I think of two volcanologists I know from McMurdo, an “ice couple,” meaning they are together whenever they’re at the station but then happily return home to their families, thousands of miles apart, after their research time ends—an arrangement not at all uncommon among Antarctic researchers and staff.
“Couldn’t you get out of it?” I ask. “I mean, if you really want to come to Oregon instead.”
“I don’t know. I guess a part of me needs to see this through.”
“Teaching? You could do that in Eugene.”
“It’s not that. It’s about”—he pauses—“not disappearing.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s been almost five years,” he says, “but still I go home and think of how things used to be. Wiping up Ally’s dinner from the kitchen floor while Britt gave her a bath, or vice versa. We traded off these things, but usually we both read her a story. Sometimes it was the only time we all were together in a day, but we always had that.” A smile lights his face, and I feel as though he’s talking more to himself than to me. Then it fades. “Britt donated all of Ally’s books to Children’s Hospital before I had a chance to go through them. I’d have liked to keep just one. Her favorite was Make Way for Ducklings. Since we lived in Boston and we’d taken her to see the bronze ducks in the Public Garden, she thought it was a true story.”
He leans back slightly on the rock, propping himself up with his hands. “After she was gone, after Britt left, I’d be at the office until nine, ten, eleven. Until I was tired enough to know I could get to sleep in an empty apartment. Before I could register how quiet the place was, and how neat—no food on the floor, no toys in the bathtub, no picture books.” He angles his head toward mine, though his focus is on a pair of gentoos walking past a few feet away. “Just before I went to McMurdo, I called Britt. A week before Ally would’ve turned four. Britt had met her new husband by then, but they weren’t married yet. I told her I was thinking about her because of -Ally’s birthday—but the truth was, a part of me was worried that she’d forget. She’d been trying so hard to move on, to erase both of us from her life—it was as if we’d both disappeared.” He raises his eyes to mine. “And then I did disappear. I came down here.”
There’s nothing I can say, and I suddenly feel selfish for wanting all that I want for us, for even attempting to weigh my own desire against the depth of his pain.
I move one of my gloved hands over to touch his and lean against him. We watch a penguin raise her head, calling to her chicks, and they emerge from the crèche, wobbling toward her, ready to eat.
The weather has turned, the wind blasting tiny frozen chips of rain into our faces, our hats and jackets. We sit and watch the penguins for a few more minutes before packing up our supplies and heading back to camp.
THE NEXT MORNING, we’re packed and ready by the time Glenn radios with the Cormorant’s ETA. Keller and I are windblown and grubby; I feel the sweet, worn-out exhilaration that comes from the end of a research trip, as well as the nagging anxiety about what our data will ultimately reveal.
Keller has already taken a load of supplies to the landing site, and as I follow, approaching the bay where a Zodiac will appear for us at any moment, I feel the same irresistible pull toward Keller I always have, taut as ever. I slow as I get nearer, and the few feet left between us feels vast, wide open; in this space I see our entire relationship, or whatever this actually is—both clear and opaque, entirely comfortable, and completely whole.
An hour later, after a hot shower on board, I glimpse my face in the tiny mirror above the sink. I hardly recognize myself, and it’s not the sun-and wind-reddened skin or the dark circles under my eyes or the deepening of a few wrinkles. With a jolt I recall learning, in a long-ago biology class, about a section of the cerebral cortex that, when damaged, causes a condition known as face blindness. If you damage this part of the brain, you can no longer recognize friends, family members, or even your own face in the mirror—and this is how I feel, as though I’m looking at a stranger—someone with features just like mine, only relaxed, softened: someone in love, someone loved back, someone happy.
IN THE MUDROOM after the morning’s landing at Cuverville Island, I hang up the extra life preservers and get ready to signal the crew to bring up the remaining Zodiac. Then I notice there’s still one tag in the OFF SHIP position. I don’t recognize the name, but who it is doesn’t matter as much as the fact that we’ve left someone on shore.
“Shit,” I mutter and radio Glenn to tell him to wait up.
I turn the Zodiac back toward the landing, my shoulders tensing. It’s extremely rare for tourists to get left behind, and my mind flashes to Dennis. When I round the coast to the landing spot, the sight of a lone passenger standing there nearly stops me short.
“Hello?” I call out, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.
I bring the Zodiac closer and call out again. “Sir, I’m here to take you back to—”
Then the red-jacketed figure turns around, taking off his hat.