The November Girl

by Lydia Kang

  “How did you find me?”

  “We found your online research about Isle Royale at the high school library after you went missing. You used a dummy login, but the search times matched your class schedule.”

  I sigh. Well, so much for not leaving a trace. I pick up my bag, and the three guards bristle. I narrow my eyes, sizing them up. One must be the captain. Next to him is a white dude with pasty skin, his hand resting on a holster at his hip. The other is a guy trying to do his best “I used to be a boxer” stance. I don’t know what it is about them, but they irritate the hell out of me. “I’m not armed. I’m not going to shoot you with a goddamn granola bar.”

  The shorter, brawnier officer with blond hair waves at me. “Just give us the bag. We’ll take that.”

  I throw it at them, not too gently. They part so I can actually step onto the dock.

  “Should we cuff him?”

  “Hell, yes. He’s trespassing.”

  “What about the other?”

  “No. He was just here doing maintenance. We’ve got his contact info for questioning later.”

  They all herd me closer to the Coast Guard boat, and one of them takes out cuffs. Mr. Selkirk stands there by his little boat and watches me with an empty expression while they turn me around and crank the metal around my wrists. His friend murmurs to him, but Mr. Selkirk doesn’t respond. He looks kind of…upset, actually. Maybe to realize that his daughter’s been hanging out with a fugitive for a month without supervision. There’s nothing like brown skin and handcuffs to steal away that temporary sheen of teenage innocence.

  Their boat is medium-sized, with that broad orange rubber edge and junk on the roof—radar stuff that spins around, antennae, and horns. An inner cabin is large enough for half a dozen people to stand in. They walk me to the cabin, where the door is open and someone is sitting there, waiting for me.

  Skin an even, light tan color. Hair shorn close to the head and lips pressed together in a frown. Broad shoulders expand beneath that old canvas jacket that smells like a bar. He belongs in that expanse of middle age where he’s still strong enough to pin me down, even though pure youth has long since abandoned him.

  My uncle stands up and stares me down with grim eyes.

  “Hello, Hector.”

  Chapter Fifty

  ANDA

  I’ve never done this before—search the lake hoping for a person to be alive. But as he and Father travel farther and farther away, I find my mind has trouble remembering his face. His voice. The scent of his skin and the texture of his palms. The air scours my cheeks and swishes angrily against my ankles. It’s trying to remove him. My memories of him are dissolving all too quickly.

  Forget it all, Anda. People fade away. But I’ll always be here for you.

  I know. The best thing for me to do would be to sink into the lake and spill the contents of my memories. Wash out my thoughts and only keep what matters. This happens with my father, too. Come December when he returns, I often find myself staring at him for hours, because I’ve completely forgotten his face.

  I stand on the shore and inhale the lake air. The rain slowly comes to a stop, as do my tears. I think of the clouds above and how they offer themselves to me. To become something larger, fiercer. But their call is distant, unlike in previous Novembers. And I want to give Hector safe passage. He deserves to have a life that doesn’t end as a skeleton at the bottom of the lake. I extend my fingers and resist the scrubbing of my thoughts and memories. I settle the clouds into softness, keeping the precipitation low.

  Keep him safe. Bring him to land.

  Yes. That is what I’ll do.

  I walk to the lake and let it welcome me into the depths, forcing myself not to feel. It doesn’t matter, anyway. The water hugs my waist, a gentle caress. It’s cold, much colder than I expect. How utterly human of me to notice such things. How very interesting. I’ve changed since Hector arrived on the island. I wonder how long it will last, if at all.

  I must concentrate on Hector while I can.

  Outside the boundaries of the lake, he’s lost to me. He won’t be mine anymore.

  Anda. He was never yours to keep.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  HECTOR

  The Coast Guard officers stand behind me in the doorway, waiting. They don’t want to get between us. God, please. Let them come in. Or say something. Anything. They might crack the frozen air in the cabin.

  “Don’t you have something to say to me, son?” my uncle says calmly, matter-of-fact. I can see that inside, he’s boiling. His eyes glitter at the sight of me.

  “I’m not your son,” I say quietly. He takes a step forward and I flinch. The guards behind me move just a touch, ready to come between us.

  Ha. It’s about six years too late for that.

  They watch with tense anticipation as my uncle comes forward and hulks over me. He opens his arms and bear hugs me, hard. I almost fall over from the force of it, what with my wrists pinioned behind me and all. The officers behind us exhale in relief.

  “Okay. Let’s go,” the captain says. My uncle leads me to the bench seat behind us. Someone offers us both life jackets. I stare at them with a what-the-fuck look.

  “I’m cuffed. I can’t put that on.”

  “Oh.” One guy fishes in his pockets for the keys and uncuffs me so I can put the jacket on. After, they motion to put the handcuffs back on.

  “Really? Is it necessary? I’m here,” my uncle says. “He’s not going to jump in the lake.”

  I close my eyes. Best idea he’s ever had.

  ...

  Apparently, we’ll be heading back to Grand Portage. The police are already aware; they’re going to pick me up and question me. My social worker has been notified. The foster care agency has been notified. My father has been notified.

  My mom…well. He never says anything about my mom, anyway.

  The captain sets a comfortable cruising speed and glances up at the sky. It’s still gray, with clouds closer to the water, but no rain. Hardly any wind.

  “The trip should take about three or four hours, depending on the weather.”

  Depending on the weather.

  That one phrase is a shot to the heart. It hurts just thinking about leaving Anda behind. I wonder how long it will take for her to get completely back to her normal self. A week? A month? A minute? With nothing but the lake nearby and no weird guys like me messing with her life, she could already be over me. Mr. Selkirk is probably dancing in his little boat all the way back to Menagerie Island, happy to be rid of me.

  My uncle chats up the officers, like they’ve been poker buddies for ages. He thanks them for making an exception and allowing him to come to get me. Says he knew he’d help calm the situation. Secretly, I get the feeling that he doesn’t want me to be alone with law enforcement. I ignore them, trying not to hear his voice, but it’s impossible. Eventually, he sits back down next to me.

  For half an hour, we don’t speak.

  The officers glance at us and give my uncle looks of sympathy. They have kids, too. Their kids aren’t respectful, either. But they don’t complain out loud, because really, there’s no point comparing.

  Ah, but you guys don’t leave roofies in the kitchen.

  It’s so atrocious, it’s almost funny. So I laugh. My uncle turns to me quickly.

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  The officers disperse to the windows to talk over some schedule or other. I fight the urge to get up and bolt to the other side of the cabin.

  My uncle clears his throat. “You know, your father is coming to the States.”

  Shocking. I sneer at him. “Really? Why doesn’t he send a letter instead?”

  My uncle throws me a dirty look, and I immediately quiet myself, staring instead at my boots. This is the way he likes me, after all. More docile. Controllable and caged. The officers make some respectful remarks about Dad being in the military, and isn’t my uncle such a swell
guy for looking after a kid like me.

  The conversation dies quickly, and the officers talk among themselves. For a full five minutes, my uncle sits next to me, wordless for a change. I steal a glance sideways at him. He looks sad. Something is preying on his mind. It can’t possibly be guilt. So what is it? I muster up the courage to say something.

  “Do you think…he’s going to take me back with him to Germany?” I ask. I’m not even sure why I’m asking. Any answer is going to be bad. Living with Dad would just be another prison. No more letters, just him. He’ll squeeze in a lifetime of fatherisms and daddy guilt and I’ll hate him even more.

  “I don’t know. He might.” My uncle rubs his hands before clasping them together. He hunches his shoulders over and studies his fists. The captain, with his back to us, straightens up just a little, turns his head just so. I know he’s listening to our conversation over the din of the boat motor and splashes. “He might not, though. Yeah. He might not.”

  He almost seems to be convincing himself. I know he would miss me. He’s gotten used to having me there. There were normal days, sure. When we’d watch a football game on TV, or he’d come home from the library and bring me three books I actually wanted to read, because he knew what I liked.

  It’s easy to think about those days when nothing went wrong.

  But it’s far too easy to remember the days when they did.

  Right now, I see him differently, as if somebody sharpened a focus in front of my face that’s been blurry for ages. He looks old and lonely. The idea of him by himself in that house with nothing but beer and cigarettes and cigars…it’s depressing. I can almost see him staring at the TV set on static.

  “I’ll miss you if you go,” he whispers. “I know I’ve been too hard on you. I’m sorry for that. I am.” Quietly, so that none of the officers can hear.

  My uncle slips his hand around my shoulder and pats my back.

  It’s not much of a gesture. Just like that dad who felt sorry for me because I didn’t have someone to teach me how to fish. Like after my uncle would scream at me for screwing up, oh, everything—then pat me once remorse finally kicked in. Like he would when I was twelve and woke up after another lost night, again. A year’s worth of pats on the shoulder. Apologies. So many apologies.

  A million thoughts violently force their way through my head, a mudslide of terrible things. Nothing has changed. Nothing. I want the officers to see what’s going on, but everyone’s head is turned away.

  Everyone’s head is always turned away. No one ever sees. No one ever wants to see.

  I want to hit him. But then it’ll be me doing the hitting, with three Coast Guard officers watching me attack my guardian. Once again, I’ll have no evidence. I’ll have no proof. It’s the word of a loser runaway kid who’s already costing the state thousands of dollars to track him down. It’s me with my bad grades and garbage attitude with too many near-expulsions at school.

  I tear his hand off me and jump up, hyperventilating. “Don’t you fucking touch me. Ever.”

  The captain whirls around. My uncle stands up too, his face ashen with surprise. His hands are out, a what-the-hell gesture.

  “What is wrong with you?” he asks. Not angry, but hurt. Confused. Because I can’t possibly remember what I wasn’t supposed to remember. The officers stare at us. The uncle who can do no wrong, and the nephew who embraces all things wrong.

  Oh, what a great actor. I’d applaud and throw him some fucking roses, if I could. The other officers come inside, and questions start pinging back and forth. They keep their distance from me, probably afraid I’ll swing. One of them takes out the cuffs again. My uncle’s face is sweaty, and he says something like, “I pat his back and he freaks out. This is what I have to deal with. Every day.”

  I want to cry and hide. It’s never going to end. It’s always going to be a story I’ll never get to write, not the way I want to. The part of me that drove me to plan, sock away money, and escape to Isle Royale—I don’t know where to find him. I just don’t give a shit anymore.

  A puff of damp, cold air hits my neck. The door to the cabin is open, and beyond, the lake waves are small and well behaved against the light gray sky. There’s a space between two of the officers. Just enough.

  I turn and run. The two guards grab for me, but only get a slight hold on my arms. I wrench away, falling on the slippery floor. My legs scramble to gain some footing and I kick one of the guards now reaching for my ankle. The other one moves to throw himself onto my back, getting my neck in a chokehold. The crook of his elbow crushes against my windpipe and I try to cough. I can’t. I try to breathe, but that’s not happening, either.

  I can’t reach the water. I’m going to get dragged back and there will never be an opportunity to escape again.

  No. No.

  I ignore the shouts coming from the inside of the boat and my uncle’s yells to grab me. My hands ball into fists and I aim right at the guy’s face over my shoulder and he howls in pain as my knuckles meet the crunch of bone under skin. The vise around my neck is gone and I kick away, pulling myself against the floor outside the cabin.

  I make it to my feet and lunge between the open gap between the two railings. Someone grabs my whole torso from behind, pinning my arms. I try to throw him off, but it’s so slippery that I can’t get any traction. My boots squeak and slide beneath me as I try to kick. But I’m already so tired from fighting.

  “Stop fighting, Hector. Just stop,” my uncle begs me. “Please. It’s over.”

  I stop struggling. Straight ahead, the lake water splashes with waves that are rougher and higher than moments ago.

  Only ten feet away.

  Oh, Anda. I was so close.

  Two other officers grab my arms and they all throw me inside the cabin. I land on my knees, and my arm is yanked behind me, hard. The one with the smashed nose cusses loudly as another guy handcuffs my wrists to a metal railing against the back of the inner cabin.

  Now the only way I’ll escape is if the ship sinks.

  Anda. Please.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  ANDA

  The water weighs me down, and I feel its strength against my legs. It reaches all the way from Menagerie Island to Isle Royale, and to the docks in Duluth and Copper Harbor. Gentle waves splash on the rare, frosted sea glass inside Whitefish Bay. It is calm. I’ll keep it this way until he’s safe.

  There are more than a dozen boats afloat in the bay. So many others, along Marquette and Keweenaw Bay. There is a lone boat crossing the length between Isle Royale and Grand Portage.

  Hector’s on board.

  I make sure that the seas are placid ahead of the bow, and that the wind stays reined in. If I could push it faster, I would. If I could—

  Wait. The boat has stopped moving.

  The engines are in neutral. The ship bobs gently in the water, but unusual vibrations and irregular knocks communicate to the depths below, frightening the fish. Shouts reverberate and send rings of sound through the hull and across the surface of the lake. My eyes close and read the tale, like a book open in my hands, illuminated by a noontime sun.

  They are fighting. Three, no, four, subduing the one. He’s fighting, not for life, but something else.

  For me. For an end to it all. I squeeze my eyes shut, listening hard to the wishes of his heart. There is nothing but surrender and despair.

  “Hector!” I cry out to the sky, panicked. And the sky answers.

  There was a small storm that was due to come, but weakened. I gather its roots and glut it quickly with more moisture and warmth. The clouds above the lake condense with a roiling strength, moving and flowing across the lake, thickening into the troposphere. The storm drags its nails into the calmer air below, molding breezy puffs into muscular corridors of wind.

  Waves rise quickly, from short swells into choppy, breaking crests. It will take time to grow them larger, but grow they will. Three-foot seas will turn to five-foot seas, and ten-foot waves will follow. I
feel the energy from my skin to my bones, delving into my breastbone and spearing my heart. A heart that is now stuttering to a stop.

  Hector.

  Hector.

  He isn’t safe. He isn’t free. He was supposed to go to Copper Harbor. But everything I sense under that boat—the boat heading for Grand Portage—is not dulcet or safe. Which means he’s with the police. Or worse, his uncle. What happened? What are they doing to you?

  Rage percolates like acid in my blood, thundering in my temples. I open my mouth and the screech of a gale emerges, blasting the water around me into more mist, becoming a powerful rain that spreads, viruslike, to the miles and miles around me. The water around my waist rises as I flow forward. I look down and see my hands splayed out and reaching above the surface. My nails have blackened to obsidian, and my blood vessels darken to ink-like vines that trail upward toward my neck. I taste a sweet, oily darkness in my throat.

  As my body slips beneath the water, time and distance disintegrate, too easily. Nothing but crumbs crushed beneath a boot. I am flying toward the boat, beneath the waves.

  No; I am the waves. I am the witch. My sisters sense me and beg for release. For the first time, my hunger isn’t aimed at any boat, haphazardly chosen. Just this one. With surgical precision, I’ll pluck the lives one by one. I center my energy toward the craft. It’s only two hours away from the coast and one hour away from Windigo. One hour too far away. I laugh. There’s no safe haven any more. Not from me.

  This isn’t your battle, Anda.

  But it’s hard to hear Mother in the chaos of my mind. She has strength, but I have something powerful, too.

  Anger.

  As the weather shrieks its obedience to my call, my mind falters. The hollowness from the lack of recent sinkings dilutes my thoughts. Fury and hunger tumble together, a roiling clot of frenzied sensations. There is no clarity between them, and soon, no divisions. Warm, panicked, beating hearts call out. Only one wants me, but I’ll take them all in a single, yawning bite. There is nothing like the feeling of my watery hand, slipping around their throats and hearts, pressing down with the cold and impossible weight of my fingers. They will stop and be mine.