Ice Dogs (17 page)

“Hey! I almost died of frostbite, remember?” I rub my arm.

He laughs and then his face changes. In a blink, it goes from his normal smile to something strained with anguish. His bright eyes swim and he clutches me in a tight embrace.

“I'm so glad you're safe. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, too.”

I wrap my arms around his middle, careful with the IV tubes, and hold on as my own throat closes.

“I miss him so much, kiddo. So much.”

We separate, and Uncle Leonard pats my shoulder awkwardly. Now that I look for it, I see within his face the strain of grief. I see that he feels compelled to be the one to watch over me for Dad.

I take his hand. “We have to watch over each other, Uncle Leonard. I learned that at least on my little trip.”

His Adam's apple bounces as he looks at me with a new, open expression. He nods and gently takes my head under his arm to rub his knuckles across the top of my head.

“Augh, stop that!”

“Far as I know, no frostbite up here.”

 

The ride home is a blur of telephone poles and speeding vehicles. We seem to be traveling at an insane pace compared to what I'd been used to for the last week. I grip the handle above the truck door and try to relax. It's strange to think that the whole time I was gone, the rest of the world continued on. As if there was no race for survival going on just on the other side of those trees. Cars still zoomed around carrying people who went to work, to school, got their cavities filled, traveled in a girl-pack to go to the bathroom, turned in their science projects.

I feel as if I've just stepped out of an alternate universe where I've been for the last ten years, and all time here had stopped until I got back on. I've changed, but the rest of the world hasn't.

Mom grips my hand with one of hers as she steers with the other. It hurts my fingers but I don't want her to stop.

“Here we are,” she says. “Home at last. You'd better start calling people, Sarah first. But the whole town has been holding vigil.”

We pull into our driveway and the dogs start a chorus of welcome. My heart trips and I fling open the door before we've rolled to a stop.

“Careful . . . ” Mom is saying, but I don't catch the rest as I jump out. I want to sprint to the dog yard, but landing on my feet quickly reminds me of my last few days. I end up hobbling awkwardly, gritting my teeth, my heart racing with happiness. Tears erupt out of me when I see Bean matching my hobble as he moves around his circle.

All the dogs greet me as if it's been months since they've seen me. But they do that even after I leave for ten minutes. Still, it fills my soul to see them all, including the ones that didn't come along on our adventure. Even Beetle seems insanely happy I'm home. I bury my fingers in their coats, smell their doggy breath, and feel a rush of joy so intense, it burns behind my eyes.

As I limp around with the shovel, cleaning the yard, I make a promise to myself. I will always enjoy doing dog chores this much. I won't ever take my life for granted.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I
SPEND TIME
with each of the dogs separately, feeding them beaver steaks that Uncle Leonard bought from Mr. Oleson. I talked to the vet last night and today I have to break the news to Bean that his racing days are most likely over. With deep tissue injuries in both shoulders, he has a weakness now that I can't let him strain. Even just tripping on one moose track punched in the trail could cause more damage that I'm not willing to risk. No, we're going to go for slow, fun runs and then try massage, compress wraps, glucosamine, and whatever else I can do to keep the arthritis at bay. I won't stop him running though. Not running at all would kill his spirit.

“I'm so sorry, Beanie. But retirement won't be that bad.” He looks at me with knowing eyes.

“Who wants to win races anyway?”

I stroke Bean's chest as he sits in front of me, a wide-mouthed goofy grin across his face. We've sat like this so many times. But this time, I really see him. Like he sees me. His gaze is steady, burning into me with the intensity of our bond.

Racing is just an excuse to spend time with the dogs out on the trail, doing what they love. How could I have forgotten that? Still, before our next race, Bean is going to have to help me train Drift to be a better leader. We don't need any side trips in the middle of a race.

“We're going to go as slow as you need to, chum. But after we've had some rest, okay?” I hold up a fat chunk of beaver meat. “For now, do you have any interest in this?”

 

Baked corn bread, roasting moose, and bubbling brown gravy odors waft out of the kitchen along with a cranked Johnny Cash tune. Mom sings off-key. I don't even turn on Timbaland to drown out the noise that Mom calls music. It's just good to hear Mom sound so happy.

Sarah is the first to arrive with her entire family. She's wearing an off-the-shoulder, low-cut shirt with a black lace push-up bra underneath. And the black lace is sort of the first thing you see. Her tight mini is paired with hot pink leg coverings that reach halfway up her thighs. As she's coming in for a hug, I point.

“What the heck are those?”

“This is going to be the latest rage, Vic! Leg warmers are coming back to fashion. Cripes, you've been gone for days and you're
so
behind!”

She laughs and a delicate little snort sneaks out and I'm so delighted to hear that sound again, my eyes start to well up. Her eyes well up too, and we hug with a fierceness that surprises me. We rock back and forth. Her familiar vanilla body lotion scent brings on more tears. I'm going to have to get a grip or this will be a long night.

“Oh, Vicky.” She touches the frostbite still visible on my nose and cheeks. “I was so freaking out. Freakin' drama. But I should have known you'd find a way back, and save a stray while you were doing it.” She dabs at her eyes and looks behind me. “I've seen his picture on the news. I want to see if he's that cute in person. Where is he? Is he here? Point him out.”

“Uh, not here, not cute, definitely not your type.”

“Oooh! Liar. I'm intrigued—”

“There you are, Victoria. Oh Lord, I'm so relieved you made it back.” Mrs. Wicker, my old youth group leader and owner of the feed store in town, steps close and gives me a quick, perfumed hug.

Sarah whispers as she walks away, “I want full details later.”

“You'd think that those fellows that were searching would have been able to find you,” Mrs. Wicker is saying.

“We saw them,” I tell her. “One of the helicopters. But I think we were hard to spot.”

“Well, they should be better trained. Lord, how could they miss you?”

“It's okay, Mrs. Wicker. We made it back without them.”

“Yes! That's the main thing. You're home and that boy you found is back safe, too.” She lowers her voice and continues in a scandalous hush. “They're from Canada, you know. His poor mother here all alone without a man. She's a single mom, you know. Terrible business. And then losing her only son just after they arrive. Oh Lord, can you imagine it? I nearly break out in hives just thinking of it!”

I nod. There's no stopping Mrs. Wicker when she's on a roll, so I don't even try. She fans her face, then leans in again.

“But she's never seen such a helping and caring community as us. Someone was always over there keeping her company. Bringing casseroles and making tea.” Her voice gets louder and faster with each word.

When she says this it brings a hazy memory of everyone coming to our house last year. Bringing food for Mom and me, too. I feel a sudden tenderness toward Mrs. Wicker, then realize she's still talking so try to focus.

“ . . . She's most grateful to you, Victoria. You'll probably get a medal for saving him, you know. Oh Lord, can you imagine, our own Victoria Secord, a national hero!” She's practically shouting in my ear now.

“That reminds me, I wanted to invite her to a welcome party at my house next Saturday. You and your mother will have to come too, dear. The whole community is invited.”

“That sounds great—“

“Lord, listen to me! We're all just so happy you're
alive
. Don't worry about your next dog food shipment, dear. Mr. Wicker and I plan to have a pallet delivered to you
free of charge
. Our little way of saying how proud we are of you.” Her whole body fluffs up like a preening bird.

“Wow! Thank you so much, Mrs. Wicker. I—”

“Yes—not a
full
pallet you understand. One or two bags. It's nothing. Now you rest up.” She beams, adjusts the fabric over her bosom, then hurries away, presumably on a mission to find Chris's mom.

Most everyone from my class is here, along with their families. Mr. Oleson, Mr. Wicker, the Cooks, all the members from search-and-rescue. The hugs and tears, laughter, and screeches of welcome make the time fly by. But then the food is spread out and I stare at the mounds of it—all just sitting there.

It's beautiful.

When I dig in, though, I realize my stomach must have shrunk, because I can only eat one bite of a few things. But the real food—solid, delicious, hot—nearly brings more tears to my eyes. If everyone could almost die, the world would be a happier, more thankful place.

“Are you going to finish that?” a familiar voice says next to me.

I whirl around. “Back off, man, get your own. How's your pit with the spears working out? Getting any meat?”

Chris's pale face is as ravaged as mine, with red blotches, and white, waxy-looking spots across his nose and cheeks.

“You look awful,” he says, then grins and looks like Chris.

“Yes, well, on you—it's sort of an improvement.”

We both smile, and stand there knowing we share something that no one else will ever truly understand.

“So, I wondered if I could like, borrow one of those dog coats.”

I give him a questioning look.

“To use as a pattern. I want to make something for the dogs. And I was thinking a sign for your sled bag for your next race that says, ‘Chris is awesome.'”

I cross my arms and try not to laugh.

“‘Chris is a bit awesome'?” He raises his brows. “No? At least can I keep the pink tights?”

I give in and laugh, then grab his hand. “There's someone I want you to meet.”

We weave our way into the living room to a place that I have avoided for more than a year. I turn my attention to a photo in a large black frame hanging on the wall.

“That's my dad.”

Chris studies the picture as I soak in the image of my dad smiling, wearing his soft-worn flannel shirt that he insisted on, even for a professional photo session. His arm is around Mom, his hand on my shoulder. The permanent sun creases are around his eyes, standing out on his tanned face and making his gaze seem as if he's looking right at me. I stare right back and know I'll never stop missing him. That won't ever go away.

“I see where you get your hair. Where does the stubborn come from, Mom or Dad?”

Dad used to say people come into our lives for a reason. I give Chris's hand a squeeze. Mandolin music reaches us from the kitchen. Chris's teasing expression turns into a question.

“Mom,” I say. “She's a good mandolin player.”

The music is joined by hand clapping and stomping. Suddenly, standing in my living room surrounded by everyone, I feel like Mom and I are a family again. A chorus of howls comes up from the dog yard and joins with the music in the kitchen. My dogs sound happy.

T
ERRY
L
YNN
J
OHNSON
lives in Whitefish Falls, Ontario, where for ten years she owned a team of eighteen Alaskan huskies. She's an award-winning member of the Outdoor Writers of Canada and the Dog Writers Association of America—recently winning the Maxwell Medallion of Excellence. When she's not writing, Terry enjoys hiking, snowshoeing, and kayak expeditioning, and she occasionally tortures herself in a canoe race. As one of only nine female conservation officers in Ontario, Terry understands the challenges and possibilities for women in the outdoors. This is her first novel for Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Visit
www.terrylynnjohnson.com
for more information.