Losing Her (4 page)

Mr. Mitchell’s short fingers stabbed the buttons on the phone with a level of vehemence that I could nearly taste. I knew what he was doing, he was calling my mom.

Shit.

I looked back at my mom and the anger ebbed when I saw the defeat on her face. I hadn’t applied for college. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a stack of mail with a magazine sitting on top, advertising cruises to Alaska. It triggered my memory to a conversation that I had a couple of years ago when I broached the topic of my dad with Grandma Miller and asked if she ever wondered where he was. Her eyes had gotten misty as she told me that his older half-brother contacted her a few years prior and told her that they’d gone up to Alaska and joined a fishing crew. She retrieved a small postcard and allowed me to read it and then agreed when I asked if I could keep it. I never told my mom about the conversation, or the postcard that I kept tucked away in a binder of baseball cards in my closet. I never wanted her to feel inadequate, like she wasn’t enough for me. My mom was one of the only adults that didn’t look at me with disdain, and the greatest person on the planet, but at that moment I could see she was precariously close to that edge.

I lay in bed that night, picturing her face as she told me I needed to figure things out, and somehow my mind traveled to that Alaskan cruise ship, and a new resolve that I’d been fighting with became clearer. I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t him. I wanted to find him and see why he left, because as many times as my Grandma and my mom assured me that my dad didn’t leave because of anything to do with my brothers or me, that thought had always haunted me.

My mom was reluctant about me going. I never had explained to her why I felt the need to find him, but I’m sure she knew. She had been telling me for years that I was nothing like him and that I didn’t need to fear getting close to people. Eventually, she seemed to understand and accept that I was going and slowly became more supportive of my decision.

Alaska was beautiful. It looked like another world. Filled with pine trees, mountains, and endless amounts of green. In fact, there were a ton of colors in all hues, and it was natural rather than coming from buildings, advertisements, and eight-lane freeways. It was also wet. Really, really wet, even though it was June when I arrived.

My mom had convinced me to apply for late admission to the University of Alaska, telling me another option wouldn’t be a bad thing. I’d been accepted but didn’t really entertain the idea. I was on a mission and didn’t intend for school to distract me.

I spent my first month as a nomad, wandering through towns with an old picture of my dad and another of my uncle, asking people if they’d heard of them or recognized their pictures. Apparently, Tim and Chris Miller are really common names. I even met a handful of people that shared it or similar ones that people thought were the same.

At the beginning of August, I thought my luck was changing when I was directed to a wharf to meet a man named Tiny. He of course was not tiny, towering over my six-four frame like I was a child. He smelled terrible, like he hadn’t showered in weeks. His jeans were filthy and torn in the knees, and I was pretty certain by the condition of his shirt, it was far from its first day of being worn. He had a ratty blue baseball hat covering a mess of hair that was as dark as mine but went halfway down his back and was smeared with gray and a beard that had chunks of nasty-ass food stuck in it from God knows when.

As soon as I had stepped on the dock, he met me, looking like a caged bear with his boots stomping as he blocked my path. “You got business being here, boy?” he barked, standing at his full length.

I knew he was trying to intimidate me, and truth be told, he was, but I knew this lesson well. I swallowed the nerves that tempted me to cower and stood a little taller. “I’m looking for my father, Tim Miller. Sandy Rhoades pointed me in your direction. Thought you might know him.”

“Hell, boy, you got shit for brains or you really that tough?”

My face was void of emotion as I tried to assess his intentions.

“Come on, I’ve got a job that’ll make you strong.”

“I’m not looking for employment, I’m looking for my dad.” I pulled the photo out and stuck it in front of him.

Overgrown eyebrows that Mr. Mitchell could easily use for a new wig framed eyes that were an eerily light shade of blue, almost cryptic. Tiny watched me before swinging his eyes to the picture for a split second, and then he started to laugh. It was surprisingly high-pitched, and it made his mouth open wide, showcasing more of his bad hygiene. “That figures!”

Tiny proceeded to tell me that he had in fact known my dad and uncle when they worked aboard his fishing boat a number of years ago. He couldn’t recall how many it had been and admitted that his bookkeeping skills severely lacked until recently when he was audited. He offered me a job again, explaining that August was a booming time of year in Alaska for salmon and that in September, we’d move to other regions where I could continue to look for my dad and uncle.

I accepted, figuring it would give me the chance to encounter others that knew them, or at least of them.

Sarge was the first guy Tiny introduced me to. No one went by their first name; it was like an unwritten law. Sarge took me aboard and introduced me to the Arctic Bull, the one hundred and twenty-foot schooner that would be my new home. He went over every facet of each safety procedure in great detail a dozen times and then made me repeat them all back to him. I later learned that Sarge showed me rather than Tiny because that man seemed less concerned with safety than he did his personal hygiene.

Fishing sucked. The tides dictated our hours, so we woke and slept at odd times. It took a while to get used to it, and even longer to try and ignore the fact that the sun shone too late and far too early. Tiny was a strange breed, constantly muttering to himself, often laughing at things no one ever heard, but according to the rest of the crew, he was a hell of a captain and had an uncanny way of knowing where to be to haul in the best catches.

I’d been on the boat for a week and had talked to everyone on board only to realize it had been a waste of time and effort since no one knew anything about my dad or uncle. I was getting ready to go to bed one night when a tall blond guy that I never saw without his slickers on, came in, reeking of whiskey and offering to play cards. As we made our way to the galley, I heard Smithy yell out a greeting to him, calling him Whiskey.

Several hours and countless drinks later, I could hardly see straight, let alone walk.

I woke up still sitting at the small table in the galley with my head on the shoulder of the yellow rain coat still being worn by the guy that had invited me to play—Whiskey.

“Got lonely and found yourself a girlfriend, eh, Beaches?” Tiny yelled and then barked his loud laugh, making my eyes close in protest. “Whiskey’s not a bad lookin’ choice I suppose. You might have to teach him not to be so afraid of gettin’ wet though. The kid said he was from Washington. What in the hell’s he doing afraid of a little water? Doesn’t it rain there all the time?”

“Other side of the state.” I straightened as Whiskey grunted a response to Tiny. “There’s a mountain range that separates the state. I’m on the dry side. I keep telling you this. And stop calling me Whiskey, I’m never touching that shit again.”

Tiny’s mustache twitched, indicating he was either smiling or frowning. Based on his eyes, I was pretty sure he was smiling.

“You boys should be enjoying this. Salmon fishing is fun. Wait till the crabbing starts. That’ll have you both so tired you won’t have time to drink.” Tiny vanished from sight, and I moved a little further down the bench seat from Whiskey.

“Shit, I think I’m going to be sick,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to the table.

I didn’t feel much better. The smell of the ship alone was enough to make anyone queasy without a hangover. It hadn’t taken me long to learn why Tiny smelled so bad that first day I’d met him; showering was a luxury out at sea, and although salmon fishing wasn’t real strenuous, it was enough that it got you sweating. And it was hot as hell in all of the gear. The waterproof plastic worked to keep the water out as well as it did holding the sweat in, so we all were ripe and looked a bit primitive with our facial hair.

“Jameson?” his voice wavered, sounding like a question.

“No,” I replied. “Max.”

“No, I’m Jameson,” he mumbled, placing the side of his face against the table. The nickname clicked. It wasn’t from what he preferred to drink, it was a play on his name.

“Whiskey, you’ve got a lot to learn boy. A lot to learn.” One of the guys chuckled as he made his way past us to retrieve some coffee.

I started calling him Jameson thereafter, partly just to have a little piece of normalcy, partly because it felt like a small bout of rebellion to call him something besides what the others did.

When we docked at Bristol Bay at the end of August, I scoured the town and docks, asking everyone I saw if they knew my dad or uncle. It was evident fishing season was beginning. There were hordes of people around, none that seemed overly interested in bothering to listen to me.

We still had another three days until we were leaving port so I sat at a bar one night, beyond when I should have. Even though I felt too tired to stand, sea life had given me insomnia.

The stool beside me was seized, and I looked up to find a middle-aged man that I’d seen on the docks earlier that morning.

“Miller, right?”

I nodded and took another sip of the beer I’d been given without being asked for my ID or questioned about my age. “I think I remember a guy looking like you.” He gave me the name of a town and pointed me north.

The next day, I rented a car and took off without saying anything. I didn’t have anyone to tell where I was going. I drove for two days, there and back, returning with nothing but a few laughs from the locals. I should have known as soon as the guy told me he knew a guy that looked like me that he was lying. I don’t look like my dad. Hank and I both are built like him, but we look more like our mom. It’s Billy who looks like our dad.

Jameson and I continued to exchange stories and partake in drinking games. Something about him reminded me of Wes, leading me to question if chasing a shadow was worth missing my family and friends, but that nagging desire to find my father kept me from skipping out the next time we docked.

We spent the month of September fishing for mackerel and learned that Tiny was right, catching salmon had been fun. Fishing for mackerel had us out in deeper waters that were a lot rougher with the weather changing, making the days shorter.

Jameson learned the hard way that he had no idea what it was like to be wet because even with all of our gear and layers, dampness still seemed to find its way in to the bottom layers.

In November we docked again, this time in Ketchikan, and I found a few more people that sent me down roads that didn’t pan out.

I was pissed off, wondering if the natives had some perverse sense of humor. I’d returned from heading out into the boonies again with a promising recollection of my dad that had once again led to nothing, when I heard glass shattering and some scuffling. I stopped, my muscles becoming alert as my eyes snapped to see three guys from my crew come around the corner, tangled with three men I didn’t know.

Dropping my bag, I rushed over and dealt out a round of punches that freed Smithy before feeling a hot sear on my right bicep. I turned, and shoved a heavy set man to the ground and then peeled another guy off Jameson. The four of us had to really work at getting the three of them to back off. They weren’t professional fighters, but they too had plenty of experience and were scrappy and relentless as all hell.

When it was over, Smithy and Herron left, heading back to the motel that we were staying at. It was dingy and moth eaten, but anything beat sleeping on the boat. Jameson and I leaned against the building, still trying to catch our breath and cursing about what we’d just endured.

“What in the hell happened?” My voice sounded winded and my throat, still dry from the fight, burned when the cold air leaked in.

Jameson’s hands clutched the top of his head as he shook it. “I don’t know. I just saw Smithy getting killed and tried to help.”

His reaction to the situation reminded me so much of Wes, I knew he was going to become one of my closest friends.

“Shit, dude,” Jameson said, his eyes wide. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital.”

I was about to object, I could feel my eye swelling and was sure it didn’t look too good, but I had been in enough fights to know I was fine. There was no way I was going to be a pussy and go to the ER to get an ice pack slapped on my face and a few Tylenol handed to me with a look of disinterest. Then I realized it was my arm he was gawking at and looked down to see the shoulder of my sweatshirt stained a deep crimson.

We spent most of the night in the ER where they gave me seventeen stitches and a series of shots. Jameson also earned a turn with the needles. They gave him twelve of his own stitches along his bottom lip and chin, which were busted open during the fight.

I don’t know which of us looked worse. It was tough to see very well with one eye swollen shut. But I’m pretty sure Jameson took that award with his mouth so misshapen, he looked like a different person.

The next morning when we ambled back to the ship, Tiny took one look at us and folded in half as he barked his loud laugh and slapped his knee.

Things improved after that. Jameson and I started to fall into an easy routine as we helped one another during the day and played cards at night, making sure to avoid going where either Smithy or Herron did after learning both of them had a reputation for causing fights.

Each time we stopped in a new town, we were never there for more than a couple of days in between long weeks, and I always worked to talk to as many people as I could, asking the same repetitive questions about my dad and uncle. Jameson started tagging along, and later started going along on the trips that required me to rent a car and drive to small, questionable towns that sometimes didn’t exist, and receiving clueless expressions from the locals when they did. I also started getting tattooed at each stop, working it around the scar to make it nearly invisible against the ink. Each was a tribute to a memory, person, or experience throughout my life, beginning with a gust of wind— commemorating my mom, the lung specialist. It seemed appropriate to display what she gifted to so many, including myself: life.