Caribou Island

20

On the way to Anchorage, the sky seemed to press down, gray and moving, darker bands of rain. Fall now, the snow coming. The trees already turning.

Rossland had been similar. A river rather than ocean, but these same wide mountain bases, thick forest, snow-covered peaks. The same heavy sky, the same cold breeze even in summer, gusting, her skin always goose-bumped. Irene closed her eyes and tried to remember, tried to stand there, tried to turn flat images into a place she could walk through again, because she had spent forty-five years trying to forget. She had wanted to erase, and that seemed a terrible loss now. Irene wasn’t sure what had shifted, but something had. She wanted to remember her mother, wanted to remember her father, wanted to remember the time when they lived together.

The sound of Icelandic, not flat like English. A kind of music, longer vowels, each sound a clarity, a shape, a liquid, or a shot of breath. In that tongue, the world could become animated. More fearsome, more lovely, never empty. A tongue unchanged for a thousand years, a way back to that time. This was what Gary liked. Her connection to the ancient past, Icelandic spoken now almost the same as Old English spoken then. In this way, she had never been real to him, only an idea.

But she didn’t want to think about Gary. She wanted to find her parents, and they remained shadows. If she could hear them speak. How was it possible to forget every word, to not be able to hear the voices she’d heard every day of her childhood?

Irene tried to remember the kitchen, sitting at her own small table. Yellow, painted wood. Rough-grained. Her mother at the sink, wearing a dress, though she couldn’t remember any pattern, any color, and she could almost hear the water running, and she knew her mother would have been speaking. No face, no voice, her father even more distant. And so all she had left were ideas. There was another woman, she knew, though she didn’t know how she knew. When was the moment she learned? And did she understand that idea, that her father was leaving them? Could any of that have made sense? The adult world a thing of mystery and weight, she remembered that much. A despair as immovable as a mountain. Her parents making their decisions, determining her fate, and now they’d gone even farther away, into myth. Stories transformed, impossible to know what was true. Another woman, and her mother hanged herself, and her father left forever and she never saw him again. But what story to make any sense of this?

They came down out of the mountains and drove along the water, Turnagain Arm, a long fjord, sheer rock on either side, white-tipped. Following the path of some ancient glacier that might have filled this valley and bay, though Irene didn’t know whether that was true. The water was like a river, in standing waves six feet high, the “bore tide” so extreme it actually had a sound, a low roar. In winter, the ice choked here and broke, deep rivers and ravines carved through piles of blocks the size of cars and even houses. No one out on this water.

She wondered whether Iceland was like this. She’d never been. Still had relatives, but none who had ever seen her. They’d be strangers, and she’d no longer be able to speak. Until ten, she’d spoken only Icelandic at home, English at school, but then that language died for her.

She had lost the stories, also, children’s tales. Her memory now was only of figures in landscape. She had lost their movement and words, their purpose. A figure in the forest, the sense of that forest, frightening, or a figure on the sea, some kind of small boat, an ancient ship. A stone house, but she couldn’t be sure even of this. It could have been a wooden house with a stone hearth.

And songs. There had been those, too. Hopelessly lost.

But she did have things she knew. Her mother had experienced some awful pain in her head and asked for silence. What she didn’t know was the source. Was it grief, at her husband’s leaving? Did it last a very short time, only at the end, or did it go on for years? Was it only medical, something like what Irene had now? And was there such a thing as only medical? Once something took over your life, didn’t it become who you were, even if it was only a physical thing?

Irene closed her eyes and tried to exhale the pain, let it slip lower. Was she inventing all of this about her mother? Had her mother really ever complained of a pain in her head? Irene had no image, no moment of her mother rubbing at her forehead, no proof. And she didn’t trust the tricks of her own mind. Whatever she wanted to remember, she would begin to remember, until she wouldn’t know what was real. She had a memory of her father, for instance. They rode a sled together, a wooden sled with metal runners. They walked up a giant hill of snow, her father carrying the sled, and they were laughing. When they reached the top, her father lay facedown, his hands on a steering bar. Irene lay down on top of him, her body small and light, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her father let out a whoop and they started moving. Irene yelled in fear and delight, and they flew at incredible speed down that slope. But then there were different versions of the ending. In one, they flipped and slid and rolled and landed in a pile together, laughing. In another, they went so fast Irene’s body became airborne, and she struggled to hold on to her father’s neck. In another, they flipped and hit hard and she cried. No one of these endings was more real than the next, and so it seemed the entire thing was made up. Most likely, there had never been a sled at all. She had no other memories of it. The entire scene too idyllic, a winter scene. An attempt to have a memory with her father.

He was young when she last saw him, in his early thirties. Blond hair, not the usual dark hair of an Icelander. A small face, burned by the sun. A forester, leaving each day with his axe. Almost a figure out of one of the children’s stories, and this was what she feared. That she had invented every part of him. Did he really leave every day with his axe? Did he wear a green scarf wrapped around his neck?

She did remember his arms and his hands. Strong forearms, tanned and veined. His hands rough, callused. She could see them on the dark wooden table at meals. She knew that was real, a memory. It was when she tried to see his face or hear his voice that she became lost.

Do you remember your parents? she asked Gary.

What? Gary seemed startled.

Sorry. I’m trying to remember my parents when I was a kid. Their faces, their voices. Do you remember yours?

Yeah, of course.

What do you remember?

Well a lot of things.

Give me one.

Geez, Irene. I don’t know just offhand.

Just remember one for me.

Yeah, Dad, Rhoda said from the back seat, smashed sideways into the king cab. I’m curious, too. You never talk about anything from your childhood.

It’s like the Inquisition, Gary said. I’m just thinking about our appointment and where we’ll stay tonight. But fine. A childhood memory. Something from Lakeport. How about a hunting memory?

No guns, Irene said. You’re too stuck on guns. All the stuff you shot when you were a kid. Give us something else.

Yeah, Rhoda said.

Geez. All I can think of right now is hunting or fishing.

Give us something in the kitchen, Rhoda said.

Gary puffed his cheeks. All right, he finally said. It’s not one particular time. I just remember my dad sitting at the table by the window, looking out at the lake, pouring cream of mushroom soup from a pot onto his pancakes. And I remember him making colored pancakes for me. Blue and green and whatever I asked for.

What did he say? Irene asked.

What?

What did your father say to you when he was making the pancakes or pouring the soup over them?

I don’t know.

That’s what I’m asking, Irene said. I want one moment when you remember exactly what he said, or what your mom said, and how their faces looked at that moment.

Why are you asking this, Mom?

Because I can’t remember my parents, not even one moment.

No one said anything then for a while, so Irene looked out her side window at rock and trees, the rough flanks of mountains. These rocks tell us as much about ourselves as our memories do, she said.

The rocks a kind of sign of all that was true in the world, Irene thought. In layers and bands, identifiable, organized, but all of it was in fact meaningless. Formed under pressure for millions or billions of years, heaved upward, bent and sheared, all to no effect. The rocks were only what they were. There was nothing awaiting them, and they were not part of a story.

We live and die, Irene said. And it doesn’t matter whether we remember who we are or where we came from. It was another life.

I don’t think that’s true, Mom.

You’re still young.

I’m still trying to remember, Gary said. And all I can remember are the tense moments. Those are the only ones that stay. Playing pinochle, and my dad had a lay-down hand, but I didn’t understand it, so I said something like, Wait, how did that happen, and then my dad said, Are you accusing me of cheating? I remember he said exactly that, and I remember how his face looked, unforgiving. He’d already decided, and whatever I said or my mom said didn’t matter.

You remember, Irene said. You really do remember.

Yeah. And other moments, too, but only tense ones for some reason. My dad offering to pay me five cents per walnut to pick them up out of the front yard, and my mom saying, Doug, that’s too much, and how worried she looked, and how that made me feel afraid for some reason, like something terrible was going to happen. My earliest worry about money, I think. I remember what her face looked like then.

Irene put her hand on Gary’s shoulder. Thank you, she said. I believe those. And I don’t know why I can’t remember even one myself.

You must have at least a few, Gary said.

No. I really don’t.

I have a zillion memories of you guys, Rhoda said. When I think back, it’s like you never shut up.

Gary laughed. Thanks, honey.

Irene smiled. She had never wanted to be a mother, not really, but she had gotten lucky with Rhoda. Not so lucky with Mark.

The road ahead, as they neared Anchorage, was clogged with motor homes, the last of the summer visitors. Some pulled over to look at waterfalls or the inlet. They were gathering back at Anchorage for the long drive down through Canada to the lower forty-eight. Snowbirds, heading back to Arizona and Florida.

What I can’t remember, Gary said, is my father ever talking about being part Cherokee.

He was part Cherokee? Rhoda asked.

Yeah, he was one-fourth. His father was half. You didn’t know that?

I didn’t know either, Irene said. What the hell.

I never said anything?

No, Rhoda and Irene both said.

Well he didn’t either. I found out from my mom.

You’re both freaks, Rhoda said. My parents are freaks. And I’m part Cherokee, apparently.

Only a sixteenth, Gary said. Sorry it isn’t more.

Gary turned on the radio then and they listened to old Beatles songs.

They had planned to stop for lunch before the doctor’s appointment, but with the traffic, they didn’t have time. Irene walked into the office dizzy from hunger as well as the meds. She hadn’t had anything to drink, either.

She was seen immediately, right at her appointment time, which was a new experience. Dr. Romano tall, dark, and handsome, grayed hair, a cleft chin. He had beautiful hands, full lips. Like some Roman statue.

He listened to Irene report her history and symptoms, then he put down his pen.

We’ll figure out what’s wrong, he said. Sometimes an infection in the sphenoid sinuses won’t show up in an X ray. They’re too far back, tucked in under your brain, so they don’t show up easily. I’d like you to do a CAT scan.

When can I do that? Irene asked. I’m guessing I need to come back here to Anchorage. I was really hoping to figure out something today.

I’ve already made the appointment, Dr. Romano said. And they’re next door. You can go right now.

Irene felt herself getting choked up. Not being treated like garbage by a doctor was a new experience for her. Wow, she finally managed to say. Thank you.

Within fifteen minutes, she was lying down in the scanner, trying to keep her head still, trying not to move too much from breathing. She kept her eyes closed so she wouldn’t panic from claustrophobia, but she could feel the cold presence of the machine in close as it whirred and clicked.

Gary drove them to lunch afterward. A greasy diner off the highway. Irene ordered halibut fish and chips.

They sat at a plastic table waiting for their food, looking out at the traffic. That was amazing, Irene said.

Yeah, Rhoda said. I can’t believe how quick it was. What a difference.

Frank should die a slow, painful death.

Irene, Gary said.

He should. He treats everyone like crap, and he’s incompetent. He should die.

Maybe a little extreme, Mom.

Irene smiled. Okay. Frank shall live. But I’m just so happy with Dr. Romano. He’ll figure out what’s happening, and I can get better and move on. At this point, I don’t care how awful the surgery might be. I need this pain to go away.

Did he talk about surgery? Rhoda asked.

Just told me the basics. It’s a week of lying down and having your nose packed, which sounds like hell, but then it’s basically over, just a few follow-up appointments.

Hm, Gary said. He was clearly uncomfortable hearing about this. He’d always been squeamish. Every time something happened to one of the kids, it was Irene on her own, from diapers to broken bones to drugs. Gary always found a way to disappear.

You’d better take care of me if I have the surgery, she said.

What? Gary asked.

You know what I’m saying. You always run when there’s anything unpleasant. But if I have this surgery, you’re going to be at my bedside every morning, noon, and night. I’m going to cough up phlegm and blood into your hand and you’re going to like it.

Geez, Irene.

I’m serious. None of your weak shit this time.

Mom, Rhoda said. I’m sure Dad’ll be there for you, and I will too.

You’ll be there, Irene said. But your dad will run. Hey, our food’s ready. I’ll go get it.

Sorry, Dad, Rhoda said when her mom was gone.

It’s okay. She’s just going a little crazy. Nothing new.

That’s not fair, Dad.

Who cares. Fair never matters. No one’s keeping track, as it turns out.

Dad.

Whatever.

Irene returned with a tray of fish and chips. You’ve been talking about me.

Well yeah, Rhoda said.

Irene dabbed at her fish with a napkin, which soaked through immediately. Enough oil? she asked. Then she took a bite with some ketchup. Frozen, she said. They’re using frozen halibut. Who uses frozen halibut?

It tastes all right, Gary said. Good enough, anyway.

Good enough, Irene said. Good enough. Your mantra through life.

Mom, Rhoda said.

And then they just ate. No one felt like talking more. They drove to a Motel 6, checked in, and went to their room.

I need to lie down, Irene said. She took another codeine and tried to sink into sleep. Rhoda took a nap on the other bed, asleep quickly, her breathing rough and heavy in the small room. Gary had gone off somewhere on a walk, disappearing again.

Irene was afraid of surgery, even the possibility of surgery. She’d asked about risks, and Romano said there was a risk of blindness, of hitting the optic nerve. That and possible death from the general anesthesia. And the bones in her head could become irritated and grow after the surgery, blocking everything off again. She didn’t really understand that, how a bone could grow, but apparently it could. And she wouldn’t be able to breathe through her nose for a week while it was packed. Meanwhile, her throat would be filling with blood. She felt claustrophobia already just thinking about it. Imagine not being able to swallow or breathe.