stretch of wide, cloud-filled sky, the green of Iceland rolling out on either side of us as we move through the volcanic landscape toward Thingvellir National Park.

  When we arrive, Gunnar parks the van next to several other tour vans and buses. In the dusty parking lot, he collects us into a half ring, giving us a brief history of the dramatic land around us. For the next hour or so, we will walk the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are slowly splitting apart. “Do we have any history fans?” he asks, and I raise my hand. Actually, everyone raises their hands, but he smiles straight at me and says, “Thingvellir was the seat of the first Icelandic parliament in 930 AD, the Althing, and considered by many to be the oldest parliament in the world.”

  He motions for us to follow him to a trail, stopping when we come to a rocky outcropping overlooking a valley. Below, fingers of water spread out from a bright expanse of river. Gunnar points out the white Thingvellir Church on the other side of the river before explaining that where we’re standing is a possible location for Lögberg, or Law Rock. Here, people would come forward and give important speeches to the gathered members. After answering some questions from Carol and Maggie, Gunnar continues along the trail, and I start to follow but notice Riya hanging back, standing at the railing overlooking the valley.

  “Hey, we’re going,” I call to her, motioning to where the rest of our group makes their way up the hill.

  “Gunnar said this is where they make important speeches in Iceland.” She slips her hands out of the pockets of her red Patagonia vest. “I have an important speech to make.” She holds her arms dramatically wide, like a queen would to her subjects. “I am here at the Lögberg.”

  My cheeks heat when several other tourists stop to watch her. “Riya, you don’t have to do this—”

  “Silence! I am orating.” She clears her throat dramatically. “I would like it known that here on this clear day in the glorious month of July in the seat of the oldest parliament in the human world—”

  “Good to specify. We wouldn’t want to offend the aliens.”

  “Shh!” She holds up her hand. “Here on this great day, I want to apologize in front of all the land for not being honest with my best friend about my London plans. She didn’t deserve to be left in the dark, and I, from herewitherforth—”

  “Not a word.” I try to hide a grin.

  She raises her arms regally. “From herewitherforth, I will talk to her, confer with her, and not keep secrets from her when it comes to issues that might affect her future, too.”

  Tears prick my eyes. “Seriously, cute Spanish boys. Getting away.”

  She doesn’t move from the spot, even as another tour guide attempts to explain the role of the parliament to his gathered travelers. Riya stares at me, her eyes growing serious. “Does the aforementioned friend accept my apology?” When I hesitate, she bellows, “I demand an answer!”

  “Okay, okay.” I hurry to her side. “The aforementioned friend herewitherforth accepts your apology.” She throws her arms around me, and I whisper into her hair, “But can we go? This is sort of embarrassing.”

  We head up the stairs to catch up with our tour. “Pretty impressive speech, though, right?”

  “Game of Thrones will be calling for an audition for sure.” We try to hurry, but Gunnar has already walked back down searching for us.

  “The group stays together, ladies,” he admonishes in his soft-edged voice.

  Riya whispers, “Uh-oh, Thor’s mad at us.”

  I hook my arm through hers. “Totally worth it.”

  After a short hike, we take the van to the rim of the Kerid Crater, a deep volcanic crater with an indigo lake at its center. We eat a picnic lunch and then snap some photos. Motioning to Neel, who stands several dozen feet from us, peering down into the blue water, Riya mumbles, “Wonder what Nani would say if she found out he ended up in the bottom of a volcanic crater?”

  Before I can
respond, Gunnar calls us, and we scramble back into the van to head to the Haukadalur geothermic area. The chill I noticed earlier between Riya and Neel has reached new levels, more appropriate for winter in Iceland than summer. Sitting between them, I’m my own mini Berlin Wall; both of them are plugged into their phones, staring in separate directions out the windows of the van. When Neel tugs his earbuds out, I see if I’ll have better luck with him than I did with Riya at breakfast earlier. “What are you two fighting about? Blink if I come close. Moira? Travel? Whether or not Iceland should host a Winter Olympics?” Not blinking, or answering, he turns back to the window, but not before his pained expression cuts off any further questioning from me.

  When we reach our destination, we park and cross the street to the trail that leads to the Strokkur geyser, Gunnar encouraging all of us to bring our rain jackets. In the last fifteen minutes, the sky has grown thick and gray with storm clouds. As we walk the trail lined with pools of steaming water that hiss and bubble, Maggie peers worriedly at the sky, wondering aloud when the rain will open up on us. The closer we get to the geyser, though, the harder it is to tell where the moisture stems from, the ground or the sky. Everything around us is steel gray, the smell of sulfur strong in the wet air.

  As Gunnar gathers us into a group on the wet rock a hundred feet from the geyser, Riya makes sure we maneuver close to Diego and Matías. Gunnar waits until we’re all quiet. “The word geyser that most of you know originates from this region. It comes from the Old Norse verb geysa, meaning ‘to gush.’” Gunnar has the hood of his jacket cinched so low over his eyes that his exposed face is almost entirely yellow beard. We all follow his lead, battening down our own hatches, as the first raindrops pock the steaming surface of the geothermal pool. A crowd gathers to wait for Strokkur to erupt.

  We hold our breath and wait, watching the changing light cast a blue glow across the wet patches of ground. Before anything happens, a group of tourists in matching crimson slickers moves like a swarm of red bees into the viewing space in front of us. “Oh, wait—what?” Riya glares at them. She clears her throat, but the dozen red-jacketed hoods don’t budge. Her eyes search out a different space. “Look, no one is standing over there in that flat area. Let’s go over there.”

  “I see okay,” Matías tells her while his brother fiddles with his phone.

  “Abby?” Riya asks me.

  “Gunnar said to stay here.” I glance at Neel, who nods in agreement.

  “Ugh, maybe you two should just get married and get it over with!” Riya storms away to the bare patch of stone ground, where she stands with her back to us. What was that about? I’m turning to ask Neel when the ground explodes in a shooting stream of water. People cry out, delighted, their cameras poised, capturing the geyser’s blast.

  Thing about water that shoots high up into the sky? It has to land somewhere.

  That somewhere is on Riya.

  One moment, she’s watching as it roars toward the sky, then, just as suddenly, she screams, vanishing into a white, drenching cloud. “Riya!” I start to run to her, but Neel grabs the back of my jacket. “Hold on, she’s fine.” Out of the wet cloud, I hear what at first sounds like crying, but realize is actually laughter. As the mist dissipates, Riya’s form materializes. She is sopping wet, her hood knocked back, her hair hanging in dripping strands around her face, but yes, she is laughing.

  Diego and Matías clutch their stomachs, doubling over with laughter. She takes slow, sodden steps back to us. Flipping some wet hair from her face, she beams at them. “I guess that’s why no one stands over there.”

  Gunnar doesn’t notice what happened. He’s already quite far away, walking up the path with Carol and Maggie. Riya needs to change, but Gunnar has the keys to the van. “Gunnar!” I shout, the wind grabbing my words, carrying them away into the wet air. He can’t hear me. He’s so far away now, he’s just a dot with a beard.

  Riya, looking like she could give a seminar to drowned rats on how to appear more pathetic and miserable, chatters, “It’s n-n-no problem. I’m f-f-fine.” The wind has picked up, and even though her shower was a hot one, she shivers visibly. Matías offers to get the keys from Gunnar and trots off in the direction of where Gunnar disappeared behind a mound of volcanic hill.

  “That could take a while.” Neels sighs. “Let’s at least get you something hot to drink.”

  Diego unzips his jacket, pulls off his sweatshirt, and hands it to her. She takes it gratefully.

  We warm up across the street in the building that houses a cafeteria-style restaurant, restrooms, and a large gift shop. Riya sits by the window squeezing out her hair into paper napkins, leaving tiny pools of water on the floor around her. When there is no sign of Matías, Diego heads out to find him.

  A few minutes later, Neel brings her a dry T-shirt and a pair of bright pink fleece pajama bottoms dotted with sheep to wear until she can get into her bag to change clothes. “Souvenirs. Who knows how long it will take to get into the van.” Riya holds up the shirt. It reads: If you don’t like the weather in Iceland, wait five minutes. “You’ll get used to that in London, too,” he tells her. She scoops up the new clothes and Diego’s sweatshirt and hurries to the bathroom to change. Neel slides onto the bench next to me, his hip touching mine. The damp has turned his hair wild and curly.

  I nudge him. “You have some crazy hair going on.”

  He tries to tamp it down but only manages to isolate certain chunks. Catching my eye, he says, “Don’t laugh, curly. You should see your hair.”

  He’s right. I’m like Frizzy the Wet Weather Clown, but I hold his gaze. “Oh, I’m not laughing. I like your hair like that.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Yes.” We’re locked in one of those moments where neither of us wants to drop our eye contact, but keeping it builds an intensity we keep dancing around. Until now. “Was your fight with Riya about me?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away, just drums his fingers lightly on the table in front of us. I can’t help constantly noticing small things like this about him, like how nice the blue of his jacket looks on him, or how adorable the creases at the edges of his eyes are when he laughs.

  Those eyes now dart toward the bathrooms. “Who says we had a fight?” When I just stare at him, he clears his throat and sits back in his chair. “Yes. It was about you.” He doesn’t offer up any more information.

  “Do you want to give me any specifics?”

  Neel glances at the closed bathroom door again, but his eyes make their way back to me. He clears his throat. “Riya is concerned that I am developing feelings for you.”

  My heart flips just once. “Feelings, like wow-that-Abby-girl-is-really-annoying-I-wish-she’d-go-back-to-California kind of feelings?”

  A smile plays at his mouth. “Not exactly.”

  The heart flip develops into a full-blown cardiac gymnastic event. He’s sitting so close, I’m sure he hears it, but I force myself to sound casual. “And you got into a fight because she was out of line and completely off base about the whole thing?”

  Neel leans into me, his arm warm along my arm. “Actually, the fight had more to do with her accuracy.”

  “Wow.” I place my hands flat on the table in front of me to keep them from shaking.

  “Right, then. So, we may or may not have a problem.” He covers my hands with his and pulls me gently toward him until we’re facing each other. I clearly need to hold up my end of this surreal conversation I’m having in the middle of Iceland, but I’ve completely lost the use of my voice. Apparently, all the clichés are true. My voice is nowhere to be found.

  He notices. “So, the problem, of course, is whether or not you feel the same.” He places one long index finger beneath my chin, tipping it up to meet his gaze. “Do you?”

  My neon-sign face always answers these sorts of questions for me, and it’s working overtime now. “Yeah, we definitely have a problem.” Then, surprising myself perhaps even more than I surprise him, I plant my hands on either sid
e of his face and pull him in close to kiss me, his lips warm and tasting like the mint tea he’s been drinking.

  Now I know how Riya felt when that cascade of water hit her.

  I hear Gullfoss before I see it.

  On the drive here, and now, walking through the parking lot to see the famous waterfall, I can’t stop my mind from spinning, from replaying the kiss with Neel. Somehow, Riya didn’t catch us; she returned from the bathroom wondering if she should buy a pair of slippers shaped like goofy Icelandic horse heads and we’d been sitting there, blinking into the space between us. She has no idea that during her wardrobe change in the bathroom, my world tilted on its axis.

  Turns out, secrets are harder to share when they’re yours.

  Now we all take a collective gasp as Iceland’s most famous waterfall appears, wide, white-watered, with a ribbon of rainbow shimmering across it in the newly emerged sun. I try to focus on its two-tiered surging zigzag drop into a long, narrow canyon. Around us, the air is wet, with that damp green smell that permeates near a large body of water. We navigate our way carefully down the wooden stairs and find places near the cabled railing where we can stand eye level to the plunging falls. I’ve seen pictures, but nothing can truly capture how massive it feels to be standing this near to it. No wonder Gullfoss routinely ends up on top-ten lists for world waterfalls. A true natural wonder. The kind that reminds you it has been here a long, long time and will exist into a future you will never see. Dad calls these Nature Reality Checks.

  I sort of need one right now.

  “Abby! Come get a picture with me. Give Neel your phone.” Riya wears the pink sheep pajama bottoms tucked into a pair of black boots she changed into in the van. She still wears Diego’s sweatshirt. When Matías, Diego, and Gunnar found us in the cafeteria, Gunnar was spewing apologies, hadn’t realized the girl drenched by the geyser had been part of his flock. “Happens all the time,” he told her.