A few tries later, I reached my dad on the sat phone. At first there was only dead air as I spoke that terrifying word love to him; in fact, he was quiet for some moments after I’d finished telling him all that had happened.
When he finally spoke, his voice was full of so much tenderness, I hardly knew him.
“You’ve been through hell, Val. How can I express my…”
“It’s okay, Dad. Are you doing all right?”
“Don’t change the subject. I wish… I wish your brother could know somehow what you’ve done. That I could have taken Wyatt’s life with my own hands… that I could have spoken with Andy one more time. Fantasies, all of them.”
“I have them too, Dad.”
“Mostly I wish I could tell you to get on that plane with Sigrid and come home right now. Order you to come back and see your old man—”
“I can’t say what I’m going to—”
“I understand. You’ve got to see this through in your own way. But promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
“When you do come back, I hope you’ll tell me about yourself. Let me just be a dad for a little bit, for the time I’m here. It’s like I hardly know you, Val, and that’s my fault, I know. Here you are, bringing me my favorite candy every time you visit, and I—I haven’t the faintest clue what you like.”
“I like strawberry licorice.”
He laughed. “Strawberry licorice it is. I’ll get my hands on some. And I’ll shut up this time. I’ll listen. Just let me get to know you. That would be a gift.”
forty
In the rock-strewn yards of simple, brightly painted wooden homes, caribou antlers lie in tangled heaps. Tied to wooden racks, strips of drying fish flutter in the wind as sled dogs yip and howl, one round stopping just as another begins. Polar bear pelts hang over porch railings, black claws grazing the frozen turf.
Nearly two months have passed since Sigrid and I flew from Thule to the town of Qaanaaq, population 627, on the northwest coast of Greenland. Old-fashioned Christmas lights festoon the simple town hall, which also serves as church, general store, and post office. We live in sixteen hours of hard dark followed by eight hours of soupy twilight; the sun won’t return until February.
But we’re finding our way. Already Sigrid has playmates, friends her age who understand her well enough to toss a ball around or sit on the swings together overlooking the iceberg-choked bay. In such a small community, it’s as if everyone in town is already a mother, father, grandparent, aunt, uncle, or sibling for Sigrid. Pitak offered us the cozy in-law apartment attached to his home; he seems glad to have us here. Sigrid is learning the alphabet, working on writing down what she calls “talk marks.” She can’t quite grasp that paper comes from trees—she’s never seen living ones!—and wonders why I won’t come clean and tell her what animal-skin paper is made from.
There’s talk of me staying and teaching the kids English, and I’m thinking about that. These days I feel less awkward around children. I think it has to do with feeling better about myself; funny how kids pick up on those things.
It’s not that I’m planning to stay, it’s just that I haven’t left yet. Dad and I talk a few times a week, and I feel the pull to go home, but every day, I wake with the same thought: How can I possibly leave her?
The official story was that Sigrid was the only person found of the families who had trekked from the remote village to the island in search of caribou; that we at the research station had found her traumatized and were trying to bring her back to health when the tragedies occurred. She had no living relatives.
Meanwhile, the eels are being harvested and studied; much has been learned already. This particular ice eel cryoprotein was unknown until now, but it’s a simple compound, one that can be made synthetically for pennies a dose. No need to eradicate the population of ice eels. Though cheap and easy to produce, it is—like any medicine—challenging to distribute, and the ice winds are hitting everywhere now. They’re unstoppable. I know the story of these eels and how they’ll change the world isn’t over; it’s just the end of my part in it, for now.
* * *
A COUPLE OF times in my life, I have felt transcendence. Once, years ago, when I was witness to a baby being born, and last night, with Sigrid. She insisted we watch the northern lights together, that we gather pillows and sleeping skins, as she calls them, and go lie on the town dock near the fishing boats.