Can you see me? I don’t think you can.
My own words from the pipeline protest four years ago drift into my memory. That moment and this one feel like two ends of a cord finally tying together. And at that point, in that knot, my passion and my purpose meet.
“Jim, I’m on my way.”
23
Maxim
“You’re distracted.”
The words come from one of the most formidable men I’ve ever met. Brock Grimsby stands about six inches over six feet and as wide as a billboard. Think The Rock, but without a comic eyebrow. Without a comic anything. I’d hate to meet him in a dark alley, but I’m happy as hell he’s coming with us to Antarctica.
“Excuse me?” I fake imperiousness and obliviousness.
“You’re distracted,” Brock repeats. “I can’t afford it now and I for damn sure can’t afford it in the middle of Antarctica. I know what you look like focused, and you ain’t focused, brother. I need to know your head’s gonna be in the game.”
“My head’s in the game.” I glance at my phone to see if I’ve missed a call from Lennix. “Don’t worry.”
“Oh, I do worry. That egghead may be the leader, but you’re the smartest man in the room.”
I glance over to Dr. Larnyard, the professor who funded this expedition with a hodgepodge of grants from the British government, endowments from a climate change research foundation, and donations from select private benefactors. He’s a brilliant scholar, but he’s no Shackleton. I’ve read Shackleton’s journals. He combined the physical prowess, innovative brilliance and unassailable will it took to lead his team through the worst conditions. Convincing his men they would not die in the frozen wasteland of the Antarctic when there was every indication they would stretched his leadership to its limits, but he was up to the task.
No, Dr. Larnyard is not Shackleton.
“He’ll be fine, Grim,” I say, using the shortened version of his last name that also describes his general demeanor.
“I know he will because you and I will make sure, but I need your complete focus. This isn’t something you do lightly. Make no mistake about it. We’re on the last flight in until November. Anything happens once we’re there, we’re on our own. Men have died in the Antarctic, and if you aren’t prepared for the worst, you could, too.”
He doesn’t have to remind me of the risks involved with this expedition. I’ve taken every physical, emotional and psychological test they could come up with to ensure I’m prepared and suited for the isolation of wintering over. I’ve signed every waiver ensuring if I die, no one is to be held responsible but me.
Our team consists mostly of scientists and doctoral students like me. There are a few unexpected additions. Kind of like when we send teachers up into space. An everyman’s perspective on something extraordinary. This will be our rocket ship. Because of the extreme isolation, psychologists actually do study these conditions to analyze how astronauts are affected in space.
There’s a congresswoman from Kansas who has been a proponent of climate change legislation. I’m looking forward to talking with her. A school teacher from Iowa is joining us. And then there’s Grim, who, I can only assume as former special ops, could survive on Mars if he had to. Antarctica isn’t space, but there is more of it that has never been seen by human eyes than any other place on Earth. Close enough.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Larnyard says in his clipped, British accent. “Shall we proceed?”
I nod, tossing a cup of long-gone-cold coffee in the trash, when my phone rings. It’s on silent, but it’s Lennix. I assigned a picture of us from the tulip field to her contact. She’s looking into the camera, standing in front of me with my arms wrapped around her. I’m looking down at her like none of the glorious flowers around us is worth a glance when she’s with me. That’s how I felt. I’ve wanted to talk to her all day.
“Kingsman,” Grim says sharply, glancing at my phone. “It’s time. Let’s get back to it.”
I look from my phone to the map of Antarctica on the wall, tiny red flags marking the spots where we’ll collect data and samples for our research. Gritting my teeth, I send the call to voice mail.
*
“Hey, there’s been a change of plans,” Lennix says on her voice mail when I finally get to listen. “I’m leaving, um, today. I’m trying to get an earlier flight out. Mr. Nighthorse needs me there by Friday. There’s this special town hall meeting he’s called, and he wants me to speak. I was hoping to see you before my flight leaves. Maybe I still can. I may not be able to get a flight out until tomorrow anyway.”
She pauses and I hear the shaky breath she draws. “Look, I haven’t forgotten what you said. You know. About not getting attached. About walking away, even if it feels like more. I just wanted to tell you that it, well, it does feel like more. It feels like . . .”
Everything. It feels like everything.
The whisper comes from a subterranean place inside me.
“Anyway,” she continues, “I wanted you to know that this week with you was really special to me. I don’t regret one minute of it.”
Her broken laugh comes over the phone. “Guess we never got that canal ride, huh?” she says softly. “If we never see each other again, I’m glad it was you. I’m glad you were my first and I’ll never forget you, Doc. Goodbye.”
I’ve listened to Lennix’s message a dozen times since the meeting broke. Since I rushed to Heathrow for an earlier flight back to Amsterdam. Since I landed, caught a cab and generally bent and broke every rule to get here in record time.
“Here” is the hostel where Lennix has been staying. I’ve called her several times and kept getting voice mail. She said she was trying to get an earlier flight out. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she’s still here. Maybe . . .
“Maxim?” Kimba asks the question from the top of the steps leading from their hostel. She and Vivienne meet me at the street, their glances as curious as they are cautious.
“Is she gone?” I ask. No need for pleasantries. They know why I’m here.
“Yeah,” Vivienne answers first. “She found a flight. She’s on her way to Oklahoma.”
“Dammit.” I punch my fist into my palm. “I’ve been calling her and keep getting voice mail.”
“Phone probably turned off for the flight,” Kimba says. She glances up the street and then, after a brief hesitation, back to me. “Look, we like you, Maxim.”
“Thank you,” I reply, braced for their “but.”
“But,” Kimba continues, “we don’t want to see our girl hurt. You know?”
“I won’t hurt her.”
Won’t it hurt when she finds out who you are? a little sanctimonious voice asks.
She does know who I am.
Kimba and Vivienne make me feel as bad as my guilty conscience with their pointed stares and sighs.
“You won’t mean to hurt her,” Kimba says. “But when a guy says this doesn’t mean anything—”
“I never said that.” I suck my teeth, exasperated. “We both have huge things going on that require our complete focus.”