Blood and Ice Page 3

  The internist bought it. “I agree,” he said, scribbling his name on the bottom line of the form. “I wish I were going myself.”

  Michael never would have guessed so many people harbored Antarctic dreams.

  But there was one last stop, and that was going to be the hardest by far.

  Ever since he'd had that lunch with Gillespie, he'd known it was coming, and he'd done everything he could think of to put it off. He'd kept going full speed ahead, getting everything organized for the trip. He'd stopped his mail delivery and his newspapers; he'd enlisted the neighbor to keep an eye on his place and run the pipes if a freeze set in. He'd spent several hours at Tacoma Camera Supply, buying every battery lens, tripod, and flash card he might need. Sure, he had plenty of that stuff already, but on an expedition like this, in a place where there wouldn't be any way to replace a faulty light meter or get hold of additional supplies, he wanted to be positive that he had everything he'd need. In a way, he'd welcomed all these distractions; for once, he wasn't absorbed in his thoughts, in an endless cycle of guilt and self-recrimination. He could focus on something else, something in the future, and coming at him fast.

  But in the back of his mind, that last stop had always been there, and he couldn't delay it any longer. He was due at the Tacoma Regional Hospital.

  In the coma ward.

  Where he knew he was not welcome.

  On the way over, he steeled himself for any possible confrontation. Kristin's parents were almost always there, or at least one of them. But he thought if he went around dinnertime, he might not run into them. When he got to the ward, he signed in-the nurse said, “Good to see you again, Mr. Wilde. I know Kristin will be glad you're here”-but as he walked down the hall, he wondered what that could possibly mean.

  Kristin had not come out of her coma for months. Kristin, from everything the doctors had told him (even though he wasn't a family member, and technically should not have been told) was never going to come out of her coma. The fall had been too great, the delay in treatment too long, the insult to the brain too devastating. For all intents and purposes, Kristin was already gone.

  All that remained of her was what he could see-a still form, so slim it hardly raised the pale blue blanket, nestled amidst a tangle of tubes and blinking, beeping monitors. He waited outside the glass, just looking between the slats in the venetian blind. And if he allowed himself to, he could almost slip into believing she was okay. Her blond hair (which her mom washed regularly) was spread out around the pillow, her face was calm, her eyes closed. Only her complexion-once burnished by the sun-was now pale and spotty, especially around her mouth and nose. Too many tubes and instruments had been put in and taken out.

  But, to his relief, there was no sign of her folks. Michael unzipped his parka and went inside, stopping only at the sound of a voice.

  “Hello, stranger.”

  For one shocking second, it was as if Kristin had spoken to him again, but then he turned around and saw her sister Karen, curled up in a chair in the corner.

  “Didn't mean to scare you,” she said. She had a ponderous book in her lap, probably one of her law-school texts, and to his sorrow she reminded him, as she always did, of her big sister. They looked a lot alike-same penetrating blue eyes, same straight white teeth and tousled blond hair. They even sounded similar. Everything they uttered had a wry, knowing tone to it.

  “Hey, Karen.” He never knew what to say to her; he never really had. While Kristin had always been the boisterous one, the one who was constantly on the go and out of the house, Karen was the quiet, diligent student, the one who was hunkered down over the dining-room table with a scattering of textbooks and papers around her. Michael used to exchange a few words with her when he came by to get Kristin, but he always felt like he was interrupting something more important.

  “So, how's she doing?” A stupid question, he knew, but all he could think of.

  Karen smiled-Kristin's smile, the right side slightly upturned-and said, ruefully, “The same.” There was a note of resignation in her voice. “My parents just like one of us to be here nearly all the time, so I said I'd sit in while they caught the Early Bird Special at Applebee's.”

  Michael nodded, looking down at Kristin's hand, which was lying atop the blanket. The fingers were thinner and more fragile than he recalled, and a little black thimble, a monitor of some kind, had been attached to her ring finger.

  “She hasn't had any seizures, or anything like that, all week,” Karen said. “I don't know if that's a good sign or not.”

  What would a good sign be? Michael wondered. He knew that Kristin-the real Kristin, the alive Kristin, the Kristin who wanted to scale every peak with him and explore every forest-was never coming back. So what were they hoping for? Signs that she was finally failing? Signs that even the machines would not be able to keep her going, in a limbo state, forever?

  “Okay if I sit on the bed?” he asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  Michael sat gently on the edge of the bed, resting his own hand atop Kristin's. Hers felt like it contained the brittle bones of a bird.

  “Law-school stuff?” Michael asked, nodding at the heavy book that was still spread across Karen's lap.

  “Federal Tort Legislation and Reform.” She closed the book with a whomp. “They'll be making a movie of it soon.”

  “Tom Cruise?”

  “I'm thinking Wilford Brimley”

  An orderly bustled in, lifted the plastic bag out of the wastebas-ket, and tossed it into the barrel on wheels outside. When he left, Karen said, “It's good to see you again. What have you been up to?”

  “Not much.” Truer words, he knew, had not been spoken. Karen knew-who didn't? — that he'd been adrift since the accident.

  “But I wanted to come by,” he added, “before I left town, on Friday.”

  “Oh. Where to?”

  “Antarctica.” Even Michael wasn't used to saying it yet.

  “Wow. It's on assignment, I assume?”

  “ Eco-Travel. They just got clearance for me to go; I'll be staying for a month at a small base close to the Pole.”

  Karen put the book down on the floor beside the chair. “Kristin would be so jealous.”

  Michael couldn't help but glance over at Kristin. But her face, of course, betrayed no expression, no life, at all. Whenever he was in this room, he found himself torn-did he speak as if Kristin were somehow present, as if she could hear him and follow what was going on around her (even though he knew she could not), or did he just carry on as if she wasn't there? The first option felt fraudulent, and the second one cruel.

  “You know, Krissy had a couple of books on Antarctica,” Karen said. “They're still on the shelves in her room. Ernest Shack-leton's expedition, things like that. If you want them, I'm sure she'd like you to have them.”

  And now they were distributing her belongings. With her right there. Or not. Where was she? Michael wondered. Was it possible that there was something, some vestige of consciousness, that they weren't aware of, still floating around out there, somewhere in the cosmic void?

  “Thanks. I'll think about it.”

  “Just don't mention it in front of my folks. They still think Kristin's coming home and everything's going to be fine again.”

  Michael nodded. He and Karen had an understanding on this, unspoken though it generally was. They both knew, and had accepted, the medical diagnosis. Karen had even seen the brain scan that showed-in black, appropriately enough-the vast section of her sister's brain that had already atrophied. She had described it to Michael as “a dark village, with only two or three tiny lights glimmering through the windows.” And even those were dimming. Sooner or later, the darkness would swallow those up, too.

  Michael heard her dad's booming voice in the hallway-he was the most successful car dealer in Tacoma, and he treated everyone like a potential customer-greeting the nurses at the reception desk. Michael stood up, exchanging a glance with Karen; they both kn
ew what was coming and saw no way to avoid it.

  When he came through the door and saw Michael by the bed, he stopped so abruptly his wife bumped into him from behind. Karen also stood up, ready if necessary to come to Michael's defense.

  “I thought I told you not to come here anymore,” he said.

  “Michael just came to say good-bye,” Karen interjected, moving into the gap between them. “He's going away.”

  Mrs. Nelson maneuvered around her husband, a doggie bag from Applebee's in one hand. Michael was never quite sure where she stood. Mr. Nelson, he knew perfectly well, blamed him for the accident; he'd never liked Michael-but then he'd never have liked any man who stole his daughter's affections from him. But when it came to Mrs. Nelson, she seldom got three words out before her husband started talking over her, so it was tough to know what she really thought about anything.

  His only ally, Michael knew, was Karen. “He just got here a few minutes ago,” she was saying now, “and Kristin would have wanted him to come.”

  “Nobody knows what Krissy wants-”

  Michael noticed how her dad had instinctively returned the conversation about her to the present tense.

  “-but I know what I want,” her dad continued. “And what her mother wants. We want her to rest, and recuperate, and not think about what happened. That kind of thinking can only set her back.”

  “I'm sorry you feel that way,” Michael did venture, “but I'm not here to upset you. I've said good-bye to Kristin, and I'll just go now.”

  Michael turned back to take one last look at Kristin, as still and silent as a statue, then brushed past the burly shoulder of her dad, who refused to budge even an inch to get out of his way. For a split second, he thought he detected a sympathetic glance from the cowed Mrs. Nelson.

  He was halfway down the hall when he heard quick footsteps approaching from behind. It was Karen-why did she have to remind him so much of her sister? — and she clutched his sleeve as she spoke. “I know Kristin's not there, you know Kristin's not there, but my parents still think…”

  “I know they do.”

  “But if you did want to see those books…”

  “Thanks, I'll think about it,” he said, knowing he wouldn't. And knowing that it wasn't the books she was talking about, anyway.

  The orderly rumbled by with the trash barrel.

  “But just in case there is, I don't know, some part of Krissy that's still hanging around,” Karen said, “I know she'd be glad you came.”

  There were tears, he could see, starting to well up in her eyes.

  “I know you really loved her, and I really loved her, too,” she said, fumbling for the rest, “except maybe once, that time she stole my skates and broke the blade”-she laughed and let go of his coat-”and all I know is she'd want me to tell you to be careful on your trip.”

  Michael smiled. “I will.”

  “No, really,” she said, with greater urgency. “I mean it. Be careful there.”

  Michael put an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. “I solemnly swear to keep my mittens on and my ears warm at all times.”

  She gently pushed him away. “If you don't, Krissy will be really mad at you… and so will I.”

  Michael said, “I wouldn't want that.”

  “No, you wouldn't.”

  “Karen!” Mr. Nelson shouted, his face poking out of the door of the room. “Your mother wants to talk to you.”

  Karen bit her lip.

  “Now, Karen!”

  Michael rubbed her shoulder, turned, and headed back past the nurses’ station. This time, nobody said a word to him as he went by.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1889

  Green… deep, gleaming emerald green.

  That was what she dreamt of.

  The green of the grass in the Yorkshire pastures.

  The green of the leaves on a sunny day in Regent's Park.

  The green baize of the billiards table at the club in Pall Mall. (Women were prohibited from going upstairs, but Sinclair had found a way to sneak her past the porter and up the back service stairs.)

  The green waters of the Bosporus…

  So long as she could immerse herself in the green, she was content. She could remember the scent of the fields where she grew up

  … the damp grass, as it lay flat in the summer breeze, the cows standing white and black against it… the rolling green hills at dusk, the sun gleaming like her fathers gold pocket watch…

  She could feel the texture of the leaves, smooth and even and waxy, as she passed through the city park on her midday break from the hospital. It was only for half an hour, but in that time-and if the wind was blowing back toward the Thames-she could take a breath of fresh air, air that had no trace of blood or morphine or ether in it. Sometimes she would tuck leaves and sweet-smelling flowers in the pockets of her uniform before going back into the wards…

  The green of the sea… she had never been at sea until leaving for Turkey. She had always imagined it to be blue, or perhaps gray-it had appeared so in every picture she had ever seen-but staring down from the deck, into the churning wake, she had been surprised by its greenish cast, like the dull patina on the statues at the Royal Museum (Sinclair had taken her there, shortly before his regiment departed)…

  But there the reverie ended… as they all did, eventually… and a cold hand settled upon her heart. She had to struggle, once again, to fold herself into the green, to wrap herself in a bower of her own imagining… to warm the icy hand that had stolen beneath her clothes and frozen the very marrow in her bones. A thousand times she had come this way, and a thousand times more, she feared, she would have to come again, before she could awaken… before she could be released from whatever strange dream this was that still ensnared her…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  November 24, 10:25 a.m.

  Michael had spotted the little red-haired guy getting off the plane at Santiago and knew he was a scientist right off the bat. There was something about scientists that gave them away, though he'd have been hard put to say exactly what. It wasn't something easy, like the smell of formaldehyde or protractors sticking out of their pockets. No, it was more a matter of their mien; with scientists-and Michael had been around plenty of them while photographing and writing about the natural world-there was something both detached and highly observant. They could be part of a group, and not part of a group, at the same time. And hard as some of them might try to fit in, they never really did. It was like that massive school of sunfish that Michael had photographed underwater in the Bahamas; all of the fish, for safety's sake alone, tried to move toward the center of the swarm, but some of them, for whatever reason, were kept to the margins and never made it.

  And of course they were the easiest for predators to pick off.

  During the layover before he could catch the prop plane to Puerto Williams, Michael dragged his duffel bag into the crowded cafe area of the airport. The red-haired guy was sitting alone at a table in the corner, his head lowered toward his laptop. Michael got close enough to see that he was studying a complex chart littered with numbers and arrows and intersecting lines. To Michael, it looked vaguely topographic. He stood for only a second or two before the guy in the chair whipped around; he had a small, narrow face, and pale red eyebrows, too. The guy sized Michael up, then said, “This can't possibly be interesting to you.”

  “You'd be surprised,” Michael said, approaching him. “I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm just waiting for my connection to Puerto Williams.”

  He was waiting to see if that worked, and it did. “Me, too,” the guy said.

  “Mind if I sit down?” Michael said, taking the empty chair at the table-the last empty chair in the whole place.

  Dumping the duffel on the floor, with one foot through the strap (a habit he'd gotten into on lots of late-night travels in foreign locales), Michael extended his hand and introduced himself. “Michael Wilde.”

  “Darryl Hirsch.”

  “
Puerto Williams, huh? Is that your last stop?”

  Hirsch clicked the keyboard a few times, then folded up the laptop. He looked at Michael as if unsure what to make of him yet.

  “You're not some kind of government intelligence agent or anything, are you? Because if you are, you're doing a terrible job.”

  Michael laughed. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because I'm a scientist, and we live in an age of idiots. For all I know, you're tracking me to make sure that I don't prove the earth is getting warmer-even though it plainly is. The ice caps are melting, the polar bears are disappearing, and Intelligent Design is perfectly designed for dolts. So go ahead-you can arrest me now.”

  “Relax. You're sounding a little paranoid, if you don't mind my saying so.”

  “Just because you're paranoid,” Darryl observed, “doesn't mean you're not being followed.”

  “True enough,” Michael replied. “But I like to think I'm one of the good guys. I work for Eco-Travel Magazine, doing photos and text. I'm going down to the Antarctic to do a story on life at a research station there.”

  “Which research station? A dozen countries have planted stations there, just to stake their claim.”

  “Point Adelie. About as close to the Pole as you can get.”

  “Oh,” Hirsch said, digesting the news. “Me, too. Huh.” He sounded like he still hadn't given up on his conspiracy theory. “That's really something.” His fingers tapped on the closed lid of his laptop. “So, you're a journalist.”

  Michael detected that first glimmer he had seen before, a million times. When people found out he was a writer, there was that first mild surprise, then acceptance, and then-a nanosecond later-the dawning realization that he could make them famous. Or at least write about them. It was like watching little lights go on in their heads.