The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

I sigh with satisfaction as I open up my Instagram to find more “likes” on my bush plane post than usual, and a dozen new followers. I can always count on Diana to leave a comment riddled with emojis and exclamation points, along with the usual comments from my friends and a few regular followers, the “Love your outfit!”, “Beautiful shot!”, “You’re so pretty!”, “I have that hat, too!” But there are a few other ones, too. People claiming how lucky I am to be in Alaska, how adventurous I am, and how they’ve always wanted to go.

These people—strangers—see a pretty, well-dressed girl embracing life. None of them know the real story—of why I’m here, of why I’m already thinking about going home. They can’t sense my loneliness, or the knot in my stomach. That’s the magic of social media, I guess. But there’s also an odd comfort to hiding behind the illusion. If I stare at myself beside the orange-and-yellow toy plane long enough, and reread the effervescent caption enough times, maybe I’ll start to buy what I’m selling, too.

I spend a few minutes answering people, until basic human needs win out.

Throwing off the heavy layers of blanket, I pull myself out of bed and quickly change into the outfit from yesterday, my skin prickling with gooseflesh from the crisp, cool air. It’s refreshing in comparison to the stifling summer heat and the stale air circulating through the vents back home.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee teases my senses as soon as I crack my bedroom door. To my delight, I find the basket of my clean clothes—folded—sitting by my feet. I push it aside for the moment and pad softly down the hall, that same conflicting mix of anxiety and excitement churning in the pit of my stomach that I had last night.

The living room is empty.

So is the kitchen.

“Hello?” I call out and wait.

Nothing. Not a rustle or a floorboard creak, or a tap running from his en-suite. It’s eerily quiet, the tick-tick-tick of the kitchen wall clock the only sound.

But my dad’s been here, I can see, by the not-quite-full pot of coffee and the used mug sitting next to it, spoon resting inside. I poke my head out the door to see if he’s having a cigarette. An old black Ford truck that’s in only slightly better condition than Agnes’s sits outside, but there’s no sign of him, or so much as the lingering scent of nicotine.

It’s not until I’ve stepped back inside that I notice the sheet of lined paper sitting on the counter, next to the fridge. My name is scrawled across the top in tidy all-cap print. Next to it is a stack of American twenty-dollar bills.

Didn’t know what you’d want to eat. Keys are in the truck. Meyer’s is five miles away. Go east to the end of the road, turn right, then make your 2nd left in town. The rain should hold off for the morning, if you want to go for a walk.

At the bottom of the page, there’s a scribbled-out “W,” as if he started writing his name and then decided against it. But he didn’t replace it with “Dad.”

I’m guessing he’s gone to work. Does he always leave for work this early?

Or was he avoiding me?

On impulse, my fingers graze the ceramic of his used mug. It’s still warm. Evidence that he was here, and not that long ago. He probably bolted the second he heard movement coming from my room, I realize with dismay.

How he got to work without his truck, I can’t guess. Maybe he got a ride from Agnes?

Regardless, it clearly didn’t cross his mind that I might not have my driver’s license.

“No, no, you go ahead to work, Dad. What? But we haven’t seen each other in twenty-four years? No biggie. I would never expect you to take an hour or two off. Seriously, I’ll take care of myself,” I mutter, trying to squash the sting in my chest.

I spend a few minutes rifling through the bare fridge and disorganized cupboards to learn that my father lives off coffee, cheap sugar-loaded peanut butter, and frozen macaroni-and-cheese dinners.

It’s a good thing I’m not hungry. What I am, though, is desperate for one of Simon’s frothy soy milk lattes. I don’t have a lot of vices, but my regular dose of caffeine in the morning is number one on a short list. On the rarest of occasions that I miss my fix—I could count those days on one hand—my head is throbbing by midday.

Five years ago, Simon surprised us at Christmas with a fancy barista machine that can rival Starbucks. I swear he sits at the breakfast bar every morning with his cup of Earl Grey and his Globe and Mail and listens for the first creak of steps from the third floor, just so he can hit Brew. By the time I’m staggering down to the kitchen half-asleep, he’s sliding a hot mug into my hands. To keep the Kraken at bay, he claims, though I’m pretty sure it has more to do with his secret fascination with the frother.

A pang of homesickness stirs inside me, but I push it aside, focusing on the matter at hand. This Meyer’s place doesn’t open for another two and a half hours. That means I have time to kill while I figure out how I’m going to get there so I can survive this day.

Beads of sweat trickle down my face as I pause for a gulp of water and to catch my breath, my gaze landing on my father’s mossy green home in the distance. I lasted twenty minutes in that eerily quiet, uncomfortable house with nothing but my tense thoughts and my laptop before my disquiet forc

ed me out. Throwing on my running gear and investigating my surroundings seemed like as good an excuse for escape as any.

I can see Agnes’s house in the distance, too. It’s like a mirror image of my father’s house—same size, same distance from the road, same wooden porch leading up to the door—except it’s white, and there’s no truck in the driveway. It was already gone when I ventured out. I assume she’s at work, too.

The mileage tracker on my phone claims I’ve run ten kilometers and I haven’t lost sight of either house this entire time. There’s been little to obstruct the view—fields of low bushes and a few scattered houses—and not another living soul to distract my focus.

Not a single person driving by, or riding a tractor, or walking their dog. Not even an echoing bark to carry through the stillness. It’s unsettling. I’m so used to the constant flow of people, the blasts of horns and roars of engines, and the clatter of construction. It’s white noise for me, and I’ve come to need it as I need the rhythmic waves of an app to sleep. Add the fact that I don’t have a working phone and I feel completely cut off from the world out here.

How can anyone find this peaceful?

“Ow!” I slap my thigh, leaving a squashed tiny corpse clinging to my skin where my palm made contact. The mosquitoes have been relentless all morning, swarming my damp, bare flesh.