Survival in Style

Survival in Style

  by Emily Asad

  Copyright 2012 Emily Asad

  1st Edition

  Cover Art Copyright: Lynne Hansen 2012

  https://lynnehansen.zenfolio.com

  https://lynnehansen.com

  Code Name: Whatever

  Destination Paraguay

  Dedicated to Steve and Suzy Hames for making me sample wild foods, and to Chris and Cory for not letting me chicken out

 

  Special thanks to Sarah Frank Brunn for the encouragement

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Boundary Waters

  Chapter 2: Bullet Holes

  Chapter 3: Traces

  Chapter 4: The Ranger

  Chapter 5: Secrets

  Chapter 6: Plea Bargains

  Chapter 7: Distractions

  Chapter 8: Moonbeams and Memories

  Chapter 9: Pressing On

  Chapter 10: Nightfall

  Chapter 11: Limping Progress

  Chapter 12: Strength

  Chapter 13: Enemy

  Chapter 14: Fire Island

  Chapter 15: Eternity

  Chapter 16: Red, White and Blue

  Chapter 17: Better Than Normal

  Chapter 1: Boundary Waters

  “Oh, for cute. Look at the giant otter!” gurgled my mother in that too-sweet voice she uses when she’s sure of victory. We’d been driving for almost six hours. The trip from Minneapolis to Fergus Falls should have taken three, tops, but Mom insisted on stopping at every little antique shop along the way. I knew her game. She wanted to make me late for my plane.

  I looked out the window. Sure enough, there was a sign that said “Grotto Park,” and beyond it was the largest cement otter I’d ever seen. “Big deal,” I mumbled.

  “I bet he’s about forty feet long. What do you think, Alana?” When I did not answer, she elbowed me. “What do you think?”

  “Yeah, Mom. He’s enormous.”

  “You hungry? I’m sure there’s a buffet somewhere.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her how hungry I was. I had eaten a light breakfast because I don’t like long road trips, much less flying. We had already missed my flight; it was supposed to leave at 10:55 and it was already 1:30. Another hour wouldn’t have made a difference, but it was the principal of the thing that made me just want to get there with no further detours. “Airport, please,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Whatever makes you happy,” Mom replied, trying to keep that little smile off her face.

  Ten minutes later we pulled into the Einar Mickleson airfield, a tiny little strip in the middle of nowhere. The runway was empty.

  Mom pulled to a stop in front of the main building. “Oh, too bad, baby. Guess you’ll be spending the summer with me.”

  I sat there, fuming, trying to think of something to say. Anything. Words came to mind - unforgivable, selfish, betrayal - but I knew that if I voiced them, she’d give some perfectly reasonable explanation that would leave her looking like the victim and me looking like a criminal. It’s not like I don’t understand why she doesn’t want me to visit my father; it’s just that I don’t agree with her reasons.

  See, she and my dad were high-school sweethearts. They met in tenth grade and dated all the way through prom, when Mom got pregnant with me, so they got married. Mom babysat me during the day and worked at night so they could afford to put Dad through college. It was supposed to be her turn when he graduated, but somehow life kept getting out of control. The funny thing is that I remember them both being so happy and always laughing with each other when I was younger. They’re both artists, you know, and I think that’s what attracted them to each other - but I also think it’s what drove them apart. When Dad’s jewelry lines started gaining popularity, he attracted a sponsor who paid him good money to experiment with form and materials. A real dream come true for someone like my dad. But Mom’s dreams always got pushed to the corner. She wanted to be a costume designer. While her costumes were sometimes featured in plays around town - all the schools including the college knew that she was a great seamstress - she only ever found steady work as a wedding-gown designer, working for Mrs. Nelson, a sweet lady who’s a year younger than my mom. So Dad got to design his own creations, and Mom got stuck working on other people’s ideas.

  They started arguing when I turned eleven, right after Dad got his sponsorship. And when his name started appearing in jewelry magazines, they started fighting. The paperwork for their divorce was finalized last summer - on my fifteenth birthday. What a horrible birthday present, right? But Dad had to fly to Italy and wouldn’t be back for a month, and Mom was in a hurry to move on. My birthday just happened to be the only day they could both agree on.

  So for the past year, they’ve used me like a bullet to shoot insults at each other. Mom won’t let me forget that Dad’s the one who left and ruined my birthday, and Dad won’t let me forget that he can now afford to give me everything I’ve ever wanted. That’s probably why he invited me to his cabin in Ontario for the summer, to make up for my birthday last year. I don’t care what his reasons are. I miss him and I’ll do anything to see him.

  But how was I supposed to explain that to my mother? She won’t let me say anything nice about him while she’s around. So I sat there in the car, fumbling for words, watching my entire summer slip away.

  “We passed Mable Murphy’s,” Mom said, pushing on the gas pedal. “Looked like a decent restaurant. Let’s go get lunch before we head home.”

  I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was the fact that arguing with Mom was useless. Maybe it was how fast the car was picking up speed. I just snatched my backpack, opened the car door, and jumped onto the sidewalk.

  The car lurched to a stop.

  “What are you doing?” Mom called through my open door.

  I lost my balance and fell to the sidewalk, splitting my jeans and skinning my knee. I didn’t care. I slung my backpack over my shoulder as I headed inside. Knowing that Mom would park the car somewhere rather than get a ticket, I used my precious few minutes to find the Boundary Waters airline counter. It was easy to find in such a small airport.

  “Excuse me,” I gasped, rushing to the counter, “but I missed my flight and I need to reschedule. Can you help me?”

  She held out her hand. “You betcha. Do ya have your ticket?”

  I nearly laughed when I heard her broad Minnesotan accent, which is much stronger up in the northern parts of the state than it is in Minneapolis. But I held my tongue and passed it to her.

  “Alana Morgan?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Oh, you’re Alana Morgan,” she nodded, as if we had met before. “Hold on. I think the pilot was holding the flight for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yah, sure. Let me call him.”

  While I waited for her to place the call, I glanced over my shoulder, nervous and hopeful at the same time. Sure enough, Mom had parked and was walking through the large glass doors toward me.

  She may drive me nuts, but my mother also makes me jealous sometimes. She’s gorgeous. And I don’t mean in that “older-woman” way. I mean that she’s gorgeous, the way her reddish-brown hair forms a halo around her head, the way she walks gracefully through a crowd, like she’s floating instead of using feet. I inherited her high cheekbones and mahogany hair, but people always tell me how much I have my father’s nose. I also got his light brown eyes instead of her glorious green, and my hair refuses to be controlled. Plus I never float; I’m more likely to trip instead.

  She stormed toward me, her lips pressed together in the thin line that told me she wasn’t quite angry yet, but that if I caused any more trouble, she’d indulge her dark side.

/>   I took a few steps away from the counter so she wouldn’t hear the attendant on the phone.

  “Alana, your jeans!” Mom scolded, casting a glance at my knee.

  I knew she wasn’t referring to my bleeding skin, but rather to the fact that she had spent several hours designing and tailoring those jeans for me. They were her favorites, which is why I wore them today, just like I wore the olive green shirt to bring out the highlights in my eyes, and my new (and very uncomfortable) brown leather hiking boots with wool trim. For Mom, appearance means a great deal. I prefer comfort, but I’d also prefer to not start battles, which is why I let her pick my travel outfit in the first place.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” I said in a tight voice. “They’re calling to see if they can reschedule.”

  Mom pasted a martyred expression on her face. “Wouldn’t that be nice? But you know how remote your father’s cabin is, so far away from everything that’s comfortable and safe. There won’t be another flight until next week.”

  I felt my dam of emotional control bursting, and I fought to control it. “You would know, wouldn’t you? We could have drive over to Duluth, where there are several flights. It’s the same distance from Minneapolis as it here. But no. You wanted this to happen, didn’t you?” When she did not meet my gaze, I knew it was true.

  “But think, darling,” she murmured. “Now you can spend your sixteenth birthday with me. Won’t that be special?”

  “Just dandy.”

  “Don’t pout. Maybe this will make you feel better.” She fished around in her big purse and pulled out a gift-wrapped box the size of a large coffee mug. “It’s from your father. He wanted you to wear it for your flight, but now you can wear it for me, hmm?”

  I stared at the box. “Is that the present Dad emailed me about, two weeks ago?”

  No answer.

  “Have you been hiding it this whole time?”

  No answer.

  I felt my own lips tighten into a thin line. “Were you going to give it to me if I got on the plane?”

  She hesitated, and then replied, “No. The jewels in here are too expensive. What if you got mugged?”

  “Seriously?” I said, my voice rising. “Who gets mugged on an airplane?”

  “Shh! Keep your voice down.” She smiled at the few people who were looking in our direction. She lowered her own voice to a whisper. “You can have it when we get home. How about opening it tonight?”

  “I’ll take it now, thank you.” I held out my hand and locked eyes with her.

  The attendant interrupted our silent showdown. “Miss? He’s on his way over right now. You’re his only passenger for the next few days, so he waited. You can go out to the tarmac whenever you’re ready.”

  Mom looked stricken, like her sewing basket had just exploded. I took the opportunity to snatch the present from her hand. “Lead the way,” I told the attendant.

  Mom grabbed my arm. “You are not getting on that plane.”

  I ripped my arm out of her grasp, wondering who was the child in this relationship. “I’ll call you when I get there,” I said.

  She pointed at the box. “That’s thirty thousand dollars of jewels,” she whispered. “At least leave it with me so I can keep it safe.”

  I balked. Would Dad really have sent me something so expensive? “It’s probably just some earrings,” I told her.

  “No, I looked at them when they arrived. It’s an entire set. And before you ask me what I was doing opening your present, let me tell you something. I was married to that man for almost fifteen years so I know as much about jewelry as he does. They’re not fake. I won’t let you do this.”

  “If Dad wanted me to wear them when I meet him, then that’s what I’ll do. Please, Mom? I’ll put them on for the flight and take them off as soon as I get there. Please?”

  “I said... Oh, but if I say it again, you’ll get all angry and say I never let you do anything. Fine, then. But tell you father I think this is too much responsibility for a child.”

  “So does this mean you’ll let me go after all?”

  No answer. I pressed my luck. “Look, I’m getting on the plane now. Do you want to walk me out or not?”

  By the look on her face, I could tell she was crafting some argument that would make me feel super guilty for abandoning her. But then, to my surprise, she nodded. “I’ll go get your luggage,” she said.

  I waited at the counter, halfway wondering if she was going to get in the car and abandon me, but she returned with my rolling suitcase and a large bundle wrapped in gold foil. “You father’s not the only one who can give gifts.” She shoved the bundle into my arms. “Open mine first.”

  I put Dad’s box onto the counter and unwrapped her gift.

  “I guess you won’t like mine at all now,” she sniffed. “I can’t afford stuff like that.”

  A large piece of hunter green cloth tumbled into my hands. I shook it out, revealing hidden lines of Velcro and some tiny gold tassels dangling from a hood. “A cloak?”

  “It goes with your father’s present. I couldn’t let him outshine me. Here, put it on.”

  I nearly protested. After all, it was late June, and too warm to wear a cloak. But Mom was already pouting, so I let her slip the poncho over my shoulders.

  “I love how the sun picks up the red in your hair,” she murmured, pushing me into a sunbeam that lit up the tiles on the floor. “Do you want me to explain it to you?”

  Through the window beyond the attendant, I could see a little white airplane roll up to the gate. I guessed that it was my ride. I had kept them waiting long enough. “I’ll figure it out. It’s great, Mom. I love it.”

  “Do you?”

  I gave her a hug. To my surprise, she was shaking.

  “Don’t forget to call,” she said. She held my hand as we walked out to the runway. When she saw a young man in faded jeans and farm boots standing near my plane, she called, “Yoo-hoo! Young man. Come here.”

  As he approached, I could see that he was my age, maybe a little older, with thick black hair stuffed under a worn-out baseball cap. His eyes were a snapping black color, striking against his lightly tanned skin. I tried not to stare - really, I did - but he had the sort of face that people look at twice. He touched the brim of his cap in the old-fashioned way my father does when he meets people on the sidewalk. “Ma’am?”

  She held out a ten-dollar bill. “See that this luggage gets safely packed, will you? And be careful. It’s fragile.” At his hesitation, she said, “Go on. I bet it’s the only tip you’ll get all day. Or were you waiting for a twenty?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I don’t work here. But I’d be glad to help - free of charge.” He took my luggage and reached for my backpack.

  I shook my head, embarrassed, and tried to get my suitcase away from him.

  Mom continued to hold out the money. “Take it anyway.”

  “Northern hospitality,” he said, and then walked toward the plane.

  “Mother, that was awful of you,” I growled.

  “He’s just a local. He’ll get over it.” She patted my back and then turned away.

  “You’re not staying to wave goodbye?”

  “What for? You’re not staying, so why should I?”

  As she floated away, I heard her call over her shoulder, “Keep your phone charged. You never know when I’ll call you.”

  Probably every minute of every day, I thought. I waved at her even though she wasn’t looking.

  “You coming?” called the young man. “Or do you need me to carry you, too?”

  I blushed and started toward the plane.