My Last Continent by Midge Raymond Page B

where we’ll load our bags onto the Terra Bus headed for the airfield, the place is overstuffed with people, cold-weather gear, and luggage—amid all this, Keller looks strangely empty-handed. It’s not unusual for flights to be delayed or canceled, but I have a sinking feeling that’s not the case. I lower my bags and look around. “Where’s your stuff?”
    He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved; he’s just watching me.
    â€œDeb,” he says.
    His tone, low and cautious, causes my chest to tighten, and I don’t want him to say anything more. With my foot, I slide my duffel toward him. “Help me with my bag.”
    But he doesn’t move. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he says, “so I’m just going to say it. I’m staying. For the winter.”
    I sling my laptop bag over my shoulder, keeping my eyes on the floor. I’m afraid to look up at him, as if seeing his face will make what he’s telling me real. For the moment, it’s all just words in the air.
    â€œHarry’s got bronchitis,” he goes on, “and he’s going home. I’m here, I’m vetted—so they offered me his job.” A pause. “It’s a step up from dishwashing, at least.”
    I’m silent, still staring downward.
    â€œI’m not sure if I’ll ever make it back here otherwise, you know?” I hear a pleading note in his voice. “Come on, Deb, say something.”
    I look up at him finally. “What’s there to say?”
    â€œTell me you understand.”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œI need this, Deb. I’ve tried to start over—with Britt, with my job—nothing worked. But here”—he raises his hands as if to take in not just the building but the whole continent—“I feel as though it’s possible here.”
    He steps forward, gathers my hands. “You’ll be back before you know it. Next season. Or even sooner—for Winfly, maybe,” he says, referring to the six-week fly-in period between winter and the main season. “Or I’ll see you in Oregon. Like we planned.”
    When I don’t answer, he squeezes my hands. “I’m doing this for my future here. For ours.”
    When I look at him, I know that he’s fallen head over heels—not for me but for this continent. I can’t blame him. I myself had overwintered after my first visit to McMurdo. Much like Keller, after I’d gotten a taste of Antarctica, I didn’t want to leave. Because there’d been no research for me over the winter—the wildlife disappears when the sea ice encompasses the island—I’d taken a job as a firehouse dispatcher. I’d have done anything to stay.
    And I want to tell him so many things. That it’s exhilarating—the way the sun dips below the horizon for longer and longer each day, a glowing orange yolk that leaves behind a reddish black sky. That it’s lonely—that he will hear the waning sound of the season’s last plane echoing in the sky for a long, long time. That it’s dangerous—that the storms here are unlike anything he’s ever seen, with winds at a hundred knots, temperatures at eighty degrees below zero, snow blasting through the air like violent ghosts and seeping into buildings through the smallest cracks imaginable. That in the six months of total isolation, with no supply deliveries, no company other than two hundred other wintering souls, he will long for things like city streets, oranges, the leaves of trees.
    Yet he’s made up his mind. While overwintering isn’t for the faint of heart, I know Keller believes it will be easier for him to be here than at home. And he’s probably right.
    I drop his hands and pick up my duffel. I can’t speak, so I nudge past him toward the door.
    â€œThat’s it?” He’s speaking to my back as I approach the exit, the sunlight