Living in Alaska

I always thought it’d be so easy to slash a tire, but here I am, sliding around on the ice in my clogs trying to get a good grip on this thing. I hunch over the wheel and try to grab ahold of it with my gloved left hand. Something possessed me to do this when I set my eyes on Dad’s house for the first time. Before I knew what was happening, my hand was reaching into my suitcase for my small, baby blue pocket knife. This one’s got a tiny, blossoming cholla cactus painted on the side.

I was told having a knife in Alaska would be essential and was shocked to find out you can actually pack one in your suitcase. Go figure! I try to jab at the tire with small, underhanded stabs. When that doesn’t work, I think I’d better put the knife away, but I can’t help but to give it one more try. After all, winners don't quit. I lift the knife up over my head like I’m the killer in a classic horror film; and then I hear a mellow, yet firm voice coming from directly behind me:

“Hello, Scarlett.” 

“Hi, Dad.” The word Dad gets caught in my throat like a stubborn popcorn kernel. I slowly release my arms from over my head and put them down at my sides. I don’t think there’s any chance of playing this off as a silly misunderstanding. I was trying to murder his tire, and he knows. 

He looks different from the pictures Mom’s shown me. Of course, he’s about 20 years older now than he was then. His dark hair is streaked with grey, and he’s taller than I expected. The pictures I've seen of him are from when he was my age, he was all knees and elbows and dotted with acne across his chin. But I always thought he had a kind smile that made him look more handsome despite his teenage awkwardness.

The only trace leftover of that kid in him are his eyes. They light up when they land on me.

“Do you wanna come in? Fire’s going. I’ll get your bags.”

The Lyft driver was kind enough to lift all 50 lbs. of my suitcase out of the trunk; it's toppled over now, laying on its face in the yard.

I fold my knife and put it in my pocket and pass him my backpack. He takes it and slings it over his left shoulder and then lifts the suitcase up easily from the ice.

“Glad to see you took my advice. But that’s hardly a knife. I don't know if it'd even pop a balloon. We’ll get you set up with something better.”

I’m blown away at the sheer audacity of him immediately criticizing the kind of knife I bought.

“I don’t know, Dad. Here’s a thought: maybe if you’d been anywhere near me my entire life, this wouldn’t have been a necessary lesson.”

“You were doing it all wrong by the way. You can’t just stab at it like that. It’s called slashing a tire for a reason. You want to make a slashing motion. Tuck your elbows into your sides to get some purchase on it and use your body weight. It's much easier.”

I feel ridiculous. It’s really unlike me to do something like that and of course I got caught. But I don't know what to do with all of these feelings. I think I felt like I was avenging Mom in some way. Getting a little petty revenge for her sake.

“Why would anyone want to live here? It’s freezing and you can barely walk on this ice! I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck here with you. I’ll be leaving as soon as possible, you know?” 

I say a silent prayer that I can make it up the front steps without slipping. The last thing I need to do now is compromise my dignity even more.

“Sounds about right. Come on in, then. And in the meantime, we’ll have to get you some snow boots, those aren’t gonna cut it.” It kind of stings that he doesn’t put up more of a fight. I feel like he should be groveling at my feet. Begging for my forgiveness; begging me to stay forever. 

The inside of his house is cozy. There’s framed pictures of Dad and his friends holding up large fish adorning the walls. Classic. And surprisingly, on the mantle sits a framed picture of me. I’m missing my front teeth. I remember that day. I’d just lost my second tooth and was super proud to show it off. Mom snapped the picture while I beamed up at her. I had one hand proudly planted on my hip and the other holding a dripping Spongebob ice cream I’d haggled for at the ice cream truck.  

I’m absentmindedly playing with the silver chain around my neck as I slowly walk around and survey the rest of the room.

There’s a forest green loveseat facing the tv and a mismatched brown lounge chair in the corner. There are plaid blankets on the backs of both. It’s dark in here, with almost no natural light coming in through the windows. I notice daytime lamps scattered around - two in here and one in the small kitchen ahead of me. I've read they can be good for seasonal depression - they emulate sunlight. I wonder if he gets sad in the Winters and do my best to squash any empathy I feel bubbling up to my surface.

To my right is a set of worn, wooden stairs leading up to what must be the bedrooms. I hear my dad close a door and he meets me downstairs shortly after. 

“I put your bag in the first room on the left. Just past your room is the bathroom. I’ll let you get comfortable. What do you like for dinner?”

“I don’t suppose there’s a sushi place nearby?”

“Nope, no sushi. I got venison. You like that?”

“I don’t know what that is.” I answer in earnest and hope I don’t sound snobby. It’s not that I’m ungrateful to him but this is awkward.

My parents split up when my mom was six months pregnant with me. She never told me why, exactly. She just said there were some sins that couldn’t be forgiven, and that we were better off without “a man like that leading our lives.” I imagined he must’ve cheated on her or something. She told me they’d met as kids at church camp in the early ‘90s. They were friends all throughout junior high, high school, and then became more than friends in college. 

They got married and that’s how I got here. They never got an official divorce, Mom didn’t believe in it and I’m guessing my dad doesn’t either. I don’t know for sure. I think she must have missed him though because she never remarried.

When I heard their story for the first time it sounded like a fairytale love.

It’s interesting to me to think that I spent six months with my dad before I was born, and I’ll spend another six months with him now. It’s only that long until my 18th birthday and I plan to be on a plane back to Arizona as soon as possible. Being here feels like a short layover in my life. Once I get back to my real home, I’ll get a studio apartment downtown and start school at Walter Cronkite. I've already been accepted and am applying for scholarships.

“Okay, well, it’s really good. I promise. I’m gonna make us a stew out of it with lots of veggies and potatoes. Okay? Trust me on this.”

I nod. I amble up the stairs and find my room. It’s been decorated with fairy lights around the headboard and a purple plush pillow on the bed. The bedding is all white and lace. I can tell he’s put some effort into it because the rest of the house is dark and brown. It all looks like a man lives here except for in this room. This small kindness hurts so much more than the abandonment I've lived with all these years.

My eyes suddenly fill with tears, and I need to know why he wasn’t there for me. Why is he doing something nice for me now? I rush back down the stairs before I lose my courage. I confront him:

“Where were you all this time? Hiding here? Why didn’t you want me?”

He’s already at the stove adding ingredients into a large stock pot but he drops everything when he hears my voice and sees the tears pouring down my cheeks. “Honey, I wanted you more than anything. But I couldn’t get anywhere near you.”

His words don’t make sense. If he wanted to be there so badly, why couldn’t he? I only manage to choke out a few sounds.

“But, if … you” and the dam breaks. More tears flow out of me like a rushing river. They’re steady and beyond control. I can barely catch a breath in between.

He comes over to me and hugs me tightly. His scent is unfamiliar but nice. Like pine trees and the faint smell of smoke from a campfire mixed together. “Honey, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He comforts me until the tears slow and I’m able to ask him more questions.

“Why’d you leave?”

“I had to, Scar. I had to respect your mom's wishes. She didn’t want me around you. I’m so sorry.”

“What’d you do to her!?” I push away from him.

I’m angry now, thinking of how he must’ve hurt her badly if she didn’t want him in our lives. An image of her lying in her hospice bed, skinny and aged beyond her years comes into my mind and I shake it away, gripping the necklace she gave me.

“I hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I did. Scar, your mom and I were so young when we met. Just kids. I didn’t know who I was. I loved your mom and that was confusing for me. I tried to push away these feelings I was having - but it was impossible. Scarlett, your mother and I couldn’t be together because … Scarlett, honey, I’m gay.”

Gay? That doesn’t make any sense. He and my mother were married, they had me together. How could he not have known? I’m too dumbstruck to say anything, so he continues. His voice stays steady and calm as he explains.

“Scarlett, I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me. Once you turn 18 you’re free, okay? You don’t ever have to see me again if you don’t want to, I’ll respect whatever you decide. But I promise I’ll take care of you as long as you let me. I love you and there hasn’t been a day that’s passed when I haven’t loved you.” His own eyes fill with tears and his lip trembles as he speaks. We stand and look at each other for a moment. 

Then, the fire alarm starts beeping and I notice that smoke has filled the air. 

“Shit!” My dad yells. I snap out of my trance and run into the kitchen after him. He takes the pot off the stove and I open every window I can see. 

The smoke slowly clears and crisp, cold air fills the room. We’re both laughing now through our tears. I look at my dad and hold my hand out for his.

“I’m sorry we’ve all missed so much time. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get used to living in Alaska."