Ice Dogs

by Terry Lynn Johnson

  The dogs sit, watching me over their shoulders. Bean disappears around a corner. A burning need to get them to safety spreads fire through my limbs. I shove at Chris’s shoulder, then reach for the handlebar and pull myself up.

  “GET UP!” I yell at Chris.

  He squints, his chapped lips pulling tight, and climbs slowly to his feet next to me.

  “There you are,” he says. “Thought I’d lost you.”

  All of us are barely walking now. No, we’re weaving. Staggering up the hill. Every movement is an effort that takes all my will power. I recycle my reasons for moving. One step. Mom. One step. Dogs. One step. Chris. A tiny breeze could tip us over.

  And then I see it.

  And the dogs hear it. All ears perk at once. Their tails stiffen.

  Ahead, dogs begin to howl.

  “Is that real?” Chris breathes.

  We sag against each other as the team trots toward Cook’s yard.

  28

  MY HEAD FEELS AS IF IT’S been buried in sand. My throat hurts. Breathing hurts. I turn my head and my neck hurts. When I open my eyes, the bright lights stab needles into my retinas. I raise my arm to cover my face, and see tubes coming out of the top of my hand. Then I see my dad’s face.

  “AUGH!”

  Uncle Leonard jumps back as if he’s been electrocuted. “You trying to give me a heart attack?” He turns his head and shouts, “Sandy, she’s awake!”

  And now I remember. Cook’s. Ambulance. Hospital.

  “Stay right here.” Uncle Leonard pats my hand, then races out of the room yelling for Mom. As if I’m about to go anywhere.

  Finally, Mom appears beside me and takes my hand in her icy ones.

  “I’m here.” She smiles down at me.

  “You . . . you look like a vampire,” I manage to say.

  She lets out a short laugh, then her white face rearranges and she’s bawling. Little blue veins pulse under her bloodshot eyes. Her lids are puffy and red. The normally sleek strands of her hair are hanging in limp strings. Her hand flutters to her red nose and wipes it. She leans down, smoothes my hair off my face. Kisses my forehead.

  “And you look like you’re grounded. For life.”

  “Bean! The dogs!” I bolt upright and immediately feel as if I’m going to yak.

  “They’re fine, Vic. Jeremy Cook took care of them. He even took Bean to the vet. We can’t believe you found his yard. You must have done some kind of circular route. He followed your tracks to see you’d crossed at Devil’s River.”

  I hear voices coming from the hall. A moment of panic grips me. How long have I been here?

  I turn back to Mom. “Is Chris okay? Where is he?”

  “You both have some bad frostbite and dehydration, but the doctors say you’ll recover. He’s in the next room.” Mom squeezes my hand. “He’s been asking for you, too.”

  She looks down at me and her eyes start to tear up again. We both talk at once.

  “Mom, I’m sorry I went without telling you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t take you to Cook’s.”

  Mom suddenly lunges at me and wraps me in her arms. “Vic, Vic, Vic,” she chants, rocking me.

  “Mom, too tight, Mom!”

  We laugh and she wipes her nose, then holds me at arm’s length. “You are so stubborn. But I heard from Chris all you did. How you found him and saved him and I’m so proud of you. So proud.” She rubs my arm. “Your dad . . . would be so proud of you, too.”

  “Mom,” I rush to get this out before the knot in my throat completely prevents me from talking. “I know it wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t my fault. Sometimes stuff just happens that you can’t control.”

  Her hands go to her mouth and she nods, tears spilling from her eyes.

  “But I really, really, really want to stay in Alaska. And run dogs, Mom. I want to hear wolves, and maybe learn guitar, and start going to parties. Maybe we should have a party.”

  I feel as if I’ve just let go of something heavy. Like I could float off this bed right now.

  Mom leans down and hugs me. “Baby, we’re not going anywhere. I love living in Alaska, too. This is home. This is everything you live for, I know that. And I know that I haven’t been a good mom since losing Dad.” Her face looks pained as she continues. “Vicky, I’m sorry I belittled your relationship with your dad that day. I know you relied on each other out there. I didn’t mean what I said, and I should’ve said this sooner. But now we should promise each other something.” She looks me in the eye. “We shouldn’t try to deal with things on our own, okay? We’ve still got each other, let’s not forget that.” Her last words squeak out, and then she starts to bawl, which gets me started and we’re both hiccupping and blubbering when Uncle Leonard walks in.

  “You sure know how to get attention, kiddo,” he says. His stride is so much like Dad’s long, purposeful stride. “Search-and-rescue crews, game wardens. You’ve been on the local news every night.”

  Mom wipes her eyes and looks from me to Uncle Leonard. “I’m just going to talk to the doctors down the hall, Vic. I’ll be right back.” She stands tall, smoothing her hands down the front of her shirt in a gesture that is so familiar, I’m almost overwhelmed again.

  I twist around and wrestle down the metal arm of the hospital bed. Uncle Leonard helps me as I swing my legs over the side. My feet are wrapped.

  “Looks like you have some mending to do before the White Wolf.” Uncle Leonard gives me a playful punch on the arm that actually hurts.

  “Hey! I almost died of frostbite, remember?” I rub my arm.

  He laughs and then his face changes. In a blink, it goes from his normal smile to something strained with anguish. His bright eyes swim and he clutches me in a tight embrace.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, too.”

  I wrap my arms around his middle, careful with the IV tubes, and hold on as my own throat closes.

  “I miss him so much, kiddo. So much.”

  We separate, and Uncle Leonard pats my shoulder awkwardly. Now that I look for it, I see within his face the strain of grief. I see that he feels compelled to be the one to watch over me for Dad.

  I take his hand. “We have to watch over each other, Uncle Leonard. I learned that at least on my little trip.”

  His Adam’s apple bounces as he looks at me with a new, open expression. He nods and gently takes my head under his arm to rub his knuckles across the top of my head.

  “Augh, stop that!”

  “Far as I know, no frostbite up here.”

  The ride home is a blur of telephone poles and speeding vehicles. We seem to be traveling at an insane pace compared to what I’d been used to for the last week. I grip the handle above the truck door and try to relax. It’s strange to think that the whole time I was gone, the rest of the world continued on. As if there was no race for survival going on just on the other side of those trees. Cars still zoomed around carrying people who went to work, to school, got their cavities filled, traveled in a girl-pack to go to the bathroom, turned in their science projects.

  I feel as if I’ve just stepped out of an alternate universe where I’ve been for the last ten years, and all time here had stopped until I got back on. I’ve changed, but the rest of the world hasn’t.

  Mom grips my hand with one of hers as she steers with the other. It hurts my fingers but I don’t want her to stop.

  “Here we are,” she says. “Home at last. You’d better start calling people, Sarah first. But the whole town has been holding vigil.”

  We pull into our driveway and the dogs start a chorus of welcome. My heart trips and I fling open the door before we’ve rolled to a stop.

  “Careful . . . ” Mom is saying, but I don’t catch the rest as I jump out. I want to sprint to the dog yard, but landing on my feet quickly reminds me of my last few days. I end up hobbling awkwardly, gritting my teeth, my heart racing with happiness. Tears erupt out of me when I see Bean matching my
hobble as he moves around his circle.

  All the dogs greet me as if it’s been months since they’ve seen me. But they do that even after I leave for ten minutes. Still, it fills my soul to see them all, including the ones that didn’t come along on our adventure. Even Beetle seems insanely happy I’m home. I bury my fingers in their coats, smell their doggy breath, and feel a rush of joy so intense, it burns behind my eyes.

  As I limp around with the shovel, cleaning the yard, I make a promise to myself. I will always enjoy doing dog chores this much. I won’t ever take my life for granted.

  29

  Friday

  THE NEXT MORNING I SPEND TIME with each of the dogs separately, feeding them beaver steaks that Uncle Leonard bought from Mr. Oleson. I talked to the vet last night and today I have to break the news to Bean that his racing days are most likely over. With deep tissue injuries in both shoulders, he has a weakness now that I can’t let him strain. Even just tripping on one moose track punched in the trail could cause more damage that I’m not willing to risk. No, we’re going to go for slow, fun runs and then try massage, compress wraps, glucosamine, and whatever else I can do to keep the arthritis at bay. I won’t stop him running though. Not running at all would kill his spirit.

  “I’m so sorry, Beanie. But retirement won’t be that bad.” He looks at me with knowing eyes.

  “Who wants to win races anyway?”

  I stroke Bean’s chest as he sits in front of me, a wide-mouthed goofy grin across his face. We’ve sat like this so many times. But this time, I really see him. Like he sees me. His gaze is steady, burning into me with the intensity of our bond.

  Racing is just an excuse to spend time with the dogs out on the trail, doing what they love. How could I have forgotten that? Still, before our next race, Bean is going to have to help me train Drift to be a better leader. We don’t need any side trips in the middle of a race.

  “We’re going to go as slow as you need to, chum. But after we’ve had some rest, okay?” I hold up a fat chunk of beaver meat. “For now, do you have any interest in this?”

  Baked corn bread, roasting moose, and bubbling brown gravy odors waft out of the kitchen along with a cranked Johnny Cash tune. Mom sings off-key. I don’t even turn on Timbaland to drown out the noise that Mom calls music. It’s just good to hear Mom sound so happy.

  Sarah is the first to arrive with her entire family. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder, low-cut shirt with a black lace push-up bra underneath. And the black lace is sort of the first thing you see. Her tight mini is paired with hot pink leg coverings that reach halfway up her thighs. As she’s coming in for a hug, I point.

  “What the heck are those?”

  “This is going to be the latest rage, Vic! Leg warmers are coming back to fashion. Cripes, you’ve been gone for days and you’re so behind!”

  She laughs and a delicate little snort sneaks out and I’m so delighted to hear that sound again, my eyes start to well up. Her eyes well up too, and we hug with a fierceness that surprises me. We rock back and forth. Her familiar vanilla body lotion scent brings on more tears. I’m going to have to get a grip or this will be a long night.

  “Oh, Vicky.” She touches the frostbite still visible on my nose and cheeks. “I was so freaking out. Freakin’ drama. But I should have known you’d find a way back, and save a stray while you were doing it.” She dabs at her eyes and looks behind me. “I’ve seen his picture on the news. I want to see if he’s that cute in person. Where is he? Is he here? Point him out.”

  “Uh, not here, not cute, definitely not your type.”

  “Oooh! Liar. I’m intrigued—”

  “There you are, Victoria. Oh Lord, I’m so relieved you made it back.” Mrs. Wicker, my old youth group leader and owner of the feed store in town, steps close and gives me a quick, perfumed hug.

  Sarah whispers as she walks away, “I want full details later.”

  “You’d think that those fellows that were searching would have been able to find you,” Mrs. Wicker is saying.

  “We saw them,” I tell her. “One of the helicopters. But I think we were hard to spot.”

  “Well, they should be better trained. Lord, how could they miss you?”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Wicker. We made it back without them.”

  “Yes! That’s the main thing. You’re home and that boy you found is back safe, too.” She lowers her voice and continues in a scandalous hush. “They’re from Canada, you know. His poor mother here all alone without a man. She’s a single mom, you know. Terrible business. And then losing her only son just after they arrive. Oh Lord, can you imagine it? I nearly break out in hives just thinking of it!”

  I nod. There’s no stopping Mrs. Wicker when she’s on a roll, so I don’t even try. She fans her face, then leans in again.

  “But she’s never seen such a helping and caring community as us. Someone was always over there keeping her company. Bringing casseroles and making tea.” Her voice gets louder and faster with each word.

  When she says this it brings a hazy memory of everyone coming to our house last year. Bringing food for Mom and me, too. I feel a sudden tenderness toward Mrs. Wicker, then realize she’s still talking so try to focus.

  “ . . . She’s most grateful to you, Victoria. You’ll probably get a medal for saving him, you know. Oh Lord, can you imagine, our own Victoria Secord, a national hero!” She’s practically shouting in my ear now.

  “That reminds me, I wanted to invite her to a welcome party at my house next Saturday. You and your mother will have to come too, dear. The whole community is invited.”

  “That sounds great—“

  “Lord, listen to me! We’re all just so happy you’re alive. Don’t worry about your next dog food shipment, dear. Mr. Wicker and I plan to have a pallet delivered to you free of charge. Our little way of saying how proud we are of you.” Her whole body fluffs up like a preening bird.

  “Wow! Thank you so much, Mrs. Wicker. I—”

  “Yes—not a full pallet you understand. One or two bags. It’s nothing. Now you rest up.” She beams, adjusts the fabric over her bosom, then hurries away, presumably on a mission to find Chris’s mom.

  Most everyone from my class is here, along with their families. Mr. Oleson, Mr. Wicker, the Cooks, all the members from search-and-rescue. The hugs and tears, laughter, and screeches of welcome make the time fly by. But then the food is spread out and I stare at the mounds of it—all just sitting there.

  It’s beautiful.

  When I dig in, though, I realize my stomach must have shrunk, because I can only eat one bite of a few things. But the real food—solid, delicious, hot—nearly brings more tears to my eyes. If everyone could almost die, the world would be a happier, more thankful place.

  “Are you going to finish that?” a familiar voice says next to me.

  I whirl around. “Back off, man, get your own. How’s your pit with the spears working out? Getting any meat?”

  Chris’s pale face is as ravaged as mine, with red blotches, and white, waxy-looking spots across his nose and cheeks.

  “You look awful,” he says, then grins and looks like Chris.

  “Yes, well, on you—it’s sort of an improvement.”

  We both smile, and stand there knowing we share something that no one else will ever truly understand.

  “So, I wondered if I could like, borrow one of those dog coats.”

  I give him a questioning look.

  “To use as a pattern. I want to make something for the dogs. And I was thinking a sign for your sled bag for your next race that says, ‘Chris is awesome.’”

  I cross my arms and try not to laugh.

  “‘Chris is a bit awesome’?” He raises his brows. “No? At least can I keep the pink tights?”

  I give in and laugh, then grab his hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  We weave our way into the living room to a place that I have avoided for more than a year. I turn my attention to a photo in
a large black frame hanging on the wall.

  “That’s my dad.”

  Chris studies the picture as I soak in the image of my dad smiling, wearing his soft-worn flannel shirt that he insisted on, even for a professional photo session. His arm is around Mom, his hand on my shoulder. The permanent sun creases are around his eyes, standing out on his tanned face and making his gaze seem as if he’s looking right at me. I stare right back and know I’ll never stop missing him. That won’t ever go away.

  “I see where you get your hair. Where does the stubborn come from, Mom or Dad?”

  Dad used to say people come into our lives for a reason. I give Chris’s hand a squeeze. Mandolin music reaches us from the kitchen. Chris’s teasing expression turns into a question.

  “Mom,” I say. “She’s a good mandolin player.”

  The music is joined by hand clapping and stomping. Suddenly, standing in my living room surrounded by everyone, I feel like Mom and I are a family again. A chorus of howls comes up from the dog yard and joins with the music in the kitchen. My dogs sound happy.

  About the Author

  TERRY LYNN JOHNSON lives in Whitefish Falls, Ontario, where for ten years she owned a team of eighteen Alaskan huskies. She’s an award-winning member of the Outdoor Writers of Canada and the Dog Writers Association of America—recently winning the Maxwell Medallion of Excellence. When she’s not writing, Terry enjoys hiking, snowshoeing, and kayak expeditioning, and she occasionally tortures herself in a canoe race. As one of only nine female conservation officers in Ontario, Terry understands the challenges and possibilities for women in the outdoors. This is her first novel for Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Visit www.terrylynnjohnson.com for more information.