Page 58

Outside, it’s fresh and crisp and very cold. I breathe deep, my lungs filling with Arctic air, and Hettie hunches her shoulders. “How is Lyra?” she asks politely, burrowing hands into pockets.
“Good. I guess.” I keep in touch with my sister through infrequent texts and Instagram reels that she keeps sending me. “She’s in Chicago.”
“I’d ask what she’s been doing, but I’d rather talk about you. Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she invites.
I tamp down the feeling of awkwardness. This is Hettie.
This isHettie. Spencer was right: it was easier when it was the four of us. It was easier to push down what I was feeling.
Or maybe I didn’t have to push it down as much when we were pretending to be friends. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never felt simple friendship for Hettie. It was always so much more.
“I live in Wabush,” I tell her. “I set up nature reserves in the north part of the country. But you know all that.” All that is information that can be found on the family’s Wikipedia page.
“Are you there alone?” she asks.
“The Marsdens still live next door.”
“I meant,alone?”
I stare ahead into the trees that are fast approaching. I want nothing more than to grab my ax and make short work of the first dead maple I can find.
But no; here I am making small talk with my wife who I haven’t seen in years.
What do I tell her? What am I allowed to say? “Yeah.”
“Just…’yeah’?” There’s a note of frustration in her tone and I can’t blame her. There are things—years of things and people and places—we need to find out about, so I might as well put on my big boy pants and get going.
“Yeah,” I repeat. “I’m not going to tell you I’ve lived like a monk, but there’s nobody in my life. Never anyone serious since you left.”
There’s so much history between us, and now so much uncertainty, so there’s no point beating around the bush with Hettie. If I know something, I might as well tell her. And if I don’t, I’ll tell her that too.
“That sounds lonely,” she offers.
I shrug, unwilling to get into just how lonely I’ve been. I like being alone, enjoy my own company, but loneliness is a whole other beast. “Tell me about this guy.”
“You’re not wasting any time.”
“Too much time has been wasted,” I counter. “You’re here for a reason, so let’s hear about it.”
Hettie’s exhale comes out as a cloud of steam. “Timothy. He’s a real estate agent.”
I snort. I can’t help it. Hettie loved the beach, the forests like me. She was happy with animals, with books. I can’t see her with someone who spends his time pushing houses onto other people.
“He’s nice,” she protests. “He’s a good man. Decent.”
“And he wants to raise Tema?” Because as a father, I need to know that. My feelings for Hettie aside, the main issue here is Tema. What’s best for her.
It’s a shock how quickly my way of thinking has veered off to focus on her.
She’s my daughter. Ishouldbe thinking of her.
My question hangs between us. “He cares about her,” she says carefully.
That doesn’t say much. “Does he love her?”
“Everyone loves Tema.” Hettie’s smile is full of pride, full of love, and I get that. I’ve only known about Tema for less than a day, and already it feels like my heart has expanded so that Tema could crawl inside of it.
How is that possible? I’ve never given much consideration to being a father but now it’s all I can think about. And I have a feeling that this isn’t going to change when the shock wears off. “Yeah, I—she looks like Lyra.”