Chapter 8
Day two’s schedule is packed full and, frankly, pretty damn intimidating.
Nervous energy creates restless tingles down my arms and legs, my fingers furiously working the zipper on my jacket as we pull into the parking lot of Tingvellir National Park’s visitors’ center, situated at the exposed rift separating the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates.
There are many ways to explore the continental divide: a simple viewing from a lookout point, hiking one of the many trails around and/or between the rift, or—for those adventurous types who want to get their full money’s worth—scuba diving the glacial water of the Silfra fissure between the exposed plates.
I exit the Suzuki, dressed in what I hope is appropriate clothing for the day ahead: wool leggings under lightweight waterproof pants, new hiking boots (not even a tad broken in), thermal long-sleeved T-shirt, fleece-lined raincoat, and wool beanie.
I’d decided I’d aced this test when I saw Ben at breakfast wearing the same pieces of attire—his boots scuffed and well-worn—but now that I’m out in the elements, my confidence wanes.
We cross the parking lot toward the welcome center with a gift shop and café, and once inside, we split up. Ben goes out to the viewing area to start taking photos, and I spend a half hour inside soaking in the informative displays and maps of the park.
Despite this being only my second full day in Iceland, I’ve already learned I could spend an entire year here and still not see everything this country has to offer.
The tour of the Golden Circle we’ll be doing today is proof of that.
We’ve got today only to make the circular trip of Iceland’s famous road chock-full of eye-catching scenery, and though I’ll be the one writing the article for Around the Globe, I’m glad it was Suki who had the responsibility of narrowing down the itinerary.
As amazing as it is to be in the only spot in the world where one can view the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates aboveground, Ben and I are still on a time crunch.
After I’ve read the displays and purchased two coffees from the gift shop—hoping Ben still takes his black with just a pinch of sugar (and wondering what it says about me that I still remember this)—I make my way outside and follow the path to the viewpoint overlooking the tectonic plates and hiking trails below.
People of all ages line the railing, snapping photos with their cameras and iPhones.
I spot Ben off to the far left, away from the crowd, his camera set atop a tripod as he leans in to look through the viewfinder.
“Getting anything good?” I ask, sidling up next to him.
“See for yourself.” He scoots to the side and motions for me to take his place behind the lens. I pass him one of the to-go coffees as I take the spot he vacated. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” I lean in to view the photograph on the display screen and gasp.
The angle of the image showcases the crevice widely in the distance, narrowing in the foreground, creating the illusion the earth is actively splitting in two, the very ground beneath our feet crumbling away at any moment now.
Dark, ominous clouds fill the sky above, the sun trying its best to break through the tiny cracks to no avail.
Unease sweeps over and through me, and I feel as if I’m getting a private glimpse into Ben’s psyche by viewing the world through his eyes.
“That’s haunting.” Backing away from the camera, I peer up at him. “Your photos are so good no one is even going to read my article.”
“Not true.” He flips a lever on the tripod and slides the camera off, then settles the strap over his shoulder once more. “You’re a fantastic writer, Ems.”
“And you would know that based off what?” I tease. “My essays from high school?”
Something flickers over his face, but it’s replaced with a smile before I can identify it. “Yes, actually. In fact, I’m pretty sure your help with my essays is the only thing that got me through junior year English.”
Already uneasy, my stomach flip-flops at the resurgence of the buried memory of us sitting at my kitchen table, me marking up his paper on The Great Gatsby with my favorite red pen while he smiled goofily at me like it was the most amusing thing to watch me correct his work.
“You ready to head out?” he says, bending to collect his camera bag from the ground.
With Ben all packed up, we begin our journey to the next stop on our list. Ben stays quiet in the car while I jot down some notes, but once I click my pen and tuck my notebook away, he asks, “So, how’s the rest of the Miller family these days?”
“What? Are you telling me you haven’t kept up with my brothers on the many social media pages they love to post about themselves on?”
It’s true. Unlike me, Marcus and Mason are never shy about sharing themselves with the world.
Mason’s Instagram is filled with daily mirror selfies with captions like #ERDOC, #MDLIFE, and #TRAUMA.
One especially thirsty post featured him wearing only scrub pants slung low and a stethoscope around his neck, captioned #HEALER.
(Jacklyn will never let him live that one down.) But for whatever reason, his page is wildly popular.
Marcus’s page is more domesticated thanks to Carrie, mainly featuring pics of the kids at soccer practice and sunrise views from inside the state park.
Regardless, either of my brothers is easy enough to find information on, and maybe Ben never cared enough to utilize social media to check up on me, but I’d be surprised if he never once looked up the twins.
God knows I’ve certainly checked up on Ben every few months (days).
Ben takes a bit to answer, and when I look over at him, he’s worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “Uh, no,” he eventually says, eyes shifting to something in the rearview mirror. “I don’t follow them.”
Well. There I have it, I suppose. He could have found any information he wanted within a few taps of the screen but chose not to. Instead, Ben moved on from all of us without ever looking back, leaving me burdened with guilt because I was the person who drove him away.
“Oh, well, everyone’s good,” I say, pushing through the sudden awkwardness filling the car.
“Dad’s still working too many hours in the ER, but Mason’s also a doctor now and works there with him.
Marcus is a park ranger upstate, married to a beautiful, intelligent woman who is way out of his league, and they have three adorable, but equally loud, kids.
And Mom spends her days babysitting the grandkids after school and unsuccessfully campaigning for my father’s retirement. ”
When I glance across the console again, Ben wears a crooked grin. “Mason’s a doctor? Never would’ve seen that coming.”
“Yeah,” I agree, picturing all three boys catapulting off the dock at top speed or free-falling from the rope swing tied to an overgrown tree limb extended over the lake.
“Me neither.” I lift my coffee from the cupholder and hold it over my lap as it cools, tracing my middle finger around the curved plastic top.
Ben steers us through another roundabout—incredibly common in Iceland—and clears his throat. “We, uh, had a lot of good times back then, didn’t we?”
My stomach coils into a knot. “Yeah. We did.”
The car falls quiet again, and this time I choose the stilted silence as opposed to following this conversation into treacherous territory.
A few minutes later, Ben announces, “Looks like we’re here,” as we turn into another parking lot.
Here is the Geysir geothermal area, where set among fields of boiling mud pits and hot springs one can find the original Great Geysir as well as Strokkur.
While the former rarely erupts these days, Strokuur remains active, spewing a cascade of water up to twenty meters high every six to ten minutes.
We follow a path on a short walk toward a fenced-in field where steam rises off pools of aquamarine water, ranging in size from small puddles and trickling brooks to larger pond-like springs.
Cutting through the field, careful not to stray beyond any roped-off areas and risk sinking into bubbling mud, an eruption in the distance grabs my attention as a stream of water blasts skyward and then plummets back to the earth.
“And that would be Strokkur,” Ben says.
Again, the thrill of a brand-new world stirs something unfamiliar inside of me, and I turn to Ben with barely contained glee. “This is so fucking cool!”
Smiling back at me, his eyes flash with enthusiasm. “Yes. Very fucking cool.”
“Come on.” Without paying attention to what I’m doing, I grab his wrist and tug him in the direction of the geyser, intent on seeing it up close.
We make our way to the crowd gathered near Strokkur, as close as we can get without endangering ourselves, and stand side by side in expectant silence, awaiting the next eruption.
Minutes later, it happens, and I startle as the spray rockets upward with a whoosh, then rains back to the ground in heavy droplets, ending as quickly as it began.
Laughter bubbles out of me, mirthful and anticipatory, like a child playing with a jack-in-the-box for the very first time.
I tilt my head up to Ben, who watches my reaction with that same crooked grin from earlier.
It’s then I realize I’ve been holding his wrist this entire time.
My eyes flicker down to our hands and back up, and I release him with a murmured, “Sorry.”
“No need,” he says, grin widening, “but I should probably get some work done.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll just be right here.” Suffering through my own embarrassment. Yet again…
Ben goes off to do his photographer thing, but I stay planted near the geyser, waiting through several more cycles and trying unsuccessfully to time each one. Even knowing it’s coming, the eruption startles me every time, and I laugh like a fool over and over again.