Islanders

by Brandon Enns

  Did she escape?

  Skye found the white pages for Italy and typed in her mother’s last name. There were many Bernard's. She was scared to type in her mother's first name, fearing the zero results that would show on the page. But she did it, and there were only three. She dialed.

  After three dials, the voice that answered was soft and kind. It was her. Oh my God, it’s her! It has to be, right? Is that how she sounds? Her head screamed with joy, but the words didn't follow. "Hello?" she asked for the third time. Skye couldn’t speak. "Um...I can hear you breathing. I'm not really into that." Skye almost laughed. She and her mother had the same sense of humor. "Sorry. Wrong number." And Skye ended the call.

  ***

  Fifteen hundred dollars in her account. A one-way flight was four hundred dollars. Perfect. There was one stop on the way, a thirteen-hour trip total. She caught a red-eye and didn't sleep a wink. Instead she wrote; everything about her mother, everything about herself, about leaving, about her horrible father. The flight was fast. It came and went as she lived in the same headspace, cleansing herself of all things that tormented her all those years. It spewed out until she found herself at the end of it all, her hand sore.

  When she arrived in Rome, her mother had called her phone back seven more times. Three almost immediately after she first reached out. Either she was really eager to find out what the mouth breather on the other end wanted, or she recognized Skye's voice when she said, "Sorry. Wrong number." She turned her phone off again.

  She had never heard from her mother, largely because she had no way of contacting Skye. New cell, new city, low profile; her mother had no idea she had become a teacher. Skye made a Facebook account briefly, but that got deleted quickly.

  Skye knew why she had done it. There was a prominent fear of being trapped. Of knowing she loved her mom too much and would return to her, to that horrible house, to him. She prayed that she didn't bring that monster with her to Italy, but laughed at the thought of that drunken asshole leaving the country. Maybe when hell froze over, she thought.

  The train ride to Sperlonga was about three hours. She arrived feeling tired. She couldn't sleep though, she was too anxious. Skye used her phone to scope out the beaches along with the map to her mother's listed address. From the map, it appeared that the streets were crowded and confusing, and she was growing even more anxious about how she would find it once she got off the train.

  During her research, she discovered many cute coffee shops and restaurants to try, and the private beaches that were gorgeous.

  Because it was so late at night, the train was only a third full. The ride was long and it smelled like stale smoke. She liked it. Probably because it reminded her of her mother, when they'd sit side by side on the steps of their home, watching the sun set around a grassy hill at the end of the street where her crumbling old elementary school sat, while they shared a cigarette. After the first few stops, Skye turned her phone off again (having gone without receiving any more calls), and she set her sights on the view. The grassy countryside to her right was beautiful. She rested her head on the plexiglass window to her left, looking out over the cliff of white rock and ocean water moving gently back and forth on the shoreline. There was nothing but open space between the crowded, cute towns. In and out they went, making their stops, each town looking somewhat the same.

  The stop before hers, a batch of people flooded into her car. She watched their various faces out of boredom and her heart stopped when she saw a man with a cap pulled down low. He looked like Sebastian.

  He adjusted his hat and she realized that it wasn't him. Her stop was the next one, and it came slowly.

  She worked her way through tight picturesque streets that were more like back-alleys with brick stone paths, leading her in and out of a maze as she looked like a moronic tourist, holding her iPhone out to guide her every step. Although New York City had always been said to be a rich diverse pot of culture, Sperlonga felt authentic, the walls speaking to her, the locals probably holding on to stories of their ancestors that had been passed down their lineage.

  Her desired location on Google maps involved a steep hill heading toward the ocean side. As she neared, the strong smell of baked bread wafted into her nose. Her mouth salivated, and she smiled and released a sharp giggle she couldn't control. The path narrowed as she approached, and to each side of her were quaint and crowded homes stacked on one another. She reached a building that was connected with many others. Walking through an archway, she reached her spot, and looked down at the house number attached to the address. She walked another flight of steps and followed to the end of the walkway, counting each door along the way. I made it. Before she knocked, she gazed out over the ledge, down at all the homes and pretty lights shining in the dark. She could hear the tide moving on the sand. The smell of the bakery was still prominent.

  Skye knocked. A young man in his late twenties answered. He was handsome, wore glasses, and had a large nose. He was wearing a tank top that showed off his ripped arms. Wrong place. He looked at her with sleepy eyes, but still not overly bothered by the intrusion. "Yes?"

  "I'm so sorry." She adjusted her duffel bag on her shoulder. "I've got the wrong place I think. I hope I didn't wake you." She spoke quietly, as if to not wake him up any further.

  "No bother. I'm going for a run soon anyway." His accent was medium-thick. A slight pause made him continue. "Who are you looking for?"

  "Carol."

  "I'll get her."

  After about a minute, her mother walked through the kitchen toward the entrance. Skye heard her whimper as soon as she saw her in the doorway. She stopped in her tracks, examining her long-lost daughter with her hand over her mouth. "My Skye is so blue," she whispered.

  She stepped forward out of the dark. They stood face-to-face, studying each other's appearances. Her mom's hair had two stripes of gray mixed in with her brown, curling fashionably around her right eye, her hair in a ponytail just like she'd remembered. Her face was radiant and bruise-free, which was something she hadn’t been able to see regularly. There were some wrinkles around her eyes that had formed, but the additional years looked good on her. Skye wanted to say sorry and weep but instead she said, "Some muscular treat you got for yourself."

  "Rents cheap." Her laugh snorted out, imperfectly perfect. "No. In his dreams right?"

  "In his dreams," Skye repeated.

  The hug was soft, not overly forceful, but their shoulders both relaxed as they huffed out their grief. "I knew it was you," she whispered. "My Skye. It's good to see you."

  Skye squeezed tighter. "Sorry."

  "No, no, no. I'm proud of you." They pulled apart. "You had to. And believe it or not...It saved my hide. If you hadn't had the guts, I'd be up shit creek.”

  "You left right away too?" Skye blurted out.

  "No." She shook her head. "It took me a while. Once I stopped trying to contact you…”

  Skye lowered her head shamefully.

  “No, no.” She rubbed Skye’s shoulder. “That's when I left him." She cleared her throat. "And look at me now!"

  "You're in Italy. On a cliff."

  "I'm in Italy on a cliff."

  "Is that bakery any good?" asked Skye.

  "Only the best. Let me take you on my favorite walking route, watch the sunrise."

  She watched her mother tie her running shoes after she set her luggage just inside the door around the corner. By the time she got her shoes on and rose from her chair, Skye couldn't contain herself. She lunged at her mother and hugged her tighter this time, sobbing into the nape of her neck.

  "Hey, hey," her mother shushed her. "Do you wanna get high?" her mom asked.

  They walked outside and looked out over the stone railing down at the water.

  "Can we have pizza on the beach later?"

  "We can do whatever the hell we want."

  Chapter Thirty - Trevor

  White picket fence. Castle. On each side of it, smaller castles. The grass was half
covered with a light layer of snow. Trevor looked back to the cab, Erin's hand dangling out the window, reaching for him. He took her hand.

  "He'll be okay, you know that right?"

  "Do I?"

  "Just be honest with him."

  He stepped up the driveway. His dad's shining Jag was parked. His father was definitely home, probably watching CNN with a cold beer in his lap. He'd always set the glass bottle of beer in the freezer first before drinking it. Trevor entered his monstrosity of a house. Despite the circumstances, it still felt good to be inside his home. He looked up at the wide staircase, thick oak banisters leading up to his childhood bedroom. To his right, the kitchen lights were off, so he ventured left around the corner where he found his father. He had the Ranger game on instead of CNN, and a glass of whiskey instead of beer. He had crept up, still thinking of what he should say, how he should say it.

  His dad turned and jerked, spilling some of his whiskey in his lap. "Jesus!" He caught his breath with his hand to his chest. "You scared the living shit out of me! What are you doing back home so soon? Everything all right?"

  "I'm fine." He dropped his bag next to the coach.

  "What brings you back? Still got a girlfriend?"

  "Still got her."

  "Well good. I like her. She’s a nice, smart girl. Sit. Take a load off. You're not coming in tomorrow, are you?"

  "No, I don't think so. If that's all right?"

  "You got four more days if you want them." He looked back at the TV. The Rangers were on the power play working the puck around in the Red Wings’ zone. "This is a sport. I think in another life I was a hockey player. They used to beat each other senseless, but the rules have sure tightened up...More graceful now. Faster. So fast. Did I tell you I switched?" He held up his glass of scotch. "It’s like a campfire in my mouth, but oddly enough, I like it.”

  Trevor was pleased to see the mood his dad was in.

  "So, why you home early then?"

  "There were some troubles with the hospitality. Not a big deal. Listen, I need to talk to you about some things."

  "Oh? What is it?"

  "Have you been noticing anything different lately? Been feeling different at all?"

  He looked down at his glass and swirled his whiskey around. "What'd I do?"

  "Nothing, I'm just noticing inconsistencies at work. I should have mentioned it earlier. But it seems to me you're forgetting things. Things you would never forget. You seem scrambled. Unfocused."

  He paused, staring at the TV. A moment or two passed.

  "I thought it was just semiretirement, but it's getting worse. Too many thoughts are hanging on the edge of my mind."

  "I didn't think you'd be this forthcoming, to be honest."

  "Yeah, well. You're the man of the business. You should know what's going on with your defective partner."

  They both looked straight ahead at the TV. He had planned on bringing up the time he spoke of his passed sister in present tense, but he couldn't bring himself to look him in the eyes and deliver.

  "Dad..." Trevor said, like “come on.”

  "I didn't want you worrying about this shit. You got enough on your plate."

  "You got some for me or did you drink it all?"

  "I'll get you the cheaper stuff."

  "You just keep drinking. Two more and I'll tell you about the doctor's appointment I scheduled for you."

  "We'll see."

  "Yes, we'll see you at your appointment."

  "Not the kind of appointment I like. Doesn't make me money."

  "I know."

  His dad nodded and motioned to get up from the couch, but Trevor stopped him. "There's something else."

  "What?" he asked cautiously.

  Trevor ran his thumb down the middle of his left palm. "There's something I have to fix."

  His dad knew the severity from the look on Trevor's face. "Then fix it."

  ***

  Gary Valencia and his family were still listed at the same address, although he assumed they would have fire-saled it by now, waiting for a possession date. Trevor walked. He didn't want to show up in his father's Jag, nor his Mercedes. He didn't deserve to show up in either. Their house was large, not nearly as extravagant as his father's, and half the size to fit seven people instead of one.

  He knocked on the door, somehow making it sound like a dead man's knock, if such a thing existed. A small girl, maybe five years old, answered the door. She was adorable with pink ribbons in her hair and pudgy cheeks with dimples as she smiled. Little white chicklets were on display. "Hi!"

  "Hello. How are you?"

  "I'm fine, thanks."

  "Well, that's good. Is your dad home?" She smiled again before turning to get her dad, her little feet scurrying across the hardwood floor. Heavier footsteps followed shortly, returning back to the entrance. At first sight, Gary's face fell flat and angry. "What are you doing here?"

  Trevor handed him a small square piece of paper from a notepad.

  He looked at it. "What is this?"

  "Call that number, talk to Leonard. He will be awaiting your call. He will help you with acceptance of the wire transfer on your end."

  "Wire transfer?"

  "Consider it a buyout."

  "You're joking."

  "Mr. Valencia, what happened—"

  "Was incredibly illegal?”

  "I know that this doesn't replace what you built. It was your company. Your family. This price tag doesn't replace that. But nine million can help you create something meaningful again, should you desire to. I know whatever you put your name on will be built with integrity. Something I could learn a thing or two about."

  The anger in his eyes faded, but he wasn't thrilled either.

  "I'm not wearing a wire, Mr. Miller."

  "My father had nothing to do with it. Fairway Capital dangled the bait and I took it. It was my mistake. If I could go back, I'd change it. But that's a worn-out saying not worth saying."

  "You're not wrong about that." He sighed, looking back in reaction to his kids screaming in the living room as they chased each other around the couch. He turned back to Trevor. "What will happen with Fairway?"

  "Rumor has it the partnership just isn't working out."

  He nodded. “This is all coming from your bank account?”

  Trevor nodded. Valencia was surprised.

  "You know what I could turn around and do with this money you're giving me?"

  "I do."

  "I could hurt you."

  "You could try."

  "Maybe I will."

  "If you feel you have to, you should." Trevor glanced at two of the kids kicking at one another on the couch. "I'd save your lawyer fees though. You probably wouldn't win."

  He shook his head. "Maybe not...For the record, you're still scum.

  "Yeah...I’m working on that."

  Valencia grumbled and looked at the piece of paper in his hands. He squinted at it. "Good to be white, hey?"

  "It is. Maybe not so great to be me."

  Valencia considered the comment and nodded.

  Trevor turned around and glanced at the For Sale sign. "Sold already?"

  "We don't need this big house anyway."

  "Right. Well, you'll do good things, Mr. Valencia. Please give me a call if you have any questions." Trevor extended his hand and Gary paused, then took it firmly. "And please, think of Miller and Associates for your future needs."

  "I'll do that." Maybe it was sarcastic. Maybe it wasn't. It didn't matter.

  His ledger was clear. Yes, the retainer from Fairway helped some in paying Valencia back, but after twelve months, they’d be dropped and Trevor would move on. His father was seeking medical attention. Erin was at home, likely sleeping, but even more likely, studying. I'll bring her breakfast. Trevor walked all the way back home to discuss everything with his father. Was he pissed? You bet your ass he was pissed. Would he get over it? Yes, he would. After that, he called his Mercedes dealer. He didn't need it. It made him
look like a douche. He'd use the proceeds for some pro bono work, perhaps.

  Chapter Thirty-one - Erin

  Her name was Tracy McGowen. She never had kids. Learning that fact didn't clear her conscience in the way she had hoped it would.

  Erin stood at her grave. The stonework was of the bargain variety. She set down flowers next to the headstone, kneeling to touch the print of her name. Her breath rose in the air and she shivered. She tightened her scarf around her neck.

  Erin heard a grumble from a man behind her. He was short, bald, and moved like a man older than he was. He was recently retired from the NYPD.

  "I hate the cold."

  Erin smiled and shook his hand. She was nervous.

  "Erin, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Nice to meet you."

  "Thanks for meeting me, Doug. This may be strange to you. I don't know. We could have met at a coffee shop or something, but—"

  He waved her off. "This is fine. It's about time I stopped by for a visit. I haven't seen McGowen since they put her to rest here. Not great on my part."

  "Were you close?"

  "No. My experience with her was memorable though. She was young and eager, full of piss and vinegar. You know the type. I like that type." He stared at the headstone, and she waited for him to speak again. "I prefer people that give a shit. Anyway, I was old and starting to count the days by then. She gave me the last push I needed to care about my job. I always thanked her for that."