There are no tenders today; the ship has docked right up against a floating wooden pier, and the metal ramp clanks as they make their way down to it. Beneath the shadow of their towering ship—which must hold at least as many people as this town—a few smaller tour boats are lined up. Greta and Conrad follow the captain over to theirs, filing on behind the rest of the group and taking their seats along the benches inside. Beneath them, the boat creaks and sways.
Everyone seems way more prepared than Greta; there’s the gray-haired couple with their floppy-brimmed hats and water bottles, the woman with a fancy camera around her neck and a waterproof case for her phone, the couple around her own age wearing so much khaki it looks like they thought they were going on an African safari instead.
Once everyone is on board, the captain gives a safety talk, pointing out life preservers and first aid kits, and then he rattles off a list of activities for the day. Greta is only half-listening, hypnotized by the rhythm of the water as it laps up against the wooden pilings of the dock. But then the word picnic breaks through the hum, and she looks up again.
“Strawberries,” she says softly, just as the captain says, “There’s a strawberry field at the edge of the island, and you’re welcome to pick as many as you’d like. But watch out for the foxes, since they like them too.”
Conrad glances at her. “I thought you didn’t read the itinerary.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how’d you know that?”
She wants to say it. She almost does.
But the word Mom gets lodged in her throat.
Instead she says, “I must’ve heard about it somewhere.”
The boat peels off from the dock, kicking up a wake as they steer away from the shore. Around them, everything feels saturated with color—the unnatural blue of the sky, the brilliant green of the water, the shocking white of the snow—like a knob has been turned up on the world. Greta closes her eyes, feeling the flecks of water on her face as they pick up speed. Beside her, Conrad sighs and then, in a voice so quiet she almost misses it, he says, “I love strawberries.”
Chapter Nineteen
They don’t dock so much as run aground, the boat grinding up against a gravel beach on a remote spit of land. One by one, the captain helps them down, and Greta spins in a circle, her sneakers crunching on the rocks as she takes it all in: the rows of mountains with their sugary peaks and the bristle of spruce trees ahead. Woven between them, the glacier is a shock of white. From a distance, it almost looks like it’s in motion, the way it curves and flows like water, as if at any moment it might come bearing down on them. But, of course, the opposite is true. Inch by inch, it’s retreating. Eventually, all this will disappear.
A rusty school bus is parked across a field, painted green and beige like it’s trying to blend in. Three rugged young white guys in wellies and baseball caps—two of them sporting thick beards—wait for them near the door.
“I haven’t been on a school bus in fifty years,” Conrad says, squinting at it. “My back hurts already.”
“Come on, old man,” Greta says cheerfully, and they make their way up toward the bus, their shoes squelching in the mud.
The ride is as bumpy as feared, and everyone flashes nervous smiles as they slide around in the seats. At the front, one of the bearded guides—who introduces himself as Tank—explains what they’ll be doing up top: a hike to a river, then a canoe ride down an inlet, then a walk up to the base of the glacier.
The wheels spin and the bus lurches as the driver shifts gears, urging the bulky vehicle up the muddy road. Pine trees scrape at the windows, and Conrad winces every time they’re jolted forward.
Greta rests her head against the back of the seat. “This reminds me of the summer you made me go to camp.”
“Which you hated.”
“I didn’t hate it,” she says. “I was just having an existential crisis.”
“At ten?” He shakes his head. “Asher loved that place.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not Asher.”
“No, that’s true.” He says it thoughtfully, as if it’s only now occurring to him. “You were always better with a guitar than a fishing rod.”
“Hey, I caught a few that summer,” she says, and Conrad gives her a skeptical look. “Okay, I caught Timmy Milikin.” She grins at the memory. “Seriously. I snagged the back of his shirt.”
“On purpose?”
Greta laughs. “What must you think of me?”