The November Girl

by Lydia Kang

  As I reach for the back door, I’m sure it’s going to be locked. But the door is wide open, welcoming us.

  The door is never, ever open.

  I kick it farther open with a dripping boot. The cottage is really tiny. There’s a pair of old rubber boots and a collection of four skeletonized umbrellas by the door. Miniature piles of lake rocks—what are they called? cairns?—are piled here and there over the wide plank floors. A stone fireplace is dark and cold, facing a single lumpy couch and a braided rug. Just beyond, a cramped kitchen still smells of buttery fried things.

  I heave her in my arms again and walk down the hallway, finding two closet-sized bedrooms. One is super tidy, with a single narrow cot topped with a neat plaid blanket. The other has no bed, just a little nest of twisted blankets, next to piles upon piles of animal bones, feathers, and more rock cairns.

  I have a bad feeling that she sleeps in the nest of blankets, but decide instead to put her on the cot in the cleaner bedroom. Her body sags onto the thin mattress, soaking the bedding. Her eyes are still only at half-mast, seeing nothing. In the gloom of the cabin, I can’t see the difference between her pupils and her irises. Her eyes are all one stormy dark gray. And her skin is still burning hot.

  After I withdraw my arms from her body, I hesitate. I miss holding her already, though my biceps are cursing from exhaustion. But that’s not why I’m hesitating.

  I can’t let her sleep with these clothes, wet to the skin.

  There is one chest of drawers in the room. The top three drawers contain men’s clothes for a guy built much heavier than me. But then in the bottom drawer, I find another nightgown, this one made of indigo cotton, with cotton lace at the neckline. There are also jeans and long-sleeve shirts that would fit a girl like her.

  So she does actually live here? Why would she stay behind? Where’s the dude? If it’s her father (because she looks like my age, maybe younger) why the hell hasn’t he come back to get her?

  I shake the questions away. I want to know, and I don’t. And anyway, someone needs to change her into dry clothes, and I’m the only somebody around. My heart starts tap-dancing inside my chest as I peel off my own wet jacket and kick off my boots so I don’t feel so weighed down. After carrying her for so long, my hands tremble from her absence.

  I pick up the dry nightgown.

  “I swear to God, I have the best intentions,” I tell her, nervously clearing my throat. The wind thrashes against the wall, and the metal shutters outside tap a Morse code against the window panes. “Okay.” I swallow and pick up the dry nightgown. “Here goes.”

  It’s hard to unsee what I see when I change her clothing. Unblemished skin, dabs of deep pink on bronze, and the softest curves I’ve ever seen in real life. She’s absolutely beautiful, and it’s not just because I’ve never seen a girl naked before.

  There was Carla. We’d worked at Walmart together two summers in a row and messed around a few times in her car after work. Carla was plump and pretty, with smooth white skin, brown eyes, and harsh black bangs that knifed across her forehead. And she didn’t go to my high school, which meant my low-caste reputation was unknown to her. She actually didn’t care that I wore regular shorts instead of swim trunks when we went to the public pool once. She’d make me sandwiches when I’d brought nothing for lunch, or had no money to buy anything.

  “Tell me about it,” she’d say. She didn’t elaborate on what. That was obvious. She wanted to know everything. About the scars, the rickety bicycle I rode to work, how I spoke to no one but her. In fact, we didn’t talk much at all. One day, she just took my hand and pulled me into her car after closing, and I let her. That was how it started.

  Her questions at first didn’t seem like a demand; more like an open door. At first, I gave her what she wanted. I told her the scars were mine; that my mother was still in Korea and no, she never called or wrote. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since she put me on the plane when I was six, because she actually thought I’d be more accepted here. My dad wasn’t happy to have what he hadn’t wanted to begin with. And my uncle, well, he needed the extra cash.

  But eventually, after I’d stopped answering Carla’s questions, she stopped asking. Summer ended, and she didn’t ask for my phone number.

  I didn’t miss her. You can’t miss what you never really had, can you?

  And I don’t blame her for walking away. It’s not like she was giving and I was taking all the time. I wasn’t giving and I wasn’t taking anything. Ever. You can’t date a brick wall. It stops being mysterious and ends up just being…a wall.

  But this island girl. She’s different. She gives, but there is nothing expected in return, really. She’s not trying to fix me, or heal me, or new-age me to death. She asks no questions. And I’ve asked none, either. It’s such a relief, not having to unearth things you don’t want to.

  And what’s more—anyone who stays stranded on Isle Royale in the winter, on purpose, has problems by definition. Seriously bad side effects from living. Somehow, I know hers are a tsunami compared to mine. Maybe part of me thanks her for the perspective. To be the least fucked-up person on a whole island—well, that’s a gift, too. Even if there are only the two of us.

  Finally, the girl is dressed in her clean nightgown. I’ve sweated inside my clammy, sodden clothes. Inside the narrow hallway closet, there are fresh sheets and another blanket. I carry her to the sofa and peel off the damp sheets of the cot, then cover them with dry bedding before bringing her back.

  Soon, she’s tucked in, dry, and sleeping soundly.

  I should go back to my cabin, but I don’t want to. My evergreen wall has been destroyed, after all. And I need to make sure she wakes up okay. The wind and rain outside shake the shutters again, and the chimney moans. I’ve never been more glad to have a reason to stay in place.

  As I sit on the sofa and stare at the ashes in the fireplace, I feel distinctly odd. Emptied out, but not in a bad way. Even though I almost saw a girl drown, even though I nearly drowned myself, I don’t feel freaked out like I should. Looking around at this tiny cottage with its strange, unconscious occupant in the next room—I don’t feel like tearing off my skin. I don’t feel like fleeing, for the first time in years.

  Huh. Imagine that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ANDA

  I’ve never had a dream like this before.

  I’m in a foreign city. Everyone is Asian and speaks a language I’ve never heard. It’s winter, and the cold air is ravenous, gnawing warmth away from people in their thick coats and scarves. Hurrying along the crowded sidewalk, there is a little boy—a toddler—and his mother. His skin is deeper, like aged oak, but hers is pale as parchment. They have the same dark eyes. Beautiful eyes.

  The city street is busy and full of metal, wheels, voices, walls of steel. There are cabs and cars bumper to bumper. Steam from car exhaust and manholes rises here and there. Neon signs flash from the buildings above, and a constant din of honking horns, voices, and engines roar together in a garish cacophony.

  The mother’s hair is tied in a messy black ponytail. She makes no eye contact with anyone as she pulls the boy’s mittened hand down the street. Her shoulders hunch over, burdened by the city air above. Two businessmen murmur to each other as they approach her. They are going to pass her and her son on the sidewalk.

  One of them shouts at the mother, pushing out his chin to add punctuation.

  Yanggalbo.

  Somehow, I’m allowed to know what this means. Yankee prostitute.

  He points to the boy, who cowers against his mother’s legs, but she isn’t enough shelter. Not from them; not from this.

  The other businessman reaches out with his middle finger and presses it against the boy’s forehead. He pushes it firmly away, as he might a dirty object.

  Gumdungee-ba.

  Look at this black animal.

  The boy reels from the finger-push as if it were a slap. The mother squeezes through them, trying to get by. Passersby star
e rudely. No one says anything to help. Some of them wear the same expressions of disgust as the men; others’ eyes widen with pity and fear. The first businessman spits on the child, and his toddler eyes register shock as he recoils. His mother scoops him up and runs down the street.

  The boy doesn’t cry.

  Why isn’t he crying?

  His eyes are wide open. They see everything, empty and accepting.

  They see me. He blinks, and I open my mouth to say something. But nothing comes out, and I wake up with still no words on my tongue.

  Dazedly, I take in my surroundings. I’m in my father’s room, in a clean nightgown. It’s night. My skin is dry and thirsty, and I’m air-hungry with panic.

  How did I get here?

  The last thing I remember is the lake embracing me. The crack of the St. Anne’s hull, a jagged sound of purity. The deliciousness of nine hearts beating, and the first heart arresting in exquisite silence. The dreams of the dead usually infect me for hours afterward, but this time, something changed. This was not the dream of a lake sailor. I’m sure of it. And what’s more, I’m not in the water, where I ought to be after such a feeding.

  And then there was the boy. He was there, and saw me, and then I saw nothing.

  “You’re awake.”

  He hovers in the doorway. He’s here. In my father’s house. He holds a steaming cup of something, which means he’s used my father’s kitchen. His pants hang loosely on his hips, and he’s wearing a hole-ridden T-shirt instead of the bulky jacket he usually has. His arms are lean and roped with muscle. He’s thin and tall, a knife on end. I lift my eyes to study his face.

  Those eyes.

  They were in my dream.

  I immediately look down, feeling like an intruder in his memory. The dead, they give me their dreams as payment for their relief of life. But I have given nothing to this boy. What did I take that I should see such a vision?

  My hands splay across the fabric of my nightgown. This wasn’t the one I was wearing when the storm found me. It’s different. Which means he must have changed my clothes. Interesting. I had been curious, watching him shed his clothes to bathe in the lake. Perhaps he felt the need to reciprocate. How very interesting.

  It takes a while for me to find words. Mentally, I try out a few, like “who” and “go” before flicking them away. My tongue moves, finally.

  “What…what day is it?” I whisper hoarsely.

  He twitches, then cocks his head. These are not the words he’d expected to hear. What did he think I would say? Get out?

  “It’s, uh…Friday.”

  “No. What is the date?”

  “Oh.” He shuffles his feet and searches the ceiling for an answer. I do, too. There’s no calendar up above us. I don’t know why he’s looking there. His lips move, counting silently.

  “It’s October twenty-fifth, I think,” he finally says.

  Six more days. November is coming, and I wasn’t even able to wait. I used to have more control than this. What will Father say? What if he had been here?

  The boy should have been taken with the nine. He’s owed to you and to me, she says. He ought not to be here.

  “You ought not to be here,” I say, obediently.

  His eyes contract with hurt. “I know. I’ll go soon. I just wanted to make sure you woke up okay. I think…I think you had a seizure or something.”

  “Seizure,” I repeat. How violent. And I should know. Violence simmers in my blood, but this is a different word. Another type of taking without asking.

  “You know? A spell. You were so out of it. I thought you had a fever, too. You actually walked into the lake.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you remember?”

  “No.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “I don’t understand.”

  No, you wouldn’t, would you? I want to say. The walls of the house sigh. The house likes him, the way it likes my father. It wants him to stay, but the air around me stifles me, making it hard to breathe. It slips like molasses down my throat, coating my airways.

  The house always wants to protect me, whereas the storm and the winds…they. It. She. She is far more jealous. I can feel her need clawing at me to keep me close, like she does my sisters.

  The nine were not enough, because I wasn’t able to take them all. She knows it, and I feel it, too.

  Eleven months is a long time to wait, my dearest.

  Beyond the door, I can see the window in the main room. Raindrops from the storm cling to the panes of glass. They rearrange themselves into a face that judges me.

  Mother.

  The burning will begin again soon. Though a tension in my body has been pacified since the sinking of the St. Anne, I still feel unsettled. I search for the feeling—it’s urgent, in a way that won’t be ignored. It gnaws at my center.

  I should make him leave. After a storm like this one, I usually feel energized, grounded. But I don’t. The boy took me away too soon.

  I stare at him, inhaling courage. I prepare the words in my head:

  You must leave.

  You should leave.

  You ought not to be here.

  I open my mouth, and he inhales, too, ready for my words. The unsettled feeling in my center worsens. The boy already seems dejected, as if knowing what is to come. As if he’s heard it a thousand times.

  So finally, I speak.

  “I am hungry.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  HECTOR

  I’m surprised. I swear she was ready to throw a knife at me. After all, I’m a strange guy in her house. She’s probably freaked out that I changed her clothes.

  “I’m . . . hungry,” she says again, plaintively. Her eyes are large and innocent, and the gray of her irises sparkle. They don’t have that dead look like they did when she walked into the water. Whatever made her zone out is gone, leaving a thin, famished girl behind.

  I nod. I’ve never fed another person in my whole life. I only know how to make cereal or microwave chicken potpies, for God’s sake. But she’s been sick, after all. Later I can ask her more about why she’s here.

  I take a step forward and hold out the steaming mug in my hands. Her eyes grow rounder, as if I’m offering a cup of sweetened cyanide.

  “It’s hot honey water. My mom used to make it for me when I was sick.”

  I’m careful not to hand it to her. I just set it on the three-legged stool next to the cot as an offering. She watches it warily, like it’s going to bite.

  Weird. So weird, this girl.

  But I like her. Anyway, we’re not exactly strangers. We’ve been spying on each other for a few weeks now.

  “I saw crackers in the kitchen,” I say. “I can get some for you. And then…when you’re feeling well enough, I’ll leave.”

  “Well enough,” she echoes. She smiles shyly, and I back out of the room.

  I root around in the kitchen cupboards for the crackers. The ancient box of saltines must be an artifact from the early 1980s, but the squeaky packets inside are thankfully unopened. I investigate the tiny box fridge and am greeted by an emerald-green high-heeled shoe. Uh. Okay. Perched in the door is a pot of strawberry jelly, sitting as far away as possible from a lonesome bottle of Gulden’s Mustard. A few pounds of butter occupy the lowest shelf, along with an empty egg carton.

  It’s been a long time since I tried to make anything in a kitchen. I remember spending hours on a kitchen floor, making rolls of gimbap with my mom, getting more rice stuck in my hair than on the sheets of crisp, oiled seaweed. She never complained that my messy rolls were any worse than hers. I wonder if she still makes them.

  I smear the jelly on the crackers, one by one, and arrange them in a circle on a china plate. It feels like some once-in-a-century ritual that I’ve never been included in before. And yet the whole time, I grin like a kid at a carnival. I can’t remember when I’ve smiled this much in my whole life.

  ...

  It’s been a day.

  At first, she sta
yed in bed. I gave her the plate of crackers and jam, and she picked the first one up delicately, nibbling the corners off, then the middle, bit by bit. She was less polite about the rest. Actually, that’s being nice; she shoved them down so voraciously, I was glad my fingers weren’t near her teeth.

  After the third plate of crackers and jam, I realized sooner or later, I’d have to go fishing. Her cupboards had only a couple pounds of flour and sugar, and I’m no cook. I take the empty plate, licked clean of crumbs. She watches me with that unblinking way that freaks me out ever so slightly.

  I have to ask. “Why did you do it?”

  She drops her bottom lip. “Do what?”

  I try not to roll my eyes. Does she need me to spell it out?

  Her eyelids flutter and drop. “Oh. You mean the lake. Why I went into the lake.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  She says nothing, just plays the marble statue that she’s so good at. I’d fill the silence with a dozen explanations—seizures, maybe sleepwalking, I don’t know. Finally, she speaks. “Why did you come to the island?”

  I swallow and touch the doorframe, ready to walk out of the room without an answer, but something roots me in place.

  “I…” My eyes drop to the floor. “I needed to be here.”

  “Me too,” she says in a whisper.

  I turn around to leave. I can’t take this conversation, cryptic as it is. All I know is it’s enough for now.

  While she was asleep, the storm finally ended. Looking out the window to the lake, there was an uncomfortable number of boats on the horizon. I found a pair of binoculars in one of the drawers, and they showed me exactly what I didn’t want to see. Coast Guard ships. At least half a dozen, plus a helicopter. Why were they out there? I watched for a good hour. Once, the helicopter and a large Coast Guard boat swept into the harbor here before leaving again. They’re searching for something. God, I hope it’s not for me. But then again, helicopters and ships don’t look for runaway Black boys. Never in this lifetime.

  I kept watching on and off that day as the girl slept. But the activity didn’t lessen. Whatever they’re looking for, they haven’t found it. Maybe someone’s sailboat capsized or something. Who knows.