The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

Agnes has her seat pulled forward as far as it can go and sits straight-backed so she can see over the dash, her diminutive stature a challenge behind the wheel in a pickup truck. If I were in a more relaxed mood, I’d probably find it amusing.

But it helps to be with Agnes. She’s as calm in person as she was on the phone, her voice a lull as she points out the basic landmarks: the “city” of Bangor about five miles to the east, and the Kuskokwim River beside it. That’s the thick, snaking river I saw from above. She says it’s a main artery off the Bering Sea and it stretches far to the north, allowing for travel between villages by barge and boat during the warmer months and by vehicle once it has frozen over in winter. It’s the only way to drive a car to the villages, apparently, because there aren’t any roads to connect Bangor to the rest of the state.

On a clear day, Agnes promises I’ll be able to see Three Step Mountain in the far distance. Right now, though, all I see are miles upon miles of flat land freckled by low bushes, and capped by foggy skies.

And a sleepy moss-green modular home at the end of a long, narrow driveway, banked by a garage and two small utility sheds.

“Well . . . here we are,” Agnes murmurs, cutting the engine.

My father’s home. The place where I spent the first two years of my life.

Even though I don’t remember any of it, everything about this moment feels surreal.

I take a deep breath as I climb out of the truck and trail Agnes up a set of creaky wooden steps, and through a single door, only vaguely aware that she didn’t bother to use her key. The door was already unlocked.

I stop dead in my tracks and my eyes widen with shock as I take in the army of green mallard ducks. The atrocious wallpaper covers every square inch of kitchen wall. It’s not a large kitchen, by any means, which makes it feel all the more enclosed.

As horrendous as it is, I stifle the sudden urge to giggle. This must be what my mother was talking about. I can’t wait to tell her that she was right, that she does still know my father.

Agnes tosses the truck keys onto the counter. “Wren always forgets to open these before he leaves in the morning.” She stretches onto her tiptoes to yank the cord attached to the blinds on the window over the sink, allowing the murky daylight in to illuminate the golden oak cabinets, the cream-colored laminate countertop, and the matching shade of vinyl flooring—a pattern of squares with small burgundy triangles accenting each corner. It reminds me of the flooring my grandparents had in their basement.

With only the small window above the sink, the one in the door, and a single-bulb light fixture above, it’s dim in here. I can only imagine how oppressive it would feel during the long winters.

“When does it get dark, anyway?” I ask, curling my arms around my chest more for comfort than heat.

“At this time of year? The sun sets just before midnight, and then rises around a quarter past four, but it doesn’t get really dark at night right now. Not like it does in the winter.”

My eyes widen. I knew the days were long, but a midnight sunset?

“I replaced the blackout shades in your room. The old ones were tattered. You’ll definitely want to draw those. Unless you’re like your father, who doesn’t mind sleeping in daylight.” Agnes wanders to the fridge. “You must be hungry. Help yourself to whatever’s in the . . .” Her brow crinkles as she holds the door open to show shelves bare of food, save for some condiments and a few beverages. “He promised he’d go grocery shopping,” she mutters under her breath, quiet enough that I don’t think she meant me to hear it. She lifts the carton of milk, to open it and give it a sniff. Her nose crinkles. “I wouldn’t drink this, if I were you.”

“It’s okay. I can’t drink milk anyway. I have a dairy allergy.” I was diagnosed with it when I was five. Something I’m sure my father doesn’t remember.

She pushes the fridge closed. “I’m sure he was waiting until he could see what you like.” She gives me a tight smile. “Meyer’s opens at eight thirty. He’ll take you there first thing.”

It’s a good thing I’m not hungry, then.

Yet again, I can’t help but wonder if my dad actually wants me here. Surely he could have grabbed a few basic food items to have in the house to feed his daughter when she arrived. If he cared enough to.

“When exactly did you tell him that I was coming?”

Agnes hesitates, reaching for the stack of mail that sits on the counter, slowly rifling through it, her eyes stuck on the labels. “Last night.”

I think back to our email exchange from Friday, when I wrote to tell her that I had booked the plane ticket—thank you, Simon, for footing the bill. She wrote back saying that my dad was so happy that I was coming.

That was obviously a lie.

Why didn’t she tell him on Friday, right after receiving my email? Why did she wait another day? Was she expecting him to be something other than “so happy”? What did he say when she told him? What words were exchanged within these walls about my arrival, and with what tone?

Abandoning the unopened mail, Agnes sets to picking dried leaves off a basil plant that sits on the top shelf of a tiered stand by the door, her face pulled into a frown of concentration. “Make yourself comfortable, Calla. Your dad should be back soon.”

“Sure.” My gaze flutters about. I feel anything but comfortable right now. The kitchen certainly has all the necessities—the basic white stove and fridge, a simple round wooden dining table set that wears plenty of dents and scratches from years of use, a worn stainless steel sink with a window above it that overlooks the sprawling, flat landscape. And yet, nothing about the space is particularly welcoming. It’s not like our spacious and bright kitchen in Toronto, with the dreamy bay window and the cushioned window seat that runs alongside it, an inviting corner to curl up in with a book and a hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day.

But maybe my discomfort has nothing to do with the décor and everything to do with the fact that whatever excitement I was feeling over seeing my father has quickly been squashed by the mounting dread that I am unwelcome here.

I inhale. The air is ever so faintly tinged with the acrid smell of burnt wood and ash, like that from a woodstove. Not cigarettes, I note. “He quit smoking, right?”

“He’s working on it. Come on. I’ll show you to your room.” Agnes leads me out of the kitchen and into a long, narrow living room. At least this side of the house is free of mallard ducks, but it’s also void of any personality. Equally dim, even with a light shining from overhead. The walls are white, with a few pieces of unremarkable snowy landscape artwork; the carpet is a shabby oatmeal color, a worn path from the threshold to the simple black woodstove atop beige tile in the far corner visible.