“What? That’s impossible.”
“He asked me for a reference,” Glenn says. “Wisely, it was for a position with minimal passenger interaction. I just spoke to the HR manager last week.”
“But he would never—” I stop, the nausea I’d felt earlier suddenly surging back.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Glenn looks as though he’s about to say something more, but the nausea overtakes me, and I push past him to the nearest lavatory. I lean over the toilet, and even as I tell myself it’s just seasickness, maybe a minor stomach bug, I can’t help but remember the last time I’d felt this way, years ago, after Dennis—the caustic feeling of having been left out, left behind.
FOUR YEARS BEFORE SHIPWRECK
McMurdo Station
McMurdo Station is a U.S. base on Ross Island, on the south side of the Antarctic continent and in the shadow of Mt. Erebus. The planes used to transport scientists and staff from Christchurch, New Zealand, are like large tin cans with rows of military-grade seating, cramped and cold. At this time of year, during the austral summer, when McMurdo is the Grand Central Station of Antarctica, with its maximum capacity of twelve hundred residents, the planes are as packed as commercial jets during the holidays.
I secure my bag in the middle of the fuselage, take a seat, and close my eyes for the eight-hour flight. I’m heading to McMurdo on a National Science Foundation grant to do a census of the emperor colony nearest the base. During the station’s busiest period, the LC-130 cargo planes arrive regularly to bring people and supplies. Eventually the flights will taper off, and from February to October, except for the very rare fly-in, planes won’t land at McMurdo at all.
I hear a voice above me. “Seat taken?”
I open my eyes and say, “Suit yourself.” A guy about my age is pulling down the metal bar of the jump seat next to mine. He’s tall and thin, with overgrown dark hair that falls into his eyes and a red bandanna loose around his neck.
The guy leans his head back against the red nylon webbing that constitutes our seats, his head angled toward mine. “It’s my first time here,” he says.
“Mmm.”
“And you? You look like an old-timer.”
I look over at him.
“I don’t mean old,” he says. “Just—experienced. Like you know the drill.”
“Yeah, I get it. You here to do research?”
“To do dishes, actually,” he says. “I’m with maintenance. Just something to get me down here. What about you?”
“I’m studying the emperors at Garrard.”
He regards me with new interest. “Really? Is that the colony that was wrecked by that iceberg?”
I’m surprised, and pleased, that he knows of the colony; so many who come to McMurdo for the manual labor and maintenance jobs seem to know about the wildlife only on a superficial level.
“I’m Keller,” he offers. “Keller Sullivan.”
“I’m Deb.”
“Good to meet you,” he says.
“Likewise.”
“I’d love to hear more about the colony,” he says.
He’s turned his head and is looking at me almost sideways. In the dim industrial lighting, the dark of his eyes deepens against his pale face.
“Maybe later? I’m a little tired,” I say. “Didn’t sleep at all on the flight to Christchurch.”
“Me, neither,” he says.
I let my eyes fall shut again. It’s not often anymore that my mind wanders toward Dennis, but right now, it goes straight back. I’m always surprised by how, even after all this time, it can feel like only days ago.
There’d been an investigation, of course, an autopsy, more questions than I knew how to handle. The worst was the media. News of the investigation had leaked out—everything from the fact that Dennis and I had spent the night together to details on his drowning. I think the family hoped, and I certainly did, that Dennis’s death would’ve been kept as private as possible—but when something happens in Antarctica, it’s newsworthy by default. Everyone knew, from my colleagues at the university to the tourists on the new season’s trips south. The investigation ruled Dennis’s death a suicide; the tour company and everyone involved, including me, were officially off the hook.
I still have his ring, the wedding band he’d tried so hard to lose. I’ve kept it hidden away in a small box at the top of my closet with a few other valuables. No one had ever asked about it. When I saw pictures of his wife in the news, I convinced myself that, by being there with him during his last hours, I had more right to keep it than she ever would, since she’d been off with someone else when he died.
I drift away to sleep, and the next thing I know, I’m awakened by an announcement from the pilot. I open my eyes and see Keller’s confused face. When I hear the sighs and groans of everyone in the cabin, I know what the news is—the plane is turning around.