Chapter 25
DISTILLATION - THREE MONTHS LATER
Rig wanders into the living room one evening when I’m curled up on the couch, a dish towel over his shoulder and wearing nothing but worn jeans. He said he walks around like this now because I always end up jumping him. He leans on the doorjamb, a smile playing over his lips.
“Babe, you up for an adventure?”
I blink at him. “An adventure? What kind of adventure?”
He hands me his phone and on the screen is a WhatsApp message from someone named Jimmy:
Want my fucking picture done. Got approval from management to bring your woman out here. Said they’d be happy to have an extra nurse to call on if needed.
“Jimmy?”
“Head of operations at the rig I go to. Recruits all the guys, organizes their rosters, works the pipe, too.”
“You want me to go out to the rig with you?”
“Thought you could draw some awesome stuff out there. You up for it?”
Go out to a rig. Is he crazy? “Where is it?”
“Alaska. Cook Inlet.”
My eyes really do go wide then. “Is it cold?”
He laughs. “In September? Yeah. It’s fucking freezing. It can be cold even in the summer. You’d be in gear pretty much the whole time.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Yeah. Dealing with the machinery is as risky as shit; all sorts of crap goes down. Bad weather’s a risk if you don’t treat it with the respect it deserves. They keep a pretty tight rein on things, safety-wise. We don’t take any risks we don’t have to.”
“How long for?”
He shrugs. “Long as you want. Maximum time I go out for is four weeks. How much time would it take you to draw some of the riggers?”
“More than one?”
“If they see you drawin’, they’re all gonna want one. And these guys have money, babe.”
“You don’t have to find me work, Rig. I can …”
Truth be told, I’m run off my feet. I’m still working as a caregiver and at the hospital.
He steps forward and leans over me, sliding a hand around my neck.
“Not doing it for that. Showed him the picture you did of me because I thought it was great, and he’s been on my case ever since. He’s fixed this all up.”
That’s kind of him. I’ve been paying down some debt, and the day after we got back from the fight when Rig moved his stuff in, he got paid for the fight and started paying half the rent.
When I tried to argue that my apartment was a dump and he wouldn’t want to live here, he said the important thing was the people in a place, not the place itself.
Whenever I ask Rig whether he’s happy, he says yes and to chill the fuck out.
He drags me off to the gym a couple of mornings a week, and he’s got me doing Zoom calls with a counselor.
I didn’t tell them about Charlie last time, but this time I can’t seem to shut up about him.
Rig’s also been taking odd jobs around town.
Shifts when people are short-handed, work on his mom’s farm.
Every so often, Angelo turns up and starts pestering him to fight, and he exaggerates a limp and talks about injuries, and Angelo scowls at him and grumbles.
He hasn’t talked about the rigs in a while.
Funny thing is, he seems settled and I’m the one who’s been restless.
Now I’m responsible for two people being stuck.
I don’t want Rig to stay here because I’m here.
He likes leaving this place for periods of time.
And I can’t deny I’ve been wondering about when he’s going to get itchy feet and go back to the rigs.
Either that or disappear to build his dream house.
“Are you low on money?”
He laughs. “No, but I’d be okay with going out there again. Thought it might be fun. Some time away from here without my mom relying on me might be a bonus, and they’ve been hassling me to go back to Alaska. Don’t want to leave you, though. Not gonna lie.”
My heart warms. Maybe if I keep pushing myself little by little, I’ll eventually get back to where I was. Maybe he’s thinking something like that, too. I nod at him.
“I’m down for going.”
The wind whips around the corner of the rig, practically taking the small backpack I’m carrying out of my hands.
It’s vast open icy sea as far as the eye can see, and fucking freezing, even in my suit.
Rig mentioned something about a weather warning today so I want to get out here while I can.
The guys are busy on the drill floor at the far end of the platform.
It’s not Rig’s shift, and I like getting out here when he’s not on the floor, so I don’t have to feel scared watching him wrestle with heavy equipment.
I had no idea what hard work was until I saw the men doing this.
I’ve taken three weeks off from looking after the old folk, and this place has blown the cobwebs right out of my head.
There’s a whole world to explore. I can’t believe I’m living in that town, worrying about what other people think of me, little old ladies, and a shitty apartment I should have left ages ago.
It’s not tough for me out here at all, though.
I’m just drawing people and life on the rig.
And the guys often come and look over my shoulder in the evening as I tidy and polish up what I’ve been working on.
They’re an amazing crew, even if they’re messed up and struggling half the time.
They’ve had terrible home lives, rough upbringings, and absent fathers who sometimes did this job, too.
I want to tell all their stories and show their pictures.
I’ve recorded so many conversations. Everyone’s damaged in some way.
I’m not doing so bad. I’ve also been useful in ways I wasn’t expecting, too—I thought I’d only be helping if there was some crisis, but I’ve been working with the medical staff, treating wounds and cuts, and talking to the doctors on the mainland and putting things right.
Turns out I like fixing things for people, too.
It’s a privilege to watch Rig while he’s doing his real job, seeing him hanging out with the men he works with when he’s not fighting.
He takes a lot of responsibility for the younger guys, listening to them, helping those who are struggling, addressing problems, making judgments about safety, the weather …
The list is endless. And I have to remember not to just draw him sometimes.
I study the guys hauling gear across the deck, and I pull my camera out of my bag—a present from Rig before we came out here—and snap a few shots.
I could do something with all this, turn it into an idea.
I don’t know what yet, but something is blooming in the back of my mind.
Ideas haven’t come to me in a long time, crowded out by all the worry, no doubt.
I shake my head. Maybe drawing was something I was always meant to do and I gave up on it too soon.
But maybe it doesn’t need to be a choice; I could take care of people and create things, too.
Rig appears suddenly at my side and jerks his chin up. “Storm’s coming. Rig’s shutting down. We’re not evacuating, but we’ll be following the protocol for adverse weather conditions.”
I nod. I had to do offshore safety training before I came out here.
He takes hold of my chin. “You okay?”
I smile up at him. “I’m good, Rig.”
I head back inside, unsuit in the mudroom, and leave him to get back to organizing what needs to be done to shut down the rig.
Guys start to file into the galley after a while and settle down on their phones or laptops.
Rig appears every now and again, checking on people, sending them off on tasks that need doing.
I stare out at the darkening skies, then pull out my sketchbook and start drawing: the men, the sea, the sky.
It feels so elemental somehow, like we’re a small speck on this huge planet, powerless against the forces of Mother Nature. The sea is a deep inky gray.
Eventually, a message drops into my phone:
You want to go outside?
Seriously? I could do that?
You’re with me, suited up and clipped on, then yeah. Not planning on going anywhere, just standing outside and feeling the weather.
That sounds amazing.
On my way.
The memory of watching him out here before rolls through my head. I head back to the mudroom. Rain has started lashing against the windows, the wind howling through the pipes and the buildings.
Rig’s already almost fully suited up when I arrive. “Done all we can do right now,” he says. “The monitoring team is keeping an eye on everything in the control room. I’ve got a thirty-minute break. Thought I’d give you the experience of standing in something like this for a few minutes.”
I grin at him. “Sounds like fun.”
He gives me a lip quirk, and then his radio crackles to life and he presses the button. “Just heading out now,” he says.
“They know we’re going out?”
“Of course. Had to get clearance.”
Nothing happens on this rig that isn’t monitored.
They know where all the men are, all the time.
Rig steps over to me and checks my suit and harness, and I check his, running through the protocol.
It reminds me of the checks we do in nursing, particularly with the drugs we’re administering.
When we’re done, Rig shifts toward the door.
“Is it safe out there?” I say.
He laughs. “None of this is safe, babe. As you probably realized when you did your training.”
He opens the door, and I’m hit by a blast of icy air, and we’re not even outside yet. This is just the first door into the little anteroom before we get outside. It’s always freezing, but the wind seems to seep through all the cracks.
He puts his hand on the outside door and grins down at me. “Ready?”
I nod, and he opens the door and the force of it almost takes me off my feet, the cold stealing my breath away.
Rig clips immediately onto a railing, and I tuck in behind him, clipping on, too.
We shuffle out onto the deck. The buffeting wind is hard and mean, whining through the handrails and the antenna masts.
The creaking and groaning of the rig is much louder out here, the sea a mass of seething gray.
Rig looks down at me, hunched against the wind, grinning.
And I know in a heartbeat that I’m safe out here. I trust him. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone. I stare up at him, and his smile fades. “You all right? We can go back.” His voice is whipped away as soon as the words are out of his mouth, ice already forming on his beard. My eyes fill with tears.
He frowns down at me. “You’re not okay. Let’s go back inside.”
I grip his arm. “I didn’t think I could change my life because I kept digging myself deeper and deeper into problems. Everything kept getting worse. You said I fell down a hole, and you were right.’”
He looks up at the rig above us and rolls his eyes.
“I’m a fucking idiot, babe. It was bullshit.
I used to tell myself shit like that to justify why I was stuck.
Stuck trying to find a way to make money to pay off the mortgage on the farm and escape.
Fighting. The rigs. Never should have pinned that on you. ”
“Then tell me why I stayed there.”
His face changes. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Marion?”
“Yeah.”
“You want an honest answer?”
“Yeah.”
“Habit.”
That was not what I was expecting him to say.
“The brain loves fucking habits, babe, so it doesn’t have to work out what to do. It’s how we survived so long as a species. Kept us safe. Gotta fight that shit all the time, you want a better life. Doing different shit, coming out here.” He waves an arm around at the sea.
And here I am on an oil rig in the middle of a storm.
I fucking survived. Mark, losing Charlie.
I want to punch something. Punch him. Maybe the fact my life is better isn’t all because of Rig with his big hands and his plans and his ability to take me apart in bed.
Maybe I’m a fighter, too. Not in the same way that Brit is, that Rig is, but fuck it, I’m not a fucking pushover.
I work really fucking hard. I keep people alive, just like Rig does here.
I can feel his eyes on my face and mine dart up to his.
“You okay? You seem …” He licks his lips. A worried frown is creasing his forehead.
“I think I just …” I stare off toward the water, the roiling waves. “… had a bit of an epiphany.”