My Last Continent(35)

I didn’t know back then that I would, in fact, end up spending much of my life in one of the polar regions, and, over the years, I’ve come to think of the continent not only as a place but as a living, breathing thing—to me, Antarctica has always been as alive as the creatures it houses: Every winter, the entire continent fattens up with ice, then shrinks again in the summer. When I’m here on the peninsula, looking out at the green and white of young ice and the deep, ancient blue of multiyear ice, I feel as though the bergs, too, are alive, sent forth by thousands of miles of glaciers to protect the continent from such predators as the Endurance and the Erebus, the Cormorant and the Australis.

And this is what worries me.

Keller knows as well as anyone that the Australis isn’t equipped to take on these icy sentinels. He knows what an iceberg looks like underwater, that beneath the exquisite beauty above the surface is a sharp, jagged, nasty thing that will destroy ships if they attempt to pass too close. Even for an experienced captain, miscalculating the distance is not difficult to do, with the constantly shifting winds and waters, the continual calving of new icebergs. Charts of this heavily traveled area have regions not properly surveyed, and every captain knows there is nothing more dangerous than unseen ice.

Sometimes I wonder how long this alien invasion—the ships, the humans—can continue before the continent strikes back.

Susan opens the door, returning to the closet-size examining room where I’ve been waiting. Earlier, she’d had me pee in a cup, had taken my vital signs and done a quick exam, asked me a dozen questions. I’m starting to feel a bit better, and I stand up as she enters the room, ready to forgo medication and be on my way.

“Have a seat,” she says.

“I’m good to go, actually. Shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“Please,” she says, motioning me back down. Her face is serious, too serious for something like the flu.

I sit.

“Deb,” she says, “I don’t know if this will be good news or bad news, but”—she pauses—“you’re pregnant.”

“What?” I can barely choke out the word. Feebly, I lean back in the chair.

“You’re pregnant.”

“That’s not possible.”

“You mentioned that you had sex—”

“I know what I said.” I can hardly think straight. “What I mean is, I was careful. Very careful. Can you run the test again?”

“Already have.” Susan looks at me. I’ve known her for years; like so many, we see each other down here and nowhere else. “You’re going to have to take extra care on the landings. You’re about eight weeks along.”

She doesn’t bring up options, as most doctors would, because down here there are no options for something like this.

“This can’t be right,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” she says. She begins talking about what foods I should avoid, what activities I should let other crew members handle, but I’m barely listening. When I leave her office a few minutes later, promising I’ll return, I can’t remember anything she’d said.

“There you are.” It’s Glenn, jogging behind me in the passageway to catch up. “You all right?” he asks. “What did Susan say?”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s not food poisoning. The ship’s not contaminated with norovirus. I’m fine.”

“You sure about that?” He studies my face. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“Residual jet lag, probably. I just need a bit of rest, that’s all.”

He nods. “Take the rest of the day off. We don’t have another landing until tomorrow. You’ll probably feel better then.”

I nod back, then make my way to the sanctuary of my bunk. I lie down and lay my hands across my belly, which feels the same as always. I think again of icebergs, of how much is hidden away under the surface of the water. How appearances can be so deceiving. I can conceal this pregnancy for the duration of the voyage, but then what? My mind can’t move beyond this concept of ice, how everything you have to fear is what lies beneath, what’s unseen and unknown.





THREE MONTHS BEFORE SHIPWRECK


Eugene, Oregon





I cross the garden from my cottage to the main house, a light rain dampening my hair. As the austral summer begins in the Southern Hemisphere, October in Oregon is much the same: gray, rainy, a chill that sinks into your bones. A few strands of hair stick to my forehead, and I pause on the back porch, securing the bottle of wine I’ve brought between my knees as I release my ponytail and shake out my hair, slipping the band around my wrist.