The Simple Wild

by K. A. Tucker

  My chest tightens with dread. How is she going to deal with this news?

  I need to call and tell her, and soon. But I find myself hesitating. Maybe because it’ll seem more real, more final then. That voice is still there in my head, prattling away in a rushed, desperate tone, trying to convince me that the doctors are wrong about how serious it is, that my father has made a terrible decision, that he needs to fight, that maybe I can still get through to him.

  And then Jonah’s voice mixes in, his sobering words about coming to terms with the grim reality. It’s on steady repeat.

  Who knows when reality is going to sink in. But I do know one thing—I don’t want to be thousands of miles away when it does.

  With a deep inhale, I call the airline.

  “She finally fell asleep about two hours ago,” Simon says through a yawn. It’s not quite five a.m. in Toronto. I left Jonah’s house and trekked across the lawn to my dad’s to check my messages—he really needs to join this century and get internet—and found several from Simon, telling me to call his cell, no matter what time.

  Of course I panicked and dialed, not even checking the clock.

  I should have known Simon would want to check in on me.

  I’ve never listened to so much dead air over a phone as I did this afternoon, when I sat down in my dad’s worn old office chair and called my mom to share the bad news. She barely spoke as I spelled out the reality of it all—that we were wrong, that they hadn’t caught it early.

  That they caught it far too late.

  I talked with a wavering voice, shedding quiet tears, and I listened to the silence on the other end, knowing that what I was actually hearing was her heart breaking.

  “She didn’t take it well.”

  “No, she didn’t.” Simon’s charming British lilt is a welcome voice. I realize how much I miss seeing him in the morning as I collect my latte with a grumbled thanks. I miss his dry-humored quips as I stroll through the house, always coming or going from something. I miss the fact that he somehow always knows when I could use an ear. I miss that he’s always there for me, in a way that my father never was.

  In a way that I had started picturing Wren Fletcher to be in the coming years, without realizing that I was actually doing it.

  “How are you taking this, Calla?”

  I peer up at the strings of Christmas lights dangling from the ceiling that I just plugged in. The bulbs are too big, the colors too dull, the light cast too weak, and yet the canopy they provide is somehow mesmerizing. I can’t peel my eyes from them. “I don’t know. I’m angry.”

  “About what?”

  Simon knows exactly what. He just wants me to verbalize it. “That he didn’t tell me sooner. That he’s refusing treatment. Take your pick. It’s all shitty.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But . . .” There’s always a but with Simon.

  “No buts this time. You have every right to feel this way. I would be angry and frustrated, too, if someone I loved wasn’t doing everything they could to stay with me for as long as possible.”

  “I just don’t get how he could be so selfish! He has people who love him and he’s hurting all of them.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Simon sighs into my ear. “Well, that’s something you wouldn’t have confessed to so easily, sitting on the porch steps that night with me, now is it?”

  “I guess not. I wouldn’t have felt it then.” And yet just a week later, there’s no doubt in my mind that I love my father, and I don’t want him to die. Which makes this all so much more painful. “But he doesn’t seem to care about anyone but himself. He never has!” Even as I say the words, I know they’re not true. “He doesn’t care enough,” I amend.

  “Do you think he hasn’t thought his decision through?”

  “How could he have? I mean, who doesn’t fight cancer?”

  “It does happen, for various reasons.” And Simon, for one, would know. He’s had his share of terminal patients who come to him for help with dealing with their grim reality. “Did he explain his decision to you?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, and I repeat everything my father told me earlier.

  “Sounds like maybe he hasn’t made the decision lightly.”

  “Maybe. But it’s still not okay.” It’ll never be okay. “What would you do?”

  “I’d like to think I’d go through with the treatment, at least to start, but I’m not in his shoes. Besides, your mother would have me hog-tied and dragged to the hospital if I even suggested skipping it.”

  “She should come here and do that to him, too,” I say half-heartedly. “Or at least call him. I’m sure she still remembers his number. She sure dialed it enough times twelve years ago.”

  Silence meets my words.

  “I mean—”

  “There isn’t anything about what happened with your parents that I’m not aware of, Calla,” Simon says carefully.

  I sigh. Of course Simon would know.

  God, what a mess my parents are.

  “I imagine Wren is quite scared,” Simon finally offers as a way out of the awkwardness.

  “He said he wants to die on his own terms.”

  “That doesn’t mean he can’t be downright terrified while doing it.”

  “I guess.” And I ran right out of there today, leaving him alone. A sting of guilt pricks me.

  We sit in loaded silence, my pajama-clad body wrapped in my flannel jacket and a layer of blankets, my gaze drifting out over the night sky, still much brighter than what I’m used to for almost one a.m.

  “So I guess you don’t have any wise words to make this all better.”

  “Sorry. No wise words,” Simon says with a sigh.

  “That’s okay. Just talking to you helps.”

  “Good. And remember, you can be angry and frustrated with him for his decision but still love and support him through it.”

  “I’m not sure how to do that.”

  “You’ll figure it out. You’re a well-adjusted and self-aware young woman, and you make smart decisions.”

  “Calla! You coming back to bed?” Jonah hollers from somewhere unseen but nearby. He was reaching for a leather-bound book on his nightstand, the sheet draped loosely over his bottom half, when I threw on my clothes and left him to come here. It was an oddly erotic sight.

  Speaking of making smart decisions . . .

  Jesus. Half of Bangor probably heard him.

  “Let me guess . . . That must be that horrid pilot from next door that I’ve been hearing about from your mother,” Simon says dryly. “Pray tell me, how is your vicious feud with him going?”

  “I used up all my dad’s water, so I have to stay over there tonight if I want plumbing.” I could also stay at Agnes’s house, a point I’m not about to bring up.

  “Right. Well, that was kind of him to welcome you, despite your being mortal enemies.”

  “It really was.” And Simon isn’t buying my lame excuse for a second.

  Jonah’s heavy boots stomp up the porch stairs. He pushes open the door and I catch a flash of movement next to his feet. It’s Bandit, scurrying in ahead of him, his beady eyes shimmering against the glow of the Christmas lights. He lets out one of those high-pitched chattering sounds.

  I cringe. “Hey, Simon, what’s your professional opinion about someone who has a pet raccoon?” I ask loudly, to make it clear to Jonah that I’m on the phone with my stepdad.

  “Considering we seem to have two, who am I to pass judgment? Good night, Calla. Call me whenever you need to.”

  “’Night. Love you.” It just rolls off my tongue for Simon. And I have yet to say it to my real father even once.

  Jonah’s gaze drifts over the ceiling of the porch. “You and Mabel did a good job.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah. It’s kind of cozy out here now.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were on the phone. You feel better after talking to him?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Maybe. It doesn’t make it okay, though.”

  “Nothing’s gonna make this okay. Not for a long time. Come on.” Jonah holds a hand out for me.

  I take it and let him pull me to my feet.

  And I can’t help but think that it’s Jonah who makes me feel better.

  Or, at least, he makes me hurt a little bit less.

  Chapter 24

  My dad’s dressed and sitting beside his bed when Mabel and I knock.

  “Hey . . . How are my girls?” he murmurs, his gray eyes flickering to mine.

  “Ready to whoop your butt tonight. And don’t think I’m gonna let you win,” Mabel says with a smile that isn’t nearly as bright as usual, but is there nonetheless. She wanders in ahead of me, dragging her sneakers along the dull linoleum floor.

  “I’d expect nothing less from a shark like you.” My dad’s lips twitch. “Did your mom drive you guys here?”

  “No, Jonah did. He had to get his stitches out anyway.”

  My dad thumbs the collar of his jacket. “Well, that was good timing, then.”

  “What’s this?” Mabel picks up the white folder sitting on the bed.

  “Oh. That’s just some paperwork I’ve got to go through. Nothing interesting,” he says, smoothly plucking it from her grasp in a way that makes me think he doesn’t want her seeing it at all. “Hey, kiddo, why don’t you go and grab yourself something at the cafeteria.” He pulls a bill out of his wallet. “We’ve got another few minutes before the nurse comes back.”

  Mabel snatches it up eagerly. “You guys want anything?”

  He waves her away. “I’m good.”

  I shake my head and smile, watching her skip out the door.

  Awkward silence lingers for a long moment, as I lean against the wall and my father fumbles with the folder in his hands, then casts it aside. What’s it like to be him right now? To know your clock is almost up?

  “Kinda thought you might be on a plane, heading back to Toronto.”

  “No.” As angry and shocked as I was—as I still am—oddly enough, that thought never crossed my mind. “How are you feeling today?”

  He takes a deep breath, as if to test his lungs. “Better.”

  More awkward silence.

  “I called Mom.”

  He nods slowly, as if he knew I would. He doesn’t ask what she said, though, or how she took it. He probably can already guess.

  “And I canceled my flight.”

  He sighs and starts shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do that, Calla. I’d rather you go back home with only good memories. Not with what’s coming.”

  “Well, I’d rather you go to Anchorage and try to slow this down, but neither of us is going to get what we want, are we?” I step closer, to take a seat on the bed. “Are you scared?”

  He looks down at his hands. “Scared. Angry. Sad. Full of regret. A little bit of everything, I guess.”

  I hesitate, but then reach over to place a tentative hand on top of his, absorbing its warmth.

  What do you know? My mom was right. We do have the same knuckles, the same finger lengths, and, beneath my gel tips, the same short nail beds.

  It’s a moment before he reacts, placing his other hand over mine. He squeezes. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I really wish it wasn’t going to end this way.”

  “But it is what it is,” I say, echoing his words from that first night. My eyes stray to that folder again, to the HOSPICE label and the tagline, Providing End of Care Support to You and Your Loved Ones.

  A painful ball in my throat swells. “So, what needs to be done?”

  “Ah, don’t worry about—”

  “No, Dad. There’s no avoiding this anymore. Besides, maybe talking about it will help me to start wrapping my head around it.” How the hell do I do that? I’m twenty-six years old. Two weeks ago I was drinking martinis and struggling to find the perfect captions to go with pictures of my favorite shoes. I didn’t even know this man outside of my imagination.

  Now I’m about to help him prepare for his death.

  He purses his lips. “I don’t want to die in a hospital, if I can help it. There was a lady here earlier who gave me that pamphlet. She’s going to come out to the house next week and talk about options at home. Pain relief, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay.” He’s going to be in pain. Of course he is. How much pain, though? What’s that going to be like to watch? Will I be able to handle watching it? I swallow the rising fear, push it aside. “What else?”

  “The funeral arrangements, I guess,” he says with reluctance. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t bother, but I know Agnes will need it. I don’t want anything fancy, though.”

  “So . . . no to a gilded casket and string quartet?”

  He makes a soft sound that might be a laugh. “Definitely a pass on those.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “I’ve already started the ball rolling with the lawyer so, that’s taken care of. I’ll be leaving most of my money—”

  “I don’t need to know about any of that. You do whatever you want with it. It’s yours.” The last thing I want him thinking is that I’m sticking around for an inheritance. “But what do you think you want to do about Wild?” That’s an entire company to deal with once he’s gone.

  “I talked to Howard from Aro Airlines about an hour ago. That’s that regional airline that wanted to buy Wild. I mentioned them before. They’ve made me a good offer. I think I’m gonna take it.”

  “You said they’d swallow Wild up, though.” My family company that’s been around since the 1960s, that my dad wouldn’t leave, will no longer exist.

  It’s odd; I hated it for so long, and yet the idea of that makes me sad.

  “Eventually, probably. But to tell you the truth, it could be good for the villages and this whole part of Alaska in the long run, even if it is called something different. Anyway, they’re willing to keep everyone on staff, and that’s my only real concern. They want Jonah to run it, too. Give him a COO title or something like that. I’ll have to talk to him about it. Not sure that’s what he has in mind.”

  “He already said he’d do it.”

  “I know, but it’s a whole different ball game, being tied up with a big company like that. He’d have board members to answer to and all kinds of new processes and policies.” He smiles. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but Jonah doesn’t do too well with rules and authority, and people telling him what to do.”

  “Nope. Haven’t noticed,” I mutter wryly, earning his soft chuckle. “Either way, he’d do it for as long as they need him to.” There’s no doubt in my mind about that.

  “Even if it means sitting in a chair all day, every day, instead of being in the air. Oh, I know. If there’s one thing about Jonah, he’s loyal to a fault. He’ll do it long after I’m in the ground.” My dad sighs heavily. “I don’t want that kinda life for him. He doesn’t suit it, anyway.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Just keep livin’, I guess.” He gives me a resigned smile. “Try to have as many good days as I can, until I use them up.”

  “We can do that,” I say with determination, giving his hand another squeeze. I don’t have to be okay with it, but I can be here for it.

  “Well, alright then.” A slow, resigned smile curls his lips. “How about we start by finding Jonah and getting the hell out of this joint.”

  The moment the attendant pauses at the end of the ramp outside the hospital’s main doors, my dad is pushing himself out of the wheelchair. “Thanks. I’ve got it from here, Doug.”

  The attendant gives him a scolding look.

 
My dad holds his hands in the air, in surrender. “If I fall on my butt, I won’t sue anyone but myself, I swear.”

  With a lingering pause, he finally nods. “You take care of yourself, Wren.”

  “Will do.”

  Doug spins the chair around and disappears through the doors, leaving us to cross the parking lot ourselves.

  Jonah smooths a hand over the fresh pink scar on his forehead. “Don’t know why I needed to see the doctor for that. I could have just pulled them out myself.”

  “But then you couldn’t shamelessly flirt with her,” I mutter. We found him perched on a patient table in the office of a ­forty-something-year-old blonde doctor, complimenting her on her husky dogsled team pictured on the wall and telling her he’ll definitely come back to her the next time he crashes a plane and needs stitches.

  “Do you think it worked?”

  “Absolutely. She’s on the phone with her best friend right now, saying she’s fallen for a jackass with a death wish.”

  “Isn’t that basically what you did?” he retorts.

  My cheeks burn as I spear Jonah with a warning glare, feeling Mabel’s curious eyes flicker back and forth between us. Whatever thoughts are going on in that innocent mind are thankfully held back by a mouthful of chocolate muffin.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise . . .” my dad murmurs quietly, then starts to chuckle. The sound dies as he turns away to try to hide his grimace of pain.

  But we all notice, and it throws a dark, sobering cloud over the moment of brevity the rest of the way to Jonah’s SUV.

  “Here,” Jonah calls out, tossing his keys in the air for me to catch.

  I frown. “Why do I need these?”

  “Because you’re driving.”

  “Funny.” I make to toss them back, but he heads for the passenger side. “Jonah!”

  “You think I’m gonna chauffeur your ass around for the next however long? Think again.” He climbs in.

  “I’ll just call a cab,” I holler through the driver’s-side window, left open from the ride in.