Ignoring our skirmish, Jeanne padded past us in her men’s wool robe and stockinged feet. She lit the range and started the coffee.
“You can’t go out. It’s not safe out there,” I said to the girl in English.
“She wants to go home,” Jeanne said over the girl’s screams, reaching into the fridge for our last pint of cream. After that was gone, it was powder only. “She wants her real family.”
The girl turned and slid down into a teary puddle, repeating one word over and over.
Tahtaksah.
What did it mean? Was this the word for mother? Or father?
“Tahtaksah,” I repeated to her. “Tahtaksah?”
Frustration filled her face. I’d gotten it wrong. Again. She wailed.
Wyatt’s door flew open. He thundered out of his room, pounding down the hallway. “What the hell’s going on out here?”
“She’s having a meltdown,” I said. My hand grazed her shoulder in an instinctual attempt to get her as far from him as possible; strangely, she let the gesture pass. I looked forward to the day we could get her to take a bath.
“Sometimes I think being in the ice messed with her brain,” he growled. “Maybe she’s just not right in the head, you know?”
“You’re not right in the head till you have some coffee, Wyatt, ever think of that?” Jeanne said, setting a mug on his desk.
Whispering a barely audible fuck you, he jammed his stockinged feet into slippers, pulled a sweatshirt over his long johns, and tapped his PC alive.
Jeanne and I exchanged a glance, but I couldn’t read her. I’d told her days ago I was sorry about the doll, but even though she’d accepted my apology, she still seemed miffed. The smell of frying eggs—the kind poured from a box—filled the air. Another pan crackled with spitting bacon. Jeanne flipped on her CD player. She favored the crooners: Frank Sinatra, Mel Tormé, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby. The syrupy music—played day in and day out every second she was in the Shack—was wearing on me, but I had no intention of saying anything. Wyatt didn’t seem to care; I doubt he even heard it anymore.
“Motherfucker…” he hissed under his breath. “You been reading about these ice winds, Val? Two more people died in Nova Scotia yesterday. Near Halifax. Tourists. Froze to death in seconds.”
“Those poor people,” Jeanne said. “I hope they didn’t suffer.”
“Doesn’t look like it,” he said, scrolling. “Looks like it was instantaneous.” He sat back, as if stunned by a dawning realization. “It’s like these piteraqs—which are completely normal here—are starting to show up around the world. On steroids.”
“The temperature gradients, do you think?” Jeanne said.
“Absolutely. These massive jumps and drops…” He became lost in thought.
“Piteraq,” I said, finally recognizing the term. “That’s Inuit for that which will attack you.”
“Sure will,” Wyatt said. “Years ago, one was clocked at close to two hundred miles an hour in Tasiilaq. In East Greenland.”
The girl continued to sob, but softer now, as if wrung out. I sat next to her on the floor, clueless and wretched. Played that word, tahtaksah, over and over in my head.
Wyatt’s chair squealed as he swiveled around to face me. “So, kiddo, what’s the deal with you guys? Any progress?”
I kept my eyes on the girl’s back, listening to her gasps for breath as she sleep-cried. “It’s slow going. Maybe she needs to feel more safe, comforted somehow before learning even feels important to her, if that makes any sense…”
Jeanne brought over a plate of eggs and bacon to Wyatt, who nodded his thanks, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Have you learned any more of her language? Or has she learned any English?”
“No.” I sighed. Why am I continuing to lie about this? Some bone-deep instinct told me to, but it didn’t come naturally, and my stomach jumped every time I did it. Better keep track…
“Seriously?” He shook his head. “Jesus, Val, you’ve had almost a week with the kid.”
“Look, I’ve been trying. It’s just that…” I shifted on the floor, my body aching. “I don’t even know the syntax I’m dealing with. Is it like English: subject-verb-object, or like a dialect of Greenlandic, where the word order is more complex, or something else entirely?”
“You’re the pro, Val.”
“But there’s more to it than that. I can feel it. I don’t know what’s happened to her, what her culture is like, her family…” The truth was—unlike Andy, who children adored and followed around like the Pied Piper—I’d always struck out with kids. They could smell my discomfort, and it put them off.