“There’s this quote from Jack London,” Ben says, then pauses. “Well, some academics question whether the words can truly be sourced to him, because it actually came from—”
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Just give me the quote.”
“Right,” he says. “It goes, ‘The proper function of a man is to live, not to exist.’ ”
They’re both quiet, letting the words rattle around inside them for a minute.
“For a long time, it’s felt like I’ve just been existing,” Ben says eventually. “And now—I don’t know. Maybe it’s Alaska. Or the fact that I’ve stepped away from my life for a bit. But something feels different.” Behind him, the edges of the curtains are golden now as the sun continues its invisible rise. He presses his palm against his chest, looking at her solemnly. “I can feel my heart beating, you know?”
Before she can think better of it, Greta reaches out and puts a hand on top of his, imagining for a second that she can feel it too, the steady thumping of his heart. But really, what she’s feeling is her own.
“I know,” she says.
Chapter Eighteen
Greta doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when she wakes, it’s to the mad buzzing of her phone on the bedside table. Beside her, Ben is snoring so loudly it almost seems like an act, like an impression of someone pretending to snore. But it continues uninterrupted even as she wriggles out from under his arm to grab the phone.
There are several texts from her dad, each one more impatient than the last:
Ready to go?
Where are you?
You’re not answering your door.
You better not still be sleeping.
I guess I’ll meet you down there.
Disembarkation point at 10.
Wear something warm.
And waterproof.
I hope you didn’t forget.
Where the hell are you?
Hello?
She looks at the time and sees that it’s 10:07 and knows he must be furious by now, though she can’t for the life of her remember what they were supposed to be doing today. She types out a quick text: On my way! Am I too late?
The response comes right away: I lied. It leaves at 10:30. Hurry up.
Greta slips out of bed and grabs her jeans off the floor, looking around for a pen and paper as she pulls them on. She writes a quick note to Ben: Not panicking, just going to meet my dad—see you later. Then she gathers the rest of her clothes and heads out the door, still barefoot and wearing his oversized Columbia sweatshirt.
The first person she sees, of course, is the old lady. This time, though, she doesn’t say anything about sunscreen. She just raises her eyebrows and gives Greta an appraising look.
“Hope he was cute,” she says as they pass in the narrow hallway, and then, a second later, she turns around and adds, “Or she!”
Greta laughs and hurries down to the staircase, hoping she won’t run into anyone she actually knows. In her room, she throws on the pair of waterproof hiking pants her dad made her buy—for what, she wishes she could remember—and grabs a Dodgers cap that once belonged to another, more distant ex-boyfriend. She’s tempted to leave Ben’s sweatshirt on but switches it out for one of her own. Then she grabs her mom’s rain jacket and heads out.
“Where’s the disembarkation point?” she asks the first staff member she sees, a red-haired kid who can’t be more than eighteen and fixes her with such a long look that she suspects he knows who she is. She tugs the baseball cap lower as he gives her directions.
By the time she finds her way there, it’s 10:32, and Conrad looks deeply annoyed. There’s a group of about twenty people waiting in the same area, their outfits—which range from winter coats to puffy vests to fleeces—not doing much to give away the day’s plan.
“You’re late,” Conrad says as she walks up, his face stern beneath his hat, which has the logo of a random golf course on it.
“Only by two minutes.”
“Thirty-two,” he says. “If we’re being technical.”
“Well, we’re on vacation,” she says. “So we’re not.”
“You weren’t in your room.”
“Yeah, I was up early,” she says quickly, hoping there are no pillow lines on her face. “So I thought I’d grab some breakfast.”
Her stomach growls, and they stare at each other for a second.
“Anyway,” Greta says, anxious to change the subject, “how are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he says brusquely, like it’s a ridiculous question to be asking. He still looks a little pale, but nothing like the last time she saw him. In spite of his grouchiness, she can tell he’s happy to be getting off the ship. “I guess it was just a twenty-four-hour bug.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Gone fishing.”
Greta scans the waiting area, looking pointedly at the many people in outdoor gear. “And we’re not?”
“No, we’re—” He stops, exasperated. “You didn’t read the itinerary I sent you?”
“I’m a little behind on my correspondence.”
“This is the day we’re supposed to—” He stops abruptly, a hand on his coat pocket, looking unsure how to proceed. Finally, he says, “We’re going on a wilderness safari.”
“What’s a wilderness safari?”
He sweeps an arm around as if this should be obvious. “It’s—a whole thing. We go out on a boat to this island and look at the wildlife, then canoe down a river and hike to a glacier.”
“So why aren’t the rest of them coming?”
“I told you,” he says. “They went fishing.”
“Right, but—”
“Because,” he says so loudly that a couple in matching red jackets look over. Conrad lowers his voice a bit. “Because your mom picked this one out. Just for the two of us.”
The memory has a force to it: Helen at the kitchen table back in Ohio, humming Christmas carols under her breath as she flipped through the pages of a brochure. “Do you think your dad would like to do a scenic railroad tour?” she’d asked Greta, who was sitting across from her, trying to catch up on the emails that had piled up while she was on the road. Outside, small flakes of snow were pinging against the windows, and the smell of sugar cookies—which Helen had spent the afternoon baking with the twins—made the room feel cozy and warm.