Undertow (2 page)

I sighed aloud as I opened the back of the Jeep to unload my bags. I hadn't brought much with me. Most of my belongings were in a storage unit in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for me to ship them north. I hadn't researched an apartment or living situation of any sort before arriving in Alaska. All I had thought about was getting up here. All other concerns seemed to fall by the wayside.

For as methodical as I was in every other aspect of my life, I never seemed to be nearly as hyper-vigilant when it came to my living situation. I tended to wander a lot, moving from apartment to apartment, never really putting down roots of any sort. Maybe it was because I never wanted to get too attached to anything, or maybe it was because I was afraid of commitment. My classmates wanting to specialize in psychiatry always had a field day trying to dissect my inner dichotomy, but failed. For them to have the tools necessary for such a procedure, I would have had to be willing to provide the information.

I wasn't.

Regardless of the reason, I only had three large pieces of luggage in the back to haul into the house. I took two of them before my father had the chance to grab them. I ignored the disapproving look he gave me by walking past him to the house. He couldn't keep up with me, so I sped up and entered the pale yellow house, leaving him to take the smallest of the three bags.

It was like walking into a time warp. Nothing had changed since the day I left. Everything was just as it had been when I stormed out of the house years earlier, spewing hateful things to my father. I remembered catching the curtain on my bag and nearly tearing it off the wall in my anger. Looking up at the bay window in the living room, I saw those same curtains, the rod still hanging askew. As I further investigated the house, moving cautiously from room to room, I found more signs of the day I'd left. The doorknob I'd nearly torn out of my bedroom door hung limply against the oak it had once nestled in so tightly. The bathroom mirror with the crack in it remained, never replaced by one that didn't split your image in two when you peered into it. I couldn't even remember how I'd broken it—my rage had been far too blinding at the time.

“Aesa?” my father called from the living room. “Should I put this in your room for you?”

“Yes, please,” I replied, startled. I exited the bathroom in haste, as though I'd nearly gotten caught somewhere I shouldn't have been. “Just throw it on the—” I cut off my damning words before they could escape. I stood in the doorway of my room as my father stared down at the rubble that had once been my bed. It was only then that the memory of him smashing the frame repeatedly against the wall until it shattered returned to me. I had forgotten it completely.

He looked at it sheepishly, quickly turning his face away from me.

“I have not been in here . . . I will have to order you a new one. You can use the guest room if you would like.”

I nodded in silence until I realized he could not see me.

“That will be fine, Dad. I'll put the bags in there now.”

Taking the last of the luggage from his hand without argument, I left him in the room, lost in his thoughts and embarrassment. He was a proud man. To see him so broken by his actions was more than I could bear, even if he deserved to feel that way. That day was not one either of us wanted to remember.

Upon entering the guest room down the hall, I closed the door behind me and let my emotions take over, unable to suppress what I had long been so successful at hiding. My walls were failing me—my shame too great. That night, in a rare act of weakness, I sat on the edge of the bed that my mother had so often hidden from her solitary reality in and cried.

2

My dreams were far from pleasant that night. I repeatedly found myself awake and disoriented, trying my best to reacclimate to a home and a relationship from which I had long been separated. It was no easy task, so at three-thirty I stopped trying and made my way to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.

I rounded the corner to find my father sitting at the kitchen table he'd bought when I was five, twirling a cup of coffee between his hands, a nearly burnt out cigarette resting in the ashtray beside him.

“I find it hard to sleep here,” he said softly, as though his words hadn't really been meant for me. I pulled out the chair beside him and gently sat in it, angling my body towards his.

“It is,” I replied. “It's never really been the same since—”

“You want some coffee?” he asked, looking up suddenly as he cut me off to avoid mention of my mother—his late wife.

“I don't drink it. Tea is fine.”

He looked at me strangely for a moment, clearly trying to discern how a person could live without that dark liquid coursing through her veins. But I wasn't him, a fact that he would have to come to grips with over the weeks to come. If not, he would come to grips with my eternal absence.

“Tea then,” he mumbled, pushing himself away from the table to limp over to the cupboard. I watched as he searched the nearly barren cabinets for the box of tea bags that was surely half as old as I was. When he found them, he turned to me with the box in hand, waiting for approval. I smiled tightly and nodded in affirmation.

“I presume we have a lot to do today,” I started, wanting to ease into something he and I could both appreciate—preparing for his voyage.

“More than I had planned. I got notice late last night that they are bumping up the season start by nearly two weeks. It will be all I can do to have things ready to go by then. Gunnar was able to get the ship in for maintenance last week, so that is under control, but there is much else to be done, as you well know.”

“What can I do to help?” I asked in earnest.

He eyed me curiously across the small kitchen before speaking.

“Well, you know enough about the food purchasing since—”

“Since mom used to do it and I was always dragged along with her.”

“Yes. If you would like to do that, it would be most helpful.”

“Of course,” I replied with a genuine smile. I hadn't worn one since my return. It felt good.

“I'll have other things to do in town. I can drop you off at the store then come back for you. It should take a couple of hours to get everything. Let Raymond know what meats you'll need. He likely won't have everything in stock and will have to try and acquire it overnight. If there are issues, we'll figure out a plan B.”

“I think I can manage that.”

He returned my earlier smile.

“I had hoped for a bit more time together before I left, Aesa . . . ”

“Me too, Dad. I'm not sure what I'll do once the fleet leaves. Town will be virtually empty, and I don't have to start my residency for a couple of weeks.”

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, seemingly unsure whether what he was about to say would be well received. For as little as my father knew me, he knew I detested the Bering Sea.

“Aesa . . . my updated drop-off date is only ten days into the season. It would be possible for you to come with me on the boat and be back in time to catch a flight down to Anchorage to start your work there. Would you consider this?” he asked before hesitating slightly. “For me?”

My body's visceral reaction to his words was undeniable. Sweat began to form on my brow, and I could feel the blood drain from my lightly freckled face. I not only hated the open water, I feared it ardently.

I looked past his impassive expression and saw what his body language was telling me. He shifted his weight back and forth while he picked at the edge of the crumbling laminate countertop. It was clear that he knew he'd gone out on a limb with his request but did it anyway. He wanted me to go with him and had cast his line, hoping to snag his most elusive catch—me. I had come home to try to mend what was left of our bond. To have turned him down would have been tantamount to cutting the line and letting our relationship drift out to sea forevermore. I knew I had to try. I owed that to myself, if no one else.

“I'm not sure I'll be much help to you on deck. I'm not a fisherman,” I reminded him, fully recognizing that the deck of a crabbing boat is one of the most dangerous places to work, not even taking into account the dangers the water possessed.

“You know far more than you think, but you will be inside with me. If you feel the need to go out and help bait on occasion, I would not object. Otherwise, I prefer to keep you where there is little danger.” He mumbled something under his breath as the kettle whistled from the stove beside him. I never did discern what he said.

“I can cook for you all. I know that will be a huge help. The boys can stay on deck longer and spend less time cleaning up the galley afterward. Besides, it will give me a little time to study up on a few things. I haven't had the luxury of idle time in years. Maybe I'll find I enjoy being lazy.”

He tossed a glance over his shoulder while he poured the scalding hot liquid into a brown mug from the seventies.

“Fredriksens are not lazy, Aesa. It is not in your nature to be so. You are one of the hardest workers I know.”

Again, his compliment caught me off guard, and I found myself ill-equipped to respond to him. Perhaps he knew me better than I had believed.

“Then I guess you'll have to find ways to put that work ethic to good use,” I mumbled uncomfortably, loosely shielding myself from his gaze with a veil of long auburn waves.

When I finally brushed my hair aside, I saw him looking over at the clock on the microwave. It was nearly four in the morning.

“I have an idea,” he said suddenly. “If we get cleaned up now, I could see if Earl will repay the debt he owes me and fly us to the mainland. It'll be faster and easier to get things done there. They'll be far better equipped to supply what we need on short notice and it will save us a lot of time in the long run. I know you had a long day yesterday; are you up for another?”

“Whatever you need, Dad.”

“Let us go then. You shower first. There will be barely enough hot water for the two of us; I don't want you to freeze to death if we run out. I remember how long it takes to wash all that hair of yours.” He placed the mug of tea down in front of me, resting his hand gently on my back. “It will still be warm when you are done.”

“Thanks,” I said softly, soaking in the normalcy the moment provided. But before it could permeate, I stood and made my way down the hall, escaping to the bathroom. After locking the door, I looked up into the broken mirror, staring at the broken reflection of myself.
Broken
, I thought. Perhaps it wasn't just my relationship with my father that needed mending. Maybe I did too.

3

After two days of preparation, it was time to load the vessel and head out to sea. I tried to play my nerves off, but I was failing miserably. On the drive over to the docks, there were several times when my father looked over at me and appeared as though he wanted to say something, but then stopped himself. Afraid to start a fight, I never asked him what he wanted to tell me. I was too on edge.

We pulled up in front of the Norwegian Queen, and she looked just as majestic as I remembered. My father may not have taken care of himself, but he did take care of her. Navy blue with hints of orangey-red, she was a stunning testament to my heritage and legacy. The fact that she was kept in better repair than his relationships gnawed at me slightly as we got out to board her.

“Don't you dare try to load those bags on the ship, Aesa. I'll get one of the boys to do that. Wait here. I'll be right back.”

I watched while he gimped his way toward his pride and joy, yelling for one of his deckhands as he approached. Moments later, a familiar face popped up on the other side of the rail. Robbie Townsend had been on my father's ship since I was sixteen. He was only two years older than me, but looked at least a decade more; yet another confirmation that life at sea was hazardous to your appearance and longevity. Luckily for him, he still had his boy-next-door appeal. He may have been far more muscular and mature-looking than I remembered, but his bright blue eyes held their childlike, mischievous glint. He was trouble in the most entertaining of ways.

“Aesa! Is that you?” he shouted as he leapt gracefully from the ship to the dock in one jump.

“It is indeed,” I replied, unable to suppress my smile. Robbie was the kind of guy you just loved being around. He'd always been like an older brother to me and the son my father never had. Once my dad realized that I would never take to the family business, he started priming Robbie for the position. He was the perfect candidate: loyal, hardworking, single, without any children, and, most of all, Norwegian, though his name did not imply it. His mother was English, and when his father left both her and Robbie, she changed his last name to hers. Robbie was only a child when it happened.

Where I ran from the sea that had taken so much from me, Robbie chased it, hoping to find solace of some sort there. It had claimed his dad long after he'd abandoned them—around the time it had stolen my mother. He and I had that in common.

“How's my girl?” he asked, jogging down the dock toward me. Before I could respond, he scooped me up in his arms and spun me around till my head felt woozy and I begged him to put me down. After I got my bearings, I gave him a little punch in the arm, feigning anger.