Waiting for Unicorns (5 page)

AFTER MOM PASSED AWAY, I
clung to her stories, like some kind of magical link to remember her by. She had been big into folktales. Not every night, but almost, she would pull down
Fables and Folklore from Around the World
from the impressive collection of books in our library, and we would curl up and read together. The book was great because it had all the stories I already knew, plus ones that were new and strange to me. Mom especially loved the folktales from other cultures, because she studied those kinds of things specifically.

What I remembered most clearly, though, wasn't one fairy tale or any folklore, it was what she taught me about storytelling.

“There are two kinds of stories,” she said. “The kind people make up to help explain something they can't believe, and the kind people make up to help them believe something they can't explain.”

My expression must have told her just how confused I was, because she'd laughed and explained it another way.

“Sometimes your mind knows that something is true, but your heart can't quite believe it. Other times it's just the opposite—when we need to believe impossible things, our hearts tell us something must be true, even when our minds tell us otherwise.”

I listened carefully, watching her shape her words so that what she was trying to say came out the way she wanted.

“Everyone has to believe in something, Talia,” she said. “And sometimes, instead of giving up hope, we tell stories that make the impossible possible.”

But no matter how many stories Mom and I read, or how many she told me, nothing could have made it easier to hear the news about her cancer.

The week we found out was awful. Dad had to tell a lot of people at the institute because he would be taking a sabbatical at some point, just in case Mom didn't respond to treatment as well as we hoped. And everyone at school found out, too. I hadn't wanted to tell anyone about it. But in the end I didn't have to, because my teacher did it for me. There'd been no avoiding the topic after that.

“So is your Mom going to die?” one kid had asked me. I didn't even know him. He had no business asking me that question, especially when everyone was standing around watching, waiting for me to answer. But of course, it was the question we were all asking.

Later that night, when I couldn't sleep, I snuck downstairs to the library. I was too worn out and sad to do anything more than curl up with
Fables and Folklore
and get lost in someone else's story. But the door was cracked open and I found my mom already there, curled up by herself, pretending to read.

I could tell she was just pretending because her mouth wasn't moving the way it normally did. She was just staring at the open book in her lap, breathing quietly, lips still, never turning the page. I backed away from the door slowly. I didn't want to share her sadness, or make her carry mine. But the creaking of the floorboards beneath my feet gave me away.

“Tal, is that you?”

I poked my head in, and she motioned for me to join her.

Settling in next to Mom, I crossed my legs under me and spread the book across my lap. I closed my eyes and opened the book at random. This is the only proper way to choose a fairy tale—you never know if you will get the big bad wolf or Cinderella's prince.

I landed on the story of the little white horse—“The Unicorn”—and probably not by chance. This was the story I begged Mom to read most often, and we had read it so many times that
Fables and Folklore from Around the World
naturally fell open to it. I caressed the pages as if they were some kind of living thing.

I liked to tell myself I loved this story because the little white horse was so beautiful. But truthfully, I loved it because it said that unicorns granted wishes.

“I love that story,” Mom said softly when she saw what I was reading.

“Me too,” I said.

“I will never outgrow fairy tales,” Mom sighed. “They are my very favorite kinds of stories. And almost every people group in the world has their own set of them.”

“Why's that?” I asked.

She put her arm around me, pulling me close, and I rested my head on her shoulder. We curled up, soaking in the early evening sun.

“Because they tell truths about things—things people feel they need to remember,” Mom said, stroking my hair. “The best stories always do.”

“Will you read this to me again?” I asked, shuffling the book from my lap into hers. But she shook her head and handed it back.

“I don't need to read it, Tal,” she said with a smile. “I'm pretty sure I've got this one memorized.”

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the wall, paused, and recited the story to me, adding mystery and magic in all the right places, with just the sound of her voice.

A long time ago, in the days of the kings, when power and wealth were sought at all cost, the worth of a granted wish could buy you a kingdom.

I watched Mom's face, her eyes closed, her eyebrows rising and falling as she brought the words to life. Seeing her like that, her face illuminated by the setting sun, hollowed and defined by its shadows, was like seeing another part of her. A deeper, secret part, and I wanted to keep it in my memory always.

One such king ruled by terror and cruelty, inflicting harm on whomever he so chose. But it came to pass in the spring of a new year, that the king fell deathly ill. It was believed that only a unicorn could grant its owner a wish so great that even a man's life would be restored. And if the fates had their way, it would take such a wish to return the king to health.

But a unicorn could only be drawn from the depths of the forest and out of hiding by a girl pure of heart. The creature could never be taken by force, but instead, it would come and lay its head in the girl's lap and forever after belong to the one it had chosen.

So by Noble decree, all young girls were subject to the king's call of duty. One after another, girls attempted to lure the unicorn, and time and again, the unicorn did not appear. With each failed attempt, the king's condition worsened. Until a young peasant named Ana took to the task, stunning all with her gentleness and grace as the unicorn emerged, claiming her as his protector.

Though Ana had been chosen, she remained under the king's command, and as such, she would be forced to offer the unicorn's wish to the king.

Part of me felt sorry for the king, as awful as he was, because I already knew how the story ended, and part of me felt sorry for myself. We both could have used a magical creature with healing powers.

In the end, Ana defied the cruel and selfish king, refusing to hand over the unicorn or the wish that had been granted to her. Instead she used it to free the magical creature, putting herself and those she loved at great risk. For the king, though sick and dying, still commanded his kingdom and could order her imprisonment, or even death.

Drawn to her as though by magic, the unicorn returned to Ana of its free will, and together the peasant girl and the little white horse restored the kingdom to the glory of ages past.

Mom opened her eyes and smiled at me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Sometimes people want—or maybe even need—to believe there is something out there with the power to grant them the things they desire most,” she said. “Things they can't get on their own.”

“Like what kind of things?” I asked. I'd never needed an answer before, but suddenly, desperately, I needed to know.

“Well, like love and health, power, hope—those kinds of things,” she'd said. “The earliest mythological stories—stories that Ana's tale is based on—claimed the unicorn was beautiful and mysterious, selfless, wild, dangerous even. But always good. His horn was even believed to neutralize poison.”

I glanced furtively at the bruise on the inside of my mom's arm—an ugly spot of blue and purple where chemotherapy treatment—medication and poison both—had entered her body for the first time that morning. I'd had to look away while the nurse inserted the IV that connected to a bloated bag of fluid. Standing beside Mom's hospital bed and trying my best to be brave, I had wanted nothing more in the entire world than to be that young girl from the story, pure of heart, chosen by a unicorn. I would have wished the cancer away and saved us all.

As I sat there, on the edge of the Arctic, I knew I'd never stumble across a magical little white horse—here, or anywhere. That was stupid. I knew deep down that unicorns didn't exist. And even if they did, my heart wasn't pure enough to be chosen by one.

But that didn't keep me from flipping to those familiar pages in
Fables and Folklore from Around the World
while Dad worked late and worried about his missing whales.

I read the unicorn story over and over to distract myself, buried under blankets in my bedroom on the second floor of the blue house. And even though I knew unicorns weren't real, I couldn't resist pulling out my jar of wishes every so often and slipping a wish inside, just in case. I figured that if I believed hard enough, maybe whatever truth or mystery or possibility lay in the unicorn story might be enough to do something about my wishes. If not grant them, then maybe just show me what to do next.

I woke up early on the morning of May twenty-seventh. This was it. The trip Dad had come so far to make. No more trial runs, no more day trips to test the terrain or map his route.

So I got out of bed and wrote in my neatest handwriting two brand-new wishes on their own little slips of white paper.

I wish for whales.

I wish for safe, solid ice.

Then I kissed each wish gently before dropping them in my jar with all the others.

AFTER I'D MADE MY WISHES,
I went to the CNSC to watch Dad pack up the last of his gear and check his supply lists for the hundredth time. I was memorizing him so I wouldn't forget anything while he was gone.
Or in case he doesn't come back,
a small dark voice whispered in my heart.

This time, Dad would stay out on the floes until the ice started to break up, which would force him and his team back to shore.

“I'll be back the first week of July,” he told me, “or maybe even earlier, depending on the ice.” But that didn't change my loneliness. I was already adding up the days in my head, counting the weeks and marking the pages of Dad's pocket calendar with imaginary notes begging him to come back. I wanted to write my name on every square so he would remember I was still here.

Dad and his team would cross the frigid waters on airboats—large inflatable boats powered by giant fans that can propel them across the surface of the ice. The boats would get the team where they needed to go, even when the ice started breaking up. But I was counting on them finding whales and being back before then. It wasn't safe to be anywhere near those massive chunks of ice once they started moving. And Dad knew it.

“If a guy were to get caught out on the ice in the middle of spring breakup, he can pretty much kiss his chances of seeing dry land good-bye.” Dad smiled, but there was a seriousness behind his eyes as he heaved his duffel bag over his shoulder.

It was no joke. When the floes start to break apart, the icy water underneath is only part of the danger. The little islands of ice floating and bobbing and grinding against each other can weigh as much as a house. An airboat could easily get caught between two chunks of ice and be punctured, or be dragged beneath the surface, or even worse, flipped, sending everyone and everything aboard into dark, icy waters. In this kind of work you had to be much more than just a researcher. You had to be an arctic explorer, an expert seaman, a survivalist, and an adventurer all rolled into one.

I tried to tell myself not to worry.
He's done this before, lots of times. And so has his team. Everything will be fine. He'll be back before you know it.

I repeated this over and over while I stood on shore with Sura, watching them load the boats, lash down gear, and secure themselves against the wind. They loaded in food supplies, fuel, tents, water-resistant clothing and blankets, and crate after crate of research equipment. And when everything was arranged just the way Dad liked it, he walked back across the rocks to where I stood on the shoreline, my arms wrapped around myself for warmth.

Dad stood there for a minute, and then pulled me tight against his chest like he was trying to squeeze the sadness right out of us both.

“I'm sorry, Talia,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry to leave you.” I wrapped my arms even tighter around him, trying to shrink that Mom-sized space. He kissed the top of my hair and pulled away, but I didn't let go of his coat.

“I'll be back soon,” he said, holding my face in his mittened hands. “Promise.”

Dad blinked several times and cleared his throat. I swallowed hard, working to keep my tears inside, and then I let go.

“I'll call you once we're out,” he said, patting the radio belted to his waist.

We'd arranged weekly call-ins. On Sunday evenings, Dad would radio in to check on me and let me know how things were going. I would know he was safe. And he would know I was doing okay.

“Thank you, Sura.” Dad turned to her, and she smiled.

“Take care,” she said. “And don't worry about anything back here. We will be just fine.”

Just fine.
I let those words sit with me for a minute. What did they mean anyway? What did it mean to be just fine? Nothing about this felt fine. But I didn't have time to figure out an answer before Dad pressed his lips to my forehead one more time and then was gone, walking back over the shore and into one of the airboats.

The giant propeller fans roared to life, stirring up blinding swirls of snow. The blades were housed in a kind of cage, just like the tabletop fan I used at home when the weather was hot. The small crowd that had gathered on the shoreline backed away, and I shielded my face with my mittened hands, shutting out the cold, the wind, and the sight of my dad leaving me.

Sura and I stood there a while longer, not saying anything. And when my dad was finally, truly gone, and even the tiny dark specks of his team had vanished over the horizon line, Sura and I walked back to the blue house.

I didn't really want her there. I didn't want to have to pretend I was okay with all of this. I didn't have anything to say, and I wanted to be alone, though I knew it wouldn't help. But Sura didn't say anything as we walked; she just let me be quiet. I think maybe she knew how empty words can be sometimes.

As we walked, our breath hung suspended around us in tiny clouds and the snow squeaked under our boots. It was so cold that all the moisture had been sucked out of the snow until only tiny bits of ice remained—broken bits of snowflakes. Like grains of frozen sand, they gave way under my feet, making me clumsy and slow.

When we got back to the house, Sura paused on the porch for a minute, and then she went inside and let me be.

I wandered around outside for a while, not wanting to go in and face all the space my dad had left behind. Eventually, the wind and ice and snow forced me up the porch stairs and into the house. No one can stay out in the cold forever, and I was no exception.