Maia stands before the decaying old mansion, now devoured by weeds and vines. It certainly has aged dramatically over the years. The paint has started chipping away, and the once bright white porch is covered in moss. Grandpa was right. It will only be a matter of years before this earth swallows up every last trace of them.
She walks to the side of the house first, checking for any signs of life. All appears empty.
She had found this place as a young girl, and it was such a find. In a land where nearly everything had been picked over and left to rot, this was a real score. Unlike most of the homes on the island, this one was pristine. No skeletons or half-rotted corpses inside. No red X painted on the door. The furniture was still covered in sheets. There was gold cutlery in the drawers and intricately designed dishes. And tea cups. She even found a brand-new dog bed for Huck.
Maia was ecstatic. After surveying the lot from top to bottom, Grandpa agreed to let her play there on her own. It was close enough to home and was nicely tucked away in the mountains. Kind of like them—all secluded and hidden and locked.
But she had to do her chores first. And check in often.
Hours, days, years were spent at this house. She took care of it as if it were her own. And then she imagined an entirely different life inside. She had a mother and a father … siblings too. She’d pretend to come home from a long day at school and her “family” would be there, waiting for her with open arms. She would tell her mother about soccer practice and the bully she stood up to in gym class. Her “friends” would come over for sleepovers and her mother would bake them cookies. And make sweet tea. And fried chicken. Whatever that tasted like, they sure did love it back in the day, as Grandpa would say. And then her mother would sneak into her bedroom while Maia slept and kiss her on the forehead. That’s what mothers did, right? That’s what her books say.
It gave Maia comfort. She didn’t know why it did, but that didn’t matter. In this house, an entire world came alive where Maia didn’t have to be alone. Where the future possibilities were endless. Where she had a family. And friends. And as a child, that was enough.
That was back when she thought her adult years were forever away. Back when she thought that by the time she grew up, the Southern Islands would have lots of people on them again. That it would only take a few more years. Back when she believed she would have options, and she wouldn’t end up like the other lonely souls she’s come across while exploring—all alone in their homes, decaying and filled with maggots.
That was back when she thought her grandfather would live forever. That she wasn’t wasting precious time escaping from the only human she’s ever known. And she could live here, in this gorgeous mansion with her family—close to him, but not too close. In her dream house. With the porch swing. And the ornate front gate with the giant golden M in the middle. Of course, Maia knew it wasn’t after her own name, but it made for a lovely coincidence that fit nicely within the walls of her make-believe world.
It was enough to live in a world that didn’t actually exist because that world was going to come again. Someday, when she was all grown up. Until then, she had this house all to herself. And she would pretend.
* * *
Maia hesitantly climbs the sagging porch steps to find the rusted lock she had kept around the front door handles broken. Left snapped in two on top of a pile of red decomposing chains. Her heart sinks. She takes a deep breath and cautiously nudges the unlatched front door with a single finger. It opens with a loud creak.
The inside of the entrance is littered with leaves and dirt. She prepares herself, knowing that what is about to greet her is not at all what she left behind. She takes another deep breath and steps inside, her hand resting on her knife tucked in its holster.
Wrecked. The entire place is wrecked. Her drawn-out sigh echoes in the foyer, and a few birds fly across the cathedral ceiling and out a shattered window. All her beautiful things—the elaborate wall hangings, the tables and chairs and blankets—have been burned in an enormous heap in the middle of the great room. Whoever did this behaved like cavemen. Even the rungs of the banisters up the steps. Whole sections of the banisters—gone. Those were the banisters she would slide down in a grand display every time her “friends” came to the front door.
“Maia? Your friends are here!”
Like a beloved princess, she’d greet her adoring tribe by sliding down the railings into the grand, sun-lit foyer. Ta-da!
Maia falls to her knees, too numb to cry. Doesn’t this figure? Her one precious thing that was all her own, and some apes have destroyed it.
Pulling a small joint from her pocket, she twists the end and lights up. Smoking pot has always been a rare occurrence for her, but she’s not opposed to it when in need of an escape. She inhales deeply and holds her breath, gazing up at the black mold sprawling across the ceiling. Back in the day, this place would have cost someone a fortune. That’s what Grandpa said. Not that it means a whole lot to her, being the first generation to rise after The End.
But now … firewood. It’s as good as firewood.
Maia wanders the halls, stopping just as the kitchen comes into view. The cabinets have been ripped off the walls, her precious teacups shattered across the tiles. The paintings she plastered over the fridge after her grandfather showed her what magnets were for … all gone.
Fuck you.
Lifting her bike from the gravel and weeds, she turns to take one last look at her old mansion. Her childhood. The four walls that held her dreams, comforted her during a time she naïvely thought everything would turn out to be okay. Now, her grandfather is dying. Her dreams of sailing to The Old Arctic Circle are perishing alongside him. And her home, her getaway—destroyed. This was the only place on this godforsaken island that was normal. There wasn’t a single sign of the apocalypse. She used to really cherish that.
Anger burns within. More than anger, pain.
Maia searches her pockets for her box of the few remaining matches she owns. Indignant, she lights the match and holds it up, the silhouette of the house blurring behind its flame. She could just drop it. Let the place burn. She stands frozen, willing herself to release her grip. The flame slowly works down the wooden stick until the heat begins to singe the tip of her fingers. She blows it out.
She looks up at the house. Nothing left but a shell. Just let it burn. She slides open her little box and doesn’t hesitate to remove her last precious match. She strikes it against the side. Nothing. She strikes again. And again.
A dud. Her head tips back and she drops the match. What a waste. She turns to leave and that’s when she sees it. She stands frozen in the driveway. The ornate gate with the immense golden M, now hanging by a single hinge. Run through, smashed, and crooked on its side. She takes a step towards it, her fists clenched.
She spins back around to the house. This pathetic, dilapidated waste of space. What she wouldn’t give for a match. She picks up a large rock and hurls it at the front door. A perfect shot—the glass shatters across the welcome mat. She picks up another, and another, tears streaming down her face. She breaks every window, and when that is done, she continues to hit the house with every last stone she can find. Hurling her anger, hurling her pain, her disappointment, her shame.
Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.
She falls to her knees and holds her head in her hands. Huck wanders up next to her and reassuringly licks her arm. She wraps herself around him, resting her head upon his shoulder as she sobs.
Fourteen
Days pass and the nights continue on, but Maia’s grandfather does not get better. She hovers over him, carefully wrapping cold cloths across his feverish forehead as he sleeps more and more. He does not drink his broth or his water. She pleads with him, but often he does not wake to her whispers. So, she moves her chair next to his bed and curls into a ball, watching in horror when he coughs and gasps for air.
Maia doesn’t sleep much, although sometimes her body takes over and she passes out with he
r head on his bed. When she wakes, she rushes to check his breathing, hovering her ear next to his mouth. Sometimes he wakes, reaching out for something she cannot see. Sometimes he smiles and speaks to her mother. But most of the time he sleeps, leaving Maia to hover around him in a constant state of fear.
She paces around the cabin, running her fingers over their things, their memories, their books, and candles. The blanket she made him. His beloved bottle of whisky, the last of the bottles he had so diligently stockpiled before The End. The plans and maps and lists they have made for her journey sitting in piles around the kitchen table.
After her daily inventory of their life together, Maia will often collapse into a heap and cry until her tears have run out. She is resentful. She knows there is nothing she can do. There is no one who can help. She is completely alone.
She continues to mind the house, hoping her grandfather will come out of his sickness and knowing when he does, he’ll ask if the veggies have been pruned, the water replenished, the wood chopped. She wakes up all hours of the night to keep the fire going, making the cabin uncomfortably warm for her ailing grandpa.
Finally, he wakes. She helps him to the outhouse toilet, an overwhelming affair as his once strong body is nearly too weak to walk. Then he wants to sit in his chair. She moves it close to the fire and wraps his frail body in every blanket she can find. He speaks to her between gasps and moaning in pain. She feeds him water and reassures him in whispers.
“You’re doing great, Grandpa.”
“I’m right here, Grandpa.”
“Just a little more sleep and you’ll be okay.”
“Please be okay.”
“Please be okay.”
“Please be okay.”
“Please don’t leave me.”
She pulls herself away from him long enough to close up the house and tries the entire time not to notice the dog out on the porch, staring through the window. She keeps her eyes fixated on her grandfather as she climbs into bed.
“Dear God,” she pleads as her exhaustion pulls her into a deep sleep. “If you’re up there, please bring him back. Bring him back to me. Please bring him back.”
She stands on the familiar shore of her dreams, but this time her mother is nowhere to be found. There are no trees, no city in the distance. There is only sand, and then, only water. She stands in the middle of a vast ocean. Off in the far distance, her grandfather stands alone. Confused, he looks around, calling out to her.
“Grandpa! I’ve been so worried about you!” She tries to run, but the water only slides beneath her feet. She tries harder, reaching her hands out to him. “Grandpa! Help me!”
Despite running faster and faster, Maia remains stationary as her feet glide across the water like ice. She slips and falls, breaking the surface and sinking beneath it. She kicks back to the top but remains trapped underneath. Her grandfather stands above, still searching and calling out for her.
“Grandpa!” She pounds the underside of the water.
He sees her. Placing his hands on the surface, he mirrors hers. His voice is muffled; he’s saying something she cannot understand. What is he saying? He repeats it a few times … her mother’s name.
“No! Maia! It’s Maia, help me!”
He says it again and again, pounding the surface.
Maia’s scream startles her awake. She glances over to check her grandfather. The fire is down to embers. He groans and moves his head, and then he is silent. She wants to get up but her weary eyes close once again.
Still dark, moments later, she opens them. Or has it been longer? The fire still smolders, but its embers tell her time has passed. It lays a soft glow over the silhouette of her grandfather’s body.
She peels back the covers, keeping her focus on her grandfather. He doesn’t move. She takes each step as if walking on fractured glass … as if any moment she could break through and sink into nothing.
“Grandpa?” she whispers.
There’s a glass of whisky in his hand, resting in his lap. How did he get this? She places her hand on his shoulder and stares at his chest. It does not move.
“Grandpa?”
Blood lines the edge of his lips. She shakes his shoulder and his head falls forward. She jumps back, her hand over her mouth. Stepping forward, she touches his ghostly skin, now clammy and cool.
“Grandpa!” She falls to her knees as a wail she’s never heard pours out from her lungs.
Lifting his head, she places her ear next to his mouth. Nothing. She stares at him, flooded with horror. She places her head next to his mouth once again, then against his chest, pressing hard, harder, desperate to hear a beat.
Nothing.
“NO! No please, please! I’ll do anything!” Tears blur her vision and she shakes him once more. “Grandpa?” She smiles. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. This is just a dream. I’m just dreaming.”
She climbs to her feet and gently releases his head. It hangs from his body. She holds her breath … listening, waiting. Cries fly from her mouth. “How DARE you leave me! Please, come back? Come back, Grandpa! Please!”
She looks around the house and screams with all her might as the wind outside the cabin beats against the windows. Screaming, moaning, can’t breathe. Can’t breathe! Tears coat her face as she paces the cabin floors. Huck howls from the front porch and more dogs howl from a distance.
Gasping, gasping, gasping for air as her grief swallows her whole. Lightheaded, she falls to the ground and beats her fists against the floor. For a moment, it seems the world shakes in response. Her mother’s painting falls to the ground and the glass cracks across the tiger’s face.
Maia curls into a heap in the middle of the floor. The fire embers glow and the wind calms to nothing. Her tears puddle in a pool beneath her head and she presses her cheek into the ground, grasping the wood with both hands as if any moment she may slide into the fire.
“Grandpa? Please.”
She stares at the painting sitting up against the wall. The fractured glass cuts between the tiger’s eyes, slicing across the floor, tearing apart her and the only love she has ever known.
She closes her eyes, and then she shatters completely.
Fifteen
A glass of whisky sits in the middle of the table. The glass of whisky. The glass he had somehow lifted himself up to retrieve and pour. All while Maia slept. Could’ve seen him, could’ve talked to him, could’ve hugged him one last time. But instead, she slept.
She’s been staring at it for about an hour now, glancing between it and the pyre holding her grandfather, sitting in the far corner of their yard.
After lying in the middle of their cabin and crying herself into hysteria, Maia stumbled out to the shed to find the most intricate pyre she’s ever seen.
He was right; he thought of everything. The pyre was on a smooth, glossy plastic sheet with ropes woven along its edges for handles, making it easy to glide across the ground and drag where she needed. Then there was the cot, the one she lifted his frail, lifeless body onto, all while moaning and crying and at one point becoming physically ill. The whole process seemed to go on forever as she stopped between each stage to cry until her body could no longer release another tear. She would then pick herself up and move on to the next step. Moving, dragging, crying, groaning, pulling. And all the while, the whole world became unbearably empty. Like a gaping void.
He was much lighter than he used to be. She knows this from the past when he was so sick that she had to help him back and forth between the house and the toilet. But she’ll never wrap her arms around him again. No more bush walks, no more cooking together, or reading by the fire. Never again will she see his smiling face when she walks through the front door, no more deep hugs or goodnight darlings. Just like that, he’s gone.
Huck hasn’t left her side. Even now, as she sits at the kitchen table and stares outside, he remains right next to her, his head on her lap.
She grabs the glass, slowly raising it to her mouth
. The smell burns her nose; the taste burns her mouth. It burns her throat all the way down to her stomach. She loathes everything about it, but it tastes like memories and the burn numbs the pain. So, she sips. She sips and she stares.
I have to burn his body.
I have to burn his body.
Another sip.
And another.
The tears flow once again, but this time Maia does not make a sound.
She leaves a small amount left in his glass, a bit of whisky that a man who no longer exists had poured.
Where did you go?
“I am always with you.”
Are you here now? Are you really in the trees and the stars or living inside me?
I feel nothing.
She stands, a bit wobbly as the liquor courses through her, and slowly walks out to the pyre. A ladder lies against it, leading up to him. She places his glass in the grass and stands before him. His body is wrapped up to his neck in his favorite blanket. Her hand flies against her mouth and her body trembles as she sobs.
Placing one hand on a rung, she grips the cool wood and screams. Huck jumps up from the porch. She reluctantly climbs each rung until she is next to her grandfather and places her hand on his. It sits resting beneath the blanket, so that the last time she touches him, she doesn’t remember cold.
“I am so sad, Grandpa.” Her voice cracks. “I am so sad. I feel broken. I wasn’t ready … but I know you were very sick. I know that. You were in pain, and now you won’t be anymore.” She rubs his arm. “But I’m really going to miss you.”
The Weight of a Thousand Oceans Page 9
