So, maybe for the first time in my life, I stood up for myself, channeling my brother’s willfulness and independence. When I told my parents I had already bought plane tickets, Mom nearly choked on her outrage. In the end, they relented only because I left them no other choice. They mandated that I dispose of the majority of Mani’s things and bring home only the most necessary or sentimental. Easy for them to say with the insulation of several thousand miles between them and all the things that represented the essence of my brother.
My problem was that everything of his was sentimental, even the holey boxer shorts I had found in his hamper. Especially those holey boxer shorts. They had big pink bows printed on them, and I had given them to Mani for Christmas, years ago, specifically to embarrass him. I should have known better. As soon as he unwrapped them, he slid the boxers on over his jeans and insisted on wearing them for our annual Christmas morning photos.
I finished my coffee, washed the cup, and dumped it on the draining board. Then I showered away the sour odors of bar and beer sweat and slipped into a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt from Mani’s closet that still smelled like him. After tying my hair back into a damp ponytail, I approached the living room, wearing my best no-nonsense expression. I set my hands on my hips, blew out a heavy breath, and said, “Okay, let’s do this.”
I organized everything into two piles, but the keep stack quickly outgrew the throw out stack. Throughout the morning, I forced myself to go back and reconsider. Each item I discarded took a piece of my heart along with it. When I had first approached this task, I thought it would only take part of the morning to finish, but by lunchtime my progress had stuttered to a halt. So many of Mani’s things absorbed my attention—his pictures, old birthday cards, his library of handwritten journals. In this collection of miscellanea, this assortment of nostalgia, Mani was still alive. How could I ignore the allure? How could I resist spending time with him again, even if it was in the past?
I flipped through the most recent of Mani’s journals, a fat book bound in worn leather and stuffed full of ticket stubs and other odds and ends. Mani kept meticulous records of both the adventurous and mundane days of his life. His journals were more than a simple effort to capture a memory. They were a tool he employed in his quest, his unappeasable need to find answers to the mystery that led him away from home and into the wilds of Alaska.
The pages of Mani’s journal flipped by in a blur until one caught my attention by mentioning my name. I knelt, pressed the journal open on the floor, and leaned close to study the page. Mani’s familiar scrawl filled every line. The swirls, loops, dots, and dashes made something tangible out of the intangible thoughts and emotions of the one person who had commanded absolute devotion from me. His handwriting was a surprisingly intimate thing. Here, above all the other objects in this room, was the proof that Mani was real. He had existed.
The page where I stopped was dated almost three years ago, when Mani had been in Alaska for about a month.
Got a care package from Solina today. Fudge cookies. I thought after working in that damned bakery I would never want to see another cookie again, but they smelled so much like home. I think Solina would like it here, but then I think nothing will ever get her to leave it all behind—home, the bakery, Mom and Dad.
Now that I’ve been here for a while, I see how I let her shoulder the weight of family obligations for both of us so I could get away from Mom and Dad’s expectations. I think she understood that I had to get away if I was going to figure out what’s been going on with me lately—the weirdness with the cold and darkness. The way shadows sometimes seem to cling to me. Those times when frost forms in my footsteps. Solina’s the only one who believes me. Said she saw it in one of her crazy dreams—me manipulating shadows and ice, bending them to my will.
She said she saw me framed by the hazy glow of a midnight sun and it felt important. Portentous. She likes using words like that. I think it means she reads too much. Solina either has her hands stuffed in a batch of dough or her nose stuck in a book. I don’t know how many times we’ve fought about her introverted tendencies. Anyway, there are only a few places in the world where the sun never sets at certain times of the year, and Alaska is one of them. Was it a coincidence that I got this job in Siqiniq as easily as I did? Who knows, but whatever the hell is going on with me, this is as good of a place to start looking for answers as any. Plus I speak the local language. Can’t say that about Russia or Greenland.
If I thought Solina totally loved the family business, got some kind of thrill out of cranking out wedding cakes day after day, I wouldn’t feel so guilty about leaving her. But I think she only does it because Mom and Dad expect it of her. Maybe I expect it of her too. I may have to admit that I used my sister. I guess that makes me a total ass.
I wish that she’d stand up to them, find her own way, get her own life. I hope Mom and Dad know how lucky they are.
I closed the cover before tears splattered and smeared the ink. Mani’s words touched a sore spot I usually managed to ignore—the loneliness I had suffered at his absence. In retrospect, the pain of his leaving was a minor abrasion compared to the deep, festering wound inflicted by his death. I sent those fudge cookies in place of myself because I was too afraid to leave home, too afraid to disappoint my parents. I filled the emptiness by putting in more hours at the bakery, and Mom and Dad saw my work ethic as proof of my dedication to them and our “family business.” Really I was only digging myself into a deeper hole.
Mani was almost right when he said nothing could get me to leave. Nothing short of his death. The irony of this situation did not escape me. I was so out of my element and, if I was being honest, more than a little scared. I was committed to closing out Mani’s affairs, though. All of them. Even the ones I didn’t understand. His need for answers was now my need. My brother’s quest was the same expedition that brought me here, and I sensed it all intertwined with Mani’s death and my strange dreams.
If Mani ever found any answers, he never mentioned it to me, and there was nothing Mani didn’t tell me. It was up to me to find the connections, but I doubted my ability to meet the challenge. Especially if I had only one week to do it.
I closed the journal and smoothed the leather cover. It felt alive, warm from the heat of my hands. I put it back in its place on the bookshelf and turned my attention to the dull and less emotional task of emptying Mani’s closets. Who am I kidding? There’s no detail in this undertaking that isn’t emotional.
Sometime later my cell phone rang. I dug around and found it under a pile of discarded college T-shirts and raggedy jeans. “Hello?”
“Solina!” Val’s chipper voice instantly brought out my smile.
“How are you feeling today?” I asked, thinking of possible late-night partying side effects.
“I’ve been worse. How about you? I guess you made it home all right?”
“Actually, I ran into Thorin outside, and he insisted on walking with me.”
“I told you he’d make sure we all got home in one piece.”
“I think he did it because he wanted to warn me.”
“About…?”
“Getting caught up in Mani’s trouble.”
Val hesitated. Then he said, “Well, he has a point.”
I huffed. “It’s none of his business, but you didn’t call to talk to me about Thorin, did you?”
Val chuckled. “No. I wanted an excuse to hear your sweet voice.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And ask if you wanted to get dinner. A few of us from work are going into Anchorage to pick up supplies, and then we’re going to hang out for a while. Change of scenery, you know? You should come along.”
“I’ve still got a lot to do here.”
“One night, Solina. You can’t come all this way just to spend the whole time hiding in Mani’s apartment.”
Val’s sales pitch was convincing. I appraised the mess I had started in Mani’s apartment and surrendered to the temptation to escape the ghosts and indulge in a momentary distraction. “Okay. One night.”
“I’ll pick you up in about an hour,” Val said. “No backing out.”
Picking up supplies meant going by a big-box store to shop for mundane office provisions. “It gives us an excuse to get out of Siqiniq,” said Val when I asked why Thorin didn’t have stuff shipped straight to the store. Val picked me up in the company truck, and I squeezed onto the bench seat between him and Skyla, the kayaker. Hugh Rabe, the man who had offered to show me a good time at the bar the night before, took the backseat alongside a guy I hadn’t met yet. Val introduced him as Joe Muniz, a climber from Chile who specialized in scaling ice formations.
They entertained me by telling funny stories about Mani, their jobs, whiney clients, and weather catastrophes. By the time we got to Anchorage, finished shopping, and piled into a huge booth at Val’s favorite restaurant, they had transformed from strangers into friends.
“Margaritas!” Skyla demanded of our waiter. Pitchers of Dos Equis and neon-green cocktails appeared on the table beside baskets of chips and salsa.
“Where’s Thorin?” Hugh asked as he stuffed a chip into his mouth. “I thought he was coming into the city today. Didn’t he say he’d meet us here?”
