“You know you don’t have to leave, Susan.”Īs quickly as I’d been softening, I harden again. She struggles to toddle around, her stocky body bundled in a thick bubblegum-pink snowsuit to keep the icy wind at bay. In my own country.Ī deep frown line forms in Wren’s forehead as he plants a kiss on our happy, oblivious seventeen-month-old’s nose and sets her onto the ground. That I hate living in the last great American frontier that I crave being close to my family and friends, and the urban bustle of my childhood. When I admitted that I’ve cried at least once a day for the past year, especially during the painfully long, cold, dark winter, when daylight is sparse. My father was quick to remind me of that when I admitted to my parents that life with Wren isn’t as romantic as I’d convinced myself it would be. After all, I made the bed I’m running from now. If I should grit my teeth and bear the misery, the isolation of Alaska. “And you? Are you ready for your first big plane ride?” His wide grin for his daughter makes my heart twist.įor the hundredth time, I wonder if I’m being the selfish one. Wren nods to himself, and then pulls our sleepy daughter out of the stroller and into his arms.
God, how on earth did I ever think marrying a born-and-bred bush pilot was a good idea? At least the next plane is substantial, unlike the tiny things Wren insists on flying. Though, that might distract me from having my own meltdown. Toronto time.” I pray Calla can handle ten hours of traveling without a meltdown. “So, what time do you get in?” Wren finally asks, giving the perpetual brown scruff on his chin a scratch. They exchange pleasantries, as if this is just any other passenger delivery, before the man shuttles my things away. Wren returns and settles the hefty red bag on the asphalt, just as a grounds worker swings by to collect my belongings. If I don’t, I’ll quickly be overwhelmed by the pain of disappointment and impending loss, and I won’t be able to go through with this. I quietly watch, huddled in my plush, down-filled coat against the icy wind, fiercely holding onto the resentment I’ve been carrying for months. He clasps his callused hands together and blows into them as he rushes back out to the tarmac, shoulders curled inward, to where the Cessna that delivered us here awaits its hour-long flight home.
I’ll go and get that,” he says, dropping the cigarette to the snowy ground and crushing it with his boot. “And the diaper bag.” I inhale the musky odor. Wren sets the two navy suitcases next to the stroller and then reaches for the cigarette precariously perched between his lips, taking a long, slow drag.
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