“He did. He said he couldn’t believe how much you’d grown. How much you looked like me.” She smiles sadly. “I didn’t keep the conversation going, though. I figured it was for the best. You’re not going to need that,” she says, eying the striped tank top that I’ve laid on top of my other clothes. Swiftly changing the topic.
“Didn’t you just say to pack for every situation?”
“They’re calling for highs of only fourteen degrees Celsius all week. Four, at night.”
“Then I’ll put a sweater overtop.”
She smooths a hand over the bedspread. “So, Wren is picking you up in Anchorage?”
I shake my head through a mouthful of water. This intense heat wave that shifted into Southern Ontario has refused to vacate, making the third floor of this house stuffy, despite the air-conditioning that pumps through the vents. “Some guy named Jonah is picking me up.”
“Why not your dad?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s not feeling well enough to fly.” What shape will he be in when I get there? My email exchanges with Agnes have been focused on travel arrangements, not his current state of health.
“But he knows you’re coming, right?”
“Of course he does.” Agnes said they’d have my room ready and they were so happy I was coming.
Her mouth twists with worry. “What kind of plane?”
“One that stays in the air, hopefully.”
She spears me with a sharp look. “This is not funny, Calla. Some of your father’s planes are tiny. And you’re flying through the mountains and—”
“It’ll be fine. You’re the one who’s afraid of flying, remember?”
“You should have waited for a commercial flight. They fly those Dash 8s to Bangor daily now,” she mutters.
“There weren’t any seats available on whatever you said until Tuesday.” I’m heading to Alaska and suddenly Mom’s a plane-model expert. “Relax, you’re being dramatic.”
“You’ll see . . .” She gives me a smug look, but it fades quickly. “When’s he starting treatment?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find out when I get there.”
Mom huffs. “And you’re connecting through where again?”
“Minnesota, Seattle, Anchorage.” It’s going to be a grueling day of travel, and not even to anywhere exotic like Hawaii or Fiji, places I’d eagerly spend a day flying to. But the flip side is that, twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be standing face-to-face with Wren Fletcher, after twenty-four years.
My stomach squeezes.
Mom drums her fingertips over her knee. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport? I can get someone to start doing the arrangements for me.”
I’m struggling to maintain my patience. “I have to be there at four a.m. I’ll grab a cab. I’ll be fine, Mom. Stop fretting.”
“I just . . .” She tucks strands of her hair behind her ear. We used to have matching hair color but now that she dyes it to cover the invading gray, she’s opted for a darker shade of brown with hints of copper.
I know what this all boils down to. It’s not the long distance or the tiny plane or the fact that I’ll be away for a week that’s got her so unsettled.
“He can’t hurt me any more than he already has,” I say more softly.
The silence in the room is deafening.
“He’s not a bad man, Calla.”
“Maybe not. But he’s a shitty father.” I struggle to tug the suitcase zipper closed.
“Yes, maybe. Still, I’m glad you’re going. It’s important that you meet him, at least once.”